Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Page 4

  Why couldn't he run the world? Great men had that choice. Why couldn't he have that same chance? God, it would feel fantastic to have so much power. Money was the key, and soon he would have plenty.

  He pulled a bus schedule from his pocket, finding the number of the line that serviced the many cities of Los Angeles's west side. Then he drew a deep breath and pounded a fist on his chest The bus ride could wait a bit. It was a beautiful night for a walk.

  CHAPTER 4

  The following morning, Asia woke first and pulled on her light pink tights and rose-colored leotard. Munch was vaguely aware of the sounds of dresser drawers opening and water running in the bathroom. The phone rang only a half tone, then was quiet. No doubt some aborted wrong number where the caller realized his error just as the last digit was pressed but not before a connection had already been made. She pulled the pillow over her head and then heard Asia talking to someone.

  "Six and a half," Asia said. A pause, then, "I'll check. I think she's asleep." Munch lifted her head in time to hear Asia yell, "Mom! Telephone."

  "All right." Munch reached over to her bedside table, picked up the receiver, and croaked a hello.

  "How do you manage to have a kid who is almost seven?"

  Ellen asked. "I do not remember you being pregnant. "

  Munch was fully awake now, her heart thumping and wondering if Asia was still on the line. Asia had a general idea about where babies came from. Munch had told her the part about living in the mommy's stomach first. She hadn't told her that sometimes birth mommies die and other lucky mommies find their babies already born.

  "Just hold on a minute." She cupped her hand over the phone. "Asia? What are you doing?"

  "Eating," came back the muffled reply. "Did you hang up the phone?"

  "A1l right," Asia yelled back, clearly exasperated. Munch pulled the receiver away from her ear as she heard the extension in the other room ricochet back into its cradle. She spoke back into the phone. "What time is it?"

  "Seven. Would you like me to call back at a time that is more convenient?"

  "No, that's all right. I needed to get up. Asia has dance class this morning. What's up?"

  "I have run into a situation."

  "Can you talk?"

  "I don't know why not I am standing on the intersection of Washington and Main with all my worldly possessions scattered at my feet. I will damn well speak until my dimes run out, which should not be happening for another twelve minutes."

  "What happened?"

  "Russell decided that I was not fulfilling my obligations to him. You want the details?"

  Munch lay back in bed, picturing the "personal time" she had spent with Russ and all the guys like him in her other life before she learned she had options. Another point high on her gratitude list: No more having to coax the shriveled white worm of manhood between Russ's spindly legs to brief life. She remembered how when Russ unzipped his tar-encrusted jeans or pulled off his boots, there was always the pervasive undertone of mildew and dried urine. The smell grew nastier as your nose got closer to it. "Couldn't do it anymore, huh?"

  "Not sober. "

  "Welcome to the narrowing road."

  "Does this clean-living thing get easier as you go along?"

  "Yeah, it just takes a little while to figure out the rules." She didn't say that she herself was still struggling after seven years. Ellen didn't need to hear that right now. What Ellen needed was a safe place to put her next step. "Tell you what, why don't you crash with us for a couple of days? I've got a couch that folds out into a bed. It's not much, but you won't have to share it."

  "You are too good."

  "You need me to pick you up?"

  "No, that won't be necessary. I have your address. I still believe I know how to use my thumb."

  "Everything is going to work out," Munch said. "You'll see. Sobriety is easy. You just don't drink or use, and change everything about yourself."

  "Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke?" Ellen asked.

  "Yeah. The thing that makes it funny is how true it is."

  "Any other words of wisdom?"

  "We'll have lots of time to talk later. If we're not here, the key is under the mat."

  "Thank you."

  "Don't worry about it. We've got plenty of ways for you to earn your keep."

  After she hung up, Munch pulled on a pair of jeans and a hot pink T-shirt she'd bought at a flea market. She'd paid extra for the black lettering across the front that read, LIFE'S TOO SHORT TO DANCE WITH UGLY MEN. She walked out to the kitchen, poured herself a bowl of cereal, and joined Asia in the living room. The two of them watched cartoons until it was time to leave for the little girl's ballet lesson.

  Derek was still asleep on the couch, making little popping noises as he exhaled. Munch didn't bother to wake him. If there was one thing Derek knew, it was his own way out. She did write him a short note saying that she was expecting a friend named Ellen, and to make her welcome if she arrived before he left. She propped the note against the coffeepot and ushered Asia out the door.

  "An old friend came by my work yesterday," she said as she loaded Asia into the car and waited while the girl fastened her seat belt.

  "Man or lady?"

  "Lady. Her name's Ellen."

  "How old?"

  "My age. She's going to drive the limo for us."

  "You should have had her drive last night."

  "She's not on the policy yet. I invited her to come stay with us for a while."

  Asia was quiet as she processed this bit of information. "Does this mean I'll have two mommies?"

  Munch felt her throat go dry. "What makes you say that?"

  "Some kids have two mommies. One that grows them in their tummy, and one that takes care of them."

  Munch wasn't ready for this conversation yet. "Ellen's neither, okay? She's just a friend. If anybody asks you, you tell them you have one mommy, okay?"

  "And we're always going to live together."

  "You say that now, but later on you'll change your mind."

  "No, never."

  "What if you want to get married and have your own kids? Won't you want your own home?"

  "I'm not getting married."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "Me? Live with a boy?" Asia rolled her eyes theatrically. "I don't think so."

  "Never say never. Things change."

  "Not that much," Asia said with the certainty of the old soul Munch was convinced she was.

  Miss Kim's Dance Studio was located in the corner of a single-level minimall on Sepulveda Boulevard. Munch had to park in front of a florist two stores down. As they were getting out of the car, she noticed that Asia's leotard was on inside out. In remedying that situation, Munch discovered a run in Asia's tights. "Great," she said, twisting the tights around so that the run was along the bottom of Asia's foot. "Let's go. I hear the music starting." They trotted to the entrance of the studio. Asia skipped onto the wooden floor while Munch waited with the other mothers by the door.

  Not all the mothers stayed for the class. Munch liked to watch the little girls prance around and was always amazed at the depth of Miss Kim's patience. This morning all the girls were instructed to take a colored scarf from a large cardboard box. That alone took forever, with the little girls arguing over what color they wanted and telling stories about their dogs or their grandpa's car or some other damn thing. Miss Kim took it all in stride. She had to be on something—Munch had decided long ago. Nobody was that mellow, were they? Asia scratched her knee, and her stocking twisted to reveal the run creeping up her ankle. She appeared not to notice, thank God. Munch sneaked a look at the mothers crowded with her in the small anteroom. She always felt like such an impostor in their company, with her short, black-lined finger-nails, lack of stretch marks, and no wedding ring. Look for the similarities, not the differences, she told herself.

  She was standing next to a tall woman with short hair who she'd noticed drove a diesel Mercedes. They
saw each other every week, had a nodding acquaintance, but had never exchanged names.

  "Those ballet shoes sure wear out fast, don't they?" Munch said.

  "Yes," the woman said. "And last week the stupid maid put them in the washing machine."

  "Imagine," Munch said. She couldn't think of anything else to say The woman checked her diamond-studded watch and left. Munch kept her hands in her pockets. It wasn't that she was ashamed to be a mechanic. She just didn't want anyone to see her hands, not make the connection, and think she was dirty. There was a difference between stained and dirty.

  The dance class finished the final exercise. Before the last strains of music had died away, Asia was at her side, pulling her arm, cheeks flushed.

  "Remember, you promised," she said.

  "I didn't forget," Munch said. She smiled down at Asia. The little girl's clear brown eyes brought a swell of warmth to her chest. What perfect skin she had. "There's nothing I'd rather do in the whole wide world than spend the day with you."

  They walked hand in hand back to the car. The day was warm, gently breezy. "How about the park?" Munch asked.

  "Yeah! " Asia yelled, leaping high and swiping at something imaginary in the air. They went to the little park on Alla Road near Marina Del Rey. The little girl played on the swing set and made new friends, quickly establishing herself as their tribal leader.

  How does she do that? Munch wondered, wishing she'd remembered to bring a set of overalls and a sturdier pair of shoes for Asia. Miss Diesel Mercedes probably had the maid pack a suitcase whenever she went out.

  After the park, they went to Uncle John's Pancake House for lunch and had the usual argument over the value of french fries as a vegetable. They compromised on scrambled eggs and hash browns. Munch ordered coffee and finished what Asia left.

  They got home at noon. The first thing Asia asked when they turned up the street was also the burning question on Munch's mind. U .

  "Where's the limo?" the girl said.

  Munch's first theory was that it had been stolen. The idea following that initial supposition made much more sense. Ellen. Fucking Ellen.

  Munch pulled into the driveway and got out. She walked over to the spot where the limo had been parked and noticed puddles ringed with soap suds on the asphalt. Asia let herself out of the car, walked up to Munch, and grabbed her hand.

  "Let's go inside and see if anyone left us a note," Munch said, unlocking the front door. Once across the threshold, Munch pointed Asia toward her room, and told her, "Change your clothes. "

  Seconds later a scream erupted from Asia's room. Munch was there in less than a second. Asia pointed at the line of what appeared to be human heads adorning her dresser. Two wore wigs, the third was bald and on closer inspection turned out to be made of Styrofoam. A suitcase lay open on the floor.

  Munch lifted one of the wigs—the blond one—off its form and held it out for Asia's inspection.

  "See? Just a wig."

  "Whose stuff is this?" Asia asked.

  "My friend, the one I was telling you about."

  "Where is she?"

  "That's what I want to know. Change your clothes. I've got some calls to make."

  She sat down at the dinette table that doubled as the limo office. When she reached for the phone, she saw a sheet of limo stationery folded in half. Her name was scrawled across the front. She recognized Ellen's handwriting.

  Hi, we got a job. Your honey, Derek, helped me get the limo ready. Is he a hunk or what?Anyway, the guy said he would pay cash and that the two of you had an arrangement. I am not back by tonight, I'll call in. Thanks again for everything. I will make you proud.

  CHAPTER 5

  Detective Mace St. John of L.A.'s elite Robbery Homicide Division stood at the entryway of the apartment, studying the scene before him. He liked to orient himself for a minute before the first walk-through of a homicide scene. Detective Tiger Cassiletti loomed behind him, rocking on the balls of his size twelves, seconds away from crashing into his boss and sending them both sprawling through the doorway.

  "We've got one in the bathroom and one in the bedroom," Cassiletti said.

  "Yeah, I know." Mace had been briefed on the phone. Two victims, both women in their twenties. The first they found in the bathtub, her multiple stab wounds washed free of blood. The second was on the bed in the bedroom. She, too, had been washed, and the twelve puncture wounds in her neck, back, and buttocks covered with white adhesive tape. Neither the tape dispenser nor the weapon had been found at the scene, leading the police to believe that the killer had taken both with him. Later, at the coroner's office, the tape would be removed a strip at a time and the torn edges pieced together. For whatever it was worth, the order in which the pieces of tape were torn would be re-created and cataloged. The murders had been discovered in the early hours of the morning following a tip from an anonymous male caller. It was the Hollywood Division's jurisdiction, but Parker Center's Robbery Homicide Division (RHD) had been asked to step in. RHD handled high-profile cases: serial murders, celebrity-involved felonies.

  The killer's signature mirrored a similar unsolved case that had crossed Mace St. John's desk when he'd first transferred to RHD in December. For a while, the suspect was being called "The Christmas Killer" except by one detective who dubbed their offender "The Maytag Man" became he cleaned up after himself. Mace had been in no mood to joke and had declared that thereafter the murderer would only be referred to as "The Band-Aid Killer".

  As with the previous homicide, the killer had washed the victims' bodies postmortem. dressed the wounds, and then positioned their bodies so that their right hands, palms down, rested above their left breasts.

  All the women had also been sodomized. At the December homicide scene, the forensic people had collected semen samples and combed pubic hair, looking for whatever part of himself the rapist/murderer might have left behind. The coroner had found no bite marks; their absence again surprised him. Because of the degree of overkill as evidenced by the number of stab wounds, he characterized the murderer as impulsively sadistic. Those kinds were usually biters.

  Any communication with the media was to be preapproved by press relations, Captain Earl had cautioned needlessly Actually, it was almost an insult. As if Mace had ever talked out of school. Like he'd do anything to help a murderer—especially an animal such as this one. But it was a tense time in the city. Mayor Bradley was concentrating every effort to make Los Angeles appear welcoming and safe for the upcoming 1984 Olympics. The bums had been packed up and shipped to a tent city. Commercial traffic now ran in the wee hours of the morning, leaving the freeways as open as Mace had ever seen them. The last thing the city fathers wanted was reports of a maniac killing women inside their own homes. Still standing in the doorway of the apartment, Mace and Cassiletti each pulled on a pair of latex surgical gloves. Mace studied the front room.

  The apartment was filled with inexpensive furniture, much of it dusty. A blue-and-gold silk scarf was draped over the shade of the lamp on the small table trapped in the corner between a couch and an armchair. The cushions weren't dented, he noted. The zipper on the center couch cushion was facing out. The Scientific Investigation Division photographers arrived and performed their duties in the bathroom and the bedroom. Mace told them to document the living room and kitchenette as well. Mace and Cassiletti waited till the flash stopped popping, then walked into the bathroom. The first thing Mace noticed was how the dead woman in the bathtub had a foot draped languorously over the edge of the tub. Her eyes were open, punctuated by dark smears of mascara under the lower lash lines. God, she was young

  "Whose little girl were you?" he asked out loud.

  He bent over to study the aftermath of the killer's carnage. There were twelve X's of white tape adhered to the woman's ghostly white torso. He peeled back one of the dressings on her abdomen. Radiating out from the puncture wound he found bruising, indicating that the hilt of the weapon had struck the surface of the skin. He searched her
chest, hoping to find a clean kill wound, wondering how many stabs she'd been alive to feel. The medical examiner would check for that and note it in his report.

  Mace looked up, following the seashell pattern of wallpaper to where it met the ceiling. Half his brain wondered if this had been her last sight. The analytical half knew something was missing: blood spatter on the walls.

  "Don't forget the traps," he told the SID crew. "I want all of them: sink, tub, toilet."

  "Kitchen, too?" a tech asked.

  "Yeah, kitchen, too," he answered. "Rush the tox reports on the victims," Mace told Cassiletti. "And I want comparisons on the hair and semen."

  Cassiletti pulled out his notebook and scribbled. "Anything else?"

  "Let's check out the other one."

  As they started to leave the room, the phone mounted on the wall next to the toilet rang. Mace lifted the receiver carefully from its cradle, knowing his gloves would not add new prints but not wishing to smudge any that were already there. He answered the phone with a simple "Hello".

  "Uh, is the lady of the house in?'

  "Who is this?'

  "A friend of Raleigh Ward's."

  "Can I tell her what this is regarding?

  "Um, well, actually I'm trying to track Raleigh down, and I, um . . . Listen, can I give you my name and number, and maybe she could just give me a call, you know, as soon as she can."

  "Sounds like a plan," Mace said, pulling out his notepad and a pen. "Go ahead."

  "All right, my name's Munch, and the number is—"

  "Munch? Munch Mancini?" Mace asked. Cassiletti's head swung around at the sound of the name. Mace pointed at the receiver for the big man's benefit.

  "Who is this?" she asked.

  "Mace St. John."

  "Mace? What are you doing there? How have you been?"