V Is for Vengeance

engraved along the length. The caliber didn’t matter much because with the front sight pressed hard up against Dodie’s skull, she couldn’t have survived the trigger pull in any event.
    She rolled an eye in my direction without moving her head. She was convinced the place was bugged, and she was probably holding out hope the conversation was being monitored, with the possibility of help on the way. I suspected if there was a bug at all, it was connected to a voice-activated tape recorder that would be left unattended until the tape ran out. I shifted my gaze and focused on the gunman. He was in his midforties with a thatch of dark blond hair that stuck up in places. He had two days’ worth of whiskers and a nose that angled slightly to the right. His lips were open as though breathing through his mouth was the preferred method for taking in air. Running shoes, jeans, synthetic shirt fabric looking formless and cheap. I might have considered him handsome if he hadn’t looked so dumb. Smart guys you can reason with. This mope was dangerous. His eyes flicked from Pinky to me. “Who’s this?”
    “Friend of mine.”
    “I’m Kinsey. Nice meeting you. Sorry to barge in,” I said.
    “This is Cappi Dante,” Pinky said, to complete the formalities.
    I remembered Cappi’s name from my conversation with Diana Alvarez and Melissa Mendenhall. His brother was the local loan shark who might or might not have played a part in Melissa’s boyfriend’s death. According to her account, Cappi had roughed up a friend of hers, and there was hell to pay when her friend complained to the Vegas police. Nice.
    “When I called home earlier, he was already here, holding her at gunpoint. That’s why I called the cab and tore out of there without telling you.”
    Cappi said, “Get her over here so I can watch you pat her down.”
    “I left my gun in the car,” I said.
    “Says you.” He gestured impatiently.
    Pinky and I moved into range and the goon kept a close watch while I turned sideways and lifted my arms, allowing Pinky to run his hands down my sides and along the legs of my jeans. “She’s not armed,” he said.
    “I told you so,” I said.
    “Shut your smart-ass mouth and keep your hands up where I can see them,” Cappi said.
    I complied, not wanting to annoy the man more than I already had. Pinky returned to the easy chair and took a seat while I stood with my palms turned up as though checking for rain. “Mind if I ask what’s going on?”
    Cappi said, “I came to pick up a set of photographs.” He shifted his attention to Pinky. “You want to get on with it?”
    Pinky unbuttoned the front of his shirt, extracted the manila envelope, and held it out to him. “These are Len’s, you know. He’s not going to appreciate any interference from you.”
    “Pass ’em over to your friend. We’ll let her do the honors as long as she’s here.”
    I took the envelope. Cappi gestured with the gun, motioning me to the fireplace.
    I crossed the room. “I’m supposed to burn these?”
    “Very good,” he said.
    “It’ll go faster if I take ’em out and do them one by one,” I said. Having been threatened with death over the self-same photographs, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about.
    Cappi thought for a moment, perhaps wondering if there was trickery afoot. I was a good fifteen feet away from him, and he must have realized my options were limited. There were no fireplace tools and nothing that might double as a weapon. “Suit yourself,” he said.
    I tore open the flap and removed the photographs, taking care not to display overt curiosity. The prints were eight-by-tens, in glossy black-and-white. The first showed Len Priddy and Cappi sitting in a parked car. It was a night scene and the picture was taken with a zoom lens from across the street. The light wasn’t fabulous, but the closeup left no doubt who it was. I held the print to the fire and the corner began to curl. Dodie’s gaze was averted and Pinky’s expression was bleak. I tilted the picture to allow the flames to climb along the edge. When it was fully engulfed, I dropped it on top of the fake logs, where it continued to burn. I took the next print and subjected it to the same treatment. Len and Cappi were photographed from roughly the same angle at different locations, but the gist was the same. I focused on the job, guiding the flames as the fire chewed and digested the images. Judging from Cappi’s selection of tasteless