No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Read online

  She sweated as she worked. Her uniform clung to her back. Beads of perspiration fell from the tip of her nose, flattening when they hit the cross-brace of the frame. The thermometer mounted on the Caddy's sideview mirror read ninety-two degrees.

  This was her first autumn in the Valley It was a year of firsts—one right after the other. Ruby said to think of it as an adventure.

  And were all adventures this lonely? Munch wondered. She didn't mean to seem ungrateful. But what did you do with the many hours of the day?

  When every moment of your life was spent pursuing drugs and the ways and means to get more and then suddenly that all ended? You don't use anymore. Great. You're going to live. Now what? What do you do with yourself when you're not busy with work or on your way to another meeting? What about Sunday at 3:00 P.M.? Whom do you talk to when you have a foot in two worlds and you can't relate to anyone?

  These things take time, Ruby always said. You didn't get screwed up in one day; you won't get better all at once, either. Sometimes Ruby would point out that Munch was still young, which Munch supposed was meant to be comforting in some way

  Another bolt felt like it wasn't going to give. She sprayed it with penetrating oil and worked it back and forth, a quarter turn at a time. A bead of sweat worked its way down her cleavage. Venice Beach would no doubt be at least thirty degrees cooler. Would it have been that big a deal to pick up his kid?

  She straightened and stretched. The backs of her knees ached from being locked so long in one position. Jack walked over to her and put a meaty hand on her shoulder.

  "How's it going?" he asked.

  "Not great." She showed him the broken bolts.

  "What did that scuzball in the truck want?"

  "A favor."

  She knew Jack felt she was being taken advantage of by her old "lower companions" and didn't approve. In the AA questionnaire, the one with the twenty questions that determined if you too were an alcoholic, it asked if you consorted with lower companions. Ruby said that included everyone Munch used to know.

  "You didn't give him any money did you?" Jack asked.

  "No, he didn't want money"

  "Watch out for that guy"

  She felt tears swelling behind her eyes and bent back down over the engine. "I can handle it," she said.

  "You always say that. Next time one of those creeps comes around, you let me deal with them."

  She shook her head, unwilling to attempt to talk through her closed throat. She'd asked Ruby once when she'd stop being so emotional. Maybe never, Ruby said. Welcome to the human race.

  Munch cleared her throat. "I've got to go see my probation officer today at four."

  "When are you going to be through with all that? It's already been almost a year. Can't they see how good you're doing?"

  "I was lucky to get probation."

  "Yeah, but three years? Jesus." Jack patted the fender of the Cadillac. "Don't worry about getting this one done. I'll call the guy and tell him we've run into some trouble. Maybe I can get you a few extra bucks for the broken bolts."

  "Good luck, this guy's got the first nickel he ever made."

  Jack chuckled. "You pegged him right."

  "Uh, Jack?" Munch pushed back the hair from her forehead where it had worked loose from her braid. "Thanks. Thanks for everything."

  "Sure, kid." He turned to go and then spotted the key on the fender. "This yours?" he asked, holding forth Sleaze's house key "What? I say something funny?"

  "No, I just remembered something about that guy who was here. He thinks he knows me so well."

  She took the key and slipped it in her shirt pocket. She gathered up her tools and checked he clock. It was a little after three. Her new probation officer—the intractable Mrs. Olivia Scott—was in Santa Monica. The drive over the hill took thirty to forty-five minutes depending on the amount of traffic. Santa Monica bordered Venice, she thought as she put her tools away and locked her box. Inglewood, where Lisa lived, was only another few miles farther south. What was her big worry?

  She scrubbed her hands, put on a clean T-shirt, kicked off her heavy work shoes, and slipped on a pair of Keds. The mechanics all kept lockers in the small room where the uniforms were stored. In a concession to gender, Jack had installed a latch on the door soon after he hired her. Munch always felt funny about locking the door. Perhaps it was all the time she had spent secreted in rooms, usually bathrooms, when the doors had to be locked.

  A small mirror hung over the sink. She loosened her braid and ran her hands through to her scalp, ruffling her light brown hair. Usually fine and straight, now it was kinked from the day spent entwined. She liked the effect. Someday maybe she'd get someone to show her how to curl her hair on purpose.

  She thought about Deb and her boy, up there in the country She missed them both. Sleaze, as usual, had hit a nerve. She and Deb had been best friends since they were sixteen, when Deb had first moved out from Missouri. Now she was in Oregon.

  What were the fall months like there? Did the leaves on the trees all change color? And what sort of a town was Canyonville? Did it have a little general store where the locals gathered? Did the postmistress know everyone by their first name? Was there a small gas station there with a repair shop in back?

  All this had been part of the big dream. Deb would get some part-time job in one of the stores so she could be home when Boogie got out of school. They would rent a small house together. They'd grow their own vegetables and have two cats in the yard, just like in the song.

  The issue of Boogie's mixed blood wouldn't exist. In the country nobody would ever say nigger.

  At the end of the month, he would be turning seven. Had over six years really passed since she held out her arms to receive him after his first staggering steps? Hard to believe. When he was a newborn, Deb told Munch that she had turned his head every twenty minutes so that it wouldn't get flat on either side. Was anyone thinking of doing that for Asia?

  She emerged from the back room and paused before Jack's open office door.

  "I'm going over to Denny's," she said. "You want anything?"

  He checked his watch before answering. She cringed in response to his unspoken disapproval at her early departure, but maybe she was reading him wrong. Maybe he didn't mean anything by the gesture, and she was just overreacting to everything.

  "No, I'm good," he said.

  "I finished the carb overhaul on the plumber's truck," she said. "I'll come in in the morning and adjust the choke when it's cold."

  "Don't come in just for that," he said. "I'll do it."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "All right. See you Monday morning then. Early"

  Head still bent over his paperwork, he waved her away

  She jogged across the street without waiting for the light and was slightly winded by time she reached the coffee shop's front door.

  Ruby's shift had ended, and Munch found her sitting at the counter drinking coffee and gossiping with the afternoon staff. Ruby turned when Munch pushed through the double glass doors.

  "Did Jack let you off early?" she asked.

  "I've gotta go see my PO," Munch explained. "She called my number" Every night, as part of the terms of her probation, Munch called a number and listened to its recorded message. After each probation officers last name, a series of numbers was announced. Each number was in fact a person. Munch was Scott, thirty-eight. Thirty-eight had been included in last night's recording, which meant that she had twenty-four hours in which to report and give a urine sample. "'d thought I'd get a cup of coffee for the you-know-what."

  "How's everything going?" Ruby asked.

  "Okay."

  The waitress behind the counter brought Munch a large coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Munch doctored the drink with equal amounts of cream and sugar.

  "Anything else?" the waitress asked.

  Munch put a dollar on the counter. "No. Thanks."

  "Are you coming tonight?" Ruby asked.


  "I'm bringing the cookies."

  Munch stirred her coffee. "Maybe we could talk later."

  "What is it?"

  "No big deal," she said, not looking up.

  Ruby stood and gave Munch a hug. "You sure?"

  After all these months, Munch still had difficulty responding to Ruby's spontaneous shows of affection. Part of her wanted to answer in kind, to wrap her arms around Ruby's ample waist and bury herself in the soft warmth of her sponsor's love. But something always held her back—a moments hesitation that always served to kill the impulse. Ruby didn't seem to notice as she finished off her hug with an extra squeeze. "We'll talk tonight," she promised.

  "Yeah, I better get going," Munch said, picking up her coffee and leaving the change for the waitress who had served her.

  She was on the freeway for ten minutes before she spotted the wreck closing the right lane. The accident was fairly fresh, judging from the brightness of the flares. She vaguely remembered hearing multiple sirens as she was getting ready to leave

  work. This must have been their destination.

  Three cop cars, an ambulance, a fire truck, and a tow truck further snarled traffic. The inner lanes slowed to a crawl as each passing motorist took the look they'd paid for with the interruption of their commute. Finally it came to her turn. She almost lost control of her GTO when she recognized the blue truck with its grille flattened against a signpost. What appeared to be bullet holes punctured the driver's side of the windshield. A booted foot dangled out from beneath the open driver's door. The ambulance drivers weren't rushing to the driver's aide. One of them even lighted a cigarette. The foot didn't move. Her stomach clutched.

  A cloud of tangible sorrow seemed to levitate from the wreck and land on her chest.

  How could he be dead? Sleaze always landed on his feet. Maybe it wasn't the same truck. Maybe the other guy had been driving. Where was the other guy? The only people she saw milling about the crash scene were in uniform. Both the ambulance and patrol car were empty of passengers. She strained to catch a look at the driver's face, but the doorpost obstructed her view. Blood dripped onto the asphalt.

  When she didn't move ahead with the other cars, a highway patrolman waved her angrily on. She leaned across her front seat, rolled down her passenger window, and pointed to the wreckage.

  "I know him. I know the driver," she said.

  The cop studied her for a moment, then glanced back at the crash scene. "Pull over up there."

  She nodded. She had every intention of pulling over, of going to him, but then another thought came to her. Theres nothing you can do, the voice in her head said. You don't need any part of this. Keep moving.

  She caught a last look at the mangled pickup, then swerved back into traffic, ignoring the people who honked and swore at her.

  Goddamnit, Sleaze, now what have you done?

  3

  HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Jigsaw Blackstone unfolded his long legs and swung them out from beneath the steering wheel of his black, four-door sedan. Before exiting the car, he turned his rearview mirror and checked that his part was straight. He pulled a fine-toothed comb from his shirt pocket and carefully ran it through his mustache until the dark hair was arranged evenly over his upper lip.

  "You're like a cat, you know that?" Alex Perez, Blackstone's partner, said.

  Blackstone didn't respond.

  "I'm going to check the victim," Alex said. "You just take your time."

  "That's just jealousy talking."

  "Did I say cat?" Alex said. "I think I meant pussy" Blackstone smirked and returned the mirror to its previous position. He got out of the car and walked over to the highway patrolman directing traffic.

  "You the first on the scene?" he asked the officer.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What happened?" Blackstone took a step backward and looked down at the body through the pickup truck's driver's-side window The stiff 's eyes were open; their expression seemed calm, almost bored. The skin around the head wound was scooted up; the throat shot had ripped through a carotid artery and shattered vertebrae.

  "I was cruising when I came across this scene."

  "So you didn't see it happen."

  "No, sir."

  "Paramedics get here?"

  "Been and gone. Nothing they could do."

  "Good. So they didn't move anything? Disturb the body?"

  "No, sir."

  "Anyone come forward? Any witnesses to the shooting?"

  "Not exactly A woman in a dark blue GTO slowed down while I was directing traffic and claimed to know the driver."

  Blackstone looked back to where the body was positioned. "Could she see him?"

  "Not from her angle; not the face anyway Maybe the foot. I guess she recognized the vehicle"

  "You let her go?"

  "I instructed her to pull over. When I looked over again, she hadn't."

  "Get a plate? No, of course you didn't. Was she young, old, fat?"

  "Caucasian, early twenties, small build, light eyes, curly light-brown hair—collar length."

  "That narrows the field."

  "One other thing, sir—her hands and fingernails. They were . . . not really dirty more like stained. Lines of black around her cuticles and under her nails."

  "All right, Officer . . ." He leaned forward to read the name tag. "Kerr. That might be something. Thanks. What was the speed of traffic?"

  "Fifty to fifty-five."

  "Is Cal Trans on the way?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Blackstone made a note in his notebook and walked back to the crash site. The tow truck driver stood at the ready awaiting permission to haul off the wreck. Blackstone held up a hand to say not yet. He studied the accordion creases in the hood and the crushed front grille. The drivers door appeared to have sprung open on impact. If the truck had collided with the pole at fifty-five miles an hour, the signpost would have been flattened. Blackstone walked around to the passenger side, looked inside the cab, and saw the hot-wired ignition.

  "Another fine, upstanding citizen," he said out loud.

  The highway patrol officer looked over but said nothing.

  Traffic advanced sluggishly on both sides of the freeway Blackstone ignored the shouted questions of the motorists. People are idiots, he thought, shaking his head. But that was the job: protecting idiots from assholes. A Cal Trans truck arrived with flashing yellow arrow boards to redirect traffic. He instructed them to shut down the southbound lanes five miles before and after the crime scene.

  "It's Friday rush hour," the harried Cal Trans supervisor explained. "I can give you on-ramp to on-ramp in both directions. But that's it."

  "Fine," Blackstone said. "Just do it."

  The coroner's wagon arrived next, escorted by another black-and-white unit. The coroner's deputies waited until the photographers took their pictures—eight-point shots of the victim and vehicle. Blackstone made sure they captured the loose ignition wires on film. He went back to his car, opened the trunk, and retrieved his own Polaroid camera. As he snapped his pictures, he took note of the shooter's skill. Two out of three shots had hit the driver; both had done serious damage. One shot entered through the forehead, passed through the brain, and taken with it on exit the back half of the skull. It had certainly been fatal. The other had torn out the victims throat, another nonsurvivable wound. He was either dealing with a shooter who was a crack marksman or one with the luck of Lee Harvey Oswald. The third bullet had gone through the dash and floorboard.

  Using the toe of his shoe, he opened the driver's door the rest of the way, then stepped aside while the body was loaded onto a gurney

  The coroner's deputy wearing surgical gloves, went through the victim's pockets. Alex searched through the dense hedge of bottlebrush growing along the freeway shoulder.

  Blackstone returned to the drivers side of the pickup truck, where he studied the spiderweb fractures in the broken windshield.

  "Right up your alley eh, Jigs?" Alex asked from over Blackst
ones shoulder.

  Blackstone let his partners words wash over him. "What do you think?" Alex was brushing dirt and leaves from his knees.

  "The top one was first," Blackstone said, running his finger down the cracks in the glass. "See how the cracks radiating out from the bottom hole butt up against the upper web fractures?"

  "I'll take your word for it."

  Blackstone studied the top bullet hole and found that it was drilled neatly with no deviation. The trucks windshield was fairly flat, he noted, but had enough of a slope that it might deflect a projectile as it passed through. The fired rounds must have entered at almost a perfect ninety-degree angle. Matching holes were torn through the upholstery of the drivers seat. He scanned the road up ahead.

  There were no overpasses or tall trees nearby

  "We got at least two perps," he said. "The shooter and his driver. We're looking for another truck, maybe a van or a camper, even a motor home."

  "Shit," Alex said, looking down the miles of freeway "they're long gone by now."

  They looked in through the open door of the truck. The seat was soaked with blood. Bits of bone and red gelatinous brain matter clung to the vinyl and cloth. If the second kill shot was intentional, was there some sort of message implied? Nobody sings with a bullet in his throat.

  Blackstone shone his flashlight into the area behind the seat and saw that the bullets had cut through the sheet metal of the cab as well.

  The investigators formed an impromptu huddle out of earshot of the tow truck driver. Blackstone addressed the coroner first. "What have you got?"

  "There was a wallet in the back pocket, but the ID was a forgery"

  "I called in the name," CHP officer Kerr added, "but it wasn't on record with the DMV The truck was reported stolen yesterday"

  "Anything?" Blackstone asked his partner.

  "Nah, he must have been alone."

  "That's the way we all die, buddy"

  "Thanks for the thought."

  While they awaited the arrival of the firearms expert, Blackstone told Alex, " want to find the female in the GTO. If she doesn't come forward, let's check the printing shops in the area."

  "What are we looking for?"

  "Female, Caucasian, early to mid-twenties, who sets type or cleans the presses."