car, and put the pad against the wall. “Shoot.”
“Current driver’s license,” DiGaudio said. “Issued three years ago. Lorne, with an E, Henry Pivensey.”
“Lorne Henry what?”
“Pivensey.” He spelled it. “First two syllables,
Piven
, like Niven as in David Niven, but with a P. S-e-y as in z-e-e. Pivensey.”
“Got it.”
“DOB 10/16/72. Height five feet six and a fraction. Brown hair and eyes. Got a tattoo on his right upper arm, says ABANDON HOPE .”
“Who’s Hope?”
“Funny. Why aren’t you asking?”
“Okay, I’ll ask. Since when do drivers’ licenses note tattoos?”
“They don’t. The tattoo is on his arrest sheet.”
“Awwwww,” I said, thinking about Marge. “How do I get into this stuff?”
“It’s a bad sheet, too,” DiGaudio said. “And I don’t think this has anything to do with my uncle.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Pivensey is no danger to men. On the other hand, if you know a woman who’s anywhere near him, you might tell her to move.”
“Why is it that I never enjoy talking to you?”
“In 2001 Mr. Pivensey was sentenced to three years for beating up a seventeen-year-old girl. She said something unflattering about his shirt, and he broke her nose and one of her cheekbones. She damn near lost an eye. He got out a year and a half later, courtesy of all the periwinkle doilies on the parole board, and got arrested again seven months after
that
in the investigation of a disappeared waitress named, uh, waitaminute, Laurette Wissert. We never found her, couldn’t make a case the DA would take, but we all knew he killed her. Last time anyone saw her was with him up in Twentynine Palms. She’ll turn up in the desert someday. Some coyote will dig her up, but he’ll never go down for it. And then last year, a couple people saw him try to run over a woman in a parking lot outside Ron’s Market, you know Ron’s, over on Highland?”
“Sure.”
“Tried to hit her a couple of times. Peeled off onto the street, almost banged into a patrol car. So he got arrested, this being a nation of laws, but the woman was too frightened to press charges. We wanted to make a case for attempted murder, but the DA said no. Wouldn’t hold up without a complaint. So your Mr. Pivensey got convicted for reckless driving, paid a fine, and walked. And, since we almost got him on those three, just think how many we don’t know anything about.”
“Why don’t you guys just kill people like that?”
“There are those who claim that we do,” DiGaudio said carefully. “And there are those who claim that we don’t do it often enough. And if you’re taping this call, I’m horrified at the idea of vigilante justice.”
“You got a picture?”
“Sure. Got a nice little gallery of him holding up numbers.”
“Can you send them to me?”
“Oh, sure. Cops send police records to burglars all the time.”
“This guy may have been living with the daughter of someone I know. Now the daughter’s not around.”
“The police,” DiGaudio said. “Remember us? The
someone you know
should call the police.”
“I’ll pass that along. But don’t be a dick. Send me the pictures.”
For a moment, I thought he’d hang up. But then he said, “Well, we haven’t been doing too good with this guy, have we? It’ll take me a couple of minutes to crop down to the face, get rid of the stuff that says
booking photo
. I’ll send you two pictures. What email address?”
“Hold on. Rina,” I called. “What’s your email address?”
“Skyspirit at Bluepool-dot-com,” she said.
“Great,” I said. I gritted my teeth and passed the address to DiGaudio.
“Dot … com,” DiGaudio said, obviously concentrating. It was hard not to picture him writing with the tip of his tongue plastered to his upper lip. “Okay, give me a few minutes. And, Bender, listen.”
“I’m only sorry you can’t see me, see how hard I’m listening.”
“Two things. First, don’t let this asshole
“Current driver’s license,” DiGaudio said. “Issued three years ago. Lorne, with an E, Henry Pivensey.”
“Lorne Henry what?”
“Pivensey.” He spelled it. “First two syllables,
Piven
, like Niven as in David Niven, but with a P. S-e-y as in z-e-e. Pivensey.”
“Got it.”
“DOB 10/16/72. Height five feet six and a fraction. Brown hair and eyes. Got a tattoo on his right upper arm, says ABANDON HOPE .”
“Who’s Hope?”
“Funny. Why aren’t you asking?”
“Okay, I’ll ask. Since when do drivers’ licenses note tattoos?”
“They don’t. The tattoo is on his arrest sheet.”
“Awwwww,” I said, thinking about Marge. “How do I get into this stuff?”
“It’s a bad sheet, too,” DiGaudio said. “And I don’t think this has anything to do with my uncle.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Pivensey is no danger to men. On the other hand, if you know a woman who’s anywhere near him, you might tell her to move.”
“Why is it that I never enjoy talking to you?”
“In 2001 Mr. Pivensey was sentenced to three years for beating up a seventeen-year-old girl. She said something unflattering about his shirt, and he broke her nose and one of her cheekbones. She damn near lost an eye. He got out a year and a half later, courtesy of all the periwinkle doilies on the parole board, and got arrested again seven months after
that
in the investigation of a disappeared waitress named, uh, waitaminute, Laurette Wissert. We never found her, couldn’t make a case the DA would take, but we all knew he killed her. Last time anyone saw her was with him up in Twentynine Palms. She’ll turn up in the desert someday. Some coyote will dig her up, but he’ll never go down for it. And then last year, a couple people saw him try to run over a woman in a parking lot outside Ron’s Market, you know Ron’s, over on Highland?”
“Sure.”
“Tried to hit her a couple of times. Peeled off onto the street, almost banged into a patrol car. So he got arrested, this being a nation of laws, but the woman was too frightened to press charges. We wanted to make a case for attempted murder, but the DA said no. Wouldn’t hold up without a complaint. So your Mr. Pivensey got convicted for reckless driving, paid a fine, and walked. And, since we almost got him on those three, just think how many we don’t know anything about.”
“Why don’t you guys just kill people like that?”
“There are those who claim that we do,” DiGaudio said carefully. “And there are those who claim that we don’t do it often enough. And if you’re taping this call, I’m horrified at the idea of vigilante justice.”
“You got a picture?”
“Sure. Got a nice little gallery of him holding up numbers.”
“Can you send them to me?”
“Oh, sure. Cops send police records to burglars all the time.”
“This guy may have been living with the daughter of someone I know. Now the daughter’s not around.”
“The police,” DiGaudio said. “Remember us? The
someone you know
should call the police.”
“I’ll pass that along. But don’t be a dick. Send me the pictures.”
For a moment, I thought he’d hang up. But then he said, “Well, we haven’t been doing too good with this guy, have we? It’ll take me a couple of minutes to crop down to the face, get rid of the stuff that says
booking photo
. I’ll send you two pictures. What email address?”
“Hold on. Rina,” I called. “What’s your email address?”
“Skyspirit at Bluepool-dot-com,” she said.
“Great,” I said. I gritted my teeth and passed the address to DiGaudio.
“Dot … com,” DiGaudio said, obviously concentrating. It was hard not to picture him writing with the tip of his tongue plastered to his upper lip. “Okay, give me a few minutes. And, Bender, listen.”
“I’m only sorry you can’t see me, see how hard I’m listening.”
“Two things. First, don’t let this asshole
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