"Yeah, she called me last night." Lila Mae paused to yawn.
"First she wants me to come get her and then before Dwayne can get his shirt on, she says not to bother. That girl can never make up her mind. That's her problem."
"Did she say where she was?"
"We didn't get that far."
"You think she went back to Venice?" Munch asked.
"I hope not, but she always seems to end up there," Lila Mae said. "I heard you were doing real good."
"Yes, ma'am. I have a lot to be grateful for."
"Well, I wish you'd talk some sense into that daughter of mine. She's been nothing but trouble."
"If she calls again, tell her I'm not mad, that I need to talk to her. She can leave me a message at my work. But Mrs. Summers? Tell her not to go to my house. It isn't safe."
"What the hell are you two up to?" Lila Mae asked.
"Please, just give her the message."
"Notthing but trouble," Lila Mae said as she hung up.
* * *
'°Where were you last night?" Raleigh asked Victor.
"I got hungry? Victor said, lathering his toast with butter and strawberry jam. "Where were you?"
"Never mind about me. You need to keep a low profile until we get this deal wrapped up. The sooner you deliver the sooner you can get on with your new life."
"I have been thinking about that," Victor said, stuffing another strip of bacon into his mouth. "I will be needing a car. A Cadillac Eldorado?"
Raleigh felt the coffee in his throat threaten to reverse direction. "Any particular color?" A
"Nothing flashy," Victor said. "Leather upholstery This is not negotiable."
"My people are getting antsy." Raleigh leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "One of our Eastern European analysts is saying that you're full of shit. That you have no product."
Victor raised his fork and knife in agitation. "Who is this analyst? Some Hungarian asshole?"
"You know I can't reveal that."
"This other man is full of shit."
"Make me a believer, Victor," Raleigh said. "Bring me a sample, so I can get my people to relax. And don't forget, you owe me."
* **
The report from Toxicology was waiting for Mace on his desk when he got to Parker Center. A long list of chemicals was printed under the heading: Blood Analysis. Three items jumped out at him: cocaine, chloral hydrate, alcohol. There was also a note for him to call Dr. Sugarman, the chief medical examiner for the city of Los Angeles.
Mace decided to go visit in person and brought along the photographs from the Tijuana morgue. When he got to the coroner's office, he found Sugarman bent over his cluttered desk. The coroner looked up when Mace knocked on the already-open door.
"You look like shit," Sugarman said.
"Compared to what?" Mace asked, looking down the hall. Sugarman laughed.
"You got something for me on the Gower victims?" Mace prompted.
"Oh, yes, of course. I think I've got your murder weapon identified," Sugarman said. "Fortunately, there were enough bone strikes to give us length." Sugarman picked up a ruler and stared at it. Seconds ticked by.
"Any time you're ready, Doc."
Sugarman set down the ruler and gave his head a little shake. "Sorry, still a little early for me." He took a sip of coffee, then continued, "The weapon, more of a dagger than a knife, is four inches long. The blade is round and pointed at the end, much like an ice pick. The handle is what really gave it away. The bruises were very intriguing, as you know."
Sugarman dug through his papers until he found an enlarged photograph of one of the wounds. He placed it on the top of his stack. "The small rectangle of the hilt, very unique. Then the two indentations found in the flesh of wounds when the bone didn't interfere with the plunge of the blade." He pointed to the red oblong bruises next to the punctures.
"Here and here. It wasn't until I examined the bone wounds. . ." His voice trailed off as he consulted his notes.
"Ah, yes. The punctures in hard tissue were four and five millimeters deep, indicating not only a tremendous force of thrust, but also some sort of mechanism that enabled the user to pull the point from the bone and strike again. I finally realized what we were dealing with."
"Sounds like some sort of custom-made job," Mace said.
"Yes, they were," Sugarman said. "For British commandos operating in North Africa and the Middle East during World War II. Three-finger thrust dagger. Here, I have a picture of
one."
Sugarman pushed aside more papers until he uncovered a book, which he opened. The page he had marked was a glossy color plate of all sprts of odd knives. In addition to the thrust dagger, there were thumb blades no bigger than picks, single-edged short swords with brass knuckle grips, even a thin knife that came concealed in specially constructed shoes.
"What is this stuff?" Mace asked. He folded the book closed and read the cover: The History of Espinage.
Mace showed Sugarman the Polaroids of the Tijuana victims.
"Yes," Sugarman said. "Quite possibly the same weapon used for the female."
"And the men?"
"Hmm. Single-edged blade. Very sharp. Can I examine the bodies?"
"'Fraid not. We'll just have to make do with the pictures."
Mace picked up the espionage book. "Can I use your copying machine?"
"Be my guest," Sugarman said.
After making copies of the picture of the murder weapon and its estimated dimensions, Mace returned to Parker Center. He found Cassiletti hanging up his phone.
'"That was the impound lot," Cassiletti said. "They've gone over the limo. Munch can pick it up anytime."
"What did they find?"
"Mud, fibers, assorted vegetation. They were able to lift prints from glasses and bottles, too."
"Any blood?"
"No."
"Great," Mace said, disgusted. "I don't suppose any unaccounted prints were lifted at Munch's house?"
"Not yet. But SID rolled on the Gower apartment early this morning. They sprayed Luminol in the living room and it was just like you thought. They found blood splatter on the hide-a-bed hinges and springs. There was also a faint trail in the back cushions and carpet underneath."
"We got the tox report on the victims."
"I saw that," Cassiletti said. "Looks like our killer drugged the women prior to the assault."
"Which explains how he controlled two victims at once," Mace said.
"Pretty cool customer to take the time to sanitize the bodies."
"You think he was just washing away evidence?" Mace asked.
"Well, yeah," Cassiletti said, not looking very certain at all.
"Then why tape the wounds shut? No, I think we're dealing with one sick pup here. He's intelligent, but mainly he's ruled by his compulsions. Compulsions so overwhelming that he risked being caught to carry out his ritual." Mace threw down the photographs from the Tijuana morgue. He pointed to the pictures of the dead men with the slit throats, and said, "Father, son." He then picked up the photograph of the young girl in the red wig. Holding it in front of Cassiletti's face, he said, "Daughter, sister."
"Same guy did them all?" Cassiletti asked.
'"They're connected," Mace said. "l don't think the men were the primary targets. They more likely just got caught in the kill zone."
"The lab did a fiber comparison on the pieces of tape you brought in from the Tijuana victim. They all match up with the tape we took off the Gower victims."
"And the tear marks?" Mace asked.
"Fit together like a jigsaw puzzle."
Mace tapped a pencil on the desk in nervous agitation. Victor Draicu had checked out of the Beverly Wilshire, and his current whereabouts were unknown. Mace had had copies of his photograph made and circulated to patrol officers at morning roll call with a "please advise" request if he was spotted. The APB on Ellen Summers was still in effect.
Mace hated the waiting par
t of an investigation the worst. Especially when he knew he had a serial situation—one that was obviously escalating. He threw down the pencil and picked up his phone.
"Who are you calling?" Cassiletti asked.
"Caroline." He dialed his father's old number. After the discovery of Asia's soiled and missing panties, his suggestion that the three females stay home had been met with no argument. Caroline had canceled her appointments. Munch had called her boss at the gas station, explained that she had a family emergency, and kept Asia home from school. Caroline answered on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi," he said. "It's me."
"How do you feel?"
"I'm all right."
"Did you get any sleep at all last night?"
"Enough," he said, rubbing his stiff neck. "I don't know how Digger spent so many years in that chair, though."
"Any news?" she asked.
"Nothing of much help." He picked up a pen and poised it over his legal pad. "Munch can pick up her limo. In fact, let me talk to her. I need to ask a few questions."
"She's not here. She went off to try to find her friend."
"What?" he almost shouted. "Why didn't you stop her?"
"How was l supposed to do that? Besides, she's doing what she needs to do. After what you told me last night, I think you're going to need all the help you can get."
Mace threw the pen down. "I don't want her out on the street. You were all supposed to stay put. I can't do my job if I have to worry about everybody."
"You can't do anything if you have to worry about everybody. For once in your life, have some faith."
Faith. Sometimes it was like they lived in separate universes. Could they ever find their way back to each other? He sucked in a large breath and blew it out. "All right, all right." He forced his voice to sound calm. "Tell her to call me as soon as you hear from her. It's very important we talk to Ellen, and I don't think we're the only ones looking for her. "
"Have you set up a task force?"
"There is no task force," he said.
"On a case this important?"
"Times are tough," he said. He took another deep breath and rolled his head side to side, feeling the stiff muscles, hearing his neck crack. "What's Asia doing?"
"We're making cookies," Caroline said. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "She wanted to know what your favorite kind was. I think I have some competition here."
"Not in a million years, babe," Mace said.
"I'll call you as soon as I hear from Munch," Caroline said. "I'm sure she'll be checking in."
* * *
l Munch drove through Venice noting the abundance of liquor stores. Every corner seemed to have a building with WINE AND SPIRITS painted on a stuccoed wall. She parked in a lot on Market Street that was a half block up from the boardwalk. Venice Beach had changed little from the time she used to hang out there. Tattooed gang members still walked their pit bulls. Even that crazy tall black guy on roller skates with the guitar was still there, singing Jimi Hendrix songs. He nodded to her and smiled as he rolled past.
She walked until she came to the semicircle of benches they called the pagoda because of the Japanese—style awning sheltering them. The pagoda was a favorite hangout of the local winos, who drank their spirits from brown paper bags. If , anyone knew who was around, it would be one of them. She looked for a familiar face.
"Thirteen cents," a red-faced man yelled at Munch. He held out his palm and pointed to the change already there.
"I'm just thirteen cents short," he said.
Munch lifted her arms out from her sides as she made an exaggerated shrug. "Sorry," she said. In good conscience, there was no way she could give them change, not for their poison of choice. Helping an addict/ alcoholic was a tricky business. The line was often very thin between helping and enabling.
"Willie around?" she asked.
"Who wants to know?" a large, surly black man asked. "He's a friend of a friend," she said.
"What friend is that?" the man asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
"White girl named Ellen," Munch said. "You seen her?"
"I ain't even seen you, " the man said, and turned his back on her.
Munch realized that the winos weren't going to be any help after all. She headed back up the boardwalk. Across from Small World Books, she spotted a skeletal woman sitting crosslegged on the grass. As Munch drew closer, she realized she knew this woman. It was Pat, looking thinner but much the same as she had when Munch last saw her. Pat had been a junkie so long that there was no telling her real age. One thing about smack, it retarded the aging process. It was rare to find a using junkie with wrinkles or all their teeth for that matter. Personal hygiene tended to fall by the wayside. Munch was glad to see that Pat had hers in today
Pat had a blanket spread out before her. On it she had a ragtag assortment of costume jewelry, kitchenware, and used paperbacks. Munch kicked a string of wooden beads with her toe. "How much?" she asked.
Pat looked up, her eyes quick and calculating. Munch realized Pat hadn't recognized her. The woman was too busy sizing up a potential mark, taking in Munch's clothes, posture, age, anything that would give her a clue how much to charge for her collection of knickknacked goods.
Munch crouched down so that they were eye level. "Hello, Pat."
Pat regarded her suspiciously, and Munch knew her dope-addled mind was flooded with a new set of decisions. The first being if she would acknowledge her own name. Then something clicked in her tired eyes.
"Munch?"
"What's up?" Munch asked.
"Nothing," Pat said.
Now she's trying to remember how happy she should be to see me, Munch thought. She's asking herself if she ripped me off the last time we met or if maybe I owe her.
"Yeah, I see," Munch said, looking at the junk on the blanket. "Nothing's changed at all."
"Where you been? " Pat asked.
Munch spread out her grease-stained fingers. "I've got a job working on cars. I put down. I haven't used in seven years."
"You on methadone? I never see you at the clinic."
"No, I don't do that shit. I don't do anything."
Pat regarded her with fresh suspicion. "What brings you here?"
"I'm trying to find Ellen."
"Who's El1en?" Pat asked.
"You know, Crazy Ellen. Wears those wigs all the time? Southern accent?"
"Big tits?"
Munch smiled. She hadn't thought to mention those. "Yeah, that's her."
"Why you looking for her? She rip you off or something?"
"She's in danger." Munch studied the gaunt face across from her. "Are you hungry?"
"What?"
"Can I buy you something to eat?"
"If you got a buck or two to spare," Pat said, scratching her arm. "Maybe I could buy some groceries later, you know."
"That's not the offer," Munch said.
"I can't leave my stuff," Pat said.
"I'll bring it to you." Munch walked across the boardwalk to the pizza stand and bought Pat a slice of pepperoni pizza and a Coke.
"So this danger Ellen's in—how bad is it?" Pat asked, biting into the pizza.
"Pretty serious."
"You might want to check with Farmer."
"He still on Brooks? "
"Yeah, he's still there."
Munch started to leave, but then stopped. She crouched, once more so that their faces were level. "You know, it doesn't have to be like this. There's another way to go."
"Which way is that?"
"I can get you a bed at the detox in West L.A. We can hit some meetings together."
"And then what?" Pat asked. "I get clean. I get a job. I walk around in panty hose, working myself to death for minimum fucking wage. Then I die. What's the difference? At least this way I get high every once in a while."
Munch stood. "As long as you're still having fun."
"Munch?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank
s for the pizza."
"Sure." Munch walked back to her car and paid the ransom to get it back. It only took five minutes to reach Farmer's place. She parked in an adjacent lot, then walked back to pound on his door. She tried to turn the knob but found it locked. Yelling his name also brought no response. She was about to give up when, from around the corner of the building, she heard the familiar roar of a Harley with straight pipes.
Farmer appeared seconds later and pulled up on the sidewalk astride his ratty Panhead. She waited as he put down his kickstand. While the motorcycle idled uncertainly, Farmer swung his leg over the Fat Bob tanks and took two steps to his door.
'°You want something?" he asked as he unlocked his door and swung it open. The naked fingers protruding from his cut-off gloves were almost as dark as the leather.
"Hey, Farmer," she said.
He raised his cheap black sunglasses and blinked once.
"Munch?"
"Yeah. Long time."
He returned to his bike, remounted it, and kicked it into gear. Before he let out the clutch, he asked, "You looking for Ellen?"
Her pulse quickened. "Yeah. I sure am. You know where she is?"
He revved the throttle a few times, causing a loud backfire. When the bike returned to idle he looked at her, and said, "Nope." With that he let out the clutch and drove into hisdark apartment.
She stood in his doorway and waited for him to shut the bike off. "But you saw her?"
"Not since yesterday. "
"Any idea where she went?"
"To find a phone. You want to shut the door?" he said.
Wouldn't want to let in any fresh air, she thought. 'Was she all right?" Munch asked.
Farmer slicked back his hair with one hand and hunched his shoulders. "I don't know. She was crying about something."
"Think she's coming back?"
"Fuck, I don't know. Maybe."
"If you see her again, would you tell her that I came by?
There's some serious shit going down. Tell her that guy is looking for her. He already came to my house once."
"So you're saying she should split town?"
"I'd like to talk to her first. Tell her to leave word at my work. I'll keep checking."
CHAPTER 21
"Captain Earl called, " Cassiletti told Mace.
"Now what?" Mace asked, hanging his sports coat on the back of his chair. "Oh, shit, I promised him my report."
Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Page 17