No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Page 16

  "Since when?"

  "Hey I know where you're going with this," Jack said. "And you're wrong. I'd vouch for Munch Mancini any day of the week. She shows up for work every day sober as a judge."

  Blackstone wrote down the name and then looked at the business card again. The shop was in Sherman Oaks. judging from the address, it was close to both the 405 and the Ventura freeways.

  "What time did Ms. Mancini leave work last Friday?" Blackstone asked.

  "I don't know how much I should be saying about all this. Maybe we should get a lawyer involved."

  "You're the one who said she had nothing to hide, sir.

  "How do I know if you're even really a cop?"

  "If it'll make you feel better, you can call me right back. I'm at the crime lab now." He gave Jack the number and the extension, then hung up and waited for the man to call him back. When the phone rang two minutes later, he picked it up before it had completed its first ring.

  "She left at three-fifteen," Jack said. " remember because she had a four o'clock appointment with her probation officer in Santa Monica."

  "Do you have a phone number and address for Ms. Mancini?"

  "Why do you need that?"

  "I'd like to talk to her, sir."

  "Just a minute," Jack said. Blackstone heard what sounded like a filing cabinet opening. Jack read off an address and phone number in Reseda. "Does this mean she isn't in jail?"

  "Why would she be in jail?"

  "That's what I don't understand either, but they took her away yesterday and she hasn't called. I tried to find out what was going on, but I just got the runaround."

  Blackstone thanked Jack for his help and then hung up. The next number he dialed was Munch Mancini's home number. When her machine answered, he hung up. He sat back and thought a moment, then called the station. The operator had over twenty messages for him.

  "Everybody sends Alex their prayers," she said.

  "Anything else?" he asked.

  "Some woman in custody in Santa Monica wants to speak to you. She said she needs to talk to you and that she never worked at a print shop."

  "What's the name?" he asked, knowing the answer before the operator spoke.

  "Munch Mancini."

  "What's she in custody for?"

  "I don't know. You want me to call over there and find out?"

  "No. I'll handle it. Thanks."

  21

  BLACKSTONE WAITED in the small visiting room for Munch Mancini. She arrived accompanied by a guard and uncuffed. She didn't refuse the hand he offered. They both sat in scarred wooden chairs.

  "How's your partner doing?" she asked.

  "What do you know about that?"

  "Just what I saw on TV. Is he going to be all right?"

  "We're not sure yet."

  "I'm sorry He looked like a nice guy"

  "He still is."

  "Right."

  "What's your involvement with all this?" Blackstone asked.

  "It's a long story" she said.

  Blackstone folded his hands in front of him.

  "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

  Where did this story begin? she wondered.

  Would he be interested in hearing about her convoluted relationships? Or did the story begin eight months ago when she was reborn sober and thrown wide-eyed into a new world with a whole new set of rules? No, she decided, none of that would matter to him. He was a cop. She took a deep breath and began. "Last Friday my friend John Garillo came to visit me at work. Hours later, he was dead."

  "Why didn't you come forth earlier?"

  "I didn't have anything to offer," she said.

  "But now that you're in custody you've suddenly remembered something that will help with the investigation?

  "It's not like that." She walked to the window.

  "I've always wanted Sleaze's killer to be caught."

  "Sleaze?" Blackstone asked. He pulled out his notebook.

  "That's what we called him. Sleaze John." She looked out the window, wishing she was dealing with the other cop, the one who was shot.

  "And you contacted me because . . . ?"

  "You need my help," she said.

  "And what do you need?" he asked.

  "Let's just say I've buried enough friends for one week."

  "I'm listening."

  "The way I see it," she said, "a lot of people have gotten hurt lately—your partner for one." The last two days had given her a lot of time to think. She was pretty sure she had reconstructed the events that led to Sleaze's murder—not to mention the killings in Venice, which also had to tie in somehow. She had reached one inescapable conclusion. The FBI knew where the guns were and had delayed their arrests. They were as much to blame as anyone else, and they were supposed to be the good guys. She took a breath for courage and then laid it out for Blackstone. "According to some information that I fell into, these shootings could have been avoided."

  "What kind of information?

  "Pictures, an interoffice memo."

  "Whose interoffice memo?"

  "The FBI. Get me out of here and I'll show them to you. Then we'll Figure out how we'll handle it from there."

  "Let's take this one step at a time."

  "Fine," she said. "Get me out of here."

  In the hallway outside of Courtroom 212, Blackstone caught up with Chris Hoag. Chris had been a DA for as long as Blackstone had been on the force.

  "Hey Jigsaw," Hoag said. "You testifying today?"

  "No, I'm working on a case and I need a favor."

  "Search warrant?"

  "Court order to release a witness from custody. She's upstairs."

  "How soon you need it?"

  "How soon can you do it?"

  Hoag grabbed his arm and led him toward the elevator. "What's she in custody for?"

  "Probation violation, but it's bullshit."

  "Who's her POP"

  "Olivia Scott," Blackstone said.

  Hoag shook his head. "That bitch is going to get the city sued one day you mark my words."

  Hoag's secretary typed up the court order. Hoag walked it past the judge and collected the necessary signatures and stamps. The custody sergeant had Munch sign for her property It took him a while to locate the manila folder holding her keys, wallet, and money. By four o'clock, Munch was a free woman.

  "Where to now?" Blackstone asked.

  "Inglewood. We need to have a little chat with Lisa Slokum."

  Traffic was congested on the Coast Highway and, according to the traffic report on the radio, was bumper to bumper all the way to the airport. Blackstone requisitioned an unmarked unit that was equipped with a magnet-mounted red strobe and siren. He used both to part the traffic.

  Munch clutched the handholds mounted on the dash as they swerved in and out of the busy lanes. She told him how Claire Donavon had questioned her and then jailed her.

  "What I'm not sure of," Munch said as they got off the freeway in Inglewood, "is how she knew who I was."

  "What do you think?" Blackstone asked.

  "I think someone with a big mouth has got a lot at stake and doesn't care who gets hurt."

  When they got to Lisa Slokum's house, the front door was open, as was the gate. A white Buick Riviera was parked in front.

  Munch and Blackstone got out of his car and walked up the front path together.

  A thin, well-dressed white man who looked to be in his sixties exited the house. He stood on the front porch shaking his head. As Munch and Blackstone approached, the man regarded them with interest.

  "I'm not quite ready to show the place yet," he said. "My last tenant left it in quite a mess."

  "She moved?" Munch asked. "Where?"

  "Even if I knew, I couldn't tell you," he said.

  Blackstone flashed his badge. The landlord wasn't impressed.

  "She gave me notice two weeks ago," he said. " didn't ask any questions. It's weird, though. She left all her furniture, most of their clothes, too, it looks like
."

  "Can I look?" Munch asked.

  The man shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  She went to the little girls' room first. It was hard to tell because of the overall disorder, but it did seem as if some things were missing. She looked for Jill's special rock, but it was gone. She opened the closet. Clothes she remembered washing no longer hung there. The box of dress-up accessories had also been removed.

  They were all gone.

  She walked back into the front room. Her thoughts scrambled and raced, making it difficult to concentrate. She rubbed at her chest, trying to ease the weight on her heart.

  Please, God. Please, God. Please let her be all right.

  Tears of frustration filled her eyes. She stumbled over something. Asia's rattle. Munch picked it up and traced the word's DADDY'S GIRL.

  They walked out into the front yard. Blackstone was saying something about APBs and DMV records.

  "I'll check with the neighbors," he said. "Maybe someone knows something"

  "No," she said, gripping his arm. "Let's not waste time. Take me to my work. I stashed those papers I was telling you about in my car."

  When they got to Happy Jack's, the shop was closed. The lot was unchained, but it didn't matter. Her car was gone. For the second time in as many hours, she felt the sickening sensation that she had been ripped off and there was nothing she could do about it. She turned to Blackstone.

  "The feds must have towed it. Can you get in their impound lot?"

  Blackstone tucked in his shirt and hitched his pants. Munch had the feeling that he was stalling.

  "Not easily" he said. 'Was this all you had?"

  "No," she said. "Take me to my place. I have some numbers I can call." She'd also been wearing the same dirty uniform since yesterday and wanted to change.

  "Let's go," he said.

  On the drive to her apartment, she told him everything she could remember about what she'd seen on the missing papers. She described the lists and the frequency of Tux's name, the pictures of James talking to the man in the suit—how James had been with Sleaze when he visited her at her work. Blackstone was particularly interested in the FBI memo and its exact wording.

  It was almost seven when they got to her apartment. She unlocked the front door, swung it open, and flicked on the light.

  "Nice place," he said.

  She kicked off her greasy work shoes before she crossed her threshold. "You sound surprised."

  "No, not at all," he lied.

  She let it go.

  "Who are you going to call?" he asked.

  "A mutual friend." Munch dialed the number of the Snakepit. /Vhen the bartender answered, she asked for Deb. Deb answered the phone shouting. Munch pulled the phone away from her ear.

  "You comin' up or what?" Deb asked.

  "I'm looking for Lisa," Munch said.

  "Whatcha want with that sweathog?"

  Munch lowered her voice. "She ripped me off."

  Blackstone raised a questioning eyebrow. Munch turned her back on him.

  'You should know better than to trust that cunt," ' Deb said. "She's only out for herself."

  "I'm finding that out."

  "I feel sorry for the kids," Deb said. "Fucking meal tickets, that's all they are to that bitch."

  "And now the baby" Munch prompted.

  "Yeah, right. And first chance she gets, she dumps the kid off with her ol' man."

  "Her ol' man?" Munch asked.

  "James."

  Munch pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "Asia is with James?"

  "Yeah, he's on his way up here."

  "When's he due?"

  "Tomorrow sometime. He's driving shotgun with Tux."

  She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Blackstone. "We need to go to Oregon."

  He started to say something, but she silenced him with a finger. To Deb she said, "You gonna be hanging out for a while?"

  "I'll be here," Deb said.

  Munch hung up and then turned to Blackstone.

  "We?" he asked.

  "You wouldn't get very far without me," she said. "All right," he said.

  "That was easy "

  "We both want the same thing, right?" he said.

  "Yeah," she said, feeling guilty The catching of Sleaze's killer had slipped on her list of priorities. As if sensing she was holding back on him, Blackstone asked, "What did Lisa take from you?"

  "Huh?"

  "You said Lisa ripped you off."

  "Yeah, well, it's just kind of a figure of speech, you know? It don't mean nothing." She noticed herself slipping back into street vernacular "She owes me, is all I'm saying."

  "Owes you what?"

  "An explanation"

  He seemed to accept that. "I'll call the airlines and check on flights?

  She pulled out her phone book, set it next to the phone, and said, " won't be long." She left him to go change and pack a bag.

  "When we get to Canyonville," he called through the closed bedroom door, "you can tell people I'm your cousin."

  "I don't have any cousins." She opened her closet and pulled out a duffel bag. This was not only her first trip out of state, but it would be her first time on an airplane.

  "Tell them I'm your boyfriend," he said.

  "Oh, yeah, right," she said. "That's even more of a stretch." From the back of her closet she pulled out her black leather motorcycle Jacket, her once sacred "leather." Through the door, she heard him speaking on the phone, repeating back times and numbers, then saying thank you and hanging up.

  "Why?" he yelled to her.

  "You might as well have COP stamped on your forehead," she yelled back. She pulled on a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and then her old Frye boots. Shaking out her coat, she laid it out on the bed. Her leather was personalized by a Levi Jacket with cut-off sleeves that fit snugly across its back. She had sewn on Harley-Davidson wings across the lower back and a uniform name tag from her first job over one of the front pockets. To the left of the lower buttons there was a round patch with an embroidered coiled snake on it and the legend: DON'T' TREAD ON ME. The Jacket smelled rank, she noticed, probably always had. It was against the code to wash a cutoff. She put it on and joined him in the kitchen.

  "You look about five inches taller and twenty pounds heavier," he said.

  "It's attitude," she told him, tying a red bandanna around her forehead.

  "The first plane we can catch to Medford leaves tomorrow morning," he said, showing her the flight information.

  She called the Snakepit again. When Deb came to the phone, Munch announced, "I'm coming up."

  "That's great. When?"

  She consulted his notes. "Eleven-fifteen tomorrow morning."

  "We'll be there. How long can you stay?"

  "Till the weekend for sure. So your ol' man has been in L.A.?"

  "He's been everywhere. I can't wait for you to meet him."

  "Yeah, me either," Munch said. She hung up the phone and turned to Blackstone. "They're going to meet me at the airport." »

  "They?"

  "Deb and another friend of ours, Roxanne."

  He wrapped a hand around her wrist. " don't have to tell you that I don't want you screwing up the bust by warning your friends."

  "All I'm asking for is a chance to get them out of there," she said.

  He nodded. "We'll have to see how deeply they're involved. I can't promise you total immunity"

  "Look, have a heart here. You're looking for a murderer. Guys who shoot cops. The worse thing these broads do is smoke a little reefer and party with bikers. Why fuck up their lives by busting them?"

  "And if they're involved?"

  "No way" she said. "You don't know them like I do." She hoisted her duffel bag.

  "You all ready?" he asked.

  "Where to now?"

  "I want to stop by the hospital, and then we'll go to my place."

  She knew that there was no question that one of them would be sleeping on a cou
ch.

  * * *

  The next morning, they parked in the large covered structure attached to the terminal. They were still an hour early Blackstone excused himself to use the phone. Munch headed for the airport gift shop, which had a section full of Disneyland memorabilia. She selected a Mickey Mouse watch. Then she went to the card section and found a birthday card appropriate for a young boy and took them both up to the counter.

  "Do you gift-wrap?" she asked the elderly woman behind the cash register.

  "No, dear."

  "How about these?" Munch asked, holding up a packet of hair ribbons.

  "They cost a dollar each," the woman said. "Rather expensive for gift wrap."

  "That's all right. Price is no object." She thought about Mrs. Scott's criticism about how Munch didn't practice fiscal responsibility

  "Is this for your son?" the cashier asked.

  "No, but he's the next closest thing. He's my friends son."

  "How long since you've seen him?"

  "Almost a year," Munch said, leaving out the part about going to jail and kicking heroin.

  The woman made change and helped Munch tie the bow around the watch case. "That looks great,"

  Munch said. "Thanks."

  "Have a nice vacation, dear," the woman said.

  Blackstone was still on the phone. "I'll pick up the tickets," she told him. He handed her a wad of cash. She handed half of it back. "I'll pay for my own."

  She got in line and watched the people ahead of her go about the business of buying their tickets and checking their luggage. By the time it was her turn, she had the routine down.

  "Two round trips to Medford, please."

  "How many bags?" the ticket agent asked.

  "Just our carry-ons," she said, feeling like an old pro.

  "Smoking or nonsmoking?"

  "Smoking."

  "Aisle or window?"

  "Window."

  "Thank you for flying the friendly skies."

  "You're welcome." It wasn't until after she left the counter with the ticket folder clutched in her hand that she remembered to breathe.

  Blackstone joined her. "All set?" he asked.

  "How's your partner?" she asked.

  "Stronger, they say but still out."

  Another half hour went by and then a stewardess announced that they were now accepting passengers. Munch and Blackstone got in the cattle line and allowed themselves to be swept aboard with the other travelers.