Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "What do you want from Ronnie?" Joey asked, still eyeing Munch with mistrust.

  "I don't know. Maybe she could tell me something else to help catch this guy. Something maybe she's remembered since. I'm not looking to cause her any more grief."

  He used the same intercom system as Shana. Turning his head so that his straggly goatee grazed his shoulder, he yelled, "Ronnie, shake your ass and c'mon out here a minute." Then he turned back to Munch and said, "Don't take all fucking day."

  Veronica Parker emerged from a back room. She wore black shorts and a halter top. Her white legs were punctuated by several black circular bruises. Her eyes were rimmed with red and glassy enough to throw a glare across the room. "Whas up?" she asked.

  "Lady here wants to ask you some questions/' Joey said.

  "What about?"

  "Think we could sit?" Munch asked, indicating a sofa in the far corner of the room.

  Veronica shrugged. "Yeah, sure." She scratched her nose. "You got anything for the head?"

  "No," Munch said, leading Veronica to the farthest corner of the living room. "I need to ask you about the guy who attacked you a couple months ago."

  "What guy?"

  Munch wondered if there had been more than one incident. "The guy who tied you up and left you on the freeway. "

  "Oh, that. What about it?"

  "Did you know the guy?"

  "No," she said, not bothering to lower her voice, "he was just some guy. Some fuckhead jerk."

  "How'd you meet him?"

  She looked over at Joey for guidance. He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. "Tell her."

  "He was in the parking lot outside the club, said he wanted a private dance. I told him it would cost double. He didn't have a problem with that."

  "Did you go to his place?"

  "No, I don't know where we went."

  "How's that?"

  Veronica got interested in her hands, pushing down cuticles on first one finger and then another. "You sure you don't have anything to smoke?"

  "No, sorry "

  She sighed and then the story came out in a rush. "It was dark. I never saw his face too clearly. He had one of them buzzer things. You know, like when someone has cancer or something and they cut a hole in your throat and you have to talk through this thing that makes you sound all weird?"

  "Yeah, I know what you mean."

  "So I didn't want to stare or anything. You know, like if he was handicapped or retarded or something." She lifted her hands, palms up. "I don't want to make anybody feel bad." She smiled sloppily obviously proud of her egalitarianism.

  "Then what happened?" Munch prompted.

  "All of a sudden he puts something over my head, a coat or a blanket, something heavy like that. Then he ties it up tight around my throat with that thick silver tape."

  "Duct tape?"

  "Yeah, duck tape. He picked me up and threw me in his car. I thought there were a couple of guys at first. Then I realized he was just talking to himself."

  "What kind of things was he saying?"

  "Whacked-out shit, like, 'Just this once' and 'Just to see.' "

  Veronica brought a hand to her shoulder and squeezed. "I waited to see what would happen. He told me to close my eyes and then he unwrapped my head. He said he needed my mouth free, but he was closing my eyes for my own protection." She looked sideways at Munch. "Real nice guy huh?"

  "Did he take you somewhere?"

  "Nah, we just stayed in his van."

  "His van? I thought you said car."

  "No, it was a van." She rubbed a bony hip and cracked a grin. "No carpet either. If you catch that fucker, tell him he owes me a hundred bucks. No, make that two hundred. I had that sticky duck tape shit in my hair for days."

  Behind them, Shana laughed. Munch saw no point in saying anything about their attitude. What could she say? Gee, you're not reacting right. You should be much more traumatized. Denial had its uses.

  "He shocked the other women with electricity," Munch said. The memory seemed to sober Veronica. She stood and showed Munch what were now familiar-looking shiny burn scars on the backs of her legs. "He did me, too," she said quietly as if ashamed of being the victim of torture. "I thought I was paralyzed at first. Took forever for the burns to heal."

  Munch winced in sympathy According to Mace St. John, a stun gun's 100,000-volt charge completely overrides the victim's central nervous system. She started to feel bad for bringing it all up again, but she knew any scrap of information would be helpful. On Monday she would relay everything she learned to Agent Hogan now that St. John was out of the picture.

  "Can you remember any specific sounds or smells from inside the van?" she asked.

  "Trees," Veronica said after a moment of thought. "Smelled like Christmas trees."

  "You mean like pine?" Munch asked.

  "Yeah," Veronica said, scratching her nose as if the scent still tickled it. "That was it."

  "This freak likes to use the phone, too. Did you get any kinky calls before or after you were attacked?"

  "I'm lucky if a regular phone call gets through in this place."

  She shot a look at Shana.

  "Hey bitch," Shana said. "I'm not your fucking answering service."

  "How about photographs? Did he take your picture when you were naked or have any of you?"

  "I don't know. He might have. He could have gotten some from the club. I was Miss August."

  Munch reached in her purse for one of her limo cards. She handed it to Veronica. "If you think of anything else, or if the guy calls you, let me know. And if you ever want to come up for air, I can help with that, too."

  "What do you mean?"

  Munch pushed back her sleeve to reveal her own faded needle marks. "I've been out of the life for almost eight years. If you're interested, you got my number."

  "Thanks," Veronica said. She folded the card carefully and stuck it in the back pocket of her short shorts.

  * * *

  Munch left Joey Polk's and got on Sunset Boulevard heading west. She checked her watch. Asia's game would be half over by now. She still had time to stop by Robin's before going back to the park. Not wanting to hassle with the gate guard, Munch used the unattended entrance to Barrington Plaza Gardens.

  Her note to Robin was still stuck in the front doorjamb. She pulled it free just as she sensed a presence behind her.

  "Are you a friend?" a man's voice asked.

  Munch turned around. It was Frank Fahoosy. "Are you?"

  "Yes," Fahoosy said. "Very good friend."

  "Do you know where she is?" Munch asked. Fahoosy was on the path, she on the short concrete stoop. If his intention was to stop her, he could easily catch her and physically overpower her before she had a chance to flee. Not that she would be taken quietly or without inflicting pain.

  Fahoosy seemed unaware of her calculations. His expression was anxious, even worried. "No, I haven't heard from her since Thursday. This is not like her."

  "I'm worried, too," Munch admitted. "She hasn't returned my calls."

  "Nor mine,"Fahoosy said. "And she missed an appointment for a job. Also not like her."

  "What kind of a job?" Munch asked.

  "A photo layout." Fahoosy wiped a hand across his mouth and looked to either side. She didn't feel any threat emanating from him; rather he seemed at a loss.

  "Did you know she was getting meals delivered to her?"

  "Yes," he said. "Meals-On-Wheels."

  "I talked to one of the delivery guys and he said she called in to the office at the hospital and told them to cancel her service."

  "When was this?" he asked.

  "Umm. Thursday I guess."

  "This is very strange," he said. "Why call them and not let me know what was going on?"

  "I wondered the same thing," Munch said.

  Fahoosy seemed close to tears. "Did you talk to these Meals-On-Wheels people yourself?"

  "No, just to the volunteer guy."

  "Maybe he wa
s mistaken."

  Munch started to reply then stopped. The pieces of information flashed together in her brain like cards shuffling into a deck. The van with its smell of pine. Her refusal to respond to D.W.'s dating overtures. Thursday morning at the bakery Who was that second cup of coffee for? And hadn't D.W. known all about her involvement with Robin? He had been in the room when she offered her help.

  Mun, how stupid could she be?

  "I've got to go," she told Fahoosy. "If I find out anything about Robin, I'll let you know. "

  She rushed past him. He offered no resistance. She ran to her car, wondering whom she would go to with this important news. St. John was effectively out of the picture. That left Pete Owen or Emily Hogan. Munch drove to the gas station to use the phone there.

  The shop offered only minimal service on Saturday and none on Sunday. The lube bay doors were closed, but several vehicles were parked in front. Among them was a Rolls-Royce getting its battery charged, and what looked like a gardener's truck with its hood up. From the smell of it, it had overheated badly Next to the truck a Volkswagen Rabbit was jacked up and one of the front tires was off.

  Pauley's detail business was also open. Saturday was a big day for him. A Mercedes and a BMW were parked under the awning, their paint jobs hazy under a layer of wax. One of the kids who worked for him was spraying Armor All on the tires. Pauley was nowhere in sight.

  She went to Lou's office, sat at his desk, and looked through the phone book. Emily Hogan's card was at home. She hadn't known she was going to need it. Agent Hogan had no separate listing. Munch dialed the number for the Bureau. An operator answered and transferred her to Agent Hogan's voice mail, which gave out a pager number in case of emergency Munch hung up, dialed the pager number, and left the gas station's number.

  While she waited for the callback she went through the box of work orders until she found the invoice with D.W.'s information on it. Finding it, she returned to the desk and willed the phone to ring.

  Outside the office window, the crew of gas pumpers ministered to the weekend flow of customers. One of them passed in front of the window on his way to the rest room and they waved at each other.

  The phone rang, making her jump.

  "Bel-Air Texaco," she answered.

  "This is Agent Hogan."

  "Hi, this is Munch Mancini."

  "What can I do for you?"

  Munch gave the agent a quick rundown of the information she had uncovered, including her suspicion that D.W. had kidnapped Robin and was holding her somewhere.

  "Have you alerted Detective St. John?" Agent Hogan asked.

  "No, he's out of commission, in the hospital." Before Hogan could ask, Munch gave her all the information she had on D.W. This included his address, phone number, and license plate number.

  "I'll get right on this," Hogan said. "Will you be at this number?"

  "No, I have to go pick up my kid at the park. Then I'll be home."

  "All right. Thank you for your help."

  Chapter 23

  Munch took off for the park where she had left Asia and Garret. She drove up Sunset toward the freeway, then took a right on Church Lane, figuring she would fare better on surface streets. Before she reached the Montana Avenue underpass, a van pulled behind her and honked. She looked in her rearview mirror and saw it was Pauley. He gestured for her to pull over.

  She parked underneath a large tree. He signaled for her to come over to him as he walked around to the passenger side of his van.

  "Look who I found," he said.

  Robin poked her head out the passenger window and said, "Hi." Then she opened her door and got out. Munch was overwhelmed with relief and rushed to her, giving her a big hug. The hug brought a wince to Robin's face.

  "Where have you been?" Munch asked. "We've been worried sick."

  "I'm sorry about that."

  Behind Munch, the van's side door slid open. Too late she noticed the large bruises on Robin's arms. Just as the smell of pine-scented cleaner wafted out from the inside of the van, Robin's face crumpled in grief.

  "I'm sorry" she said again.

  Munch turned. Pauley was standing behind her. He had what looked like a twin-pronged remote control in his hand. A blue spark arced between the terminals with a wicked buzz. Pauley pressed it to the side of her neck. Every muscle in her body seemed to contract at once, pulling her into a fetal position. The pain was excruciating. Her legs folded beneath her; her head hit the curb with a dull thunk. Pauley pulled her into his van, stuffed a sock in her mouth, and wrapped duct tape around her face and head to hold it in place. Her limbs refused to respond. She remembered Veronica's description of feeling paralyzed.

  "This isn't your show anymore," Pauley said. He turned to Robin. "Shut the door."

  The side door of the van slammed shut. In the sudden darkness, Pauley used plastic tie straps to bind Munch's wrists and feet. Her eyes focused and she saw that Robin was back in the front seat. She wasn't restrained in any way. What had he done to her to produce such submission?

  Munch looked at Robin, feeling betrayed, confused, scared. "If we could just get rid of you," Robin said, reading the question in Munch's eyes, "we'd be all right."

  Munch shook her head no, but Robin had already turned away.

  Pauley climbed back into the driver's seat and put the van in gear. They made several turns and then climbed a hill. From the sounds of traffic, Munch knew they were back on a busy street. Probably on Sunset Boulevard. She wasn't sure. They could just as easily be on Sepulveda. He made another series of turns. She could do little to brace herself as the van swung first one way and then the other. She prayed that his erratic driving would draw the attention of some traffic cop. From her vantage point she could look up and out the windshield. A green, tree-shaped air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror. Also pine-scented, she realized. The feeling returned to her arms and legs in the form of pain. They passed beneath a canopy of mature trees. Munch knew they were headed up one of the canyons, perhaps Mandeville. Robin had described such a trip to her and St. John less than a week ago. Before this asshole had climbed inside her head and broken her. The van veered once more and the ride grew bumpy as if they were traversing an unpaved road. Then they came to a stop.

  "Let's go," Pauley said, wrenching the shifter into park and killing the engine.

  A moment later the doors opened and Pauley reached for Munch, pulling her out and dumping her on the ground. He cut the tie binding her ankles. She stood. They were in what would one day be the front yard of a large house. There were signs of dated, unfinished construction everywhere. Rusting rebar. Tarps for walls nailed imperfectly to water-stained framing. Slate tiles in wooden crates, stacks of timber, and bags of concrete that were partially buried beneath a season's worth of fallen leaves. It looked as if the owners had run out of money or somehow had been distracted from the project.

  At Pauley's prodding, Munch stumbled toward the front door on legs that were now half asleep. He dragged her down a set of stairs into a basement room, with Robin following of her own volition. Munch concentrated on taking deep breaths in through her nose. The sock in her mouth was working its way down her throat. It took massive willpower not to gag and panic. The only way she was going to win was by keeping her head. She needed a plan.

  She'd learned a lot about sexual predators in the last week. Much of the information had confirmed knowledge she had already acquired through hard experience and stored on an unconscious level. She'd learned how these animals feed. Their need for total submission. Veronica had surrendered without much of a struggle and lived to tell about it. Robin, also. Diane Bergman must have refused to give in, and she had died. Now Munch had to decide if survival was worth it. To let this predator have his way with her. And she knew, for Asia's sake, it would have to be. As she thought, her fingers found the nubs on the plastic tie strips binding her. These were different from the Flex-Cuffs the police used. She ran her fingertips along the ridges, finding and bending ba
ck the tab that locked the strip closed.

  She looked around her as she worked. The walls were plastered with pictures of Veronica and Robin, mostly of Robin. The Penthouse pictures were there, but there were other shots, too. Shots of Robin fully clothed and performing mundane tasks. There were even photographs of Munch and Robin together, taken at the gas station while both of them were unaware. And then there were pictures of Robin tied to the bed, writhing in terror and pain.

  Munch pulled her hand free slowly trying not to move her shoulders much in the process. Pauley glanced over just then. A look passed over his face and Munch knew that she had already crossed his line of tolerance. There were no choices left to make. She tore the tape from her face and took a deep breath of air. He yelled and rushed her. She stood her ground, fists clenched and teeth gritted. She kicked at him, aiming for his crotch. The blow barely slowed him down. This is not about genitalia, she remembered. He knocked into her, but he didn't hit her with his fists. Instead, he grabbed her shoulders and forced her to her knees. Her kneecaps slammed into the concrete floor. She only registered a moment's pain. What she mostly felt was anger. Anger and a need to hurt him back. Her hands flew to his face. She went for his eyes, cursing her lack of fingernails. He pulled away from her clawing, trying to keep her at arm's length. She got a handful of his face. Somewhere it registered in her brain how soft the skin near his eye was as it pulled away beneath her grasp. She felt a wetness where the skin parted. Felt the warm soft curl of flesh beneath her short nails. They were quiet throughout their struggle, saving their breath for the business of survival. Her fists bounced off his head and face ineffectually like something out of a dream. Then he began hitting her, using his open palm. Holding her by her hair. Stinging, slapping blows. He struck wherever he could, but she kept her head down, offering him only the back of her skull where the bone was the thickest. The need to hurt him was stronger than ever. Hurt him as badly as possible. She spotted a putty knife in the corner. He swung her down onto the floor on her back. She brought up her knees. He used his forearm on her throat. She tried to tuck in her chin, but he forced it back with his superior strength. She felt the lack of breath, the panic in her chest that was heaving for every breath already.