Graziano walked out the door without reacting and St. John wondered if he'd even spoken aloud.
* * *
Munch dropped off Asia and Garret at the ball field and then headed over to the Bella Donna. She had her own key and used it to enter the lounge section of the train car. She went straight to the small table covered with papers, knowing St. John had a habit of bringing work over to his big-boy fort.
She soon found a folder marked BERGMAN HOMICIDE. Taking a deep breath, she opened the file and stared at the photographs. There were pictures of Diane's body as it was found on the freeway. Silver duct tape covered her eyes. Her legs were spread open obscenely the nightgown hiked up over her thighs, exposing the dark patch of pubic hair. Numbered yellow markers were placed next to evidence surrounding the body. The killer, assuming this was who had dumped the body had left footprints in the muddy silt.
Munch turned to the next photograph. It was of Diane's face with the tape removed from her eyes. It was the same picture St. John had shown Munch on Tuesday. Page after page of eight-by-ten glossies recorded every inch of damaged skin. The body was stretched out on a steel gurney. Several photographs of Diane's back showed specific close-ups of a blanched rectangle of skin at the base of her neck. In one shot the label of a negligee was positioned next to the patch of skin in question. The two weren't an exact match, but there were probably a lot of things that would account for that. But then another inconsistency struck her. The negligee had spaghetti straps; the top and bottom edges were trimmed in lace. If the label of the negligee had left a mark on Diane's skin, according to the crime scene photograph, it should have been positioned much farther down her back. Munch flipped back to the crime scene photographs to confirm this and then read the accompanying report from the coroner.
No evidence of rape had been found. Toxicology reports were still pending, but stomach contents were verified. The medical examiner reported that shrimp had been one of Diane's last meals.
Fanny, Munch thought, they were serving shrimp at that party I worked in the Palisades. She looked over St. John's notes and discovered he hadn't been able to find anybody who had spoken with or seen Diane after the party last Friday, yet they believed she had been murdered sometime Sunday.
Munch found a Xerox of the guest list with the unexplained inscription in the margin: 100,000s CARC 35% —23. Something about it seemed familiar. She copied the numbers and letters onto a business card and stuck it in her wallet.
In separate plastic evidence bags Munch discovered another packet of photographs. They were Polaroids, nude Polaroids of Diane. This must have been what St. John was mumbling about. Diane was smiling seductively at whoever was holding the camera, a dark-nippled pendulous breast cupped in each manicured hand. She was obviously posing for her lover. According to the evidence tag, St. John had recovered these pictures from Sam Bergman's safety deposit box.
Garret had wanted to take similar-themed Polaroids of Munch and she had let him. She wondered now if she should ask for them back when they broke up. When, she realized the word she had voiced in her head. Not if.
It also occurred to her, as had no doubt also occurred to St. John, that they had found another common thread between Diane and Robin.
* * *
It was almost ten when Munch pulled into the parking lot of Century Entertainment. Two men stood in the doorway watching her park. She studied them back, secure in the anonymity of her dark glasses. Both men were in their thirties, dress shirts bulging with fatty muscle, ties knotted around thick necks. Short, no-nonsense haircuts. She got out of the car and walked toward them, stopping when she was close enough to read the signs plastered to the walls of the anteroom. Tuesday—according to the posted notices—was porn star night. Another hand-lettered placard announced that for ten dollars you could have your picture taken with one of the girls. An example was included of a middle-aged man looking sheepish as some vamp in Tina Turner hot pants wrapped herself around him.
A larger black-and-white sign listed the dress code for patrons. It was very specific: no hats, no open shoes, no holey shirts or pants, no gang attire. Shirts must be tucked in.
"Why the shirt-tucked-in rule?" she asked. "You worried about weapons?"
The smaller of the two doormen, a guy with Neanderthal eyebrows and a florid complexion, looked at her primly. "This is a gentlemen's club," he said.
Oh, please, she thought while keeping her face impassive. She pointed to the sign by the cash register and then reached into her purse for her wallet. "Five-dollar cover?" she asked.
The guy with the eyebrows spoke again. "And a two-drink minimum. But women are not allowed in by themselves," he said.
"You worried about hookers?" she asked in a confidential tone.
"No," the guy said, looking at her as if she was dense. "Wives."
Yeah, wives could be a problem, Munch knew. "I'm looking for a friend of mine," she said. "A girl that dances here."
"Which one?"
Munch read the banner under a glossy photo of the Tina Turner look-alike. "Testarosa."
"All right, wait here," he said, "I'll see if she's free."
Munch doubted that very much.
The guy returned a minute later and crooked a finger at Munch, indicating she could enter.
The club was dark. She was enveloped by the blackness as soon as she passed through the heavy curtains, following the doorman/bouncer, who said his name was Dirk. Obviously a pseudonym. She was also momentarily assaulted by the music-rousing rock—played loud as it should be so that it took over your senses and made you feel like moving. Chairs were arranged in rows pointing toward the stage where a naked woman strutted toward a chrome firemen's pole. X-rated videos played on the televisions mounted high in the room's corners.
Half of the tables were filled, especially those closest to the runway. Gang-banging Cholos with shaved heads sat next to businessmen in suits and housepainters in coveralls. Most of the men's attention was focused on the show in progress. The woman up there was now rubbing herself on the chrome pole with an enthusiasm Munch was sure she'd regret tomorrow. The guys around the footlights waved five-, ten-, even twenty-dollar bills at her.
Dirk led Munch across the floor to a majestic black woman in a long, straight wig. He had to crane his head up to say something in her ear. Testarosa nodded, giving Munch a once-over.
Munch felt like a wren among peacocks. She jammed her grease-stained hands in her pockets.
Testarosa was clothed only in a thin negligee that was slit up the thigh. It was clear that her full round breasts often made good their threat to spill all the way out the front. Even without her high heels she probably stood five ten. She guided Munch over to a fireplace near the middle of the room. "Let's sit here," she said. "It's kind of cold."
Munch was anything but cold. She shed her brown leather jacket and set her purse at her feet.
Another girl dressed in a short teddy took a seat on the hearth.
"Dirk said you knew me."
"I was hoping to talk to you," Munch said. "If you don't mind."
"We're all good listeners," Testarosa said. She held her face one inch from Munch's, speaking loudly over the music. "That's mostly what we do here. Listen to the men's problems. You know. Maybe their wives or girlfriends don't have the time for them. We make them forget about their problems for a while. It's all about the fantasy "
Munch nodded, mesmerized by this woman, who periodically punctuated her words by pressing her large breasts together. "I'm trying to find out what happened to Veronica Parker."
Testarosa's manner instantly changed. A scowl replaced her smile. "Some fool ripped her off, that's what happened, and then dumped her on the freeway like some piece of trash."
"You know who it was?" Munch asked.
"If I did, I'd be telling someone before this," Testarosa said. She looked at the girl in the teddy. "Ain't that right?"
The girl nodded.
"We stick together," Testarosa added.
"Help each other out. If we see someone making a mistake, we try to talk to them. You know." The tall stripper looked side to side the way people do when they're about to let something confidential slip. "The only way they found her is because her leg was sticking straight up. Dude left her like that, with it all hanging out, tied up like some dog or something."
"That's some cold shit," Munch said, easily slipping into street vernacular.
"What's Veronica to you?" the dancer asked.
"I think the same guy who did her did some other broads I know. He gets off on torture. He killed this one woman, a nice older lady." Testarosa's face wasn't registering a strong interest. Munch saw her troll the room with her eyes and changed tactics.
"Do you have any kids?"
This brought another suspicious scowl. "Why you want to know that?"
Munch didn't back down. "Because I've got a little girl. She's seven. The other day I found a note pinned on her jacket saying if he needed to hurt me, he could."
"Same freak?"
"That's right."
Dirk started coming toward them. Testarosa stood.
"C'mon," she said. "I think the harem room is available."
She led Munch to the back of the club where there were several theme rooms. The first room they passed had a little girl motif complete with stuffed animals and cheerleader pom-poms; the second resembled a torture chamber with manacles and whips hanging from the walls. Munch paused to stare.
"We get a lot of CEO's in here," Testarosa explained. "They feel bad cuz they got to be firing people all the time. They like us to spank them and pull on their nipples, tell 'em how bad they is."
She led Munch to a third room decorated with peacock feathers and large rattan fans. Testarosa crossed the Persian carpet to sit on a large round bed covered with satin-slipped throw cushions. She leaned back on her elbows and arched her back, which caused her large breasts to protrude even more.
The bed was the only furniture in the room. Munch slouched against the doorway, trying to look more relaxed than she felt. "This is really something," she said, at a loss for anything else to say. "You like it here?"
"It's all right. Money's good." A pause. "Real good."
"But no actual sex."
"That's right. It's all about the fantasy "
"How long have you been, uh, performing here?"
"Eight years," she said proudly. "One more year to go and then I'm done with this."
"Is that right?"
"Yep. A lot of these girls, they don't plan for their futures. Spend all their money on costumes or partying, living in them hotel rooms. I tell them they should be buying a house, saving their money. Me? I've been going to school, getting my MBA. Soon as I graduate, I'm joining the real world."
"Good for you," she said, meaning it. The song blasting out of the speakers in the main room changed to "Fooled Around and Fell in Love." Testarosa's head started nodding to the beat.
"What did you mean about the guy tying her up like a dog?" Munch asked.
Testarosa fixed her with a look curiously devoid of expression. "Dude put a rope around her neck. Yanked her around with it. Shot her with one of them stun gun things the cops use."
"Do you know how I can get in touch with her? I'd like to ask her some questions."
"She's still hanging out with some loser used to work here. Joey Polk, the worthless fuck. He was supposed to be looking out for the girl. Shit, she might as well have been working the corner. "
"You know where I can find the fool?"
"He runs a business out of his house in West Hollywood," she said. "Takes those boudoir pictures for womens want to give them to their men. This here is their ad." She handed Munch a copy of L.A. Weekly. "Polk Studio he calls hisself. Cute, huh?"
Right up there with Ginger Root and Testarosa, Munch thought. They were all selling the same thing. "He doesn't use a Polaroid camera, does he?"
"I don't know, he might."
"Can I have this?" Munch asked, holding up the newspaper.
"Sure," Testarosa said. "They're free."
"So, uh," Munch leaned in close until she was eye to eye with the dancer, "what do you do when the guys come?"
"They just do it in their pants."
"Oh, yeah, of course." She kept forgetting that the guys didn't take their clothes off. She'd have to ask Garret about this. Maybe he could explain the thrill. She handed Testarosa one of her cards. "Thanks for your help. If you hear anything else about this guy would you call me?"
Testarosa took the business card and put it in her leopard skin handbag.
"And good luck," Munch added, sticking out her hand.
"You, too, honey." Testarosa shook Munch's hand with a limp grip, then moved aside one of the cushions to reveal a small television. She turned it on and Munch saw that it was tuned to a financial channel. The dancer studied the ticker tape. The progression of numbers and letters suddenly clicked with Munch.
"One last thing," she said.
Testarosa looked up.
Munch pulled out her wallet and found the business card where she had copied the numbers and letters that were scribbled in the margin of Diane Bergman's guest list—100,000s CARC 35% -23. She showed those to Testarosa now.
"Does this mean anything to you?"
"Oh, yeah," the dancer said. "I remember this. It was in the Wall Street journal last Friday Somebody done fucked up but good."
"Why? What does it mean?" Munch asked, noticing how Testarosa's speech patterns wove in and out of street slang. Munch could relate to being on the cusp of a new lifestyle—each foot in a different world. There were still times when she didn't know what to do with her hands when she walked.
"CARC is a Nasdaq symbol for a company called California Recycling," Testarosa explained. "I was watching the stock. The company was bidding for a government contract but didn't get it. Somebody must have thought they would because you see here," she said, touching a long lacquered nail to the first large number, "one hundred thousand shares changed hands just before the announcement."
"And the -23?" Munch asked.
"The stock went down twenty-three points. Whoever bought those hundred thousand shares lost hisself two point three million dollars." She snapped her fingers. "Just that quick. You know some heads rolled on that one."
Munch thought about the last time she'd seen Diane alive and wondered if this was the cause of the argument she hadn't wanted to talk about. "I'll bet they did at that."
She checked her watch and decided she might just have enough time to go pay Polk Studio a call.
Chapter 22
Polk Studio was in reality an old two-story Spanish-style house in a part of West Hollywood that had once been swank but was now in a state of decline. This sinking of status was evidenced by overgrown tropical plants and burglar bars on every window. Yet parking was still almost impossible, Munch soon found, unless you were a resident with a sticker or had staked your claim earlier in the decade.
She had called first and confirmed that Joey Polk was there. She pressed the doorbell when she reached the stoop, but hearing no ring within the house she worked the solid brass knocker bolted to the center of the large dark wood door. Looking up she noticed a string of old-fashioned glass Christmas lightbulbs attached to the roofline with rusty nails.
A woman with long black hair answered. She was about Munch's age, dressed in stretch pants and a sweatshirt, and obviously stoned. There, but for the grace of God, go I, Munch thought.
"Are you Veronica?" Munch asked.
The woman threw back her head and made a little derisive snort. "No, I'm Shana."
Of course you are. "Is Joey here?" Munch asked.
"Did you have an appointment?" Shana asked.
"Yeah, I called a little while ago."
Shana turned her head and yelled behind her, "Joey, you got company." Then she stepped aside and Munch walked in. The rooms visible from the entryway were furnished in a mishmash of overstuffed furniture. A meager colle
ction of plaster-of-paris Cupids gathered dust on an end table. Shana sat down behind a desk near the foyer, managing to look instantly bored.
A man soon joined them and offered Munch a plump, sweating palm. His eyes did a walkover of her body that began and ended below her chin. She could see why Veronica Parker had fared so badly, if this sleazeball was her so-called protection. Not that Munch bought the concept that any kind of pimp ever deterred trouble. She'd had a friend named Roxanne in the bad old days who turned tricks on Main Street in Venice. Roxanne used to have her biker old man park nearby and watch. Maybe it somehow made her feel better, maybe she wanted him to appreciate all that she did. Munch never saw that he was any kind of help. How much could anybody do for a woman once she was alone with her trick, except take a cut of her pay?
"Are you Joey?" she asked the man.
"The Polk man himself," he said. Shana groaned.
"You said on the phone that you'd help hook me up with Veronica?" Munch said.
"I'll need a reason," he said, fluffing his niggardly chin hair with the back of one of his pudgy hands. She didn't miss the suggestion in his tone.
"I wanted to talk to her about some guy we both know."
"What guy is that?"
She figured she might as well put her cards on the table. "A couple of months ago she was raped and abandoned on the freeway The same thing happened to two other women I know. One of them was killed. The other is still being stalked by the guy and has disappeared. I have reason to believe that all the victims of this guy posed for nude photos at some point."
"Are you a cop?" Joey asked.
Munch felt oddly flattered. "Do I look like a cop?" Then she realized that that statement could be construed as a dodge and quickly added, "No, I'm not a cop at all. I just want to stop this guy. He's seriously twisted. In fact, he's been calling me. For all I know, I might be next." She turned to Shana. "Or you."
Shana fixed Munch with a look that focused two feet past her shoulder. She wasn't exactly shaking in her go-go boots.
Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella Page 18