V Is for Vengeance

absorbed in the packet of sugar he was tapping into his iced tea.
    Cheney and I had once had what is euphemistically referred to as a “fling,” meaning a short-lived dalliance without any lasting effect. We were now studiously polite, behaving as though we’d never trifled with each other when we were both hyperconscious of the once-fiery exchange. He said, “Hey, Kinsey. How’s it going? You know Len?”
    “From way back. Good to see you.” I didn’t offer to shake hands with him and Len didn’t bother to rise from his chair.
    Priddy said, “I didn’t realize you were still around.” As though my past ten years as a PI had completely slipped his mind.
    “Still hangin’ in there,” I replied.
    Cheney pulled a chair back. “Have a seat. You want to join us for lunch? We’re waiting for Len’s girlfriend so we haven’t ordered yet.”
    “Thanks, but I’m here to ask a couple of questions that shouldn’t take long. I’m sure you have things to talk about.”
    Cheney took his seat again and I perched on the edge of the chair he’d offered just to put myself at eye level with the two men.
    “So what’s up?” he asked.
    “I’m curious about Audrey Vance, the woman who—”
    “We know who she is,” Priddy cut in. “What’s the nature of your interest?”
    “Ah. Well, as it happens I was a witness to the shoplifting incident that resulted in her arrest.”
    Priddy said, “Good news. I caught that. I’m working vice these days. Cold Spring Bridge is county so the sheriff’s department is looking into her death. You have questions about that, you ought to talk to them. I’m sure you have a lot of good friends out there.”
    “Scads,” I said. Maybe I was being paranoid, but to me the comment suggested that as long as I’d screwed Cheney for information, I’d doubtless screwed the entire sheriff’s department as well. “I’m actually more interested in whether she’d ever been picked up before.” I glanced at Cheney, but Priddy had decided the subject belonged to him.
    He said, “For shoplifting? Oh, yeah. Big-time. That one’s been around the track. Different names, of course. Alice Vincent. Ardeth Vick. She also used the last name Vest. I can’t remember the first on that one. Ann? Adele? Some A name.”
    “Really. Was this petit or grand theft?”
    “Grand and I’d say five times at least. She had some shit-ass attorney busy filing six kinds of paperwork. He’d have her plead down and take reduced jail sentence plus community service. First two times she got off scot-free. That was nickel-and-dime stuff and charges were dismissed. Did alcohol rehab or some such. What a pile of crap that was. Last time, the judge wised up and threw her in jail. Score one for our side.” He paused, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound of a baseball being hit, followed by an auditory rendition of cheers from the crowd. “If these people did serious jail time from the get-go, it would cut down on the repeats. How else are they going to learn?”
    “There’s more,” Cheney said. “Friday, when the female jail officer had her strip, it turned out she was wearing booster gear—pockets in her underwear stuffed with more items than she had in her shopping bag. Major haul. We’re talking two, three thousand dollars’ worth, which makes it grand theft again.”
    “Were you surprised to hear she jumped?”
    Priddy addressed his response to Cheney, as though the two had been discussing the subject before I arrived, debating the relative merits of sudden death versus the judicial system. “Ask me, it’s a courtesy, her going off that bridge. Saves the taxpayers a chunk of change and spares the rest of us the aggravation. Besides which, jumping, you don’t leave a big ugly mess for someone else to clean up.”
    “Any question of foul play?”
    Priddy’s gaze slid over to mine. “Sheriff’s homicide detectives will approach it that way, sure. Protect evidence at the scene in case shenanigans come to light. She got off parole about six months ago and now here she comes again, facing another stretch. She’s engaged to some guy and there goes that life. Talk about depressing. I’d have hopped the rail myself.”
    He shook loose the ice in his glass and upended it, letting a cube drop into his mouth. The crunching of ice sounded like a horse chewing on its bit.
    Cheney said, “They’re running a toxi panel, but we won’t get results for three to four weeks. Meantime, the coroner