Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "Just what I want in the middle of my patio," Ellen said.

  "¿Que?"Paco the driver asked.

  "Nothing," Ellen said. "Nada. "It was going to be a long ride. Stick-legged brown girls with long braids reaching to the waistbands of their dresses darted among the cars. Their heads just barely poked above the fenders as they sold individually wrapped candies out of small cardboard boxes.

  The speed of exiting traffic picked up. Ellen noticed that Paco kept buttoning and unbuttoning his shirt cuff. Occasionally he licked his lips and looked from side to side. As they drew nearer to the border, his tics increased.

  Four car lengths from the kiosk, a boy of perhaps ten beat together two flare-sized sticks and sang a song in Spanish. His mouth contorted to enunciate the words that he shouted more than sang. As they grew even with the boy, Paco rolled down his window and held out a handful of coins.

  "Buenos dias, " the boy mumbled, allowing the coins to be dropped into his hand. His eyes stayed focused on the departing traffic.

  The truck inched forward. Between the turnstiles old withered women in long skirts held waxed paper cups and begged for change. They had young children with them. Surely, Ellen thought, the kids were grandchildren. The women watched. the rows of cars like wary birds. Paco reached into his pocket and pulled out another handful of change.

  The flow of traffic urged them on.

  "Noña, " Paco called out. Ellen twisted in her seat to watch. The woman wasn't responding. The bus behind them honked. Paco flung the change behind him. Ellen heard it ricochet cruelly off the metal stanchions.

  They pulled up to the booth. The border guard was a white man.

  "Citizenship?" he asked.

  "U.S.," Paco said.

  "U.S.," Ellen echoed.

  "What are you hauling?" the guard asked.

  "I have no cargo," Paco said.

  This must have been one of the sentences they missed, Ellen thought, when they exhausted their mutual vocabulary fifteen seconds after meeting. Paco started fiddling with his button again. She saw a fine trickle of sweat run past his ear.

  "Anything to declare?" the guard asked.

  Ellen leaned forward and grinned. "We're just glad to be going home."

  The guard waved them forward.

  Paco wove the truck through the array of cement barriers arranged so as to prevent speedy getaways. A yellow sign depicted a man, a woman, and a child in black silhouette. Their hands were linked, and they were running. The message of the sign was obvious: Beware of fleeing families crossing the highway.

  "Are you okay?" Ellen asked.

  Paco didn't answer. His eyes were still glued to the rearview mirror. Finally, he exhaled. She wondered how long he had been holding his breath.

  He reached down under the seat and retrieved a bottle of orange-flavored Fanta. Cracking it open, he offered it to her.

  "No, thanks," she said. The sun beating in through the windshield made her realize how tired she was. "I'm just going to shut my eyes for a second," she said. She didn't care if he understood or not. He'd get the message soon enough. She put the screwdriver on the seat between them and made the blanket into a pillow. Pulling the brim of her cowboy hat over her eyes, she snuggled down for a nap.

  * * *

  Upon arriving back in Los Angeles, Raleigh moved Victor to another hotel. Victor demanded that housecleaning come and change his linen. Raleigh had been through this drill before with the guy. Victor had a thing about germs. He even traveled with his own pillow. Actually, Raleigh couldn't fault the guy that. He had his own quirks when venturing to foreign places.

  It took an hour before Victor was finally settled in. Raleigh told him to stay put. "Can you do that for me?" he asked.

  "Sure, sure," Victor said. "I will take a hot bath, change my clothes. Tonight we will go out and have a big steak. My treat."

  "My people are growing impatient, Victor. It's time to wrap things up."

  "Are you going to report what happened on our trip?"

  Victor asked.

  "I haven't decided yet," Raleigh said. "Let me deal with one mess at a time."

  * * *

  When Ellen woke up, the truck was parked in the shade. It was obvious by the look of the tree-lined street that she was in some upper-middle-class suburb. Paco was gone. The keys dangled from the ignition, not that they'd do her any good. Her street education didn't include driving eighteen-wheelers with fifteen-gear transmissions. Besides, maybe ol' Paco was coming back.

  She was definitely in Ozzie and Harriet land. The houses all had gingerbread trim, flower gardens, even some white picket fences. Her mouth was dry, and she had to pee. She cracked open the heavy door of the semi and climbed down the corrugated chrome step in search of a spigot and maybe a bush. Hopefully, she wouldn't freak out some citizen in the process. She blinked at the brightness of the day, trying to figure out what time it was. She saw a fat edition of the morning paper leaning against someone's garage door. After she got a drink and relieved herself, she might just borrow it and try to get a fix on where she was.

  She stepped onto the easement. The grass there was thick and green and perfectly trimmed. There wasn't even dog shit anywhere. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and started looking for the green coil of an unattended hose.

  The cop pulled up out of nowhere. One moment she had the street to herself, the next he was there with lights blinking and radio muted. He was riding solo. She watched him get out of his car. He had that prissy, pursed-lip kind of look cops get—like he just knew you were shit, didn't belong there, and was up to no good. She hated judgmental bastards like him. Who was he to make such on-the-spot assessments of her? Where was his humanity? The pig, son of a bitch. What ever happened to the old "to serve and protect" motto?

  She looked at his blue-and-white patrol car. According to the door he was part of the Lajolla Police Department. She was in worse trouble than she first thought. Cops who worked nice neighborhoods never had any play in them. The biggest crimes they interrupted were dogs off their leashes. She doubted he'd have much trouble finding some code she'd broken; it would be the bust he bragged about all year. He'd probably come unglued if he ever had to work East L.A. or Venice Beach—this Andy Mayberry of Lajolla.

  "How's it going?" he said with that false cheeriness. He ran a hand over his trim little cop mustache and smiled to reveal straight white teeth. His hand swaggered to the butt of his gun. He probably felt like he was totally on top of the situation—in absolute control. There wasn't a damn thing she could do to oppose him, and he knew it.

  "You got some ID?" he asked. He stood at parade rest, all six feet of him. His posture was perfect.

  She reached to her back pocket, knowing it was empty, but smiling at him all the while. And not that sniveling con smile that said she'd roll over and let him do whatever he wanted. She wore her innocent look, followed immediately by her surprised look. "Well, I'll be," she said, turning so he could watch her pat the empty pocket of her tight jeans. "Maybe I left it in the truck."

  "Is this your truck?" he asked.

  Like he even thought that was a possibility. "Why, no," she said, eyes going wide again. "I just hitched a ride." She thought about all the times she'd used that line as part of her defense. And now here it was true. Wasn't life just full of its little ironies?

  "Where's the driver?" the cop asked.

  "You know," she said, "I was just wondering the same damn thing. I just woke up a little bit ago, and he was gone."

  "So you probably didn't even know the truck was stolen."

  There he goes again, being sarcastic. And here I go, she thought, feeling her eyes widen again, but this time in genuine surprise. "Honest to God?" she asked. "Well, as I live and breathe. Wait till I tell my mama."

  "Step over here," the cop said, indicating a spot on the sidewalk near his patrol car.

  She refrained from assuming the position. That was always a dead giveaway.

  The cop pulled out a pen and what sh
e recognized as a field identification card. "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Susan," she said. "Susan Scott."

  He asked for her address, and she quickly rattled off the first combination of number and street that came to mind, only realizing afterward that it was Russell's address in Venice.

  "Phone number?" he asked.

  "Oh, you," she said, finding a giggle in her bag of tricks. The cop smiled, and she gave him Russell's number. Hell, Russ had done nothing wrong, so he had nothing to worry about.

  "Do you know your driver's license number?" he asked.

  "No, sir," she said. "Sorry, numbers were never my strong suit."

  The cop walked back to his car and radioed in the name she'd given him. Three minutes later, the report came back. Susan Scott had been arrested for forgery, prostitution, and armed burglary. Shit. The woman had a worse record than Ellen.

  "That's not me," she said. "Did you get my middle name?"

  The cop's expression never changed as he called his dispatcher back and asked for scriptors. The crackly voice came back saying, "African-American, five feet ten inches, one hundred and eighty pounds. Currently in custody."

  Well all right then, Ellen thought. It's about time for a little luck.

  A couple in a Buick drove by, slowing down to look at them. The man driving was wearing a black suit; the woman beside him wore a hat. They both stared. She wanted to yell, What the fuck are you looking at?

  Instead she took advantage of the distraction. "Is it dangerous being a cop?" she asked.

  "You never know," he said.

  She watched his chest puff out. "Can you give me a ride to the nearest bus station?" she asked. "I need to get home. I know I look a fright. You wouldn't believe what I've been through?

  "Try me," the cop said.

  She took a deep breath, feeling her mouth begin to quiver and letting tears Hll her eyes. "My . . ." She paused to fight for control, swallowed and began again, "My fiancé left me at the altar." She looked down at her clothes. "Well, maybe not exactly at the altar. The skunk ran off with some bimbo from his bachelor party. I guess I had too much to drink, and now I just want to get home."

  She felt his hand on her shoulder and threw in a few heaving sobs. The tears she shed were real enough. She needed some dope.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mace gave Cassiletti a list of orders, starting with the dispatching of a unit to Munch's house and ending with the cancellation of the border alert.

  "What do you want to do with the kid?" Cassiletti asked. "Pr0tective services?"

  Mace looked over at Munch. "No," he said. "When they locate the kid, have her taken over to Caroline—she's at my dad's house. Bring the boyfriend, too. Tell Caroline I'm on my way and that I'll explain everything."

  "Where are you now? " Cassiletti asked.

  "Down south," Mace said.

  "The captain's been trying to reach you. He's called three times already Steve Brown's called twice. He said he's got some information for you."

  "Give me an hour," Mace said, "and I'll be back in radio contact."

  Throughout the entire conversation Munch had been pacing alongside the phone booth. She stopped in mid-step and tugged on Mace's arm. "What time is it?"

  He checked his watch. "Half past one."

  "I know where Derek might be," she said. "There's an A.A. clubhouse on Washington, across from Royal Market. I bet he went to the midday meeting."

  Mace turned back to the phone and asked Cassiletti, "Did you get that? A.A. clubhouse on Washington and Centinela in Mar Vista." He turned back to Munch, and asked, "What's he driving?"

  "A '63 blue Chevy pickup," she said loudly, then pulled the phone away from Mace and spoke directly to Cassiletti. "You can't miss it. It has a wooden A-frame glass rack in the bed."

  Mace took the phone back. "I'll call when I'm back in my unit." He hung up and turned to Munch. "Let's get out of here. But for God's sake, stay within the speed limit. You get pulled over down here without your registration, and they'll take the car. "

  "I don't care about the car. I just want to get back home."

  "I know that. Don't worry We're on top of it. I need you to keep your head." He also needed the limo back in Los Angeles, where the crime-scene techs could vacuum the upholstery for fibers and the fingerprint crew could collect latents.

  "Get in the right lane at the border," Mace said. "And have five bucks ready. They'l1 funnel us ahead of the other traffic."

  "Let's go," Munch said.

  * * *

  While they waited for their turn to pass through the border check, Munch reached under her seat and pulled out the tape recorder. She ejected the tape and saw that it was nearly at the end of the reel. She slid the tape into the limo's built-in cassette player and pushed the rewind button. A little girl, no older than eight, came to Munch's window with a box of candy. Munch dug into her pocket and handed the kid her change, but waved away the candy. The tape player clicked to a stop, indicating that the tape had rewound. Munch hit play.

  The first voice she heard was Ra1eigh's. She recognized the same half of the telephone conversation she had overheard when she first picked him up on Friday night. He had not closed the privacy partition again until after they had dropped Victor off at the Hollywood apartment. The hidden microphones recorded several minutes of dead air. Expecting this, since she had listened simultaneously through her earpiece, she pushed the fast-forward button in small bursts until she again heard Raleigh's portion of his telephone conversation.

  "A1l set," he said. Followed by, "Later."

  Munch pushed the fast-forward again. Raleigh had made one other call that night.

  Munch assumed that the recipient of that last call had been some sort of love interest. She listened once more to Raleigh's entreaties for the person at the other end of the line to talk to him.

  Traffic inched forward ahead of her. She stayed behind Mace's car, refusing to let other cars merge between them. They reached a Y of traffic lanes. A uniformed guard approached Mace. While the guard gestured with one hand, his other snaked in the open window to receive his payoff. The guard then directed Mace to a faster lane. Mace pointed back at Munch.

  She had her bill folded and ready. The guard took it without looking at her and motioned for her to follow Mace. Sounds from the tape came out of her speakers: heavy breathing. Munch reached over and turned up the volume. She heard Victor's accented voice.

  "Do you think she saw anything?"

  And then the reply from Raleigh.

  "You're just wondering that now?"

  "What should we do? I will only be of use to you if I stay free."

  "Don't you think we know that?"

  "Shit."

  "Don't worry. "

  "By the way, I was meaning to tell you. Pakistan has come in at three hundred and twenty thousand. I think we can push Iran to three thirty."

  A minute passed where neither of them spoke, then Munch heard Victor's accented voice once again. "I was always meant for bigger things. From the time I was a small boy, I was singled out in sports and academics."

  "Me, too. Top of my class. Destined for greatness."

  Munch noticed the voices were changing, growing slurred. It was getting hard to distinguish which man was talking.

  "Rules developed to govern a society cannot apply to every individual."

  "Of course not. "

  She turned up the volume. With each sentence their voices grew fainter.

  "A1l the great men through history have had their idiosyncrasies."

  "Thas right."

  Silence followed, but Munch didn't touch the buttons of the tape recorder. The "she" had to be Ellen. What was the thing they were worried she'd witnessed? The murders? Had they killed her, too?

  Now the only sounds coming from the tape were the vibration hums of the limo and the rustling of the passengers shifting in their seats. Several minutes passed. The drone of the limo stopped. This could only mean that the engine had shut
off Munch heard a pounding sound and one of the two men shouting, "Why have we stopped?" The humming resumed. Had the limo stalled? Munch wondered. That would tie in with the mechanical problems. The limo restarted. Another minute passed and new sounds began, snoring. The humming changed tempo, as if the limo had come to a stop but the engine was still running. Munch heard the car door opening, muffled noises, a woman's soft grunt of exertion. According to the Mexican cop, Ellen had robbed her customers and left them unconscious by the side of the road. Was this what Munch was hearing? No jury in the world could extrapolate that, could they? The fact that the men had passed out simultaneously in the rear of the limo made Munch wonder if they'd been drugged. That wasn't beyond Ellen's capabilities. Sounded like she had good reason.

  Munch rewound and ejected the tape, then slipped it into her coat pocket.

  * * *

  At two-fifteen, Mace and Munch arrived at the San Diego PD parking lot. The same cop was still on duty at the desk and issued them passes. They went directly to Rico Chacón's office, where Mace paged Cassiletti, punching in Chacón's number after the beep. Two minutes later, the phone rang. Chacón answered, "Narcotics. Cassiletti? Hold on. " He handed the phone to Mace.

  "We got the kid," Cassiletti said first thing. "Found her and the boyfriend at that A.A. meeting just like Munch said."

  Mace turned to Munch, and said, "Your kid is fine."

  She let out her breath in a huge sigh and sank onto one of the chairs lining the wall.

  "You better call the captain," Cassiletti said.

  "Did you take the little girl to Caroline?" Mace asked.

  "Yeah, that's all handled."

  "Where are you?" Mace asked.

  "The office."

  "Anything new on—"

  "Sir?" Cassiletti interrupted. "Captain Earl is very anxious to speak with you."

  "He can wait another minute."

  "He said code two," Cassiletti said, using LAPD shorthand for ASAP.