Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "I want the normal things."

  "Meaning what?" she asked. "Normal is such a relative term."

  He answered with one of those odd chipmunk-sounding noises that she interpreted as laughter. Encouraged, she pressed on. "Can I ask you one thing? Why Robin?"

  "She's the one. We have a connection. Her and I. I felt it the first time we met. I know her and I got off to a rocky start."

  "That's what you call it?" she asked, unable to contain her incredulity "If you truly cared for her, you'd leave her alone now. She doesn't want to see you anymore. You left scars on her body. She's completely traumatized. How can you call that love?"

  "Why are you putting yourself in the middle of this?" he asked, his volume rising. "It's not as if you wanted me."

  "I didn't?" she asked. Her stomach turned queasy There was also a ringing in her ears. For a long moment all she could do was watch the tape recorder spools turn. "What makes you say that?" she finally asked.

  "I know. "

  I know. The words, even in their strange distorted form, echoed with certainty. She believed him. "Diane didn't want you either, did she?"

  "If you're going to play games," he said, "I'll hang up."

  "You're the one playing all the games. A real man would use his own voice."

  "You think you know what real men want? You think you're some kind of expert?"

  "No, but I would like to understand what you're getting out of this. Maybe if we figured it out together—"

  "It's not just about getting my dick wet. Maybe someone like you can't understand beyond that."

  "I understand about doing things I can't help. I understand feeling bad afterward and wishing I could change. Is that what you're hoping for?" She paused. They said to develop intimacy, to learn whatever details she could. A name seemed like as good a place as any to start. "What should I call you?"

  "Daddy" he said. "Every little girl needs a daddy."

  She felt an overwhelming wave of revulsion. As if his breath were in her ear and he would reach over any second and touch her. His words ripped loose the scabs on her memories, and all the maggots wiggling beneath the surface were exposed. She hung up, needing to sever the connection with this sick intruder. Then she regretted her action, knowing she had given away too much. You should never let an adversary know when they'd scored. It just made them come back and hit that found weakness with all they had.

  Asshole, she thought, staring at the phone. She pushed the stop button on the tape recorder with more force than was necessary. She had to admit the anger she was left with felt much better than the guilt she'd been grappling with just moments before. Anger felt powerful, made you want to get up and do something. Not just lie in the dark and feel bad. Ruby always said anger was a secondary emotion, that people used it to block out deeper unpleasant feelings. Like betrayal? Munch would like to ask her now. Because being sold out really sucked.

  She picked up the phone again and called St. John. He answered on the first ring.

  "It's me," she said. "He just called." She filled him in on the gist of the conversation and how she had ended the call. "I blew it, right?"

  "Why do you think that?"

  "I hung up on him."

  "No, I think your instincts were right. He was testing you."

  "So if I hadn't gotten angry at him, he would have known I was just stringing him along?"

  "Exactly. I'm going to have a policewoman answering the phone and staying at your house from now on. This has gotten too heavy. "

  "That'll never work. He knows me. He'll know if it isn't me."

  "You want me to come over?" he asked, sounding fully awake now.

  "No, I'm all right," she lied. "But until this thing is resolved I'd like Asia to come stay with you guys."

  "Sure," he said. "We'd love to have the little rugrat."

  "Is Caroline awake?"

  "Yeah, you want to talk to her?"

  "Please." She waited while the phone was passed. She could hear muffled hushed whispering and then Caroline came on the line.

  "Hey kiddo."

  "Hi, sorry to wake you."

  "No problem. You sure you want to be involved with this creep?"

  "I want to catch him. I'm sure of that."

  "Don't worry about Asia," Caroline said. "I'd love to play mom for the weekend"

  "She's got a ballet class on Saturday and softball on Sunday. If it's a hassle she could take a weekend off—"

  "Don't be silly. Just write me out directions and I'll get her where she needs to go. It'll be fun. Really."

  "She loves an audience."

  "She'll have one. Do you want me to pick her up at school tomorrow?"

  "Thanks. I'll tell them to expect you."

  "All right, honey. Try not to worry and be careful. Do you want to talk to Mace again?"

  "Sure."

  St. John came back on the line. "I'll stop by in the morning."

  "Sorry to wake you," she said.

  "No problem."

  She hung up feeling a curious mix of emotions: relief for Asia's sake; anger at this intruder in her life; the melancholy of looking in the window of another's life and wishing it was your own. The last was that old demon jealousy raising his ugly head. Then she had one more thought that chilled her blood. She realized that Robin's "secret admirer," and very probably Diane's murderer, was at that very moment feeling much the same things.

  * * *

  Mace St. John watched his wife hang up the phone. She had to stretch to reach the nightstand. He appreciated the way her satin nightgown twisted at her middle and accentuated her waist. He ran a hand up her leg, stopping at her thigh.

  "What's on your mind?" she asked.

  "Have I told you lately how much I love you?" he asked.

  She rolled on her back. Her blond hair spread out on the pillow as she pretended to contemplate his question. "I don't think you have."

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I love you," he said. Then he pushed back the covers and swung his legs out. "I'm going to get up for a while."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Stomach's a little sour." He stood, smiled down at her. "You go back to sleep. I'll be to bed in a while."

  She smiled at him, blew him a kiss, and then burrowed back into the covers. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a 7UP. A cold sweat beaded his forehead. He wiped it away and then stared at his hand for a moment. He knew he shouldn't let himself get so upset. Maybe that old adage applied here, that you shouldn't mix business with friendship. Your judgment clouds.

  He walked through the house, enjoying the quiet. He chased the soda with half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Had to be the guacamole, he decided. He made a note to himself to tell Caroline not to fix it anymore. Not if this was the price he paid.

  THURSDAY

  The next morning Munch packed a small suitcase with Asia's clothes. Asia only needed one more clean school uniform to see her through the week. Munch also packed the little girl's tights, leotard, ballet shoes, softball uniform, and wedding scrapbook. "Where are we going?" Asia asked.

  Munch put on a bright smile. "You've been invited to spend the weekend with your godparents starting tonight."

  Asia's shoulders slumped. "Ahh, do I have to?"

  "You can show them all your new ballet moves. I know they'd love to see them." Asia needed very little encouragement to perform for a live audience. She still spoke wistfully of the curtain call and standing ovation the cast of Pinocchio had received last summer.

  "I can sing for them, too," she said, warming to the idea.

  "Yep, you do that. But right now I need you to get ready as quickly as you can." While Asia dressed, Munch changed the cassette in the tape recorder Agent Hogan had given her, taking the time to make herself a copy of the tape she would be handing over to the authorities. Her hands shook as she boxed and labeled the used tape containing her early morning call. She was running late, which was making her rush. She spilled her coffee, put
too much milk on Asia's cereal, and when she looked down she saw she had misbuttoned her shirt.

  Oh great, she thought. This is going to be a wonderful day for working with heavy machinery. She didn't even get the time to look at the morning paper and read the three things she never missed: her horoscope, the comics, and the obituaries.

  * * *

  She called Robin as soon as she got Asia off to school. The answering machine picked up, but instead of a personally recorded message, there was only a beep.

  "Robin," Munch said. "It's me. Give me a call at work."

  At nine o'clock she called again, then once more ten minutes later. She hung up when she saw St. John pulling into the station. She met him at his car, before he had a chance to get out. "We've got a problem."

  "What?" he asked.

  "Robin isn't returning my calls. I think we better get over there and see if she's all right."

  Stefano walked past them on the way to the bathroom.

  "Stefano," she said. "I'm taking a test drive. Be back in ten minutes."

  "Okay" Stefano said, his tone peevish as if taking this information were some burden on him.

  She stared at him a long moment, wondering if he didn't have another reason for his irritability But Stefano just kept on walking in that way of his, as if he was very aware of his ass. They took St. John's Buick to Robin's. The gate guard recognized them this time and waved them through without a hassle. Robin's Toyota was gone.

  "Maybe she went shopping or something," St. John said.

  They walked up to the front door and tried to look in the windows, but the curtains were drawn. Munch shaded her eyes with her hand and peered through a small gap between the drapes. The house was dark and seemed empty. St. John rang the doorbell. There was no response from inside.

  He knocked on the front door. Three sharp authoritative raps that just screamed "cop."

  "Do they train you guys how to do that?" Munch asked.

  "Yeah, the same week we learn how to swagger. "

  She laughed, but then quickly grew serious when she spotted the transom window over the front door. "Give me a boost," she said.

  He laced his fingers together. She kicked off her greasy shoes and stepped into his hands. He lifted her until her fingers could grasp the sill of the transom. It was slippery with dust.

  "See anything?" he asked.

  "No." She noticed that there were no trash bags stacked on the kitchen floor, waiting for some Samaritan to remove them. Maybe Robin had ventured out into the world again. St. John lowered her. Was it her imagination or did he hold on to her a second longer than was necessary? She searched his face for the hint of a blush, a nervousness in his eyes, but no, his expression, if anything, was impatient. She sat at his feet and reached for her shoes.

  "Let's leave a note," she said, tying her laces. "You got a piece of paper?"

  He handed her his notebook. While she looked for a clean sheet, he checked his watch. A notation in his handwriting caught her eye. "L.S. says photos of D.B. at bank. First Federal on San Vicente."

  "Who's L.S.?" she asked, showing him the page. "D.B. is dead body, right?"

  He reached for his notebook irritably.

  "No, wait," she said, relinquishing it without a struggle. "D.B. is Diane Bergman, right? Just nod if I'm right."

  He ripped out a blank piece of paper without giving her an answer. She wrote a brief note and wedged it in the crack of the door. She twisted the knob, but the door was locked.

  "Is L.S. Logan Sarnoff? The attorney guy you went to see yesterday?"

  "She probably took my advice and went to stay with relatives," he said, completely ignoring her question.

  "Without telling us?"

  He made an open-palmed shrug and they walked back to his car. On the way out, St. John stopped at the gate. The gate guard I stepped out of his kiosk to see what they wanted.

  "Did you happen to notice Robin Davies leave today?" St. John asked.

  Munch leaned across the front seat. "Gold Toyota Celica?"

  The guard stared off to the right for a moment and then shook his head. "But she might have gone out the Montana exit."

  "There's another exit?" Munch asked.

  "Sure." The guard pointed down a street to their left.

  "Thanks," St. John said.

  "Are you feeling all right?" Munch asked, noticing his pallor.

  St. John put a palm to his forehead. "I must have a bug or something."

  "Don't breathe on me," she said. "I can't afford to get sick."

  "Me neither. "

  When they arrived at the alternate gate, they found that it operated automatically—opening as soon as their car passed through unseen sensors. One-way spikes stretched across the exit driveway accompanied by signs warning of severe tire damage. What made the scene laughable was the entrance gate to the right. Not only was it open, but judging from the bougainvillea stems twined through its bars, it had been in the open position for weeks, possibly months.

  "So much for high security," Munch said.

  "It was always an illusion anyway;" St. John answered.

  Chapter 15

  St. John dropped Munch back at the gas station and pondered his next move. Robin's disappearance worried him more than he wanted Munch to know. He also knew that pursuing leads in the matter was going to require diplomacy. If he called the department liaison at the phone company and asked them to check the lines going to Robin Davies's apartment, he would have to make a report of his request. On that report he was also obliged to list a case number. Since Robin Davies was not his official case, he was left with few options.

  He headed back to headquarters. On his way he stuck one of the cassette tapes of Munch's calls into his tape deck. Replaying the tape only reinforced his agitation. This was one sick fuck they had on their hands. He opened his glove box and pulled out the large jar of antacid tablets. Three-quarters gone. He'd purchased the bottle only two weeks ago.

  He parked in the police lot and entered through the side door, climbing the stairs to the detective squad room. He didn't go directly to his desk. Instead he stopped at the cluster of desks that comprised the Major Assault Crimes unit, or MAC as it was called.

  Pete Owen was sitting in a cloud of cigarette smoke, talking on the phone. Owen was a gaunt, pale man with thinning brown hair. Sunken everything: eyes, chest, shoulders. He looked up at St. John, then made a quick, furtive gesture for St. John to take a seat. Owen's eyes darted from St. John to a pad on his desk. "Let me get back to you on that," he said into the phone, pulling a report file over to cover his notepad. He concluded his telephone conversation with "Tomorrow, before five. Sure thing." He hung up, covered his face with both hands, and exhaled noisily. "Man," he said, letting his hands drop, "everybody's in a big hurry. What can I do for you?"

  "Robin Davies," St. John said.

  "What about her?"

  "Rape case. Early last month."

  Owen started to nod and sift through the midden of paperwork on his desk, exposing the notepad. Three questions were scrawled across it: Medical insurance? Vacation time? 4o1k plans? Owen flipped the pad over.

  "Looking for work?" St. John asked.

  "I've got something lined up," Owen admitted. "But I'm keeping my options open. You know Charlie Long out of South Central?"

  "Oh, sure. Retired two years ago."

  "He was all set up to take over security at this lodge up in Big Bear. He and the wife sold everything, bought a cabin. Charlie was going to spend his golden years hunting and fishing."

  "Sounds like Charlie."

  "Then his wife gets allergies. Can you beat that shit? She can't take it up there. So what happens to Charlie? He's got to move to the desert. Now he's counting golf carts at some la-la-land golf community in Palm Springs. Hates it. Just hates it. Says Frank Sinatra is an asshole."

  "So this Robin Davies."

  "The one in Brentwood? Calls herself a model? You know her?"

  "Friend of a friend.
Anyhow, she's gone missing."

  "Since when?"

  "This morning. She tell you she was going out of town?"

  "No. You think there's a reason to worry?"

  "You know she's been getting harassing phone calls?"

  Owen's face grew cautious. "Yeah. I took the report. We trapped her line but couldn't trace the call."

  "So she said. The caller was using a mobile phone."

  "Sounds like your interest is more than casual."

  "Several months ago another woman was raped and dumped on the freeway Rampart handled the case. Vic's name was Veronica Parker. Her rapist also shocked her into compliance and then later provided her with a nightgown."

  As St. John talked, Owen had located the case file for Robin Davies and opened it. He looked up now and said, "Yeah, I know about that one. Sounded to me more like a case of a whore getting beat out of her fare."

  "According to the Rampart dicks, the suspect used an electrolarynx. Whether he's missing his vocal cords or just uses it to disguise his voice, I don't know. You might want to check into that."

  "Yeah, just might," Owen said, but he made no move to make a note to himself.

  "There's also a possibility that your UNSUB," he said, using cop speak for unknown subject, "might also be responsible for a homicide I'm investigating. White female named Diane Bergman. Her body was recovered Monday morning—"

  "Diane Bergman as in widow of Sam Bergman?" Owen interrupted.

  "You know her?"

  "Yeah, she's on the board of the Bergman Cancer Center out at UCLA. That's where I applied for a job as head of security. Shit."

  He sank a little farther into his chair, ran bony fingers through his thin hair.

  Obviously St. John realized, Owen didn't bother reading twenty-four-hour crime reports or the newspaper, or this homicide wouldn't be such a surprise. "When's the last time you saw her?" he asked.

  "Last Friday I handled security at this party they gave in the Palisades. Big estate. Lots of people roaming around. We kept an eye on things, made sure no one went in any of the bedrooms, or nicked any pricey little doodads."