Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  St. John seriously doubted the sincerity of Lenny's remorse. He gave them both business cards. "Call me if you hear from her. She's not in trouble. I'm trying to catch the guy who raped her. "

  Sunny let her hand trail provocatively across St. John's chest. "Sorry you couldn't stay and enjoy the show. "

  "Yeah," Lenny echoed. "Real sorry. " His tone made it clear that as far as St. John was concerned, the show was over. The detective stood and started to walk toward the entrance.

  "You gotta exit through the bookstore," Lenny said, pointing toward the shop of sex supplies.

  "Bookstore?" St. John realized this was a marketing ploy.

  Obviously Century Entertainment had taken a lesson from Disneyland, herding everyone getting off the rides through the souvenir stand. He pushed through the one-way door of the attached shop, past mannequins with spike-studded leather bustiers and the rack of porn magazines. He stopped and bought a copy of each of the latest issues. The cashier was surprised and a little offended when St. John insisted on a receipt.

  D.W. called Munch at a couple minutes past three. "Robin's fine," he said.

  "Did you talk to her?" Munch asked.

  "She left a message at the hospital that she was going away for the week"

  "The hospital?"

  "Yeah, she talked to some volunteer with the Meals-On-Wheels program."

  "I wish she had called me," she said.

  "She probably will."

  That afternoon business picked up. It more than picked up. It flooded in. Sometimes Munch wondered if all those customers waited huddled behind some starting line and at a prearranged signal all agreed to come in at once.

  She didn't even get a chance to use the bathroom until just before she left. The wad of toilet paper she had jammed into the hole above the dispenser was on the floor. Whether it had fallen out or been pushed from the other side, she didn't know. She picked it up and stuffed it back in. Whatever was going on here would have to wait until tomorrow. She washed up and then went into Lou's office to use the phone.

  "Who you calling?" Lou asked.

  "The school."

  "St. Teresa's," a woman's voice answered.

  "Mrs. Frowein?"

  "Yes, this is she."

  "This is Munch Mancini. Do you know if Asia was picked up yet?"

  "Yes. I waited with her myself. I even made Mrs. St. John show me her driver's license."

  Munch smiled. "Thank you."

  "My goodness, dear, it was the least I could do."

  * * *

  The house was quiet when Munch got home. She turned on the television and took a long bath. The phone rang at six-thirty. She switched on the tape recorder and then lifted the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi." Asia's high voice was breathless.

  "Are you having fun?" Munch asked.

  "Caroline and me are making cookies," Asia said.

  "Caroline and I," Caroline said in the background.

  "Caroline and I," Asia dutifully repeated. "And I saw a rabbit at school today. "

  "What kind of cookies?"

  "Chocolate chip."

  "Are any of them making it into the oven?"

  "Yesss," Asia said in that long-suffering tone of hers.

  "I miss you."

  Munch heard the phone drop and Asia saying, "Sit. Sit. Good girl."

  Caroline's voice came on the line then. "Sorry about that," she said. "Were you through talking?"

  "Yeah. She sounds like she's having a good time."

  "How are you?" Caroline asked.

  Lonely jealous. “Fine."

  "Do you want to come over?"

  "No. Really, I'm fine. I'm going to have some soup, and then climb into bed with a good book."

  "We're here if you need us," Caroline said.

  "I know that. You always have been."

  After hanging up, Munch felt too exhausted to worry about Robin anymore. Asia was safe, that was what mattered most. She double-checked all the doors and windows before going to bed. Sleep was a long time coming.

  Chapter l 7

  FRIDAY

  Friday at work was even busier than the last part of Thursday. Munch was grateful for the pace. Even Lou was less than dour. The workload forced him to roll up his sleeves and perform two tune-ups and a carb overhaul.

  He actually grinned at her when she drove past him on her way into her lube bay to service a Chevy Luv. Feeling good, she set the hoist and lifted the pickup into the air. After draining the oil, changing the filter, and squirting grease into the zerk fittings, she inspected the rear axle assembly. Checking the differential fluid level involved unscrewing the fill plug and sticking her finger in the hole. After confirming that the axle housing was full, she brought her finger to her nose. She loved the pungent smell of the molasses-thick ninety-weight gear oil. She would always groan if it spilled into her hair or down her shirt, but secretly she really didn't mind. It was the smell of her making her own living, doing a job she loved. What did she care if someone else had gone to some college so that he or she could spend a life at a desk inside an eighteen-story office building, window view or no? The rest of the day breezed by with all of the back-room crew running from job to job, making horns blow, air-conditioning colder, and stumbling idles smooth. The only hassle was some guy in a Suburban who claimed to have an appointment with Pauley for a detail. Munch had to tell him that Pauley had called in earlier to say he was spending the day mobile. This meant that instead of working out of the station, Pauley loaded up his various supplies and went to his customers' homes instead. The guy in the Suburban wanted to make another appointment, and Munch had to explain that Pauley was an independent contractor. She didn't have a home phone number for him. The guy in the Suburban didn't leave before giving Munch a whole ration of shit about how that was no way to run a business.

  When she arrived home that evening, Munch left her GTO idling in her driveway as she got out to unlock the padlock on the chain-link fence. She arched her back to relieve her stiff muscles, now aggravated by cold and the commute home—the first time she had sat still all day. She knew she had cleared close to three hundred dollars. If only every day could be so profitable!

  A movement by the house caught her eye. It was Garret, waiting for her on her front porch. She raised a hand in greeting. He must have hopped the four-foot chain-link fence encircling the front yard. They had plans to attend a cocktail reception at Logan Sarnoff's home in the Palisades. Tonight's party was a thank-you to all the vendors and volunteers like Munch who were contributing to the Charity League-sponsored ftmd-raiser to find a cure for cancer. Most of the funds raised were already earmarked for the Bergman Cancer Center, though it seemed to Munch that if they spent less time and money on all the thank-you and congratulations parties, they'd have a lot more for the charities. She wished the party had been canceled out of respect for Diane. The only appointment she wanted to keep was with a hot bubble bath and maybe some good boom-boom with Garret.

  Her fingers refused to cooperate. The numerous tiny cuts on her knuckles broke open anew as she fit first one key then a second into the dual padlocks on the gate. Black-stained lines delineated the calluses on her thumbs and forefingers where they had gripped countless bolts. Her cuticles were hopeless: split at the quick and encased in grease. She knew that even if she soaked for an hour, her hands wouldn't come completely clean. That would take a week—it only happened on the last day of one of her twice-a-year vacations.

  "Sorry" she said, taking in Garret's scrubbed face and newly pressed slacks. "I'll try to be quick. I got tied up at work with a Chrysler; the customer wanted it back for the weekend." She paused before opening the door and smiled at him. "Man, what a day."

  "How about a kiss?" he asked.

  She obliged him, then opened the door. After kicking off her shoes, she strode across the living room. Garret followed. "I'll get cleaned up," she said, "and we'll go."

  "No problem," he answered. "What can I do to h
elp?"

  "Turn back the clock," she said, shedding her greasy uniform as she headed for the laundry room. She threw her uniform shirt and pants in the diaper pail she kept for that purpose. At the end of the week she took the dirties in to work for the uniform company to launder and replace with a clean set. Until then, she didn't want her house to smell like the shop. Once she was home, she preferred gardenias.

  "Don't stress," he said. "It's actually fashionable to arrive a little late."

  "We're going to fashionable, all right." The washing machine was full with a load of towels and sheets. She had meant to run it that morning. She picked up a box of laundry soap and began to scatter it on the dry wash.

  "I'll do it," Garret said, taking the box from her. "You go. Make yourself pretty . . .er."

  She wished he would stop trying so hard to flatter her. She didn't need it. "Thanks," she told him, forcing a smile. Just because she was feeling rushed and irritated, she shouldn't take it out on him. Maybe he gave her so many unasked-for strokes because he was hungry for them himself. The problem was, she hated to offer him any extra encouragement. She was already granting him as much as she felt comfortable with. But she couldn't very well explain that, could she? That she was willing to share her bed a night a week but drew the line at emotional involvement.

  She walked through the kitchen in her underwear, grabbed the dish soap, and took it into the bathroom with her. Squeezing a liberal dollop under the rushing water, she waited for the tub level to rise in a fluffy layer of lemon-scented bubbles that would cut the grease from her body and prevent a bathtub ring.

  She usually allowed twenty minutes for her evening bath. She needed the time to herself, a decompression period to give her a chance to unwind and make the transition between work and home. Ruby had suggested this when they were still speaking regularly.

  With a small X-Acto knife Munch carefully scraped away as much grease as she could from under her fingernails, letting the curls of black grease fall into the open toilet. She then finished undressing, undid her hair, and sank into the steaming bubble bath with a sigh of short-lived relief as Garret joined her.

  "Need me to wash your back?"

  "More like watch it," she said, hunching her shoulders forward.

  "Something happen?"

  "Remember Diane Bergman? The nice lady l told you about who hired the limo last weekend?"

  "Yeah, the one you're helping raise funds for cancer research. She'll be there tonight, right?"

  "No. Haven't you seen the news? She died."

  "She did? She was only like fifty, wasn't she?"

  "It wasn't natural causes. And another customer of mine, Robin Davies, who lives down the street from the station, got raped last month."

  "Jesus," he said, stunned. He closed the toilet lid and sat. "Did they catch the guy?"

  "No." She soaped up a washcloth and started working on her knuckles. "The guy is still out there. He's been calling Robin and we think he's the same one who called me."

  "What?" Garret jumped to his feet. "When was this?"

  "Tuesday night."

  "Why didn't you call me?"

  "It was late."

  "And you probably figured it was just some prank," he said. His expression was so hopeful she didn't want to deflate him by mentioning the note on Asia's coat or the second call.

  "Yeah, right. But then I was at Robin's house with Mace St. John . . ."

  "When did you see him?"

  "He came by the other day "

  "So he's the 'we."'

  She hesitated before answering. "He's involved in the case."

  "He wants to get into your pants."

  "No he doesn't. We're friends, Garret. You knew that when I met you."

  "That's what you said."

  She felt the tension increasing in her neck and shoulders. "I've told you a million times, he's not like that. He's Asia's godfather, for Chrissakes. You know I help him with the Bella Donna."

  Garret snorted. "And I suppose you're the only mechanic around."

  "Maybe he just recognizes genius."

  "Yeah, I'm sure that's it."

  The bubbles around her were beginning to pop. She covered her face with the washcloth and inhaled.

  "Why were you at Robin's house with him? For that matter, why are you even involved at all?"

  "I thought he, we, could help her. While we were there she played a message the rapist left her and it sounded like the same guy who called me."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I've been trying. And now to make matters even more complicated, Robin has disappeared."

  "Are you in danger?"

  "No, I don't think so. The cops gave me a recorder to tape the calls."

  "How many times has this guy called you? What does he say?" He ran his fingers through his hair and paced the small floor.

  "You can hear for yourself. I dubbed the tapes before I handed them over."

  He stopped pacing and looked at her as if something had just occurred to him. "Where's Asia?"

  "Just to be on the safe side she's going to stay with the St. Johns for the next few days."

  "I'm not leaving you alone," he said. Then he made a self-satisfied nod. "Bet you're glad you're moving, though."

  Munch had forgotten all about their plans to look at a house this weekend. But she did remember that she hadn't committed to anything, yet. She was saved from having to respond when their conversation was interrupted by a banging in the laundry room. Garret got up to investigate. Munch opened the drain and stepped out of the bath. In the time it took to dry herself, the thumping hadn't ceased. She wrapped herself in a towel and followed Garret.

  She found him in the laundry room clutching both edges of the bucking washing machine, attempting to hold it still. She pushed him aside, lifted the lid, pulled apart a clump of wet towels, and rearranged them. When she shut the lid the washer resumed its cycle. Quietly. She wanted to ask him how he had managed to live almost forty years on this earth and not know how to deal with or recognize the symptoms of an unevenly loaded washing machine. She bit back the words. Someone once said you could tell the people who were in the most successful relationships by the bite marks on their tongues. To be honest, she was more concerned with her character than her relationship. She didn't want to be a bitch.

  Perhaps that would be the excuse she would use when she finally ended it with Garret. Last Sunday morning had been a prime example. They had been watching TIL and she came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She knew she was blocking his view. She was trying to give him an opportunity to stand up for himself. That's all she wanted, him to be his own man and not some meek little puppy dog. Instead he had just moved aside and not said anything, leaving her to feel like a shrew and wondering why she couldn't appreciate this guy.

  She also knew that if it had been St. John there in the laundry room playing Billy Bronco to the bucking washer, she would have thought it was cute. Maybe with the right guy, she wouldn't have to be a bitch.

  She was pulling on her dress when Garret called to her from the living room.

  "Where's the tape?"

  "Still in my tape deck."

  "Mind if I play it?"

  "Go ahead." She heard the clicks of the sound system being turned on and took a deep breath to calm herself. "His voice is gonna sound weird. He does something to disguise it."

  Garret didn't respond. She came out of the bedroom and stopped in the doorway of the living room. He had put the headphones on to listen to the tape. She saw the spools turning and his expression darken. When it was over, he ripped the headphones from his head and said, "How does he know my name?"

  "I don't know," she said. "It's like he reads my mail or listens to my telephone conversations."

  "Maybe you should start keeping more to yourself."

  "Whatever happened to, 'You're only as sick as your secrets'?"

  "Forget about all that. What I want to know is who is this guy?"

  She shoo
k her head. "If we knew, he wouldn't be roaming the streets."

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later they were in Garret's Camaro heading for the cocktail party in the Palisades Highlands. While he drove, she painted her short nails with dark red lacquer. The sharp scent of acetone filled the car.

  "You know everyone's going to be talking about Diane Bergman's death tonight," she said.

  "Let's see what we can find out."

  She smiled in his direction. Sometimes he was all right.

  The house was elegant. A glass cabinet in the foyer held porcelain figurines painted in delicate pastel shades. The sunken living room had a fire going. A camelback antique clock kept time on the mantel. White sofas stood out on richly colored Persian carpets. Tuxedo-clad servers wove among the guests with trays of hors d'oeuvres and drinks.

  Munch felt a sharp cramp in her stomach and wondered if her body was already telling her it was time to leave. Garret brought her a soda and announced that he was going to mingle. He seemed right at home. She watched him make the rounds, drink in hand, smiling, shaking hands, and chatting it up. He could be a regular little social butterfly when necessary She knew he wanted to own his own independent repair shop one day and be a fixture in the community. Good for him. Ambition was an admirable thing.

  He was soon swallowed by the crowd of local philanthropists. Business cards flew like confetti. She backed into a corner of the room and tried to act as if she were having an interesting time. A half hour crept slowly by and then her stomach grumbled. She hadn't eaten since around ten. The line by the food table had died down. She walked over to the impressive array of finger foods and reached for a canapé. Her nails felt weird, like they couldn't breathe. The dark color she'd used to cover the grease stains seemed to draw extra attention to her hands. This suspicion was only confirmed when a well-dressed man at her elbow said,

  "Aren't you the mechanic?"

  "Yes, sir," she answered. "And you are?"

  "Logan Sarnoff."

  "Ah, our host. You have a great house."

  He made a modest gesture of acknowledgment. "Did you study auto mechanics in high school?"