Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "I know the company," Steve said.

  "You do?" Mace asked. '

  "Government op. They fly DC-3s and DC-4s in and out of Central America. Good cargo planes, I understand, and able to operate on short runways."

  * * *

  Ellen woke up cold, vaguely aware of the sound of rushing water. Rocks and branches poked her back. She sat up. Her pants were pulled down to her knees; her shirt was on inside out and full of foxtails. A quick check confirmed that she'd recently had sex. She had a vague recollection of getting friendly with one of the American sailors at the bar. She pulled her pants up and checked her front pocket. The money was still there. Thank God. For a moment she had been really worried.

  She continued to take inventory. In a back pocket she found a cache of capsules wrapped in coarse toilet paper. Where had those come from? She had a vague recollection of arranging a trade with one of the local working girls. The pills were chloral hydrates—a tasteless tranquilizer that dissolved quickly in liquor. She didn't know what their medical use was, but they made great Mickey Finns.

  Judging from the position of the moon, now high overhead, it had to be close to midnight. What else happened during the missing hours between one-drink-won't-hurt and waking up in these nasty old bushes?

  The last thing she remembered was sitting in the bar. The navy boys were lining up shooters. Raleigh got all pissed off when she told the one sweet-faced fella that she was from North Carolina.

  "I thought you said Georgia," he said.

  She didn't remind him that Georgia had been his idea, and she had just gone along to be agreeable. Men like to feel like they know something—that they're smart. You can just see them preen their feathers when you tell them what they want to hear. And what was the big deal anyhow? Georgia was right next to North Carolina, wasn't it? Maybe she grew up on the border or something. What harm was there if she told a lonely sailor boy—a member of the Armed Services of these United States—that they hailed from the same neck of the woods? Still, she thought, zipping her jeans shut, you would have thought sweet-faced North Carolina would have had the manners to pull her pants back up.

  She heard shouting from farther down the embankment and realized that these noises were what had wakened her. Angry male voices raised in argument, and in the background was the sound of rushing water. She recognized Spanish swear words. Pinche this and cabrón that.

  She stumbled down the bank toward the source of the commotion. It was Raleigh and Victor, she saw, with two Mexican men. The Mexican doing most of the shouting was young, maybe twenty. The other man was thicker in the chest, old enough to be the youth's father. They all stood beneath a bridge that spanned a muddy river. With the palm of his hand Victor pushed the younger Mexican. The man staggered back, sending out a stream of invectives and pointing at Raleigh. She caught the Spanish words for "sister" and "brother" and something that sounded like "mortar." The man's voice broke as he shouted. His hysterical tone made her instinctively crouch under the cover of a bush.

  Victor charged the slighter man and thumped his fist into that man's chest. As Ellen watched, the young Mexican performed a strange, slow-motion pirouette. His knees buckled and he sank to the sandy ground. Victor pulled his hand back, and there was a flash of silver. He had a knife. Everything made a horrible sort of sense then: the look of shock on the older Mexican's face, the spreading dark stain on the stricken man's loose-fitting white-cotton shirt.

  Raleigh disarmed Victor with startling efficiency-one quick, fluid move, and he was holding the knife. Victor just stood there, looking bewildered. The whole scene was made even more surreal by the absolute silence in which everything that followed seemed to be happening. It was as if the world needed a moment to catch its breath after this rash, irreversible act. Then Raleigh's hand struck out again and grabbed the older Mexican by his hair. Before she could blink, the man was spun around and his head pulled back. Raleigh looked once more at the body on the ground, then ran the knife blade across the helpless man's throat. The next sound she heard was a sickening gurgle. By the light of the moon, she could see the man's lips move uselessly above his slashed neck.

  At some point in the seconds it took for the gruesome scene to be enacted, Ellen's fist found its way into her mouth. She bit down on her finger until she felt the flesh break, but she couldn't stop herself. She dared not make a sound.

  Raleigh and Victor rolled the two bodies into the river. The corpses made a slow progress with the current. They were both facedown, the backs of their shirts billowing with trapped air. Eventually the shirts wilted and the bodies sank. Raleigh pulled a gun from his belt and the wallet from his pocket and threw them both on the sandy bank. He then jumped into the Water. Victor also threw his billfold onto the shore and waded thigh-deep into the river.

  While the two men washed the evidence of their deeds from their clothes and skin, she took the opportunity to scramble back up the bank. She forced herself to move slower than her racing blood demanded, picking each footstep so that no rock was dislodged or dry twig snapped.

  She found the limo parked at the top of the hill with one front tire in a ditch. She tried the driver's door but found it locked. She searched her pockets with shaking hands, already knowing she didn't have the keys.

  How far is the town? she wondered. And where the fuck are the federales when you need them? A fifth of tequila rested against the windshield, balanced on the wiper blades. Three fingers of liquor remained. She heard Raleigh and Victor stumbling up the riverbank. She grabbed the bottle, popped open the capsules, and dumped the powdered drug into it.

  When the two men emerged at the top of the hill, Ellen was sitting on the hood. She smiled drunkenly and held out the bottle. "Where the fuck have you two been?" she asked.

  "The party is just getting started."

  CHAPTER 11

  Saturday night, Asia pulled out a jigsaw puzzle, and asked, "Can we?"

  "Yeah, sure," Munch said, clearing the coffee table. She brought the phone over and set it on the floor beside them. Asia dumped out the box and went to work on the edges.

  The picture on the box depicted two puppies under an umbrella in the rain. While Asia constructed the frame, Munch gathered all the pieces that made up the dogs' faces. Twenty minutes later, Asia had linked all the edges. Then, instead of working on the umbrella, or a puddle, or even the tree limb lying on the ground in front of the puppies, Asia had to start messing with some of the dog pieces.

  Every time she reached across the table, her arm caught the edge of the puizle and sent it askew.

  "Stop moving everything," Munch finally said, "and keep away from the dog stuff. That's mine."

  Asia didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Munch had heard herself. "All right," she said. "You can touch anything you want on the puzzle."

  Asia responded by taking her index finger and touching every piece in front of Munch. Munch watched Asia's face out of the corner of her eye, then laughed. She was up to the test, and Asia was one smart kid. That's what counted, that and spunk. It was okay to be fair and kind and share with others, just so long as you kept your eyes and ears open.

  "So, Mom, I've been thinking?

  "Oh, yeah?" '

  "I don't think it would hurt my dad's feelings if we found another daddy here on earth."

  Munch choked on her coffee. "What?" She shouldn't have been surprised. Asia had been on the daddy riff a lot lately—asking questions about her real dad. Munch told Asia as much as she could. That John Garillo had a great smile, that Asia had his same dark eyes. John was part-Mexican, making Asia about an eighth; maybe there was even an Inca princess somewhere in the mix if they went back far enough. Munch told Asia that her daddy used to give her baths when she was a baby. He died when she was six months old, although Asia swore she could remember lying on his chest and him smiling down on her.

  "You and me are good cuddlebugs," Asia said. "I just wish I had a daddy, too. Then he could come to school on career day and talk abou
t what he does."

  "What about me being a mechanic?" Munch asked. "Isn't that interesting?"

  "Yeah, but all the kids know that already."

  "Is that the only reason you want a daddy?"

  "No. If we had a daddy, we could all walk down the street together. I could hold both your hands and you could swing me up."

  "And we'd always be smiling?" Munch asked.

  "Yeah," Asia said. "Because we'd be at Disneyland."

  "Oh, I see. Maybe we should look for some guy who works at Disneyland?

  "Or Sea World," Asia said, brown eyes sparkling. "Good-idea."

  "But not a redhead," Munch said.

  "Not like Justin," Asia agreed. She'd often complained about the annoying boy in her class with the red hair and freckles. Some days he was all she could talk about.

  "When should we begin this search?"

  "Oh, I already started. My friend Scott doesn't have a mom. Him and his dad know all about you. He asked me what kind of music you liked."

  "Your friend?"

  "No," Asia said, a little exasperated. "Eric, his dad. I told him you liked that Aerosmith song. 'Big Ten Inch."

  Munch felt her face flush. "You didn't."

  "Well, you're always singing along real loud when it comes on the radio."

  Munch covered her eyes with her hand, feeling the heat of her cheeks. Then she looked over at the kitchen clock.

  "You know what? It's bedtime."

  "Ten more minutes?

  "Five."

  "And three more pieces."

  "One each, then you brush your teeth and put on your jammies."

  They worked for a moment in silence, then Munch said, "I don't think your real daddy would mind either." And was her real mommy also smiling down on them? Munch liked to think so.

  * * *

  After Asia went to bed, Munch worked the puzzle long into the night and again the next morning. When Asia woke up, they finished. Asia, of course, popped in the final piece. The phone didn't ring until nine o'clock. It was Mace St. John.

  "Border Patrol reports that your limo crossed the check-point at two o'clock yesterday afternoon," he said. "They don't have any record of its coming back across."

  "So it's still down there," Munch said.

  "Most likely. You didn't hear anything?

  "No. How about Raleigh Ward? Have you found him?"

  "No. As far as I know, he hasn't returned to his apartment. I'm still trying to get a photo of him. I'll bring it by when I do."

  "All right."

  "How long have you known Ellen?" he asked.

  "Over ten years."

  "That long?" he asked. She heard papers rustle. "So you knew her from partying?"

  "Yeah, we partied some."

  "Did you two always get along?"

  "What are you saying?"

  "Maybe she just ripped you off," he said. "Have you thought of that?"

  "You don't know her. She wouldn't do that, not without a reason."

  "People make up their own reasons, especially dopers."

  "Look, I don't expect you to understand? Munch picked up the phone and walked into the kitchen, out of Asia's earshot. "I'm not saying she's a saint, but she has her principles. She's got no reason to rip me off."

  He didn't say anything for a long moment, then, "I hope I get a chance to meet her."

  She didn't like his tone or his pauses. It made her think of someone who had bad news for you and was waiting for a good time to break it. "There's more, right?" she asked. It was always best to get all the bad shit out in the open; then you could deal with it.

  "Yeah. The judicial Police in Tijuana have found the bodies of three people."

  "That probably happens a lot down there," she said. "Why did they call you? Were the dead people American?"

  Mace took a while before he answered. She knew there were things in an ongoing case that cops didn't tell, details they didn't give out.

  "Two of the victims were local men," he finally said, "stabbed, slashed, and found floating in the river. The other was a woman. They haven't been able to identify her."

  "Was she young, old, white?"

  "The only information I have is that she is a young female. She was found nude and wearing a red wig."

  Munch thought of the wigs lined up in Asia's room There was a blond one and a brunette, but no red. "My friend Ellen wears wigs."

  "I know. Your boy Derek told Detective Cassiletti."

  "Are you going down there?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "I want to come, too," she said. "If that body is Ellen, I can identify her."

  "I can take a Polaroid," he said. "Might be easier for you."

  "I can also identify Raleigh Ward," she reminded him. He paused again, obviously weighing the merits of involving her. "What about your kid?"

  "Derek can watch her. That's the least he can do."

  "All tight. I'l1 pick you up in twenty minutes."

  * * *

  Munch called Derek and told him what she needed of him. "Damn," he said, on hearing the latest developments. "You think it's her?"

  "Right now I'm trying real hard not to think anything until I know."

  "Yeah," he said. "That's probably best."

  "I thought you might understand," she said. Waiting for problems to solve themselves was one of Derek's specialties. After hanging up with Derek, Munch dressed Asia. She insisted on wearing her dress with the yellow daisies when she understood they were to have another visit from Detective St. John.

  For herself, Munch selected a pair of Levi's, a thick white T-shirt, and tennis shoes.

  "Aren't you going to put on some makeup?" Asia asked.

  "I wasn't planning on it," Munch said. "Why?"

  "Makes you prettier."

  "This isn't a date, honey. Besides, Detective St. John is already married to a really nice lady."

  "Oh," Asia said, clearly deflated.

  Munch was just tying her laces when Derek arrived. He let himself in without knocking. She heard the refrigerator door open.

  "Asia's in the bathroom," she called to him. "I'll call in every couple of hours to see if you've heard from Ellen. So stay close, okay?"

  "You're out of milk," he said.

  "Shit," she said. "I was going to go marketing yesterday. Go on out and get something to eat, but then stick close to the phone, all right?"

  "No problem," he said. '

  She heard a car door slam out front, and said, "That's probably him now."

  The bathroom door opened and Asia emerged, preceded by a haze of floral perfume. Was that blush on her cheeks? Munch wondered. Where did this kid get all her girlie-girl instincts? And would the phase pass? Munch was constantly trying to puzzle out how much of the girl's personality was genetic and how much was environmental. She once went to a meeting about adoption. The joke among the adoptive parents was that any bad traits seen in the children were attributed to the birth parents, and consequently all good characteristics were a result of upbringing. One thing for certain, this kid was very much her own person and always had been.

  Munch heard the gate latch jingle and opened the door. Mace had parked on the street and was walking up her front steps.

  "I'm all set," she said.

  "Good, good." He glanced down the street. "Can I use your phone real quick?"

  "Of course," she said. "Come in. You want some coffee or anything?" She shooed Derek and Asia back from the doorway.

  "No, just need to make a call." He nodded hello to Derek and gave Asia a smile. She did her newfound shy number, tucking her chin down to her chest and batting her eyes. Mace crossed the room to the phone. "Is this the only extension?

  "You need privacy?" Munch asked.

  "Uh, no, this'll be fine."

  Munch took Asia's hand and led her outside, giving Derek the high sign to follow. Asia's eyes remained focused on Mace St. John, even though it meant walking with her head swiveled backward. On the front porch, Munch reached in
to her wallet and pulled out a twenty. She handed the bill to Derek. "I'll call you guys in a couple of hours and let you know what's going on."

  "Okay," Asia said absently, poking her head around Derek's legs as she tried to get a last look at the detective in her living room.

  "Eat something healthy," Munch admonished, wondering which of the two she had a better chance of reaching. It was close.

  She came back in the house in time to hear Mace say, "Hi, it's me." There was a pause while he inclined his head and put a finger over his free ear. "Something's come up. I have to go down to Mexico."

  He closed his eyes as he listened.

  "The Band-Aid thing. Can you feed the dogs? Maybe throw the ball for Nicky?"

  He seemed to be holding his breath, then his shoulders slumped. "I know you know."

  He nodded. "I'm at her house now. She's got a nice place, almost in the Marina."

  Munch had been heading for her bedroom, but slowed her steps as soon as she knew she was out of his line of vision.

  "No, she looks good. She's got a kid."

  She breathed slowly and stood very still.

  "A girl." He dropped his voice. Munch leaned closer from her position around the corner.

  "Almost seven," he said. Now his voice was barely audible. "I thought so, too. I'll try to find out." She heard him inhale, saw the reflection of his body straightening in the window. "Thanks for taking care of the dogs."

  His next response came quickly.

  "I know I don't. That's not the point. I want to let you know I appreciate you. I'll call you later?"

  A second, maybe two passed, then he said, "Bye. Take care," and hung up.

  Munch walked back to the bedroom door and closed it.

  "All set?" he called to her.

  "I hope so," she said. Before walking out the door, she grabbed the spare set of keys for the limo and her leather coat.

  * * *

  The Sunday traffic was heavy in West Los Angeles. St. John spent much of the time on the radio, speaking in cryptic, clipped sentences full of numbers and letters. She heard none of the emotion that had weighted his voice earlier.