by Unknown
"You'd be amazed."
"Here's the plan: I'm going to plant some information about you not being happy about the reasons you've been given about your fiancé's death."
"And for this I need to act?"
His smile came and left so quickly that she wasn't sure she'd seen his lips move. "You can't let on you know any of the things we've discussed, and especially not that you're helping me."
"I can do that."
"And in the future, don't call me. I'll call you."
"When can I expect that?"
"As soon as it needs to be. Don't worry, I'll be in touch."
* * *
Munch got home at noon. Jasper treated her like a long-lost love. She took the time to pet him and tell him how much she loved him, but it felt as if she were just giving him lip service. Petting him didn't give her the pleasure it usually did. She noticed the same sort of thing around Asia. A layer of insulation had grown around her heart, keeping out the good and the bad feelings. She wondered if this was going to be a permanent change.
There were no messages on her answering machine. She opened the refrigerator out of habit. Caroline St. John had dropped off a casserole. Munch decided to save it for dinner. Life went on no matter how you were feeling. You had to act as if something would matter later. She'd been down the fake-it-till-you-make-it road before. Rico's coat hung in her bedroom closet. She stared at it a minute before reaching into the pocket for his address book. She needed to go through it and call everyone he knew to give them the news and the time of the funeral if they were interested. Not everyone read the obituaries faithfully.
The mortuary had given Fernando a form to fill out for the public notice, and Munch had offered to take care of that for him. Free obituaries were a line or two and listed only the deceased's name and that of the mortuary, along with the phone number of the funeral home.
Those obits had always seemed so sad to Munch, as if no one was left or cared enough to give some sort of accounting of the person's life and passing. The longer obits were paid for. There were also symbols that could be purchased to appear to the left of the name: hearts, flags, roses. She chose a police badge. Like many recent decisions, this was a tough one. She would only have one chance at this and she wanted to do it right.
She started with the statistics of Rico's birthplace and date, and then added that he was cherished by many and killed way too young. She also listed the loved ones who survived him, as well as those who had preceded him in death. She cried the whole time she wrote it, and was glad for the opportunity. She'd read somewhere that the brain produced endorphin when tears were shed. Some trade-off! She hesitated a moment before opening Rico's little address book, trying to prepare herself for the surprises it might contain of other women he might have loved or who had loved him. She knew that shouldn't matter now, but knowing and feeling were two different beasts.
Stuck to the black vinyl cover of the address book was a scrap of paper. There was an address written on it in Rico's street writing, not the clear block letters he used when filling out a police report or a shopping list, but a barely legible scrawl. She realized she had been there when he wrote it. It was the information he had recorded from the gang-banger with the pit bull. She flattened the crumpled scrap with her hand and stuck it in the novel by her bed. Then she opened the address book and picked up the phone. Art Becker's home and work numbers were listed. She went with the work number.
Art Becker had been Rico's partner when he worked homicide.
She got to know both men when they were investigating the deaths of Ellen's mom and stepdad. Rico she had gotten to know a lot better. Art Becker had always treated her decently. He was a complex man, capable of gentleness, but certainly not gullible. A detective for twenty years, Becker was on the backside of fifty, and still married to his original wife. The last, she knew, was a real rarity among cops. She wasn't exactly the poster child for monogamy, but she admired it in others. Had she been given the chance, she had planned on being a really good wife.
"I've been meaning to call you," he said, once she had identified herself.
"That would have been nice."
"No, really, I mean it. In fact, let's meet for coffee. How're you holding up?"
"I don't know. I was hoping you could shed some light. There's a lot of bullshit flying."
"Tell me about it. You know that pie place in Santa Monica?"
"The House of Pies?"
"That's the one. Can you be there in twenty?"
She looked at her watch, as if that had anything to do with how fast she drove. "Sure."
"I'll tell you what I know, but it's not much."
"I'd really appreciate that. I've been feeling kind of . . . lost." She cleared her throat, wiped the tears from her eyes as they formed, and got her emotions under control. "How come there hasn't been anything on the news about the shooting?"
"We can talk about that, too."
"Thanks, Art."
"For what?"
"For not disappearing on me."
"Sure, kid. Sure." His voice was gentle. "Drive safely, there's sharks in the water."
"Isn't the expression 'blood in the water'?"
"Right now, there's both."
CHAPTER TWELVE
ART BECKER HAD PICKED THE HOUSE OF PIES FOR MANY reasons, Munch figured. Proximity, privacy, and the chocolate silk with Bavarian cream and semi-sweet shavings. Becker was a formidable man. Under six feet and over three hundred pounds. He barely managed to squeeze in between the booth's high-backed seat and fixed table.
The waitress came and took their orders.
Munch studied Becker's face as she sat across from him.
If the events of the past week had added lines to his face, she couldn't tell. Becker's complexion had always been a study of craters and crevices. His eyes were small, but not cold. At least not to her.
She got right to it. "They told his ex-wife that he was a dirty cop. They're threatening to deny all his benefits."
Becker mopped sweat off his forehead with a napkin. "I know."
"I don't believe it; do you?"
Becker sighed. "I don't want to. I've been a cop for thirty years, most of those working major crimes. I've seen too many things that defy explanation."
She didn't expect any more or less from him. "Have you known any dirty cops?"
"There've been a few."
"How does that happen? Do they sour on life? Get greedy? What?"
"Most of the dirty ones are bad before they ever join. I got a friend who works in personnel, doing background checks on applicants. Ever since this, whatchamacallit, affirmative action shit passed, we've been hard-pressed to meet the quotas. He showed me three applicants' sheets last month. Two had juvenile beefs, one being a homicide. The third had been indicted, but not convicted, for assault with a deadly weapon. My friend's captain tells him he's gotta pick two of them."
"Harsh." The next question she was almost afraid to ask. "Are you coming to the funeral?"
"Sure. Of course."
She blinked back tears and got busy with her napkin. Rico had been lucky to count Becker as a friend. "When can the family have the body?"
"Hasn't the department sent a liaison over to help with all that?"
"Considering the circumstances, the family has refused to work with the department."
"Probably just as well," Becker said. "I hate the bullshit that goes with cop funerals. All those politico assholes using the day as an excuse to get before a camera. Desk jockeys who've never seen action and wouldn't deign to acknowledge a workingman if it didn't further their career, acting like they give a shit."
"I don't think that would happen with Rico. You know, considering."
"Nothing would surprise me. The department always shows two faces. No matter what the internal gossip is, they wouldn't miss an opportunity to service their own agenda." He looked around impatiently for the waitress, as if his agitation had fueled his appetite. "I'll call the coroner
when I get back to the office, make sure he's done on his end. Have you made arrangements with a mortuary?"
"His father wants to use the same home that handled his mother."
"Oh, yeah, Christ, that's right. She passed not that long ago."
"Coming up on a year in June. Poor guy, they'd been married forever."
Becker nodded. "What kind of service are they having?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are they having Rico buried or cremated?"
"Buried."
"That gets pricey, what with the embalming and coffin, and all. You sure they want to go that route?"
"They're Catholic. They don't burn their dead, something about respecting the bodies of the deceased and honoring the places they rest."
"I'm just trying to save you-all some expense. People always spend too much money on funerals."
Munch clenched her fists under the table. "I don't think we'll change our minds. There's gonna be a vigil with all the rites and prayers. Just the family and close friends are invited. They've got the church reserved for Friday. The body is supposed to be present for that so we can say our good-byes."
Becker looked out the window, then back at her. "I don't think you'll want an open casket."
She didn't want to ask, but her mouth formed the words anyway. "Why is that?"
The waitress set Becker's pie in front of him and told Munch she'd be right back. Becker didn't dig in immediately and waited for the server to leave before he continued. "Gunshot wounds get kinda messy, especially multiple ones."
She started scratching at a spot on her thumb and couldn't seem to stop herself. She knew Rico had been shot dead; she hadn't expected further details such as how many bullets had hit him and where to make her feel worse. Becker took her silence and filled it.
"Your mortician is gonna need current photographs to reconstruct his features, but are you sure that's the way you want to remember him? Maybe you could just put a nice framed picture on top of the casket. I've seen them do that."
Munch nodded. "l've seen that, too." He might as well have stuck his fork into her chest. She massaged the ache there, wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like. St. John had once described it to her, said that it felt like an elephant was standing on his chest. Since Monday, she'd been swallowing aspirin like candy, wishing she could use something stronger.
The waitress delivered Munch's order, looked briefly at the expressions on Munch's and Becker's face, and left without asking if they were all right or needed anything else.
Becker carved off a wedge of his dessert and shoveled it into his mouth.
Munch cleared her throat and made an attempt at her apple pie. "Do you know about the case he was working on?"
Becker shook his head before he started talking. "I couldn't talk about it if I did. The indictments are still sealed. The DA wouldn't jeopardize his case for love nor money."
Munch slid the pie around her plate, "I was thinking, maybe it was a case of, like, friendly fire. You know, Rico is working his case and these other narcs from another division are working theirs, and the second group of narcs don't realize Rico is one of theirs .... " She stopped talking because Becker was shaking his head again.
"Wouldn't happen. All investigations go through a clearinghouse. They keep a war board that shows all ongoing operations. They got photos of the cops, license plates and makes of the undercover vehicles, times and locations when and where buys are going down. All that to prevent just that sort of thing."
"Oh," she said. "I was just thinking, you know, that might explain it. Everyone makes mistakes."
"It happened in the seventies a couple times, cop versus cop. One buying, one selling, then everyone flashes their badges and not a bad guy in sight."
"I was just thinking of possibilities, like I said."
"I thought you'd want the truth," he said gently.
"Yeah, no, I do." She doctored her coffee, her theory dissolving like the sugar. She'd really pinned her hopes on that explanation. It took her a while to be able to look at him again. She wanted to ask the right questions, but she was drawing blanks. She felt as if she were trying to crack a time-controlled bank vault; one wrong turn and the mechanism would lock up for hours she didn't have. "When will the indictments get unsealed?"
"Hard to say, honey. Hard to say." He scraped the last of the whipped cream from his plate. "Might be some time. Depends on the size and scope of the case."
She pushed her pie away uneaten. "I'll talk to the family, you know, about the body."
"Get multiple copies of the death certificate, at least five. That'll come up a lot." He picked up the check and patted her hand. "I'm sorry it has to be this way."
"Me, too."
It wasn't until she left the restaurant that a new theory presented itself. A wild one, true, but it all made sense. The denial of his benefits, the unwillingness to have his body viewed openly. He was still alive. Rico was still alive. For some reason he had to stay deep undercover and couldn't tell anyone. It was cruel, but plausible. Wasn't it? Asia had seen it first. Little kids had such clarity sometimes. Munch didn't look at herself in the rearview mirror as she formed these thoughts. She hated it when anyone, including herself, lied to her face.
The whoop of a siren drew her attention. The black-and-white behind her flashed its lights and the cop gestured for her to pull over. She automatically reached down and buckled her seat belt before complying.
She waited while the cop approached. They preferred you stay in the car. She never quite got the logic of that. Seemed to her that she was more dangerous in the car. She could have a weapon on her lap or just whip it in gear and take off once the cop was out of his unit."License, please," he said.
"You want my registration, too?"
"Are you the owner of this vehicle?"
"Yes."
"Miranda Mancini?"
"Yes."
He opened her door. "Step outside, please."
"What's this about?"
"Lock up your car. I need you to come with me."
"Am I under arrest?"
"Only if you don't come willingly."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE COP WAITED WHILE MUNCH LOCKED HER CAR. SHE PUT her keys in her purse.
"Anything in your pockets?" the cop asked, taking her bag.
"No." She turned them inside out to prove it.
He opened the back door of his cruiser and she got in. At least he wasn't cuffing her. The trunk opened behind her and then was slammed shut. When the cop returned to the driver's seat, he was no longer carrying her purse.
The patrol car stank of cleaning solvents and some acrid undertone of human origin. The bench seat was ripped and poorly repaired with duct tape. It also rocked as they turned corners, the bolts holding it to its brackets having been dispensed with long ago. Munch had visions of similar rides years ago and of her younger self furtively trying to ditch contraband only to have it discovered when they arrived at the police station.
Munch looked out the window, not recognizing the streets.
"Where are we going?" she asked the cop.
"We're almost there," he said.
Maybe this was a shortcut, she thought. Or maybe it was a one-way trip. A brief, all-purpose prayer came to mind.
Fuck it.
Minutes later, they pulled into the Pacific Station on Culver Boulevard. Rico's station.
The cop drove into the underground parking structure and pulled. The trunk lid opened behind her and she heard men's voices talking in tones too muted for her to decipher the words.
She sat in the patrol car another five minutes, then another cop, this one a woman, escorted her through the double locked doors to the lockup.
"Wait here," the woman said, indicating a wooden bench along the concrete wall.
Munch glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall. It too was winged, but she took some small comfort in being able to keep track of the time. It was one-thirty. Asia's bus would b
e delivering her to Munch's workplace in two hours. The Texaco station was in Brentwood and Munch's car was in Santa Monica.
She doubted very much if her present business would conclude in time for her to pick up her daughter. Her boss, Lou, would watch Asia until the end of the business day. A better plan would be to have Ellen take Asia home; then Jasper would be covered, too.
Munch was alone except for the woman cop, who was now typing in the cubicle across the room. The nameplate on her desk read FRANCIS NEAGLEY. Munch leaned over and saw a hand-painted rock weighing down a stack of reports. A misshapen clay bowl held paper clips. Munch had similar treasures crafted by Asia adorning her home.
"Excuse me."
Officer Neagley stopped pressing keys and looked at Munch. "I need to check on my kid." Munch pointed to the telephone on the women's desk. "May I use your phone?"
"No." Neagley resumed typing.
Bitch. So much for motherhood solidarity.
Another fifteen minutes passed while Munch watched the clock and jiggled her leg. Frances Neagley crooked a finger at Munch.
"Stand by that door. When you hear the buzz, push it open."
"And the magic word is . . . ?"
"Now," the bitch cop said.
Munch flushed with anger and embarrassment. She got sober so she wouldn't have to put up with these power games. If Rico were still here, still alive, none of this would be happening.
The buzzer sounded and she pushed the door open. The cop who had brought her there was waiting for her. He printed her, stood her against the wall and took her picture with a Polaroid camera. She cleaned the ink from her fingers while the picture developed.
The cop showed her the finished product. "You look pissed off," he said.
"Imagine that." She wished he hadn't said "pissed off," because now she realized she had to use the bathroom. Rather than risk another no, she held it.
The cop took her to a room filled with file cabinets, legal storage boxes stacked against the wall, and two desks in opposite corners. In one corner, a large-gutted Latino detective talked to another guy with multiple tattoos. Munch sat in the chair next to the unoccupied desk. She scanned the desktop, looking for clues, but the file folders were all closed. Corners of photographs peeked out from beneath the midden, but nothing more than background showed. The nameplate next to the in-tray read DET. CHAPMAN. She fantasized accidentally knocking it all over with her elbow.