"Any problems at the party?"
"Nah, none to speak of. When was she killed?"
"Sunday evening sometime. I have a witness who saw her arguing with a middle-aged white male at the party on Friday night. You know who that could have been?"
Owen threw his hands in the air. "That describes most of the men there. Man," he said, pushing back in his chair and throwing his pen on the desk. "I think she liked me for the position, too. You know who's taking over her duties on the board?"
"No. Was she seeing anyone?"
"Not that I know of. She had the look though."
"What look is that?"
"You know, on the hunt. Giving guys the slow up-and-down. Like she's sizing you up for a cock ring."
"She come on to you?" St. John asked.
"Nah, I'd be way out of her league. What about her lawyer?"
"Sarnoff? What about him?"
"I should give him a call. I bet he's running things now. He was at the party too."
"So I understand."
"Yeah, it was a real who's who, if you know what I mean. All the high and mighty of the West Side. Makes them feel good about themselves, all this charity shit. You gotta notice that they give the most time and money to diseases they have a chance of catching."
St. John nodded.
"And they can't get enough gory details," Owen went on. "Love to ask questions about the job, you know. What it's like to see dead bodies, all that shit."
"What are your thoughts on the guy calling Robin Davies?" St. John asked.
"Robin . . . ?" Owen started his sentence as a question and then stopped himself. But not before St. John caught the fact that he had already put her out of his mind even though her file was still open at his fingertips. "What more can we do? I told you the guy calling her couldn't be traced. In fact . . ." He looked down quickly at his notes. "Yeah, here it is. I told her to change her number and leave it unlisted."
"That didn't make a difference. He got her new number right away. I need you to call the phone company and check her line for other taps."
"I can do that." Owen said, closing the file.
"I'll wait." St. John told him, sitting back in his chair.
Owen gave an annoyed chuckle but picked up his phone. He was still shaking his head derisively when he asked St. John,
"How good a friend is this friend of yours?"
Now it was St. John's turn to feel defensive. Owen couldn't know how close to the bone he'd struck with such a casual question. How good a friend was Munch? Sure he felt a bond with her. She'd saved his life. Literally. You don't ever feel casually about someone after that. But she was a kid. Well, maybe not so much anymore. The waif he'd first met had transformed herself in the last seven years. He was not immune to the softness that had emerged in her, the femininity that colored her moves, whether under a car or delivering a batch of cookies she'd made him for his birthday. Another curious development in her personality was her recovered innocence. Or, perhaps, innocence never lost despite all she had lived through. She shed her unholy childhood like the husk of a cocoon, not using it as an excuse. No, she was much too involved in living now. He loved that about her, how enthralled she was in everything he told her. It played to his ego, her appreciation of his ingenuity in adapting equipment on the Bella Donna. The way her large hazel eyes absorbed his every word when he spoke. This was a new age. Men and women could be friends. Hell, Munch knew he was happily married. Wasn't she the first one always to ask about Caroline?
Owen looked up from his phone call, hearing St. John let out a small groan. How could he be so blind to all the signals that had been passing between them?
"What?" Owen asked, hanging up.
"Nothing," St. John said. "I'm just an idiot sometimes."
"Yeah, me too," Owen said. "Just ask my wife."
"What did they say?" St. John asked, nodding toward the phone.
"They'll check the junction box for tampering and get back to me. You want to wait?"
"Nah, I've got to run over to the Federal Building and drop off some tapes. You might want to come. I've been working with Emily Hogan in sex crimes over there. She's building a database on sex offenders."
Owen looked at his telephone. "Maybe another time."
"Yeah, sure."
"Oh, hey" Owen said, opening the bottom drawer of his desk from which he retrieved a Penthouse magazine. "I bet no one mentioned this." He turned to a dog-eared page. St. John looked down at the spread featuring Robin Davies.
"What issue is this?" he asked.
"August," Owen said. "This year. Not quite the innocent little girl next door, eh?"
St. John didn't dignify the comment with an answer.
* * *
Robin woke disoriented. At first she thought she was home, then she remembered. A stab of adrenaline-charged fear brought her fully awake. The strap around her ankle prevented her from turning over. She sat up. Next to the bed was a vase of fresh roses. Their scent permeated the damp, dark room. Candles flickered on a table against the wall. Gradually other forms around her took shape. She wasn't alone.
"Morning, Sunshine," he said. He was sitting in a straight-back chair at the foot of the bed.
"What do you want?" she tried to ask, but her voice came out in a barely audible croak.
"Thirsty?" he asked.
She nodded, watching his every move, knowing she was completely at his mercy. The tops of her eyelids seemed to be pushing into her brows. Her eyeballs felt overly large and distended, bulging like some cartoon character's when they pop out looking at something fearsome. He handed her a cup of coffee. She took a sip. It was warm and sweet. Coffee had never tasted so good. The next thing she felt was an inexplicable surge of gratitude to be alive, to be feeling anything.
"Thanks," she managed, offering him a tentative smile.
* * *
Emily Hogan was at lunch when St. John stopped by her office. He left the tapes on her desk with a brief note and then returned to headquarters. Not surprisingly, Pete Owen had nothing new to report. St. John popped his head in the office of the Special Investigation Team lieutenant, Joe Graziano, and briefed him on what he was up to. By one o'clock he had his approved warrant to search Sam Bergman's safety deposit box.
The bank manager at First Federal helped St. John personally. He was a tall black man with short cropped hair showing signs of silver. He introduced himself as Felix Tornay.
"We'll all miss Diane," he said as he ushered the detective into the safety deposit vault.
"Did you work with her?" St. John asked.
"Yes. We still saw her at least once a month." Tornay removed two keys from his pocket. "What's the number again?"
"Three twenty-eight."
Both men scanned the walls until they located the box. Tornay slid the keys into their slots and turned.
"When was the last time she was in?" St. John asked. Tornay paused, looking up to his left. "Early last week. She made a deposit, I believe. I can check our records if you need the exact day" He lifted out the box and set it on the freestanding table in the center of the room.
St. John slipped on a pair of latex gloves and raised the lid. There were several thick documents in the box. Vehicle titles, a deed to the home on Chenault, and an unsealed white envelope. St. John saw the rectangular bulge of the photographs. The warrant was written for seizure of the entire contents, but he knew the bank manager would want a written inventory.
"Ready?" St. John asked.
Felix Tornay poised his pen over his pad. "Go ahead."
"One ownership certificate to a 1982 Honda Prelude." He dropped the document into the brown paper shopping bag he'd brought. "Title to the house on Chenault."
Tornay wrote without looking up.
St. John lifted the thick white envelope, parting the opening for a quick peek inside. Diane Bergman, in a full-frontal naked exposure, pouted seductively at him, each hand cupping a full white breast. "White envelope full of Polaroid photograp
hs," he said as nonchalantly as possible.
Tornay stopped writing and looked up. St. John grabbed another document and continued. "Ownership certificate for a 1980 Mercedes." It took another few minutes to empty the box. St. John thanked the bank manager and left.
Don't ever get murdered, he wanted to tell the guy. We find out everything about you.
* * *
Munch had problems concentrating. She chalked it up to more than just lack of sleep. Last night's caller knew she was sober, knew she had been an addict, knew she was dating a man named Garret. And, if she could trust what he said, she had spurned his advances. By ten-thirty she knew she needed more caffeine if she hoped to last until five. Ducking her head into Lou's office, she asked, "Want a cup?"
He lifted the half-full mug on his desk and sniffed it. "Yeah, sure."
He started to reach in his pocket for money but she said, "I'll get it."
Crossing the lube bays, she studied her coworkers. Carlos was on the phone with his back to the driveways, head tilted and shoulders hunched. No doubt speaking to his wife of two months. She was already pregnant, Munch knew. No way this head-case rapist could be Carlos, her buddy. They'd been together for years. She helped him all the time. He helped her, too. Though in her case it was usually helping him diagnose a problem, and the help he returned was more along the lines of lifting or pushing.
Since her promotion, the dynamics of their relationship had changed. She now had authority over him, but that wasn't the whole story She took her position as service manager seriously. Owning her own limo business had raised her consciousness as to the concerns of management: rent, price increases, taxes, credit card chargebacks, and customer complaints. Unless the shop was making a profit, there would be no jobs. She knew she was right when she chewed Carlos out for being late or Stefano for not repairing a car correctly and then trying to bullshit his way out of it. She was also conscious of their unhappy looks. Especially Carlos's unspoken accusation that she had changed—as if she had somehow betrayed him.
She stopped by where Stefano was standing. He was spraying his tool box with WD-4o, rubbing the fragrant lubricant across the red paint with a shop rag until it gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights. The freestanding tool chest was a monstrous thing, the most expensive model Snap-on tools made, and that was saying a lot. She wondered now if perhaps his obsession with his tools wasn't some symptom of inadequacy or overcompensation on Stefano's part. She would have to check with Emily Hogan on how well he fit the rapist's profile.
Certainly calling him a loner wasn't too much of a stretch. He always ate his lunch out, and never offered any explanation of where he went when he fired up his noisy little Alfa Romeo midday.
He stopped spraying and looked down at her. "Yes?"
"I'm making a run to the bakery. You want anything?"
An arrogant little smile played across his mouth. He lifted both eyebrows and stuck out his chest. "Well . . ."
Oh God, she thought, you give these guys one little opening and they think you want to get between the sheets with them. "C'mon," she said impatiently.
"Tea," he told her. "Black."
"You would have to be different," she said, then smiled to soften the words.
He smiled back. Even that was slimy.
She was almost down the driveway when she saw Pauley coming to work in his van full of detailing supplies. How much did she really know about him? Or the mailman, for that matter, if she was going to start looking at everyone. Talk about paranoia. This could get crazy quick.
She was still laughing at herself when she cut across the rows of metered parking to reach the bakery. D.W.'s van was parked in front. She stepped into the bakery and saw him standing at the counter. Shoelaces dangling, counting out his money. The cashier was putting two cups of coffee in a white bag already bulging with muffins. He finished his transaction and turned.
"Morning," she said.
"Oh, hi," he answered. His ears colored a little and he looked down at the bag in his hand.
"On your way to work?" she asked, wondering at his discomfort. Then she put it all together. "Two cups, huh?"
He smiled sheepishly.
She felt a funny twinge of something almost like jealousy. "I wondered what happened to you this morning," she said with a knowing smile at his double order. What on earth did she feel jealous about? The spiritually correct emotion would be happiness for him. She neither expected nor wanted him to wait for her. He was free to pursue somebody else, somebody more receptive to his charms. She shook her head. Funny how vanity and accompanying delusions sneak up on a person.
"Yeah, well," he said, pawing the linoleum with his big work boots and not meeting her eye.
Had she made him feel guilty? As if he were cheating on her? She reached over and grasped his arm. His muscles were solid under the flannel of his work shirt. "Have a good day," she said. "I mean it."
"You, too." He walked past her.
"Oh, by the way," she said. "Have you heard from Robin?"
He stopped and turned. "I won't see her again till Tuesday Why?"
"She's not answering or returning my calls."
"Well, she can be funny that way. "
"I stopped by but she didn't seem to be home."
"Maybe she left town," he said.
"Could be. Her car was gone. Wouldn't she have notified the Meals-On-Wheels peop1e?"
"I'm sure she would have," he said. "I'll call the office and check if you like."
"Yeah, I would. Let me know as soon as possible, okay? I'm worried."
"Well, uh, I gotta get going now. " He lifted the bag of coffee by way of reminding her that she wasn't the only woman in the world.
"Talk to you later," she said.
She put in her order for the coffees and tea. The smell of brewing coffee made her think of A.A. meetings and her sponsor, Ruby. She hadn't called her in weeks. She missed the sound of Ruby's soft Ozark accent. That voice had helped her through many a rough time. Now she had to ask herself, Had someone else in Ruby's household been listening in to those calls?
Chapter 16
St. John arrived at Century Entertainment in the early afternoon. The club where Joey Polk and rape victim Veronica Parker aka "Ginger Root" worked was close to the San Diego Freeway highly visible to the traffic going to LAX. LIVE GIRLS, the sign above the windowless building proclaimed. ALL NUDE. Then to stress the point, xxx. And finally the redundant, but grammatically correct, NUDE NUDES.
In the fifties the club had been a bowling alley with a little coffee shop in front. The walls were still painted in alternating wedges of green and pink. The coffee shop had been supplanted with a retail outlet that sold all manner of sex supplies for the discriminating adult.
He had to circle the block several times before entering the entertainment complex off Century Boulevard. When it had been Century Bowl, there was access to the grounds from the side streets. But now all those other entryways were barricaded and the long driveway running alongside the main building was mined with steep speed bumps.
He parked his Buick in a space in front reserved for customers in search of X-rated videos or a battery-operated dildo for that special someone. A group of businessmen jostled toward the entrance. One of the guys whipped out a credit card.
St. John followed, paid the cover charge, and walked through the curtained entrance. The place was dark and loud. Up on the stage a naked woman lay on her side, facing a customer in the front row. She raised her leg and gave the guy a full shot. St. John averted his gaze, embarrassed for them both. He thought of his wife, how much she would hate a place like this. And, hey he didn't exactly approve either. But as he often explained to Caroline, he had to go where the job took him. Crimes committed in hell were not witnessed by angels in heaven.
An Asian girl in a bikini stopped at his table. "Can I get you a drink?" she asked, all smiles, small tits, great ass.
He reached for his wallet. "Bring me a Coke." The place was beginning to
fill up. Men on their lunch breaks, he imagined. He feigned interest in the floor show while keeping an eye out for Joey Polk.
His drink arrived several minutes later followed by a voluptuous, tall redhead dressed in a leopard-print sarong.
"Six dollars," the waitress said and waited.
He pulled out a ten. "Give me a receipt, will you?"
The redhead put a hand on his shoulder and leaned over so that most of her tits showed. "Looking for some company honey?"
"Is Ginger working today?" he asked, using Veronica Parker's stage name. The waitress returned with his change and a wet register receipt. He gave her a dollar tip.
"No, honey but I can fix you up," the redhead said. "My name's Sunny. Sunny Delight. What's yours?"
"Mace."
"What's your pleasure, Mace?"
"Think we could go somewhere a little more private?"
"Sure thing," she said. "Individual private dances are fifty dollars. We do accept American Express, Visa, and MasterCard."
He unfolded his badge holder and gave her a quick peek. "I just want to ask you a few questions. Won't take long."
She sighed and called over her shoulder, "Lenny."
A large, no-neck bald guy approached. He was wearing a navy blue T-shirt with the word SECURITY written in white block letters across the back.
"Cop," she said.
Lenny stuck his chest out belligerently. St. John took his measure. Fat, muscle-bound morons didn't impress him. They were slow and clumsy He pretended respect anyway. "I don't want trouble. Just a little information."
Lenny's face was blank of all expression. His posture—legs slightly spread, hands crossed and covering his groin—showed his San Quentin breeding. That and the predominantly blue, homegrown jail tattoos adorning his muscular arms. "What can we do for you, Officer?"
"I'm following up on an assault report. The victim's name is Veronica Parker. You might know her as Ginger."
A flicker of recognition crossed Lenny's eyes. "She stopped working here after what happened. I don't know where she went. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help to you."
Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella Page 13