Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella Page 5

  In the world she grew up in, sexual assaults were inevitable, like black eyes, and motorcycle injuries. You learned quickly never to get drunk around strange bikers. Or put yourself in a position where you were alone in a room with three or more of those guys. And when it did happen, it did. She had always viewed rape as an occupational hazard, given bikers' predilection toward it and the fact that sex was a commodity that she had often bartered. Everybody she knew got ripped off at one time or another.

  And then there was that time with Culley. She had been sixteen, almost seventeen, and had temporarily left her father's little slice of hell for what she hoped would be a happier life. She moved into an apartment building they all called Tortilla Flats. It was on Rose Avenue, right on the border between the barrio and the exclusively black ghetto known to the locals as Ghost Town. The inhabitants of the Flats were a loose band of teens and twenty-year-olds. Their numbers fluctuated, as people moved on, got busted, or found religion. There were even a few like Karen, Asia's birth mother, who had left in the back of a coroner's wagon. It was also at the Flats that Munch had met Sleaze John, Asia's handsome, dark-skinned Latino father, although he died somewhere else.

  God, she hadn't thought of that group for a long time, Sleaze, New York Jane, Brian, Gypsy Farmer, all the others. How many of them were now dead, in jail, or living under a freeway overpass and advertising their needs on pieces of cardboard?

  Culley was much older than the rest of them, possibly as old as thirty. It only took a moment to relive what he did to her that afternoon, how it hadn't made sense. Just another experience that was way behind her now. So many things felt as if they had happened to another person, the person she used to be. It was easy to disassociate from all that stuff. She couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be sexually assaulted now. One thing for certain, she wouldn't be forgiving and forgetting. No, she'd be damned pissed.

  The loudspeaker above her head crackled and then Lou's voice called her name, announcing she had a call on line two. She took the call on the extension at the service desk. It was Robin.

  "What did you mean by we would do more than talk?" she asked.

  Munch pictured Robin hunched over her phone in her dark house. "I was thinking it would be good for you to get out of the house." She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk blotter.

  "But on the ride home, D.W. said you believe this guy is going to come after you again."

  "He is." Her voice was dull, flat. "I know he is. He called me."

  "Who?" Munch asked.

  "The guy. The rapist."

  "What did he say?"

  "That the next time would be better. "

  "Did you call the cops?"

  "The detective assigned to my case was out. I left a message." She paused. "Yesterday. I'm still waiting for a callback."

  "Change your number," Munch said.

  "I have. More than once."

  "Then call the cops back. Demand that they do something."

  "They said there was nothing more they could do. They suggested I move."

  "That's it?" Munch asked. "You're just supposed to give up your life? What a bunch of shit." If Robin was expecting a soft shoulder, she'd rung the wrong person. Besides, Munch figured, this woman needed to fight back or risk being lost forever.

  "What choice do I have?"

  Munch drew a V for Victory and circled it. "I've got a friend who's a cop."

  "But I've already gone to the cops. You've seen the results."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean. But, believe me, they're not all assholes. I'll talk to my friend and see if he can put some heat on for you."

  "Thank you. I've been feeling so alone."

  "What about your family?"

  "I didn't want them to . . . be upset."

  "You haven't told them?" Munch asked.

  "My mother would have a stroke or worse. She'd want to come out here and move in with me. I had a hard enough time getting away from her the first time."

  "Still, a little moral support might help you right now."

  "I just can't," Robin said.

  "What's the name of the cop who's handling the investigation?" Munch asked.

  "Peter Owen. That's not your friend, is it?"

  "No, I've never heard of him. What division is he out of?"

  "West L.A. That's what it said on his card."

  "I was planning on seeing my friend after work today" Munch said. "I'll tell him what's going on and call you."

  "No," Robin said. "It would be easier if I called you."

  "Oh, right," Munch said, remembering all those unretrieved messages on Robin's answering machine. "Of course."

  * * *

  The faces of the women look down on him from his trophy wall. He figures any woman who gets these kinds of pictures taken knows what guys are going to do with them. Actually, he's just as interested—even more so—in what goes on with his women above the neck as below. Besides, what they choose to reveal below leaves little to the imagination.

  He feels as if he's been on an extended leave but soon must return to duty. It's Nam all over again. When he first returned stateside, he went up to the Bay Area. It was all hippies then. Hippies and liberals. Seemed like everywhere he went the returning vets were accused of killing babies and massacring helpless civilians. As if any of those people had any idea what it all meant. What it had been like. He learned to keep quiet about what he'd been, what he'd done.

  The result was a loneliness so deep he is only now beginning to touch it. It's been unbearable for so long. He's still not sure where he found the strength to live.

  Now he feels as if he's in the eye of a hurricane. It is quiet. But for how long? He is incredibly exhausted. So much is at risk. At the very least, his freedom. Jail. Prison. A trial. His balls shrink from the fear of it. Forget the business. His customers—his hard-won clientèle—would desert him. He would be penniless—alone—reviled. Those few who call themselves his friends would never understand.

  Nobody knows true compassion until they're forced to break all of their own rules.

  He sighs and turns to the pictures pasted on the wall by his bed. He doesn't blame the women all the way. They got it and want to flaunt it. That's understandable. His fingers trace the curves of Robin's thighs in the photo. He keeps the ones of Robin closest to him. Robin with her one-hundred-watt smile.

  He laughs at his own unintentional joke. Then sobers quickly. Feeling ashamed at this joke that comes at his beloved's expense. She will forgive him and she will come around. Resistance has its limits. Robin just needs time. She needs the security of being shown who is the boss. All women do.

  And somebody else needs to mind her own business. He will not tolerate interference. Lady Mechanic, indeed. Who does she think she's fooling?

  Chapter 8

  St. John opened Diane Bergman's address book and turned to the B's. The closest Bergman listed was an Alfred in Pacific Palisades. Alfred Bergman's business number prefix was the same as his home number. St. John called the work number.

  "Bergman Florists," a woman answered.

  "Is Al in?"

  "I can get him for you."

  "No, don't bother. I was planning on coming in. Will he be there in an hour?"

  "Yes, we're open until five."

  St. John asked for the address, jotted it down in his notebook, and then called out to Shue, who was in the hallway doing hand-to-hand combat with the vending machine.

  "Are you ready to go make the Bergman notification?"

  Shue gave the machine one more shake and then said, "Sure, sure."

  Ten minutes later, Shue was seated in St. John's passenger seat.

  While St. John maneuvered through early-afternoon freeway traffic, Shue systematically searched his pockets.

  "I want you just to tell this guy that Diane Bergman is deceased. Avoid the specifics."

  "Yeah, yeah. I know," Shue said, examining a tiny wad of paper that had apparently made the trip through the washer a
nd dryer. "No mention of murder. You're just there as a formality. I make the notification and we see what floats up." He finally found the object of his search, a roll of breath mints. He brushed off the pocket lint, unwrapped the foil, and offered one to St. John.

  St. John grinned and took one. Shue was the perfect partner for the initial phase of the investigation. His air of confusion, almost befuddlement, made people want to explain things to him. Even St. John himself easily forgot the man was competent.

  Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Bergman Florists. The front window was tastefully decorated with Halloween wreaths, cornucopias, and pumpkins. They entered the front door and were greeted by a jingling bell and the sweet smells of jasmine and gardenias. Indoor waterfalls provided gentle background noise and a sense of tropical humidity

  A man with salt-and-pepper hair and the deeply bronzed face of a dedicated sun worshiper was standing patiently by while a lady in a knit suit studied a photograph album full of flower arrangements. He looked up and said, "I'll be right with you."

  "Alfred Bergman?" St. John asked, already having decided he definitely wasn't an "Al."

  "Yes?" Bergman gave St. John a long up-and-down. When he turned to Shue, his smile lost some of its life.

  "This is Mr. Shue of the Los Angeles Coroner's Office. I'm Detective Mace St. John." He gave the man a quick flash of his badge. "Do you have an office or somewhere we can have a word in private?"

  Alfred Bergman pursed his lips to speak but seemed at a loss for the proper response. The woman behind the cash register froze in place. St. John swore he could see her ears perk. Bergman snapped his fingers, and the woman behind the cash register came back to life. "Betty, please help Mrs. Ghormley." He put a hand briefly on the back of Mrs. Ghorrnley who was still deeply engrossed with the catalog of flower arrangements.

  He lifted his eyebrows for St. John's and Shue's benefit, then said, "Take all the time you need, dear." He raised a tanned hand and beckoned the two men to follow him toward the back of the store. His white silk shirt, tucked into tight-fitting designer jeans, billowed as he walked.

  A standing screen divided the shop space and concealed a large industrial double stainless steel sink. Wooden drain boards held buckets of baby's breath and fern fronds. Blocks of green Oasis, rolls of florist wire, and sphagnum moss were stacked on shelves above the sink. Glass-fronted coolers held additional buckets of long-stemmed roses, lilies, and carnations.

  They passed a thin, long-haired blond man spearing bamboo skewers through hibiscus blossoms. The three men entered a small office. St. John shut the door behind them. There were only two chairs, the padded one on casters that serviced the crammed desk and a three-legged stool. Bergman pulled out the desk chair and turned it so that it was facing out.

  "Please," St. John said, indicating that Bergman sit. "Forget I'm here." He took up a position against the wall and focused on Shue.

  Shue lowered himself onto the stool and fixed Alfred Bergman with an apologetic smile.

  "Are you a relative of Diane Bergman?"

  "l have a sister-in-law named Diane. Why? What's this about?"

  "I'm sorry to have to inform you. Mrs. Bergman has been found dead."

  "Oh," Alfred said, his posture deflating as his breath left him.

  "Where did you find her? I mean, what happened? Was it some sort of a car accident?"

  One point for Alfred, St. John thought. No audible gasp, no sharp intake of breath for the sake of the investigator. Alfred was either genuinely stunned or he was a clever actor.

  "I need a family member to ID the body" Shue said. "If you're not up to it, perhaps there are other relatives in the area."

  "I'll do it. The only family she has is some crazy aunt in Palm Springs." He lowered his tone to sotto voce. "Lives in one of those trailer communities." He pressed his fingertips to his lips and snorted demurely. "I was certain she'd outlast us all." He didn't seem disappointed.

  "Anyone else that she was close to?"

  "You mean like a boyfriend?"

  "No," Alfred said emphatically. "I mean, I'm sure she had friends, she was on enough committees. But if you're asking if she was seeing anyone romantically then I'm sure I don't know. I doubt it. She wouldn't have done anything to endanger her public persona. Besides, she lived for my brother. Poor soul."

  St. John wasn't sure as to which soul the man was referring, but he kept his questions to himself for the moment.

  Shue leaned forward on his stool and clasped his hands between his open knees. "One of my duties as coroner is to work with the family members on how they want to take care of the remains. Are you the man I should be talking to?"

  "Oh, I suppose," Alfred said, sighing deeply. Tears filled his eyes. "You know, we've just been through all this with my brother. He passed six months ago. Diane started her personal war on lung cancer, spending all his money on that cancer center."

  "And everybody loved her?" Shue prompted.

  Alfred pursed his lips. “Oh, sure. She was the queen of the charity circuit. Not the first time a woman from her background has bought her way into society." He waved his hand in front of his face, as if to erase the last words he'd spoken. "I don't mean any disrespect."

  St. John made a dismissive shake of his head as if to say, No problem, perfectly understandable.

  Alfred turned to him. "And you're the police?"

  St. John opened his wallet and fished out a business card. "I've been assigned to investigate the death."

  "Was she murdered?" he asked, looking aghast.

  "Yes, sir," St. John said, thinking how the expression of shocked outrage suited Alfred. St. John wondered if he practiced it in the mirror. "When is the last time you saw Mrs. Bergman?"

  "Last week. Last Tuesday."

  "And where was this?"

  "At the attorney's office. We had probate business. Oh God," he said. "I guess this changes everything"

  St. John said, "What's the attorney's name?"

  "Logan Sarnoff. He's also the executor. " Alfred spun around to his desk and found a business card.

  St. John started to copy the information on the card into his notebook, but Alfred stopped him with an exaggerated wave of his hand. "Keep it," he said. "I have others."

  "Did Mrs. Bergman ever tell you that she was being threatened by anyone?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Did she have any enemies that you knew of?"

  "God, no. She lived in Brentwood."

  "I might have some more questions later," St. John said.

  "Whatever I can do to help," Alfred said. "God, this is just too unbelievable."

  On the way out to the car, Shue hiked up his trousers and scratched his nose. St. John noticed he'd missed a belt loop.

  "So, sounds like you got yourself a real whodunit," Shue said. St. John tried not to betray his excitement. The Bergman murder was his first hot case since transferring to West L.A., and he'd been here for months. "Let's get on that autopsy as soon as possible."

  Shue ran a hand through his hair, which up to that point had threatened to look kempt. "I'll do what I can to clear a space."

  "Good, I can't wait." He knew to the uninitiated, those words would seem odd. But years ago the population of the world had divided for him into the "they" and the "we." The "we" being all those select individuals who dealt in death.

  * * *

  At four-fifteen, Munch went into the bathroom and changed out of her uniform into some cleaner, and coincidentally more flattering, Levi's jeans and a T-shirt. She also kicked off her greasy work shoes and put on white tennis shoes. The bathroom was small, with only one stall. She was tying her laces when she noticed there was a half-inch-round hole in the tile just above the toilet paper holder. She put her eye to it, wondering if the hole went clear through to the men's bathroom that shared this wall. She couldn't see anything, but just to be safe, she stuffed it shut with a wad of toilet paper.

  Lou was going to love this. Last month, the phone bill
had been through the roof. Ninety three-dollar-a-minutes had been racked up to one of those sex lines. Between gas pumpers, mechanics, and the car wash guys, it was hard to say who was responsible. Lou solved the problem by putting a lockout on 9oo numbers.

  Her GTO was parked in front of the office, glowing from a fresh wax job. Pauley had left her keys on the floor. She saw that his van was gone, so she would have to wait until tomorrow to thank him. She loaded her trunk with what equipment and supplies she needed for Mace St. John's air-conditioning, and then left to pick up her kid from school.

  Asia attended a Catholic school on the corner of Bundy and San Vicente. St. Teresa's was close to Munch's work, had a great after-school care program, and owned a fleet of vans. Like the wax jobs on Munch's limo and car, most of Asia's tuition was paid for in trade. Another plus about the private school was that all the kids wore uniforms. That meant there was one less decision to make during the morning scramble.

  When Munch was a kid, before her mother died but when she was still old enough to go to school and have overnights at her classmates' houses, she learned that other people lived differently. Her friends didn't have their morning cereal poured by strangers or wonder if their mom would remember to do laundry. They took a lot of things for granted. Which is how it should be. How it would always be for Asia.

  She turned now into the alley that bordered the playground. The school was surrounded on all sides by businesses: two restaurants, three banks, a stationery store, and a dress shop. Across the street there was a gas station and a Westward Ho market. Shoppers and every sort of delivery truck used the alley as a shortcut in between the hours of kids being dropped off and picked up from school.

  The attendant on duty a middle-aged woman, waved and called for Asia. Asia came running. Her tight brown curls—her "curlies"—bouncing and shoelaces trailing.

  "Konnichi wa," she said as she climbed into the car and dumped her coat and schoolbag on the floor of the backseat. Asia had a Japanese teacher this year, who was teaching her students different phrases.