Unwilling Accomplice - Barbara Seranella Read online

  "How about heavy metal, punk rock, and multicolored hair?"

  "Then she’s going to be with the squatters."

  "The squatters?"

  "The kids into the punk scene live in groups, in abandoned buildings."

  "What abandoned buildings?"

  "Here in Hollywood? There’s the Gap Building and Max Factor. The businesses have moved out, but the power and water is still hooked up. Hotel Hell has been a real hotbed lately. Someone needs to go in there and root them all out."

  "Hotel Hell? Where’s that?"

  "A couple blocks east of here on Hollywood Boulevard. The windows are boarded up and there’s a fence around it, but none of that stops the kids who take shelter there."

  "Charlotte, the girl I’m looking for, was friends with a boy who was killed about a week ago. The boy was involved with some home—burglary ring. I don’t know if one has anything to do with the other, but it seems suspiciously coincidental."

  "Kids doing burglaries? Might have been one of Mouseman’s crew. "

  "Who’s Mouseman?"

  "A creep I’ve been hearing about for the last few months. I’ve never seen him."

  "Why do they call him Mouseman?"

  "I’m not sure." Benét looked at the kids nearby who were still going through the boxes. "The kids say he isn’t into sex or drugs"

  "What’s he into?"

  "Other people’s houses when they aren’t home. Or rather, getting underage kids to commit the burglaries."

  "Have you told the cops?" Munch asked.

  "Oh, yes. I’m no friend of bad guys, but as I say, our focus is rescuing children victimized by prostitution. We’re out there every day, walking the streets, letting these children know there’s a place they can go." She nodded toward the door leading to the sidewalk.

  Munch was liking this woman more and more, already envisioning a continuing friendship where the two of them would take up the crusade together. "I’d like to join you when you go out on patrol."

  "Today?"

  "Sure."

  "Sorry I can’t do that. All our volunteers are fingerprinted, bonded, and have to be put on our insurance policy. Hollywood is the armpit of L.A. Anything could happen out there."

  "I understand," Munch said, trying to hide her disappointment.

  "But if I run across your niece, I’ll try to get her to call you."

  "I just want to know if she’s all right."

  "Then don’t give up till you find her. "

  Munch nodded, picked up her ice chest, and left.

  Chapter 6

  Munch drove east on Hollywood Boulevard to the place Dr. Benét had called Hotel Hell. It was eight floors of disaster on a corner lot. The roofline sagged and appeared caved in in places; the panes in the upper windows had been broken unevenly leaving jagged teeth of glass. The gaping holes were punctuated by charred sashes. Green and blue patches of color spotted the inconsistent stucco like the lesions of some virulent disease. Clean,fresh plywood covered the lower window openings; black grating had been nailed across the doorway Yards of chain-link ringed the ruined structure from the sidewalk to the back alley. Even in daylight, the building looked dangerous.

  "We’re not going in there without SWAT!" Munch told Jasper. Stubby tail wagging, he dug his forehead into her side and stayed there. He seemed happiest when they were touching.

  Munch spent the next half hour taping posters to telephone poles and the walls of abandoned buildings. She returned to her car for another batch and to give jasper some water. She realized she was exhausted and took a moment to rest and consider her next move. She rolled her window halfway down for ventilation and studied the neighboring businesses.

  She was looking for a storefront with a counter that faced the street. The next thing she was aware of was a white guy in a black leather coat rearing back from her window. Jasper had leaped across her, lunging at the guy The dog had moved so quickly and with such quiet intensity that it took Munch a moment to realize what had happened.

  The guy in the coat—she saw now that he was a teenager—must have gotten too close to the window and Jasper had protected his territory She liked that and scratched his ears even as she apologized to the guy She liked that a lot. She had Jasper’s back, too.

  "Hey." The kid raised his hands in mock surrender. "No offense." He had the scraggly beginnings of a goatee and the slim build of no longer a boy not quite yet a man.

  "You live around here?" Munch asked, kissing the top of Jasper’s head and moving him back to the passenger seat.

  "Sometimes."

  Munch thought it was too warm to be wearing leather, but it was probably the kid’s prized possession. She pulled out one of her flyers and handed it to him through the window. "Have you seen this girl around?"

  He considered the picture for a minute. Munch could almost hear his wheels turning. "You offering any kind of reward for information?"

  Munch deliberated. She had a personal rule against giving druggies and drunks cash, and this kid looked like a little bit of both.

  "If the family had any money we’d hire an investigator to help us. Just tell me if you’ve seen her. "

  "Why should I help you? How do l know your kid didn’t have a good reason to split?"

  "She’s going to be in serious medical trouble if I don’t find her soon. She has a disease." Let this guy think that what Charlotte had was communicable and spread the word. At the very least it might prevent those coming into contact with Charlotte from making unwanted advances. "She needs special medication and she needs it soon."

  "Yeah, you’re breaking my heart," he said. "Life is tough all over."

  Munch fought the urge to open the car door into his face. Hard. She wondered what circumstances had led him to be on the street at his tender age and relented.

  "Her father is dead, her mother isn’t much help either. Kids your age deserve a shot at a future."

  "I never knew my dad," he countered, "and my mom is too busy with boyfriends to notice if I’m home or not. Like I said, we all got problems."

  "Don’t you think it's time somebody broke the chain?" Oh, God, she realized, now I’m quoting dumbfuck Lisa. "Just tell me if you think you might have seen her around."

  "Have you gone to the cops?"

  "The cops? They don’t give a shit. They'll take her name, send her picture out, and call the mom every thirty days to see if she’s heard from the kid yet."

  "Tell you what I’m gonna do," the boy said, sounding more like a carny rat as he sniffed an angle. "Give me one of those flyers and your phone number and I’ll ask around—see what I can do for you."

  "While you’re asking," Munch said, handing him a photo of Steven Koon, "see what you can find out about this one also."

  "He split, too?"

  "You bring me something useful, and I’ll make it worth your time. My number’s on the flyer."

  The guy nodded as he looked over the two pictures. "I’ll come up with something."

  "What’s your name?" "Painter Dave."

  As Munch drove away she thought about how odd it was for a sidewalk commando like Painter Dave to ask her if she’d gone to the cops. Why would that matter to him? She also wondered if spray paint was his artistic medium of choice. His jeans shone with grime and his combat boots were worn and dusty. She watched him in her rearview mirror as he slipped into the alley behind Hotel Hell like so much smoke being pulled up a flue.

  ***

  Munch considered the value of stopping at the free clinic on Sunset. The people who volunteered at free clinics, mostly women, it seemed, had more heart, more love, than God usually gave to ten people. She didn’t know how they did it, how they ministered to people who didn’t even care about themselves for the most part. She had been one of those lost souls once. Driven to seek cures for the various itches and discharges that constantly plagued her. It wasn’t pretty remembering, but it was important not to forget. Once she had gone in for an appointment for yet another gynecologic a
ilment. On the way to the clinic she had turned a trick. She apologized to the woman doctor performing the pelvic exam when the woman commented on the amount of semen she was finding. The doctor—a white, middle-aged woman of unfathomable compassion—waved off Munch’s apology as unnecessary and asked Munch if any other medical condition needed addressing.

  "Well, I’m addicted to drugs," Munch had said, showing the woman her scarred arms.

  "Did you want some help with that today?" the woman asked. "Or did you just want to wallow for now?"

  "I think I’ll wallow a bit more," Munch said, not immune to irony even then.

  The doctor continued with the exam and said something Munch would never forget. "You’re very pretty here." She showed Munch the bunch of flesh at the opening of her vagina, her clitoris. Munch looked down.

  "It looks like a flower/’ the woman said.

  Munch had been pleased by the compliment. Only now, years later, did she realize what the woman had been trying to do for her, had in fact done for her. The woman had drawn Munch’s attention to that part of her body she abused so readily distanced herself from, and had no respect for. She had given her a small gift of pride and cursed her days of hooking.

  God love her.

  No, Munch decided, asking questions at the clinic would most likely yield nothing. Medical files were privileged information, and even if Charlotte had sought her medication at a free clinic, Munch had no way of knowing which one she’d go to.

  She saw a pay phone, pulled over, and called Lisa.

  "Have you heard from her?"

  "You didn’t find her?"

  "Not yet, but we will. I have one more stop to make, then I’m coming over."

  There was an AA adage that included the words "make sure your own house is in order."

  Munch knew this was true both figuratively and literally She drove to her work and borrowed Lou’s powder-blue, vintage Chevy pickup truck, leaving her own car there and promising to be back by four-thirty when Asia’s school bus dropped her off.

  Lou relinquished his keys without hesitation and didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Jasper bounded into the truck’s cab.

  "He doesn’t shed," Munch assured him.

  "Hey, Munch," Lou said, "what do they call a Yugo at the top of a hill?"

  She’d heard this one but said, "I give."

  "A mirage,"

  She smiled and said, "Good one," as she swung into the cab after Jasper.

  Venice High School was not too far out of her way. Munch parked on Venice Boulevard, cracking the window for Jasper. As she made her way to the administration office, she noticed that she was already feeling a familiarity with the place. She walked up the concrete pathway with confidence. The clanging of the flagpole halyard caused her to look up. The flag was at half-mast and the wind was blowing hard across it. The sounds of young voices shouting, bouncing balls, and rubber shoes squeaking on concrete rose from the outdoor basketball courts. Fresh-cut grass cohered in fragrant piles under the classroom windows.

  Munch pushed through the front doors and waited for the woman behind the counter to look up. "Is Mr. Lombardi avaiable?"

  "Do you have an appointment?"

  "No, I was just hoping I could catch him."

  The woman stood. "I’ll see if he’s free."

  Moments later, a slight, bearded man in a brown suit walked out of one of the side offices. His hair was gray but seemed prematurely so. She guessed his age as late thirties, early forties. He was wearing a thick gold wedding band, so she skipped the other calculations she often entertained when meeting a guy for the first time.

  "Can I help you?" he asked.

  She offered her hand. "I’m Munch Mancini. Charlotte Slokum’s aunt."

  "Ah, yes. I saw your message. What can I do for you?"

  "Do you have a minute?"

  He ushered her into his office. It was cluttered with files and binders. A banner tacked to the wall read GO GONDOL1ERS.

  She sat across from him. “What can you tell me about Charlotte?"

  "What do you want to know?" "Who are her friends? Was she any more troubled than most

  kids her age?"

  He opened a filing cabinet and removed a folder with Charlotte’s name on it. He read for a moment before looking up again. "She scored almost fifteen hundred on her pre-SATs."

  Munch sighed. "I’m sorry, but those numbers mean nothing to me."

  He blinked, but recovered quickly. "That’s very good. Sixteen hundred is a perfect score."

  "Her mom said she gets straight A’s."

  "She was second in her class." He delivered this information without having to consult the file.

  "Was?" Munch asked.

  "Currently," he amended. He flipped back a few pages and found what he was looking for. "Says here her top career choice was either an attorney or a psychologist."

  "Interesting spread."

  He nodded. "She told me once she wanted to help people or make a lot of money."

  "I hope you told her it was possible to do both."

  "Of course," he said, checking the clock on the wall.

  "What about friends?"

  "All I can tell you is what I see here. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more assistance. If there’s anything I can do for the family please don’t hesitate to call. In fact, call me as soon as you find out anything."

  Munch assured him she would. Although she would have had a better feeling for the guy if he had responded to her note or showed a little more proactive interest. Obviously, Charlotte wasn’t his only charge or his first priority. They shook hands once more and Munch went on her way.

  When Munch pulled up in front of Lisa’s apartment, Lisa was standing on the sidewalk talking to a thin, fiftyish-looking woman. The woman held a full ashtray and a pack of Chesterfields in one hand and gestured with a smoldering half-smoked cigarette in her other. Both women turned as Munch parked and shut off the engine. Jasper also perked up when the truck stopped and stood on Munch’s lap to look out the window.

  The thin woman had painted a mask of rouge, thick black eyeliner, and dark red lipstick over her wrinkled face. Her sheer blouse showed cleavage, and her gold pants were cinched tight around her waspish waist. Munch thought she probably looked good in her own habitat, perhaps one of the many smoky dives on Lincoln Boulevard.

  Munch shooed Jasper to the passenger side and got out of the truck.

  "This is my neighbor, Bea," Lisa said. Lisa offered nothing to Bea about Munch. Obviously they’d already covered that subject and Munch needed no further introduction. Bea took a last drag of her filterless cigarette, added it to the other spent cancer sticks, and hacked out a hello.

  Munch decided not to tell Lisa she’d been to the school and spoken to Charlotte’s guidance counselor, or of Lombardi’s disturbing use of the past tense when discussing the missing teen, as if he’d already written the kid off. "When does Jill usually get home from school?" Munch asked.

  "Three-thirty unless she goes over to a friend’s house. Sometimes, I don’t see her until dark. She knows to call if she has dinner at someone else’s house."

  "Asia told me you had some stuff in storage. I thought it might be nice to get it now, as a welcome home for Charlotte."

  Lisa’s eyes filled with tears and then shifted quickly side-ways, as if she was nervous about something.

  Munch was ready for her. "I'll loan you the money for the back rental." She didn’t expect to be paid back, but she didn’t want to rob Lisa of all her dignity especially in front of her neighbor. Munch had known this reunion with Lisa was going to cost her since she’d heard Lisa’s voice on that answering machine.

  "I thought you wanted me to stay here by the phone," Lisa said.

  "Oh, honey" Bea piped up with a whiskey growl, "I can sit with your phone. You go get your stuff. I know you’ve been wanting to."

  Lisa hugged Bea, and the two exchanged sloppy vows of gratitude and mutual admiration.

  Munch did a menta
l eye roll and promised to have Lisa back by happy hour.

  "Bless your little heart," Bea said.

  The storage unit was on Beethoven Street in Culver City. It was a large, three-story windowless warehouse in an industrial cul-de-sac. To gain access, they first had to stop at the

  front office and sign in.

  Munch cracked open the truck windows a few inches. Jasper looked worried. She promised him she wouldn’t be long.

  The guy behind the desk had his feet up and was watching a soap opera. He was also barefoot. Judging from the layers of dirt on his soles, he’d been that way for years.

  When the women reached his desk, he swung his feet down, ran a hand through his long, greasy hair, and asked, "Can I help you?"

  "Where’s Micky?" Lisa asked.

  "He’s not here today. "

  "I want to close out my space," Lisa said.

  "Number?"

  "B thirty-six."

  The guy opened his ledger and ran a dirty finger down the page. Munch realized she knew him from AA meetings in Venice. He called himself Catfish. Munch’s sponsor had warned her more than once that she’d meet people in AA she wouldn’t have gotten drunk with. It was strange to see him here. Somehow, she’d never pictured Catfish as having a job.

  "What's the damage?" Munch asked.

  "It’s all paid up," Catfish said, sliding the book to Lisa.

  "Sign here."

  Lisa and Munch looked at each other, a look that said, Hey, if this place can’t keep their books straight, who are we to argue? Lisa shrugged, picked up a pen, and signed her name.

  Munch grabbed a flatbed, wheeled cart and let Lisa lead the way. The storage unit was on the ground floor. Lisa stopped at the combination padlock. Munch waited for her to open it, but Lisa was having trouble.

  "What’s the matter?" Munch asked.

  "I don’t know, I guess I forgot the combination. One of the kids usually does this part."

  Useless, Munch thought. "Let me."

  "I don’t know what you think you’re gonna do," Lisa said.