Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Page 5

  Mace pictured her as he'd last seen her. Was it five years ago? Longer? He had stopped in at the garage where she worked just to say hi, see if she was okay. She was, and it had been gratifying to see. Taking the time to call on her had been his wife Caroline's idea. Caroline, the ultimate social worker, lived by her own idealistic, if naive, credo that in giving you received. It had taken him a few years, but he had finally managed to exhaust her deep wells of compassion.

  "Mace?" Munch asked again. "You still there?"

  Cassiletti's head was also cocked in question like some six-foot-four puppy dog.

  "Yeah, I'm here. What's new with you?" And what are you doing calling into a homicide scene? "You still in the Valley?"

  "No, I moved back to the west side. Didn't you get my Christmas card?"

  "Oh, yeah, that's right. Go ahead and give me your address again." He took down her information, writing with the phone cradled carefully between his ear and shoulder.

  Cassiletti made a move as if to hold the phone to Mace's ear. Mace frowned and waved him away. Munch also provided her new phone numbers and work address. He looked up into the mirror of the medicine cabinet but saw only the dead girl in the tub behind him.

  "So how well do you know the women who live here?' he asked.

  "I don't even know their names. Did something happen?"

  "What was that name you said when you first called?"

  "Raleigh Ward," she said. "He's a customer."

  "What kind of customer?"

  "I have a limo business. Hey, wait a minute. Are you still working Homicide?"

  "How is it that you have this number?" he asked.

  "That's a little complicated," Munch said. "Look, I'm just looking for this guy. He, uh, owes me money."

  "This Raleigh Ward."

  "Yeah."

  "Why would you look for him here?"

  "I'm just trying all the numbers I have for him."

  "When did he rent your limo?"

  "Last night. Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

  "I want you to write down everything you know about this Raleigh Ward: when you picked him up, where all you took him, and who else was with him. Do it now while it's still fresh, I'm going to be sending out a detective to interview you." She gave him the information he'd requested. "You going to be home for the next couple of hours?"

  "You're going to send someone else?"

  "I'll send Detective Cassiletti. You remember him, don't you?"

  "I remember everything. How's your dad, by the way? Are you still living in that train car? I drive by there every once in a while, but I never see anyone home. What's Mrs. St. John doing?"

  "I'm right in the middle of something right now," he said. "I can't talk. We'll make some time later on and catch up, all right?"

  "Yeah, sure we will."

  Mace rubbed his eyes. He seemed to have a knack for disappointing the women in his life. "No, really, I've been meaning to give you a call," he said.

  "Sounds great," she said without enthusiasm, and hung up.

  * * *

  "What was that all about?" Cassiletti asked.

  "Just one of those small-world things," Mace said, hoping that was the truth. He peeled off the page with her address on it and handed it to Cassiletti. "When we're finished here, go on over to her house and find out everything she knows with a connection to our deceased." Mace flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Let's go check out the one in the bedroom."

  The two detectives walked into the second death scene. Again, there was a notable absence of blood. Floodlights illuminated the corpse of the second woman and the odd postmortem field dressings. She was faceup, lying on a queen-size bed with a wrought-iron headboard. The bedspread beneath her was strangely unwrinkled. Her right arm was bent so that her palm was pressed to her chest. Similar white X's of tape crisscrossed her abdomen and chest. Conscience or trademark? Mace wondered.

  The Band-Aid Killer had evolved. Bringing his own supplies to the scene showed forethought—organization. Whatever else this act signified, it also informed the detectives that these murders had not been a spontaneous act. The killer must have come with a plan. How else could he have subdued two victims with so few signs of disturbance? And where had he done his killing? In the bathtub?

  Mace remembered how, back in December, a reporter had asked him to comment on the nature of the brutal Westwood slaying. The guy had asked if the murderer was a serial or a spree killer.

  Mace's reply had been picked up by the wire services and broadcast across the country. He'd said then what was still true.

  "Call it what you want," he told them. "I'm not interested in the latest pop-psychology term. I don't have college degree upon college degree. I don't know if this guy wet his bed or how he felt about his mother. I do know one thing. He'll kill again."

  Mace looked down at the corpse, feeling no satisfaction at the accuracy of his call.

  * * *

  When Raleigh's phone had rung at eight o'clock that morning, he'd answered with a groan. Victor Draicu, code name Gameboy, wanted to drive to Tijuana for the day. Though what the guy expected to find there, Raleigh didn't understand at first. He'd tried to explain that there'd be no mariachi bands greeting them or señoritas in twirling skirts clicking castanets. The border towns were depressing. Nothing but dirt roads and abject poverty. Was he homesick? Tijuana was where one went to buy fireworks, horseshit cigarettes, and cheap pottery. Was he interested in any of those things?

  Victor wanted to see a donkey fuck a woman, he said. Take him to one of those places.

  Raleigh called in to his supervisor for approval. Document everything he was told, but keep the guy happy. He said, yeah, he knew the drill. Victor was an Eastern Bloc celebrity—a former gold-medal winner and currently a minor bureaucrat in charge of the Romanian Olympic gymnastic team, which gave him mobility and accessibility. Romania alone had had the backbone, or blatant self-interest, depending on how you saw it, to break the Olympic boycott by Mother Russia. The L.A. Olympic Committee was delighted and showed it by giving the Romanians special considerations. Transportation was provided, lodging at the USC village. There were even promises to broadcast television feeds back to Romania. On the personal front, Victor had some interesting family connections in Bucharest. He would be a useful asset, and Raleigh had orders to bend over backward to make sure that happened. Even if all this effort resulted in merely one defection, it would be a major coup for the people who kept track of that sort of thing—especial1y in an election year.

  At first the operation had seemed like a waste of both his time and talent. Escorting Victor while the man fulfilled adolescent fantasies depressed him no end. It was not an assignment that taxed his considerable abilities, and it made him give serious thought to the wide-open world of freelancing. His Green Beret credentials alone were worth major bucks in the up-and-coming countries. Hell, he could get good work in Africa, Saudi Arabia, or, shit . . . even go back to Eastern Europe. But then, just as Raleigh had almost given way to despair, a remarkable opportunity had opened up. An opportunity that men such as he often dreamed of. A simple defection of some low-level Romanian party boy? No, Raleigh's sights were set much higher.

  Victor Draicu had some product he was interested in selling: four kilograms of weapons-grade plutonium "lost" while en route to a conversion facility in Bulgaria that would transform the stuff into reactor-grade plutonium. He came to America hoping to generate an auction among the intelligence-community representatives of competing countries. The information and the means to capitalize on it were going to be Raleigh's ticket out of ex-wife purgatory.

  All that said, Victor was still a royal pain. The broads had been hired for the whole night, and the asshole takes a cab back to the hotel in the middle of the night. Was he trying to get Raleigh written up? What if something had happened to the guy? He could have gotten mugged or hit by a car. If the asshole died, that would blow everything.

  Mexico. Fucking wonderf
ul.

  Raleigh told the limousine dispatcher, a woman with a Southern accent, that he'd need the car for the whole day. When he told her that he wanted to go to Mexico for some shopping, she had laughed.

  "Thanks for the warning," she said. "I won't send a blond woman. You know what they think of blondes down there, don't you?"

  "Yeah," Raleigh said, "good thinking. Don't send a blonde."

  Victor would be wanting to hump her, too, and there were already enough complications. One of Victor's first demands early in the negotiation process had been that before and after the sale of the product, he would have full freedom of movement or no deal. Rules were being bent and broken all across the board on his behalf. Raleigh went along, knowing that ultimately he held the trump card. He knew why Victor could never go back home. Raleigh opened the drawer of his nightstand and perused his collection of prescription pill bottles. It felt like a two-Benzedrine kind of morning.

  * * *

  When the driver appeared with the limousine, Raleigh was just starting to come to life. The limo company had sent a different driver—a redhead. He rubbed his temples, hoping she wasn't a big talker. She was already almost too much to handle this early in the day, with her flamboyant hairdo, hoop earrings, and exposed cleavage. He handed her a hundred-dollar bill and told her to go to the Beverly Wilshire.

  She folded the bill and stuck it in the front pocket of her tight jeans

  "Where's Munch today? be asked

  "She took the day off. My name is Ellen. You just sit yourself back and enjoy the ride, sugar."

  "Call me Raleigh," be told he. "Did we speak earlier?"

  "Yes, we surely did."

  "You mind stopping for coffee somewhere first?

  "You are the boss, Raleigh."

  He felt the tingling of the amphetamine dissolving in his bloodstream. A small sigh of appreciation escaped his lips. Sunshine in a bottle. He moved across the back of the limo, positioning himself so that he could watch her face. "So how long you been a chauffeurette?" he asked, taking out his tin of peppermints.

  She hesitated a second, caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, and said, "Four years."

  "Bet you've seen a lot of shit," he said, popping two Altoids into his mouth and chewing them.

  She laughed. "I have had my moments, that is for damn sure."

  He switched over so that he was sitting on the rear-facing bench seat. He leaned over toward her, his elbow resting on the sill of the privacy partition. "Where are you from, Ellen? No, wait a minute, don't tell me. Georgia?"

  She opened her mouth wide in amazement, then said, "Why, you clever thing, you. You are exactly right. Only next time, put your hand over your heart when you speak of the South."

  "I bet you keep your boyfriend on his toes."

  She looked at him warily in the rearview mirror. "I have had my moments with him also," she said, as they pulled into the parking lot of a small bakery. "Is this all right?" He followed her gesture.

  "Yeah, this is great. You want anything? Coffee, pastry, rain check?"

  She smiled at the last. "You are not without your charm, Mr. Raleigh Ward. I can see a girl might have to watch herself with you."

  The limousine eased to a stop, taking up two spaces, and he jumped out. She didn't know how right she was.

  CHAPTER 6

  Before Detective Cassiletti arrived, Munch walked across the street with Asia and banged on Derek's door. He answered several minutes later with his shirt off and hair tousled.

  "What's up?" he asked.

  "My limo is gone," she said.

  He scratched his chest and stretched. She supposed the action was his attempt to draw her attention to the well-defined muscles of his tanned torso. She made a note to herself to warn Asia to watch out for men with perfect tans when she reached the dating years.

  "Yeah, I know," Derek said, smiling proudly. "I helped Ellen get it ready."

  "You know where she went?"

  "Somewhere blondes shouldn't go."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

  "I don't know. I just heard her tell the guy on the phone that she wouldn't send a blonde."

  "You know who the customer was? Did she tell you a name or anything?"

  "No. I knew it was a guy cuz she kept saying, 'Sir.' Is there a problem?"

  "Yeah, there's a big problem. She's not on the policy. If anything happens to the limo while she's driving . . . "

  "Well, don't get mad at me. I was just trying to help. You didn't even thank me for bailing you out last night."

  "I didn't want to wake you."

  "And now you're climbing my tree cuz your friend wanted to make you some money."

  "Derek, I'm not blaming you for anything." She waited a second instead of blurting out something that would really alienate him like, When are you going to grow a conscience? Or more to the point, Why do you always manage to keep track of every little favor you've ever done for me while conveniently forgetting all the money and effort I've poured down the Derek drain? She fixed what she hoped was a nonaccusatory expression on her face, and asked, "Did she say anything else that you remember? A name, a place, anything?"

  "Nope, she just said 'Adios' and split."

  "Adios? You mean, she said that literally?"

  "Yeah."

  "Tell me everything she said, word for word."

  "That was about it." He scratched his head. "Oh, yeah, she asked if I wanted her to bring back any fireworks?

  Munch felt a surge of adrenaline disrupt her stomach. The blonde thing and the fact that Ellen's note indicated that she expected to be gone all day and possibly longer had already made Munch nervous. Now this last bit of information confirmed it. Ellen had taken the limo to Mexico.

  The next call Munch would probably get would be from some Mexican jail asking her to come down and bring cash. She grabbed Asia's hand and walked back across the street. There was no way she could cover herself without getting Ellen in trouble. She would just have to wait and hope that Ellen didn't do anything extreme. It was a slim hope.

  Thirty minutes later, Detective Tiger Cassiletti pulled up in front of her house. He was driving a Chevy Caprice and dressed in a gray suit. She'd forgotten how tall he was. He still ducked his head as he walked.

  "Hi," she greeted him from her doorway. "Come on in."

  Perhaps he scowled because he was looking into the sun. As he got closer to her, he smiled tentatively, and his eyes lit with recognition. "I hope I'm not keeping you from anything?

  "It's good to see you again," she said, smiling. She watched his expression waver, as if trying to choose between being a cop on a mission or exercising the manners his mother had taught him.

  "Yeah," he said. "How have you been?"

  "Just great," she said, leading him into her house. "I've got over seven years clean and sober. I even quit smoking." She directed him to take a stool at the kitchen counter and stood opposite him so that their eyes were at the same level. "So what's this all about?" she asked.

  "We're just trying to fill in some blanks." He pulled a slim notebook out of the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. "How is it that you had the phone number that you called today? "

  "My customer last night used my mobile phone. I keep track of the numbers that are called and compare them to my monthly bill."

  "And your customers are okay with that?" he asked as he fished out a pen and clicked it open. "You writing down all the numbers they call?"

  She felt her eyes shift from his and cursed herself for her lack of poise. Cops were trained to look for stuff like that, even big goofs like Cassiletti. "Yeah, it's never been a problem." She thought about the hidden microphones. What would he think of those?

  "And are you often in the habit of calling those numbers?" he asked.

  "No, not at all. I sure didn't expect to hear Detective St. John's voice. Or should I say Lieutenant?"

  "Detective is right," Cassiletti said. This time his eyes darted away.


  "I know he got promoted. I used to see him on the news all the time, giving statements about crimes and investigations. At least I used to. Did something happen? He didn't get in any trouble, did he?"

  "He took a downgrade and transferred to Parker Center. "

  "He was demoted? "

  "Not by the brass. He took a cut in rank so he could get back into investigations."

  "In other words, you're telling me he didn't want to be a talking head for the department. Cassiletti didn't answer. She watched him wipe the palm of his hand on his pant leg and decided to press. "You followed him to Parker Center?"

  "We're partners,' he said.

  Was that defensiveness in his tone?

  "How's Caroline, Mrs. St John, with all this?"

  "You'd have to ask her," he said.

  Munch wondered if it would be possible to resume some kind of relationship with Caroline. It would be easier if Munch could explain why she had distanced herself in the first place. Her friendship with Mace and Caroline had been one of the many sacrifices she had willingly made since Asia came into the picture. Munch had changed the meetings she attended, made new friends, even moved to a new apartment. All this to avoid having to explain the sudden presence in her life of a six-month-old child. A child she was calling her daughter.

  "Tell her hi from me when you see her," Munch said, trying to keep her tone offhand. As if Caroline Rhinehart St. John hadn't been one of the most important people in her life. As Munch's former probation officer, Caroline had been the first person to extend hope. Mace St. John came in a close second by absolving Munch of her father's murder. But it was Caroline who had seen beyond Munch's crude bravado and put in a word where it mattered. In this case, to the detective assigned to a homicide that seemed pretty open-and-shut. Caroline had shown Mace St. John, a cop who saw the world in black-and- white, that there were also shades of gray. Her actions and words had saved Munch a certain future in prison. Caroline and Mace had gone on to fall in love and then marry.

  Last Christmas Munch had considered penning a long letter to Caroline. In it she would explain how she'd saved the little girl and took her in as her own. The adoption was without benefit of a judge's sanction. Munch had done some investigating into what was involved in a legal adoption. One of the requirements was to track down other relatives and get them to sign off their rights. Munch wasn't prepared to take that risk. As far as she was concerned, any kin of Asia's had relinquished their rights to the kid by not being aware she was being used to transport dope. No court was going to tell her different.