An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella

by Unknown

  Finally a second detective entered the room and strode across the floor toward her. The suit jacket hanging on the rack behind his desk matched his pants. He dropped a large Hle on the blotter. It landed with a slap. Munch flinched, though she tried not to.

  Chapman sat behind his desk, black-rimmed cheaters perched low on his nose, and perused the file. Periodically he looked at Munch, then back at his reading material.

  "Okay," she said, "you win. What's this all about?"

  "I win what?" he asked.

  "I'll talk, I'll sing, I'll stand on my head. just give me a break with the silent treatment."

  Chapman said absolutely nothing for the next five minutes. Munch timed him.

  "Can I use the phone?" she asked.

  "Who do you want to call?"

  Munch looked at the clock, remembering what St. John had said about narcs, how they'd use anything against her. "I thought I'd order pizza."

  Chapman gazed at her over the top of his reading glasses. "A smart-ass, huh?"

  "Hey, this is your party."

  He threw the file down. "You've had quite the life."

  "I'm still having it."

  He smiled despite himself. "Why do you think you're here?"

  "My fiancé is dead. You think he was dirty and that I might know something about that."

  He nodded thoughtfully. If he was surprised that she skipped the dance, he didn't show it. "Do you want to help us?"

  "I want everyone to get what they deserve." She watched his face and body language closely, hoping to get a read on this guy. Did he want what he was due or did he fear it? In the immortal words of Jiminy Cricket, Let your conscience be your guide, motherfucker. Okay, maybe Disney characters didn't curse, but you could tell they were thinking it.

  Chapman's reaction, whatever it was going to be, was cut short by his ringing phone. He answered on the first ring. "Narcotics." He looked at her as he spoke into the phone. "Uh-huh. Thanks. We'll be right there."

  She was led to a small room. Acoustical tiles covered the walls as well as the ceiling. There were three chairs and no table, and, as far as she could detect, no camera either. A second cop joined them. He was dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and work boots. His hair was down to his collar and a lighter brown than his Fu Manchu mustache. He wore his badge on a chain around his neck. She realized that they were the two cops she'd seen in Rico's driveway. The ones in the Shelby.

  Munch remained standing. "Are you supposed to be Starsky or Hutch?"

  He smiled like a Boy Scout. She hoped he didn't grin like that when he was undercover or he was looking at a short and unsuccessful career.

  "Munch, isn't it?" He patted the seat of one of the chairs, and perched on the arm of another. "Call me Roger. You've met Detective Chapman, I see."

  She sat. "Not formally, Rodge."

  Chapman closed the door. The remaining chair had no arms. Detective Chapman dragged it over to the wall opposite the door and sat. Munch's back was to the door, but she didn't mind. She already knew she wasn't going to leave until she reached a working agreement with these guys.

  Roger leaned toward her. She mirrored his gesture.

  "Let me begin by saying that I know it's been a rough time for you."

  "Thanks." She looked around her pointedly. "Every day keeps getting worse."

  Roger was all sympathy. "I'm sure."

  "I know there are things you can't tell me," she said, "but someday the truth will come out."

  Chapman spoke now. "And what will that be?"

  "What I've said all along. That Rico was a good man and a good cop."

  Chapman loosened his tie. "A lot of people wouldn't agree with you."

  "How can we prove them wrong?" Roger asked.

  Munch raised a hand. "Let me ask you one question first."

  "What's that?" Roger said.

  She locked on his face. "Were you the ones who killed him?"

  They were temporarily dumbfounded, too surprised to be angry at being asked a question by the subject they were interrogating. When they answered, it was in unison. "No."

  Munch wasn't sure what to believe. In her experience, lies came out quicker than the truth, especially rehearsed ones.

  "So what's it going to take?" Munch asked.

  "How far are you willing to go?" Roger asked.

  "I can try to get close to the guys Rico was supposedly in with."

  A look passed between the two detectives. It was the mental high five between con men when their plan falls into place quicker than they had anticipated.

  Detective Chapman's eyes narrowed first as he remembered his character's role in this production. "Why would you do that?"

  "Because everyone else seems pretty content to accept the idea that Rico was crooked. Shit, the city saves itself a bunch of money. How hard are they gonna want to look?"

  "This isn't about money," Chapman said.

  Munch shot him a yeah, right look.

  Roger scratched his head. "But what makes you think you'll be able to find out anything?"

  "I'll be hanging with the women and children. If the old ladies don`t talk, the kids will."

  "We'll have to check with our lieutenant and there's some paperwork that will have to be done."

  "What kind of paperwork?" Munch hoped she was putting just the right amount of suspicion into her tone.

  "A contract," Chapman said, tightening his tie. "If you work with us, it will be in the capacity of a confidential informant. We can do this now, get it out of the way."

  "When does Asia get out of school?" Roger asked.

  "Three-thirty." Munch knew she shouldn't be surprised. Of course they knew about Asia. For that matter, these cops might have been Rico's friends—as in the who-needs-enemies variety. "If I could make a quick call, I'll arrange for someone to look after her, then l'm all yours."

  Chapman gave Munch some change and then walked her over to the pay phone in the hallway. She called Lou. As soon as her boss answered, she heard a second small click. It came as no surprise to her that the pay phone was bugged. She told Lou she would be late picking up Asia after school. He told her it wasn't a problem and asked if she was okay.

  "Yeah," she told him, "I'm just taking care of some unexpected business that came up."

  The two narcs took Munch into a larger room. This one was decorated with fake plants, a couch, and framed paintings on the walls. She was moving up, it seemed.

  For the second time that day, Munch was walked through the rules governing her status as a CI.

  "Are you willing to take a polygraph?" Chapman asked when she had signed and initialed all their documents.

  "Waste of time," Munch said.

  "Is that a yes or a no?" Chapman pressed.

  "Go ahead and hook me up," she said. She didn't have to look in a mirror to know her eyes were dry and flat. She heard it in her voice, too. Her emotions had leveled out to a slow steady burn. She knew how to feed off the energy her anger generated. Fire had been her plaything all her life, it seemed.

  They took her to another room where a polygraph examiner had set up his machine. A tube was run around her chest, and other sensors monitored pulse and respiration. She was instructed to limit her answers to yes and no. Munch nodded. She knew the rules. The examiner asked her if her name was Miranda Mancini.

  "Yes," she said.

  The examiner noted the movement of his needles across the readout tape. Chapman and Rodger watched over the guy's shoulder.

  "Ask me again," Munch said.

  "Is your name Miranda Mancini?"

  This time she answered, "No."

  Munch also didn't have to see to know that the movement of the needles was identical to when she'd given the opposite answer a moment ago. It was all about controlling the burn.

  The examiner looked at the detectives, obviously annoyed. "Do you want me to continue?"

  Chapman and Roger conferred in whispers. Two minutes later Munch had been unhooked from the machine. They returned t
o the room with the plants and the cops gave her some last-minute advice.

  "When you meet with these guys, be careful not to get caught in a lie," Chapman said. "Speak in vague, knowing terms."

  Munch knew this technique by another name, one that involved male bovines and their excrement.

  "Act like you know what's going on without being specific," Roger added. "Remember to shut up and let them fill in the silence. Any other questions?"

  "Will I get paid?"

  "We have a small discretionary fund for mercenaries," Chapman answered.

  Roger looked disappointed at the question.

  "I wouldn't ask," Munch said, "but the money I make at the gas station is based solely on commission and I've got bills."

  "But your motivations for doing this are as a good citizen, right?"

  Chapman let a touch of sarcasm emphasize his words.

  "I can be a good person and get paid. Wouldn't bother me a bit."

  "We'll work something out," Roger said. "But first we'll need a good-faith effort from you."

  "Like what?"

  "Be creative. Surprise us."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AFTER DROPPING ASIA OFF AT school, Munch drove over to Ellen's condo. It was Thursday. The mortuary was picking up Rico's body today and bringing it back to Santa Monica to prepare it for the viewing. Before leaving the house, she slipped on the ring he'd given her. It felt loose on her finger. One of many things that weren't fitting lately.

  Munch hadn't called ahead. She'd been hearing suspicious clicks on her home phone ever since she'd talked to the cops, and didn't want to alert them to her every move. Now she found herself praying that her friend was home. The building had a locked entrance and an intercom system. Munch pushed the button opposite the name E. SUMMERS and heard the beeps and tones of a phone number being dialed.

  "Can I come up?" Munch asked.

  "Are you alone? I don't quite have my face on yet."

  "I'm alone," Munch said. She needed to get used to saying that again.

  The buzzer sounded and Munch pushed the security gate open. Door-jà vu.

  Ellen's unit was at the end of a long courtyard, giving her an extra minute to prepare for her callers. When she came to the door, Munch was momentarily speechless. She wasn't used to her friend's honest colors. Barefoot and without the big hair, Ellen was only an inch or two taller than Munch.

  Ellen opened the door wide. "What are you waiting for, honey, Christmas?"

  "Excuse me, miss; have you seen my friend Ellen?"

  "Come on in, I'm getting kind of a late start today."

  Ellen's hairpieces adorned Styrofoam heads on a shelf in her closet. She had painted facial features on the forms so that they resembled a lineup of jack-o'-lantern hookers. Her bathroom looked like a closeout sale at a cosmetic factory.

  "How soon can you be ready?" Munch asked.

  "Depends. What did you have in mind?"

  "I want to drop in on some people from Rico's other life." She showed Ellen the address she'd found in Rico's pocket.

  "Hmm." Ellen stared into her closet. "Blond and brown, I think."

  She grabbed a long blond wig that practically screamed I'm a game puta, amigo. "You want me to do you, too?"

  "Nah, I might need the guy to recognize me."

  Thirty minutes later they left in Ellen's car. Their destination was in Venice, more specifically the Hispanic section. Munch knew the area well. In the seventies, she and a bunch of like—minded dopers had lived in an apartment building there which they had affectionately referred to as Tortilla Flats.

  The neighborhood hadn't changed much. V13's were spray painted on the block walls, the signature of the predominant Latino street gang. The small market across the street advertised masa harina, dried corn husks, and freshly baked pan dulce. The store was also running a special on chorizo. Munch used to love chorizo until she read the list of ingredients on the package. She didn't mind the chemicals, but the pig intestines was much more information than she wanted. Funny she should think of that now. That one of the perils of knowledge was delicious things turning unpalatable. The address they sought was in the three-hundred block of Hampton Drive between Rose and Sunset Avenues. They turned the corner on Rose to find the street jumping with action.

  "What's all this about?" Ellen asked.

  "I don't know," Munch said, "but that's our address."

  People trudged toward the house as if in the throes of some ancient Mayan dirge. They carried pots and platters of food and cases of soft drinks and beer. Black crepe paper hung from the door. Three pickup trucks with jacked-up suspension and Brahma bull horns fastened to the hoods were parked on the street directly in front, wheels half on the curb. The gun racks were empty, though probably not for long. Two of the trucks' license plates were Mexican. The third was Texan.

  Ellen parked halfway down the block, careful not to encroach on the neighboring community known as Ghost Town. There the Shoreline Crips ruled, and white people were only popular as targets. Munch and Ellen walked the remaining distance to the house.

  When they got to the yard, an ancient station wagon limped into the carport on mismatched tires. The engine expired with a few protesting knocks and the stench of unburned fuel. Munch immediately diagnosed the cause of the pre-ignition as a too-high idle speed. The idle was probably turned up to compensate for other problems, maybe something as simple as a broken piece of vacuum tubing or retarded timing. She was tempted to offer to have a look, but didn't think her help would go over too big in this neighborhood's macho environment.

  The woman driving directed kids of varying ages to carry in the bags of paper plates and plastic utensils stacked around them in the backseat. She opened the tailgate and steam rose from the food packed there.

  "Need some help with this?" Munch asked.

  "Gracias, " the woman said.

  "De nada, " Munch answered as she hefted a steamer full of tamales.

  Ellen followed with a white-frosted cake. "You ever crash a wake before?" she asked out of the side of her mouth.

  "Nope," Munch whispered back, as she climbed the steps to the front door. "An autopsy once. But this is a first."

  "Lead on, mi hermana. In for a peso, in for a pound."

  Folding tables in the backyard had been spread with cloths. Vases of handpicked flowers sat between three framed photographs of Latino men. Twenty or so votive candles burned quietly in front of the pictures and plaster busts of Jesus Malverde, the patron saint of drug smugglers.

  Rico had explained once that Jesus Malverde was a bandit who met his end as the twentieth century began. According to legend, he was something of a Robin Hood. Having the Mexican government put a price on his head had only improved his reputation. Peppy ballads—carridas—told of his martyrdom. Soon after his hanging, locals prayed to his bones and miracles had resulted: lost cows were found, fevers passed, and babies were born healthy.

  Jesus Malverde's shrine, built on his remains, was in Culiacan, the capital city of the Mexican state of Sinaloa. The saint's first apostles were the poor highland residents, the classes from which the current crop of drug traffickers emerged. Now offerings were made for a safe drug run north, a bountiful marijuana harvest, and not to be shot again.

  Munch had asked Rico what the church thought of this narco-saint. He had shrugged and said, You have to remember, it's different down there. Sure, the priests hate that a man who robbed and killed is deified. But what can they do? The people are poor and the police and government are corrupt. Who should their heroes be?

  Munch set the food on the counter in the kitchen, then went out to the backyard to get a closer look at the men in the pictures while Ellen helped arrange the food.

  She waited her turn behind young tattooed men with shaved heads. They wore their street uniforms: pressed white T-shirts, creased khaki pants, and thick wool Pendleton overshirts with only the top button fastened. The men genuflected and kissed the religious meda
ls hanging from chains around their necks as they passed the memorial.

  Two surly pit bulls watched morosely from behind the chicken wire defining their run. A spring pole used to strengthen the dogs' bite-and-shake muscles hung from a cross beam on a sturdy chain. White foamy drool hung from the dogs' open mouths and strands of glossy mucus looped over their snouts. Munch didn't think the fencing surrounding their small pen thick enough to hold the beasts if they really wanted out.

  She walked slowly past the pictures. She didn't recognize the two Hispanic men on either end, but the middle picture was all too familiar.

  Rico.

  It's a trick. It's all a trick, she reminded herself. Simultaneously another voice in her head told her not to kid herself. It was true. Not only was Rico really dead, but these people were mourning him as one of their own.

  "Hey, I know you," a man's voice spoke.

  She turned. "Do you?"

  "Yeah, I seen you with Enrique. You had that pretty dog. The cocker."

  "Okay, yeah. I remember you now. You had the pit bull."

  He touched his nose. "I'm Chicken."

  She pointed to Rico's and the other men's pictures. "What happened?"

  "Were you Enrique's querida?"

  "More than that." She held up her hand to show off her diamond ring. "We were getting married."

  Chicken seemed surprised at the news, but recovered quickly.

  "I'm sorry, chica. You should meet this varón over here." Out of the corner of his mouth, in a confidential whisper, Chicken added, "He's just in from Mexico."

  Munch nodded, as if this meant something to her.

  Chicken seemed pleased to have impressed her as he pointed at a solidly built hombre standing by a statue of the Virgin. If the Mexican were a biker, they'd call him something like Tiny, just to make a joke of the obvious. Only he didn't have the beer gut and slovenly hygiene of scooter trash. His fancy cowboy boots added another inch to his impressive build.