"Well," she said, thinking how good just the one beer would taste. "Maybe for just a moment." She deserved that much.
* * *
Raleigh followed the two of them inside. The bar smelled of piss and beer. Even with the two fans turning sullenly overhead, the humidity inside the dark bar was thick enough to push him back. Three whores surrounded them instantly, the youngest of whom looked about twelve, even with the makeup. Her Levi cutoffs revealed more than they covered.
"Want a blow job?" she asked. "I do you at the booth. Twelve-fifty."
He pushed past her, taking Ellen's arm and guiding her to the bar. The bartender turned to take their order. Raleigh had a hard time not focusing on what passed as the man's nose. All that remained was a twisted knob of scar tissue above two gaping black nostrils.
"Bueno," the bartender said, pointing the two obscene holes right at Raleigh.
"Tequila," he said, holding up two fingers. "What you want, doll?" he asked Ellen.
"Something cold and wet," she said. "Something that'll fit easily in my hand and make me happy."
Raleigh responded by puffing out his chest. "I think l got just what you need."
"Aren't you going to ask me if I want foreign or domestic?"
"Believe me, doll," he said. "Buy American." He pointed at the cooler behind the bartender. "And one beer. You got that, amigo?"
The bartender wiped his bar rag across his face, then flipped it back over his shoulder and reached for glasses and bottles.
Raleigh turned his back to the man, leaned against the ripped upholstery of the bar top, and assessed the security.
The midday crowd was limited to a dozen sailors, three shabbily dressed dark-skinned local men, and five whores working the room. The wooden stage was bathed in red and blue lights. A blanket covered the large door to the left of the stage. There wasn't a man or woman in the room he couldn't take. Any one of them he could kill in twenty different ways with his bare hands, or an opportunistic garrote. The cooler of beer held three dozen blunt objects that could easily crush temporal lobes. He took a deep hit of his tequila and sighed, feeling in control and the most relaxed he'd been in days.
CHAPTER 9
Munch invited Mace St. John into her home, motioned for him to take a seat on the couch, and then followed Asia into her bedroom to locate the red shoes.
"I need to talk to this man about some stuff," she told Asia. "You can come in and meet him after you get your shoes on."
"Who is he?" Asia asked.
"He's a policeman. Someone I met before you were born. I haven't seen him in a long time."
"Why is he here?"
"That's what I'm going to find out. Wash your face and hands before you come back."
"Okay."
Munch looked long and hard at Asia, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head. Asia had acquiesced a little too easily.
"I will," Asia said, putting extra emphasis on the second word.
Munch returned to the living room. Mace St. John had spread four photographs across the coffee table. She sat down beside him and looked. Three of the pictures showed her limo from a slightly aerial viewpoint.
"Where were these taken?" she asked.
"Apartment complex security camera."
"Welcome to 1984, Big Brother," she said.
"You recognize this guy?" he asked, pointing at a photograph of Mr. Disco with his hand raised in apparent greeting.
"Yeah," she said, "that's the guy I picked up at the Beverly Wilshire. Raleigh Ward called him Victor."
Mace consulted his notes. "He was the foreigner?"
"Yeah, heavy accent, and he seemed kind of out of sync."
"How so?"
"His clothes were like out of the seventies. And he had a weird way of looking at people, at me, the two floozies."
'Weird how?"
"l don't know, like he'd just arrived on the planet—like he was looking at some kind of zoo species he'd never seen before. Kind of creepy, really."
"What about the two women? The floozies?"
"I don't mean to put them down. They were okay, I guess. Just two party girls out for a good time."
"Pros?" he asked quietly.
"Could be," she said, casting a nervous glance toward Asia's room.
He pulled out two more pictures from the manila envelope. "Are these the women you met last night?"
She looked at the photographs and felt her stomach flip. "Are they dead?" she asked, staring at the open-eyed, slack expressions, already knowing the answer.
He nodded.
"Yeah, these look like the same girls. Was this the case I heard about on the news this morning?"
"After you left the building on Gower, you took Raleigh Ward straight back to his place?"
"Yeah."
"And you left this Victor character with the two women?"
"That's right."
'What was Raleigh Ward's state of mind?"
She thought back to the terrible expression on Raleigh's face, remembered that when he rose up to get the money out of his pocket, she'd seen a gun holstered on his belt. "Were the women shot?" she asked.
"I can't comment on that," he said.
"Raleigh was packing. "
"I know, you included that in your report. Was he agitated when you last saw him?"
"More like devastated?
"Go on."
"He made a call on the way home. Some woman, I think. He wanted to go see her, but she turned him down."
"You could hear all this?"
She forced herself not to shift in her seat. "Yeah, I could."
"Then what happened?"
"He paid me and went home. I tried calling back whoever he'd been talking to."
"You did? How?"
"I pushed redial on the phone."
"Why?"
"I was worried about him. He seemed so bummed out, and he was drunk. I was afraid he was going to, I don't know, maybe off himself. I thought maybe whoever it was on the phone might like to help."
"And what happened when you called?"
"She hung up on me. I think she thought it was him calling back."
"And then you left?"
"Yeah."
Asia entered the room. She'd clipped three plastic animal-themed barrettes randomly across her mop of Shirley Temple curls. She'd also changed into this week's favorite outfit: plaid shorts and a bright yellow shirt.
Mace quickly stuffed the pictures of the dead women back into his envelope.
"Asia," Munch said, "this is Detective St. John."
Asia clasped her hands behind her back, crossed her feet, and looked downward. Well, this is a first, Munch thought.
"Pleased to meet you, Asia," Mace said.
"Hello," Asia replied, barely audibly.
"Nice shoes," he added.
She looked up then. "Mommy said she met you before I was born."
"How old are you?" he asked.
Munch watched the exchange in incredulous and mounting panic. How was it that the conversation had zeroed in immediately on just the mine field she hoped to avoid? She'd had her dealings with the detective a little over seven years ago. Lord knows, she hadn't been pregnant then.
"Six and a half," Asia said. "I'll be seven in—"
"The limo isn't here," Munch blurted out.
"Where is it?" Mace asked, turning to her.
Asia took a step in front of Munch, placing herself between Mace and her mother. She put a look of resignation on her six-and-a-halfyear-old face, an expression that had taken Munch twenty-eight years to earn, and sighed before she said, "Fucking Ellen took it."
Mace made a small choking sound. When he looked over at Munch, his eyes had a twinkle in them. "Who's Ellen?" he asked.
"A friend of mine," Munch said, feeling her eyes bulge as she stared at Asia with a mixture of shock and annoyance.
"Derek told us," Asia said.
"And Derek is?" he asked, addressing Asia.
"My ex," Munch said
, louder than necessary, hoping to get everyone's attention back on her.
"Your daddy?" Mace asked Asia.
"No," she assured him. "My daddy is in heaven." She accompanied this statement with a solemn glance skyward. God, Munch thought, this kid is good. Scary how good.
"Derek lives across the street," Munch explained. "He manages the four-unit apartment building. Before that he lived with us and helped run the limo company."
"So you guys broke up and he moved across the street?" Mace asked. "That must be a strain."
"Actual1y, I helped get him the job," Munch said.
"That was nice of you."
"I don't hate the guy," she said. "I just didn't want to live with him anymore?
"He never got out of bed," Asia added.
Munch blushed. Unbelievable what those little eyes and ears picked up.
"So are you saying this Ellen took the limo without your permission?" Mace asked.
"Apparently when Asia and I were out this morning, Ellen took a call. Derek helped her wash the car and stock it with ice and drinks."
"When will she be back?" Mace asked.
"She didn't say," Munch said.
"Where did she go? Who was her customer?"
"Look," Munch said, exhaling with defeat, "here's the thing. I don't know for certain. Some guy called. Ellen said something to him about not sending a blonde because of what they thought of blondes down there. When she left, she asked Derek if he wanted her to bring back any Fireworks. I've tried to call her on the mobile phone in the limo, but she either doesn't have it on or she's out of range."
"Is that why you called the apartment on Gower?" he asked. "To try to track her down? You think she's with Raleigh Ward?"
"Let's just say business hasn't exactly been booming. Since prom season died down, I've had about three calls. Raleigh Ward told me last night that he was going to be needing the car off and on all week."
"To entertain this Victor guy?" Mace asked, pointing at the photograph.
"Possibly." She showed Mace the note from Ellen. "I think they might have gone to Mexico."
A beeping noise interrupted their conversation. Mace looked down at the device attached to his belt.
"Mind if I use your phone?" he asked, tilting his head toward the phone on the table.
"Help yourself," Munch said. Taking Asia by the hand, she led the girl back to her room, and asked her, "Haven't we talked about not using certain words no matter where you hear them?"
* * *
In response to the page, Mace called Parker Center. While he waited to be put through to Cassiletti's extension, he checked out his surroundings. There was a bulletin board mounted on the wall next to him. On it was a map of the city and a list of phone numbers for the major airlines. Checks addressed to Munch filled the left edge of the board. Each was stamped with either INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, ACCOUNT CLOSED, or PAYMENT STOPPED in red ink across the face. Assholes, he thought. Cassiletti answered his phone. Mace identified himself and asked what was up.
"I showed the picture of our witness to the concierge at the Beverly Wilshire," Cassiletti said. "I've got a name to go with the face: Victor Draicu."
"That checks with what I have," Mace said. "What else you got?"
"Draicu is a Romanian diplomat. He's connected with the Olympics."
Mace made a note to himself. That connection bore some looking into. "Any luck with the cabbie who picked him up?" he asked.
"Yea.h, I tracked the guy down. He remembered the call. Said he took Draicu to titty bars by the airport and dropped him off. I asked the hotel personnel when Draicu got in, but nobody remembers seeing him until this morning, when a limo picked him up."
"What make and color?" Mace asked.
"Gray Cadillac?" Cassiletti said.
"All right, good work," Mace said, wishing the big man had half the confidence of Munch's daughter. "I need you to call Border Patrol. You got a pen and paper?"
"Just a minute."
Mace glanced skyward while he heard Cassiletti fumble for writing utensils.
"All right," Cassiletti said. "I'm ready."
Mace read off the license number of Munch's limo. "Find out if this vehicle has passed the checkpoint today and, if so, when." If the limo had gone to Mexico, that would be a break, Mace knew. The American Border Patrol had increased security because of the upcoming Olympics. All commercial vehicles entering as well as exiting the country were being noted and entered into the agency's database.
"You want them to stop the car?" Cassiletti asked.
"That would be the idea," Mace said, trying to stifle his impatience.
"What should I tell them?"
"That the vehicle is physical evidence in a homicide investigation, and that the driver and passengers are needed for questioning. Tell them to proceed with caution."
"What are you going to do?" Cassiletti asked.
"I'm going to head back to downtown. I've got a meeting with Steve Brown."
"OCID?" Cassiletti asked, referring to the Organized Crime Intelligence Division.
"Yeah, he said he might have some answers for me." And given Steve's line of work, Mace knew anything he had worth listening to wouldn't be said over the phone.
CHAPTER 10
He felt restless. The fluids coursing through him screamed for release. The woman driver who had been tantalizing him the entire evening drank like a man, he noted with disdain. Who did she think she was? And she was noisy. The woman was unbearably full of herself.
The hot liquid of his own juices bubbled within him, the pressure of it building. He could feel the vessels behind his eyes dilating, threatening to split his skull apart. It didn't stop here, this distention of his fluids. The swelling reached even to the marrow of his bones. He knew his cycles well. The force of it both awed and—yes, he was man enough to admit it—at times the power frightened him. What if he did nothing to answer this call? Would the noodle-shaped pieces of his own precious brain spill out in red, oozing gobs?
He tapped his fingers on the rim of his glass, staring in the rippled mirror behind the cash register, and visualized the pulsing organs of the loud, brash woman seated at the end of the bar. He knew a lot about anatomy. Even as a child he'd studied the miracle of the circulatory and digestive systems. Often he'd been late to school, enthralled by the sight of dead animals on the roadway, with their insides squished out into the open, the tread of a tire imprinted on their fur and intestines, the milky look of their open eyes. His mother thought him lazy. Lazy, filthy monkey boy. But she had been wrong about him. Very wrong. He realized he had an erection. He had to do something soon.
* * *
Mace drove to the headquarters of the Organized Crime Intelligence Division. The OCID made its home in a windowless three-story building across the street from the Greyhound bus station on the edge of downtown. Cops in the know referred to the headquarters as Fort Davis, in homage to the former chief, Ed Davis.
Mace had called ahead. If he hadn't, the flashing of his detective's shield would not have been enough to get him inside the ultra secret fortress. He only knew of its existence through his friendship with Steve Brown. Detectives working under the auspices of the OCID not only never made the news, but also never made arrests. Their duties were only to gather intelligence. They weren't choosy about their methods—a fact that never held up well in a court of law. If the odd crime was observed, OCID investigators passed the information along. Sometimes they used the anonymous WETIP line. But Steve fed his intelligence directly- to Mace.
He greeted Mace at the doorway. A lean, handsome man, Steve stood a shade under six feet and had a touch of gray at his temples. He looked more like a TV anchorman than the spy Mace knew him to be.
"Let's take a walk," he said to Mace.
"So what did Tommy Lasorda have for lunch today?" Mace asked.
"The usual," Steve answered, not rising to the bait. The duties of the OCID, despite its name, had little to do with investigating organized cri
me. OCID investigators were divided into teams that covered politicians, entertainers, athletes, team owners—anybody who was anybody. Information was gathered and stored in private facilities throughout Los Angeles, giving the chief of police Hoover-like power over the Who's Who of the city.
"You've got a name for me?" Steve asked.
"Raleigh Ward." Mace slipped his friend a piece of paper.
"Here's his address and everything else we could find out, which was damn little. I can't even get a photograph out of the DMV.
Steve slipped the paper into his pocket. "You think this guy is a spook?"
"He's something."
"Preparing for the Olympics has brought all kinds of shit to town. I've worked double shifts for a month. Fucking spooks think they can do anything they want, like the rules don't apply to them."
Mace coughed into his hand. If that wasn't the pot calling the kettle . . .
"I've got an unusual signature on the D.B.'s," Mace said. He described the washing of the bodies, the placement of the victims' hands, and the white crosses of tape covering the wounds. He knew that OCID shared information with organizations similar to their own in other countries. He also appreciated the lack of bureaucracy involved. So much time was saved when cops didn't have to mess around with rules of conduct, protocol, and giving rights to those who deserved none.
"It's a big world," Steve said. "Anywhere in particular you think this guy might have operated?"
"I filed a report with Interpol six months ago, after the December homicide, just in case the suspect was a tourist."
He'd been grasping at straws, but there were no other leads to follow. All the victim's family and acquaintances had checked out. He could find no motive. The victim's jewelry had not been stolen. She had no enemies, according to everyone he interviewed. It was the worst kind of murder to try to solve: murder by stranger. "But that doesn't mean the Eastern Bloc countries are cooperating. I also need you to keep an ear out to Mexico. I have information that my guy might be there."
"I'll see what I can find out," Steve said.
"One other thing," Mace said. "My homicide victims"—he wrote down the women's names and address—"had their rent paid by Southern Air Transport I didn't find any record of either one of the women's employment there."
Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Page 8