"V" is for Vengeance (35 page)

I doubted the charity was legitimate. The name itself was so saccharine, it almost had to be a cover for a racket of some kind. At least it gave me a lead. In California, any organization claiming nonprofit status has to file articles of incorporation, listing the corporation's address, the name and address of a “registered agent,” and the names of the directors. This was all part of the public record, available to anyone. I closed my eyes and patted my chest, mimicking a heartbeat. How much better could it get? One quick moment of payoff for all the hours I'd put in.

If I was right, Georgia's job was to collect stolen merchandise and drop the goods in donation bins for retrieval by her cohorts. Audrey's landlady had mentioned the presence of a white panel truck on the occasions when Audrey was staying in her little rented house. I was guessing the driver was responsible for collecting the bags and delivering them to San Luis Obispo. In the past, Audrey had worked every other weekend. Her death had doubtless disrupted the routine, but maybe the gang was back in the swing and ready to carry on. It was possible my conclusion was wrong, but I couldn't think of another explanation that made quite as much sense. I put my surveillance on hold. I'd have to test my suspicions, but meanwhile, I didn't want my cover blown.

I drove back into town and made another stop at the public library and proceeded to the reference department, where I checked both the current phone book and the current city directory for Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. No listing under “Charities.” Nothing under “Social Service Organizations,” “Women's Shelters,” “Churches,” or “Rescue Missions.” I wasn't surprised. I had other avenues to explore, but this was Saturday morning, which meant that all the usual sources—the Hall of Records, the courthouse, the tax assessor's office—would be closed. I'd be back in business Monday morning, but for now I was out of luck.

On the way home, I did a supermarket run for essentials and then spent a few minutes putting groceries away. I started a load of laundry and would have gone on in this thrilling vein—scrubbing toilets, vacuuming—if not for the ringing of my telephone. I picked up and found Vivian Hewitt on the line.

I said, “Hey, Vivian. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thanks. I hope you don't mind my calling you at home, but something's come up. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all. What's happening?”

“I did something I shouldn't have and now I don't know how to make it right.”

“Wow, I'm all ears,” I said.

“You're going to think I'm awful.”

“Would you just get on with it?”

“I will, but you won't like it.”

“Vivian . . .”

“Friday morning, Rafe left on a fishing trip and he won't be back until Sunday night.”

“I see.”

“I'm just telling you why he's not here to help me sort this out. Yesterday when I went over to Audrey's to meet the locksmith, a delivery truck pulled in. Someone overnighted a package to Audrey and the driver needed a signature. When I said she wasn't there, he asked if I'd sign for it and I agreed.”

I said, “Ah.”

“I don't know what got into me. It was one of those situations where an opportunity presented itself and I took advantage. Now I'm thinking what I did was wrong.”

“You know, I'm not exactly the person to consult when it comes to tricky ethical issues. I'd have done the same thing in your shoes.”

“But what am I supposed to do now? I feel so guilty. Rafe would have a fit if he knew.”

“It's no big deal. Why don't you call the company and tell them you made a mistake? Have them come pick up the package and return it to the sender.”

“I thought of that myself. The problem is I didn't pay attention to the name of the courier so I have no idea who to call.”

“Isn't there a label that gives the name?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“What about the locksmith? You think he'd remember?”

“He was changing the lock on the back door, so he didn't see the truck.”

“Did you look in the yellow pages?”

“I did, but none of the names looked familiar. That's the reason I called. I could open the package, but I didn't want to do anything without talking to you first in case you wanted to be on hand.”

“Go ahead and open it. There's no point in my driving up if it's trivial. Are we talking about a box or a padded envelope?”

“A box, a big one, and sealed with so much packing tape it might as well be waterproof. Hold on a minute. I'm putting the phone down so I can tackle this. I can't tell you how relieved I am you didn't condemn what I did.”

“I'm happy to offer absolution if it makes you feel better,” I said.

I listened to a stretch of Vivian breathing and making remarks to herself, a running account of her progress, accompanied by the sound of paper tearing. “Okay, got the wrapping off. Oh, rats. The box is taped shut around the edges. Let me get a kitchen knife.”

A silence while she labored and then she said, “Oh.”

“‘Oh,' meaning what?”

“I've never seen so much cash in my life.”

“I'll be right there.”

 

 

I pushed the speed limit and an hour and a half later, I rang the bell and she opened the door, her face pale and drawn. She peered at the street behind me and hurried me in. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, saying, “Things just got worse.”

“What now?”

She moved to the living room windows and lowered the shades. “After we hung up, I assembled my embroidery supplies. I have my stitching group at three and my cousin is picking me up a few minutes before. I wanted to have everything ready.”

I made a rolling gesture with one hand, hoping she'd get to the point. “Next thing I knew, someone knocked on my door.”

“Why am I thinking
Uh-oh
? Was this the courier?”

She shook her head. “He didn't say so, but he implied he was. He said a package had been delivered erroneously and he'd come to pick it up.”

“Erroneously? He actually said that?”

“He did and it seemed like an odd choice of words. Aside from the fact he wasn't wearing a uniform, I couldn't see handing over all that cash to a man I'd never laid eyes on. It didn't seem right.”

“So far, so good. I can't wait to hear what you did.”

“I told him I didn't have it. I said I notified the company a package was delivered to the wrong address and they picked it up half an hour before.”

“And he believed you?”

“I suppose. He didn't seem happy, but there wasn't much he could do.”

“Ah. So he didn't know you'd opened it.”

“He might have. The box was sitting right there.”

I looked over at the dining room table, which was clearly visible from where I stood. She'd placed the lid upside down on the box to conceal the cash, but the wrapping paper was in plain sight. I crossed to the table and set the lid to one side. I stared at the money with the same admiration and disbelief she'd expressed on the phone. I nudged the brown paper wrapping, turning it over with the kitchen knife she'd used to cut the tape. The return address was a post office box in Santa Monica. I copied the number into my notebook and returned to a study of the cash. “How much do you think we're looking at?”

“No telling, but I don't think we should touch anything.”

“Hey, I'm with you. I don't want my fingerprints showing up on this thing. Bad enough you handled the package before we knew what it was.”

The box was roughly twelve by twelve by twelve, packed with bundles of bills, the uppermost of which were hundreds.

Vivian said, “What do you think we should do?”

“Turn it over to the police.”

“And say what? Isn't it against the law to intercept someone else's mail?”

“Good point. It's federal. I've done it lots of times but never netted anything like this. On the other hand, anyone who claimed the cash would have some serious explaining to do.”

“What about me? I can't claim I just happened to come across it on Audrey's porch, because the driver knows I signed for it and he put it in my hands.”

“You'll just have to level with them.”

“
I
will? Why not you?”

“Look at the logic here. Audrey's dead. You're her landlady, so it's not out of line for you to pick up her mail, especially when you know she was charged with a crime. Isn't that why you took the package in the first place?”

“Sort of. It was an impulse—a bad one, as I'd be the first to admit.”

“You did them a service. The police can use the return address to trace the package back to its origin.”

“This is making me nervous. I still don't see why you can't take care of it.”

“Nope. Don't think so,” I said.

I was already picturing myself showing up in Cheney Phillips's office with the contraband cash, which was most assuredly connected to Audrey's shoplifting, which meant that Len Priddy would be apprised of it, which meant I'd be subject to the scrutiny of a man who didn't like me to begin with. At the same time, withholding evidence of this magnitude probably constituted a crime far worse than mail tampering.

“What other options do we have?” she asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” I said. “Situations like this, it's better to do what's right and take the heat. I'm not going to haul the money home and hide it under my bed.”

“I don't suppose you could handle it without bringing my name into it. I don't want Rafe to find out.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, shit,” she said, which seemed so out of character I laughed.

 

 

We took my car since Rafe had taken theirs. The only compromise I could think of was to deliver the cash to the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff's Department instead of the city police. This had certain built-in advantages. The sheriff's department and the Santa Teresa Police Department were separate jurisdictions. With luck, it would take time for one law-enforcement agency to communicate with the other. I didn't think there was any rivalry between the two, but there was probably a pecking order and the usual bureaucratic bullshit standing in the way. The longer it took for Len Priddy to get wind of the cash, the happier I'd be.

We said little on the drive over, each of us contemplating the possible repercussions—she from Rafe and I from Sergeant Priddy. We presented ourselves as model citizens, the equivalent of Good Samaritans turning in a wallet full of money found on the street. The deputy at the desk made a phone call and the matter was redirected to a Sergeant Detective Turner, who came out to the counter. We signed in and were given self-adhesive passes that we stuck to our shirts. He escorted us through the inner offices to his cubicle. Once seated, I launched into an explanation of how we'd come by the cash. Vivian nodded frequently but managed to remain silent, lest anything she said could and would be used against her in a court of law.

Once I got into the spirit of the tale, I was even so forthcoming as to fill them in on Audrey's arrest and subsequent death leap. I made no mention of Sergeant Priddy as the detective investigating the shoplifting incident. They could figure that out for themselves. I did explain Marvin's hiring me and my enlisting Vivian's assistance in searching Audrey's place. We did a bit of hand-waving when it came to the issue of how she'd ended up with the package, though it actually made perfect sense. If the cash was connected to a criminal enterprise, better to turn it over to the authorities than see it fall into the wrong hands. Even the investigator we spoke to didn't seem to think we'd done anything wrong. If we were dishonest, we could have filled our own coffers and no one would have been the wiser.

It occurred to me to suggest Sergeant Detective Turner count the cash before we let it out of our sight, but I didn't want to insult the man. Since we were busy persuading him of our honorable intentions, it didn't seem wise to question his. The package was booked into evidence and whisked away to Property, where it would sit on a shelf until somebody decided what to do next.

When we finally left the station and drove back to Vivian's house, we were feeling sweaty with guilt even though what we'd done was honest and aboveboard. It was 2:00 by then, and I was eager to hit the road. I followed her to the kitchen, where she filled an electric kettle with water and plugged it in.

“Thank goodness that's over with. Do you have time to join me in a cup of tea?”

“I should be getting back. Would you mind if I took a quick look at your phone book?”

She removed the phone book from a kitchen drawer close to the wall-mounted phone. “What are you looking for?”

“A charity called Helping Hearts, Healing Hands. Ever heard of it?”

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

I started with the yellow pages, checking for social service agencies. I tried the white pages as well and bombed out on both. “They've got a couple of donation bins in Santa Teresa, but the organization isn't listed. I thought it might be headquartered here.”

“What's the relevance to Audrey?”

“Sorry. I should have brought you up to speed.” I told her how I'd identified Georgia Prestwick and ended up following her that morning. The story was almost as long and boring as the surveillance itself. “I remembered your mentioning a white panel truck parked next door on the nights Audrey worked late.”