V Is for Vengeance

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