Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Read online

  The letter had never been sent or written. Not that she didn't trust Caroline; she just had too much at stake. What if the right and legal thing to do would be to put Asia in foster care until the matter was settled formally?

  Cassiletti cleared his throat, pen poised over his open notebook, obviously anxious to get to business. "So why did you call the number you had today?"

  "I was hoping to reach a customer I did a run for last night."

  "Why?"

  "What?" She was afraid he was going to ask that. "Why did you need to find your customer?" He looked down at his notepad. "Raleigh Ward?"

  "Yeah, that's the one. He told me he was going to need the car again, but he forgot to reserve the times."

  "So you thought you'd track him down."

  "Yeah," she answered reluctantly. He made it sound like she was stalking the guy.

  "Have you ever been to Apartment 103 at 1500 North Gower in Hollywood?"

  "Is that the building off Sunset?"

  "Yes," he said. He was watching her closely now. This must be the question that mattered.

  "I was at that building last night, but I didn't go inside any of the apartments. Was that the number I reached you guys at?"

  "Why were you there?" he asked. There was an edge to his voice. He had that cop tone that expected, no, demanded unquestioning submission. Obviously he'd learned a thing or two in the seven years since they'd last met.

  "My client picked up some women there. We dropped them off later." She let her eyes widen a little."Don't tell me they were involved in a murder?"

  "I really can't comment."

  "C'mon, who am I going to tell?" she said.

  His face dropped all expression, and she knew she wasn't going to budge him. The lines were pretty clear on who was in the club and who wasn't. Cops only let civilians get so close to them.

  "Can you recall the exact times you were at the building?" he asked. "I also need the names and descriptions of everyone in your party"

  She picked up a sheet of notepaper and handed it to him. "I already wrote it all down for you. Mace asked me to."

  He took the paper and read it with poorly disguised surprise. "All right. Uh . . . thanks. This will be a big help." He folded the paper twice and put it in his suit pocket. "Can I look at the limo they used last night?"

  "Why?" she asked.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She resisted the urge to look out the window. "It's out on a run with one of my drivers," she said.

  "When will it be back?"

  "That's hard to say right now. Why don't you give me one of your cards, and I'll call you."

  * * *

  Cassiletti called in his report by land line to Mace St. John. Police radio frequencies were easily and constantly monitored by newshounds and thrill seekers. The two men agreed to meet at the Culver City address Munch had given them. When they got to Raleigh Ward's apartment, no one answered their knock. A neighbor who had been home all morning remembered seeing the apartments occupant leave in a limousine.

  "This guy likes to live right," Cassiletti commented.

  "I'll meet you back at the office," Mace replied.

  * * *

  The afternoon found both men back at the squad room on the fifth floor of Parker Center. Each concentrated on his respective chores. Cassiletti perched in front of his typewriter, his large fingers diligently poking at the keys, filling in all the spaces on the Preliminary Investigation Report, and the two separate Death Reports.

  Mace sat at one of the scarred empty desks in a windowless corner of the large, open room. A television connected to a video player hung from brackets bolted to the acoustical-tiled ceiling. On it he watched the video footage from the Gower building's surveillance camera while he ate his sandwich from its cellophane wrapper and sipped lukewarm coffee. Actually, he was watching a copy. The original was safely stored in the evidence locker, away from anything with a magnetic field like a metal detector—and with the write-protect tab broken off. All these precautions were the result of painful lessons. As soon as they'd gotten to the Gower crime scene, Mace had sent one of the support officers around the neighborhood to seize any videotapes that might have recorded evidence. The building's security cameras were on a two-day recycle schedule. They took eight-second time-lapse photographs but switched to real time whenever the building's keypad was used.

  The officer had also recovered the videotape from a camera mounted on the roof of a nearby Bank of America. The cop had correctly noted that the camera's range included the alley running behind the apartment complex. Mace had had two copies made of each tape before returning to Parker Center. It was difficult not to play them immediately, but experience had also taught him that each playing of a tape degraded it—especially tape from a surveillance-camera video system that was constantly recycled.

  He began with the apartment-building tapes. A series of stills flashed across the television mounted high in the corner. The time and date showed in white dot-matrix-style print across the bottom right corner of the screen. Later the technicians from the photo lab of the Scientific Investigative Division would develop individual stills off this copy. Pausing the tape or running it in slow motion also caused degradation and loss of data. Later he would have all the time he needed to pore over the individual prints. Indeed, if this was like the last case, those images would be imprinted in negative on the insides of his eyelids. Now he reviewed the footage to make sure nothing that required immediate attention was missed. Spread before him were several sheets of paper from a yellow legal pad on which he charted a time line of events, beginning with when he'd arrived at the scene and working backward. The anonymous tip had come in at 4:13 A.M. to the Hollywood Division desk. The caller, who had not used 911, had been put on hold while the switchboard routed him through to Homicide. The information, delivered in a whisper, was that there'd been a killing at the address on Gower. The caller did not stay on the line long enough to be questioned further.

  A black-and-white unit had been the lirst to respond. The officers had duly recorded the times they received notification and when they arrived at the scene. Twelve minutes had elapsed. They found the apartment door open. Two minutes later they discovered the two victims and called in a report via land line to their watch sergeant.

  The coroner arrived at six-thirty, made small incisions beneath each of the women's rib cages, and inserted his chemical thermometer. He determined from the temperature of their livers and state of rigor that both had died within minutes of each other and no longer than six hours prior. That fixed the time of death between midnight and four that morning, pending any unusual findings when the toxicology reports came in.

  What Mace now knew was Munch's limousine had arrived at the apartment complex on Gower at 6:58 P.M. the previous evening. The tape showed the driver's arm, Munch's arm, stretched out from the driver's-side window, reaching for the keypad. The tinted rear window of the limo was rolled halfway down, but the angle from the camera didn't capture the face of any occupant.

  He fast-forwarded to 11:29 P.M. One of the victims moved away from the keypad and back inside the limo, which proceeded through the gate. The camera also caught the detail of the open moon roof. At 11:36 the limo left. He clicked through rapidly, stopping at 1:33 A.M. A cab had appeared at the front gate. A few minutes later a bald man was shown letting himself out of the pedestrian gate with a hand raised to the waiting car. The cab's TCP number was plainly visible, as was the bald man's face. He even seemed to smile for the camera. Mace made a note to get a copy of that still to Munch for identification.

  He reached for the phone to call Caroline. She'd be interested to hear that he'd spoken to Munch. Munch was one of her great success stories. Caroline had seen something in the little waif that nobody else had. An addict such as Munch, who had so completely turned her life around, was just the sort of thing that made probation officers feel that what they were doing really made a difference. According to Cassiletti, Munch had
continued to thrive: She was still working as a mechanic, running a limo business on the side, living in a nicer neighborhood, maintaining her sobriety. Yep, Caroline would love to hear how she'd made a difference. And besides, he missed the sound of her voice.

  He called her at home.

  As he listened to the phone ring, a thousand thoughts flitted through his mind. Why did he feel he needed the armor of an excuse? Why didn't he just call her and tell her how empty his life was without her? Because she said she needed her space, that he had wrung her dry.

  "Caroline St. John," she answered.

  "Hi, it's me," he said.

  "Oh. Hi."

  "Yeah, I ran into somebody today. Well, I didn't actually see her, but I thought you might be interested." Oh, God, he thought, real smooth. I hate this shit, this growling.

  "Who?" she asked.

  "Munch, Munch Mancini."

  "How is she?"

  "She's got a limo service. We should throw her some business some night. You know, take in a show downtown—go out to dinner."

  He waited for her to jump in, but she said nothing. He wished he could see her face. Was she hopeful? Annoyed?

  Pleased? Bored?

  "So, how are you doing?" he asked. "How's work? I mean."

  "Busy. Same as always. Caring too much, getting disappointed a lot."

  Was that meant for him?

  "Is the car running all right?" he asked.

  "The car's fine."

  "And you've got everything you need?" he asked.

  "I'm fine."

  "Good, good," he said. He paused, lowered his voice. "I went to see my dad this weekend."

  "How often do you do that?" she asked, her tone gentle. "When I'm in the neighborhood. I like to put fresh flowers up. You know, make it look like someone cares."

  "Mace, he knew you cared. No one could have done more."

  "I don't know why he stopped trusting me," Mace said. It was an old debate, but one he'd yet to come to terms with. His dad had died, and his last words uttered could never be erased. I've got no one.

  "You can't take to heart the things he said. He wasn't thinking clearly. I wish you'd believe that." She paused. "Are you still having those dreams?"

  He bit back the familiar heat of irritation that rushed through his chest. If she were with him, she wouldn't have to ask. Big Miss I-give-everyone-a-chance couldn't get past her husband's single infidelity. If you could call going to a hotel room with an old girlfriend only to discover that you'd made a mistake an act of infidelity. He'd gotten as far as unwrapping the condom before he realized there was no way he could go through with it. Technically he hadn't cheated, but he hadn't told Caroline that. She'd already convicted him on the evidence. It was all he could manage now to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

  "I've gotta go," he said, looking around the empty room.

  "Cassiletti's giving me the high sign. You got any message for Munch if I talk to her?"

  He heard her click her tongue. She did that when she was exasperated. "Tell her I'm really proud of her for moving on with her life."

  "I'll do that." He straightened up in his chair, cleared his throat. "Well, listen then, I'll call you later when we have more time to talk."

  "You do that. "

  He hung up the phone, dropping the receiver into the cradle as if it were too hot to handle. "That went well," he said out loud.

  "Sir?" Cassiletti called from the doorway.

  Mace spun around to face him. "What you got?" he asked. Cassiletti consulted the yellow legal pad in his trembling hands. He was either nervous or excited, Mace knew. In an effort to build the big man's confidence, Mace encouraged his junior partner to take some initiative. He would die a happy man if he could get Cassiletti to drop the inevitable question mark that punctuated half his statements.

  "I ran the name Raleigh Ward through NCIC," Cassiletti said, referring to the National Crime Information Center.

  "Anything?"

  "No." Cassiletti sounded as if he were apologizing. "So I ran a DMV search?" he said, looking up hopefully. "State of California issued him a driver's license two years ago? We should be getting a copy sometime tomorrow."

  "Just two years? Did you try running an address update?"

  The address update was one of their tricks for backing into a social security number trace.

  Cassiletti flipped frantically through his notes, looking for what wasn't there. "I'll be right back."

  Mace felt a twinge of impatience as he pulled out the Social Security Index.

  Cassiletti returned moments later and handed Mace the nine-digit social security number issued to Raleigh Ward. The first three numbers identified the state of issuance, in this case California. According to the index, the number had been issued prior to 1973.

  "Just for fun," Mace said, "let's run him through civil-court records and voter's registration."

  Twenty minutes later, the two men compared notes.

  "What did you come up with?" Mace asked.

  "A lot of blanks. Too many blanks. Then I pulled utility records?"

  "And?"

  "This is where it gets interesting. The account was opened last year by the diplomatic branch of the State Department, but until six months ago the meters hadn't clocked any usage."

  "Six months ago?" Mace asked, thinking of the Westwood murder. "I want to talk to this guy."

  He leaned back in his chair and stared at the blank wall. He'd been around long enough to spot a smoke screen. Sounded like this Raleigh Ward was either a protected witness or some kind of spook.

  "Write down this number," Mace said, reciting the TCP number on the cab's bumper. "I want to interview this cabbie. We'll have the photo lab make some prints of the bald guy I'll take one to Munch."

  "You're going to go see her?"

  "Yeah. I could use the reminder of happier endings."

  Cassiletti didn't ask, and Mace didn't explain.

  CHAPTER 7

  At one o'clock Ellen and her customers reached San Diego. By then they were all on a first-name basis. Victor Draicu announced that he was hungry.

  "What are you in the mood for?" Ellen asked.

  "Do you really wish an answer to that?" Victor asked. Ellen noticed that he had unbuttoned his shirt almost to his navel and was massaging his chest muscles as he spoke.

  "Oh, now, g'wan," she said, gracing him with a giggle. "You know what I'm talking about."

  Victor nudged Raleigh and winked at him. "She knows what I speak of also," he said.

  Raleigh's mouth tightened. "Take us to a Mexican joint," he said. "Might as well get this show on the road. You'll join us, of course."

  "Thank you, Raleigh. Y'a1l are such gentlemen."

  Raleigh snorted. "Oh, yeah, we're the cream of the crop."

  Victor laughed and slapped Raleigh's shoulder. "Cream of the crop. I love it."

  Ellen looked in the rearview mirror to catch Raleigh's eye and give him some silent sympathy. The venom she saw in his expression made her stifle a gasp of surprise. He looked like he didn't know whether to spit or go blind.

  She got off the freeway at Balboa in the small San Diego community of Pacific Beach. After driving three blocks, she spotted a small whitewashed restaurant. Painted above the doorway in the red and green colors of the Mexican flag were the words PAPA GOMEZ'S. A cardboard sign in the window promised homemade tamales.

  The final selling point of the restaurant was the three empty parking spaces in a row and the lot's two driveways. Driving a limo was like driving any other car, she'd discovered, but you had to pay special attention when you planned to stop somewhere.

  The three of them entered the small, dark restaurant. It smelled of beer and fried meat. A dark-haired Hispanic waitress wearing thick eyeliner seated them at a booth. Victor gestured for Ellen to slide in, then quickly took the place next to her. She sneaked a quick glance at Raleigh and saw that this irked him, but by now she'd noticed that everything Victor did seemed to annoy Ral
eigh. Victor, in turn, seemed oblivious to the other man's disgust. Or maybe he just didn't give a shit. The busboy, a young man with hair so thick that it stuck straight out from his scalp like a porcupine, set down paper place mats and flatware. He worked without looking up. "We need menus," Raleigh said.

  Without meeting anyone's eyes, the boy pointed at the waitress.

  Raleigh pointed at the center of the table and held his hands out as if to show they were empty.

  This time the busboy seemed to understand. He held up a finger, hustled off, then returned with a basket of chips and two dishes of sauce. The first dish contained traditional salsa of chopped tomatoes, onions, and cilantro. The sauce in the second dish was soupier and green. The waitress followed with three menus.

  Victor attacked the appetizers like a man who hadn't eaten in days. He devoured two large scoops of each sauce before his face changed color. Tears filled his eyes, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He slapped the table with the palm of his hand, then clutched his throat, all the while making small strangled noises.

  Raleigh chuckled. "I usually wait until they bring the water," he said, "before I start on the hot sauce."

  Ellen waved her napkin to get the busboy's attention.

  "Agua, por favor," she said when he came over. "Pronto."

  The busboy nodded and quickly returned with three glasses of water. Victor took a deep drink and coughed without covering his mouth.

  Raleigh grinned, and said to Ellen, "So, you speaka the spic?"

  The waitress appeared at the edge of the table. "Have you decided?" she asked.

  Oh, yeah, Ellen thought as she looked from Victor to Raleigh, both of these bad boys are going to pay. She ran a fingertip over the outline of the folded hundred-dollar bill in her pocket, and thought of the many more to come. Maybe working a straight job wouldn't be so bad after all.