No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  He shuddered at the image of a group of methfueled neo-Nazis armed with automatic weapons and explosives. If they didn't get a handle on this one fast, the streets were going to run with blood. It had already started.

  When he got back to the station, he gave Deputy Tom Moody a call.

  "I just got the picture of your John Doe," Moody said after Blackstone identified himself.

  "I've got a name to go with the picture," Blackstone said. "Jonathan Garillo."

  "How'd you ID him so fast? Get lucky with the prints?"

  "No, some woman came to the coroner's office while we were doing the autopsy She wrote his name on a piece of paper before she fled the scene."

  "Who was she?"

  "We're still working on that. We were able to lift some words off the paper she left us. One of them was Canyonville."

  Blackstone heard Moody suck and inhale. He pictured the sheriff holding a pipe and staring thoughtfully out his window. "What else?" Moody asked. "Inventory and the words ace boon coon. Ring any bells?"

  "Nah, that's a new one on me. Inventory could be something interesting?

  "That's what I thought. This Jonathan Garillo might have hung with bikers."

  "Yeah, we got some of those assholes up here," Moody said. "Gypsy Jokers, Hessians, all your Bay Area rejects."

  "I think this all ties into a bigger investigation," Blackstone said. "Last month the Kern County National Guard Armory was burglarized. The thieves made off with explosives and weapons."

  "Yeah," Moody said, " know all about it. M-l4s started showing up here three weeks ago. I notified the feds."

  "So you're working together?" Blackstone asked.

  Moody's laugh was bitter. "They told me to stay out of their way: In other words, fuck you very much."

  "Well, maybe we can help each other," Blackstone said.

  "Sounds good to me," Moody said. "Goddamn feds are dragging their heels."

  Blackstone promised to stay in touch and hung up. Alex stuck his head in the doorway " got through to that doctor in Palm Springs," he said, "the one that owns the apartment building on Hampton. He told me that unit number six was rented to a guy named John Garillo."

  "So maybe we got a case of mistaken identity," Blackstone said, "and Garillo was the target all along. "

  "I called Jeff," Alex said, "and told him to compare the bullets from the Garillo case with the double in Venice. He says hell do the best he can. Too bad the feds kept the other bullets."

  "We'll just have to work around that." Blackstone drew another circle, one large enough to accommodate both victims' names: Ruiz/Guzman. He drew a line connecting the victims, then backtracked through his notes. The Ruiz woman's boss, the bakery owner, had mentioned a white woman at the scene with him—a woman with a baby He made a note to show the man the mug shot of Lisa Slokum. Then he tapped his pencil point on Jane Dirty Nails's circle. Or could it be her?

  15

  CLAIRE DONAVON thought that the file room of the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood was one of the most comprehensive in the nation as well as the most orderly. Referred to as the catacombs, it was located in the basement, three floors underground. Bright fluorescent lights kept the labyrinth of hallways lined with filing cabinets in a state of perpetual brightness.

  The personnel files were arranged alphabetically and cross-referenced by profession. They included quarterly evaluations, original applications, and psychological reviews, and were full of interesting asides that often proved invaluable. Today she was interested in city employees. Her operatives watching the house in Inglewood had made note of the license plate of Lisa Slokum's visitor. From there it had been an easy matter to come up with a name. Not surprisingly Lisa Slokum's caller—the woman who had already caused them problems—had a record and was on probation. Useful.

  The file the FBI agent thumbed through now caused her to smile. Before becoming a probation officer, Mrs. Olivia Scott had applied to six different law enforcement agencies—another wannabe. The woman would be no problem at all. Before she left, Claire Donavon looked up one more file and then headed for Santa Monica.

  It took less than three minutes from the time Claire entered the Santa Monica Courthouse building to when she was seated across the desk from the probation officer.

  "FBI?" Mrs. Scott said, lingering the embossed business card. "You know, when I was your age they didn't allow women to be field agents in the FBI."

  "That's a shame," Claire said. "The agency cheated itself out of many wonderful applicants."

  Mrs. Scott had applied in '68, but Claire didn't disclose that she knew this. She never tipped her hand when it wasn't necessary

  "I'll help any way I can. Anything you need"—Olivia Scott leaned closer and lowered her voice—"any way you need it handled. You'll find me most cooperative."

  Claire smiled. " appreciate that. A case I'm working on involves one of your clients."

  "I don't believe in coddling these people," Olivia Scott said. "Half of them—and I'm being generous with that statistic—should never have been allowed back on the streets. They're animals. Who is it that you're interested in?"

  "Miranda Mancini."

  "Really?"

  "You sound surprised."

  "I shouldn't," she said. "Nothing in this business should surprise me. I just thought . . . never mind. What has she done?"

  "I wish I could disclose that to you."

  "I understand," the probation officer said, disappointment showing clearly on her face. "Just tell me what you need."

  "Let's start with her file and the terms of her probation."

  "Certainly" Mrs. Scott turned to her filing cabinet. "Our clients," she said the word as if it tasted foul, "have no rights in regards to search and seizure. I can draw up a warrant and have it at her work in forty minutes. I don't believe in coddling these people."

  "Yes," Claire said. "You mentioned that."

  * * *

  At mid-morning, Munch lifted the Dodge Dart's rear tire off its studs. Her mind wasn't on her work. She balanced the tire on her knee for a second and then set it on the floor. She took a deep breath, held it, and then wrestled off the brake drum. Asbestos dust swirled around her head. At one point, she had taken to wearing a surgical mask when she worked on brakes. Then one day she caught herself lifting the mask to take a drag from her cigarette and realized she was being ridiculous.

  "Does he need them?" Jack yelled from the office. She leaned forward and studied the lining of the brake shoes. "Yeah, he's almost to the rivets."

  "I'll call him," Jack said.

  A moment later he reemerged. "You got it," he said. " ordered your parts."

  "Uh, Jack?" she asked.

  "Yeah?"

  "What would you think about me bringing a baby to work?"

  "Are you pregnant?"

  "No," she said quickly "It's my uh, goddaughter."

  "You got a goddaughter?" he asked.

  "Yeah, it's a recent development. Anyway I was wondering if she could like tag along while I was working.

  "How old is she?"

  "Six months. If I set up her crib in the—"

  "Stop right there," he said, holding up his hand. "A garage is no place for a baby What were you thinking?"

  She was thinking there were worse places, but said nothing. His expression told her that nothing she could say would affect his decision. She recognized stubborn. It had been a stupid idea anyway Why hadn't she realized that when she rehearsed the pitch earlier? Time for plan two.

  "I need to take a few days off," she said.

  "When?" he asked.

  "I was hoping the rest of the week."

  "Is anything wrong?"

  "I just have some things I need to take care of."

  "Check with Lou," he said.

  She looked across the lot and saw the other mechanic, Lou, shaking hands with a teenage boy He flashed her a grin and walked over to her.

  "I'm thinking of taking some vacation time,"
she said when he joined her.

  "What did Jack say?"

  "He said I should check with you."

  "I'm taking a week in December," he said. "When did you want to go?"

  "Now."

  "Kind of sudden, isn't it?"

  "Just tell me yes or no."

  "Geez, so go. I was just asking. You don't need to bite my head off." He fanned a Fistful of twenties at her. " sold the Impala," he said. They had bought the car together last month when the owner couldn't afford to repair it. Lou had bought a used transmission, and she had installed it. After some minor cosmetic improvements, they painted "$600" on the windshield in white shoe polish and parked the Chevy on the corner, taking care to wash off the grime that settled on the paint job every couple days.

  "You get our price?" she asked.

  "And he paid cash."

  "That's my favorite kind of money" She held out her hand, and he counted out her cut—fifteen twenty—dollar bills.

  "So what are you going to do?" he asked.

  "Do?"

  "On your vacation. Are you going anywhere special?"

  "I have some stuff I need to take care of," she said.

  "Well, have fun."

  "Oh, yeah. Nothing but."

  Just before lunch, as she was washing up, Jack knocked on the door to the back room. "Are you decent?" he asked.

  She dried her hands. "It's open."

  He came in and sat on a case of coolant bottles. He watched her for a moment and then asked, "So you'll be back Monday?"

  "Yeah."

  "You aren't in any kind of trouble, are you?"

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "Can't I just take a little time off without everyone giving me the third degree?"

  "Relax. I'm just concerned," he said. " know you've had some shake-ups lately I told Lou—"

  She sighed. Anyone who said women gossiped obviously hadn't spent time around a bunch of men. "No offense, Jack, but I really wish you'd keep out of my personal life."

  He stood without saying another word and left. She watched him go, saw the slump of his shoulders and the shake of his head. She almost called after him to tell him never mind, that it was all right, but she didn't. She had a right to her privacy after all, and not to be the subject of their speculations. There was caring and there was interfering. Jack needed to learn those limits.

  When she stepped out of the back room, she saw Mrs. Scott pulling into the shop's driveway Another woman followed in a separate car. Both women parked in the adjoining lot, side by side. Neither smiled or reacted when an eighteen-wheeler behind them applied its air brakes. Munch felt a momentary weakness flash through her legs and then straightened her back. What was the worse they could do, kill her and eat her? Screw 'em.

  The two women exited their cars. Mrs. Scott beckoned Munch to her with an imperious linger. Munch dusted herself off and approached slowly "What's up?"

  Mrs. Scott smiled thinly "Special Agent Donavon has some questions for you."

  Special Agent? Munch set her face in a blank expression, neither bored nor worried, and waited. The FBI agent turned to Mrs. Scott. " hope you don't mind, but I need to speak to Ms. Mancini alone."

  Mrs. Scott minded very much, Munch saw as the probation officer walked stiffly back to her car It probably killed her to be so close to the action and shut out. Munch would trade places with her in a heartbeat. She turned to Special Agent Donavon.

  "Will this take long? I'm pretty busy"

  The agent looked around before speaking. "You like working here?"

  Was there some sort of implied threat in her tone?

  "I guess. Pays well, the people are nice." What did she want?

  "What was your relationship with Jonathan Garillo?"

  Munch forced her face not to twitch. "He's someone I used to know"

  "Did he visit you before he died?"

  "Yes. He came to see me the day he was killed."

  She figured she wasn't telling this woman anything she didn't already know

  "What did he say to you?"

  The shadow from the semi hadn't moved. There was no parking on Sepulveda Boulevard and the light should have changed by now Movement out the passenger-side window caught her attention. A man's arm, clothed in a black leather motorcycle Jacket, reached out. The hand adjusted the side mirror, which jiggled in time to the diesel rig's idle. She saw the passengers garbled reflection and realized that he was watching her. She couldn't make out his face, only that he had reddish hair and wore mirrored sunglasses.

  "Ms. Mancini?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I asked you what the two of you spoke about."

  Munch looked back at the agent. "Not much. He wanted me to come hang out with him. I told him I didn't associate with his kind anymore. That I was on probation"

  "Did he give you anything?"

  "Just a hard time," Munch said. The woman didn't smile.

  The hand retreated from the window and then returned. This time it waved something. A pink flag. No, not a flag. She saw the sleeves, the feet at the bottom of the pant legs. It was a baby's romper. Asia's romper. The one she had been wearing the night before.

  "You've never done federal time, have you? Mrs. Scott is fully prepared to assist me in any way I choose. For instance, if someone were in my way interfering with an investigation, and she could put that person away for thirty days . . ."

  Munch knew this power game only too well. This was the part where she was supposed to roll over and show her soft underbelly She cast her eyes down and let her shoulders slump. "Please don't do that. I haven't done anything wrong." She gave the agent a hopeful, tentative smile back, hoping she'd buy the act.

  "I don't want to hurt you," Claire Donavon said. " want to feel that you're doing everything you can to be a good citizen." She put a hand on Munch's shoulder. Anyone observing their exchange would think they were getting along just line. "But if I find out you've been fucking with me," the FBI agent continued, smiling with only her mouth, "I'll nail your little ass to the wall."

  "You will, huh?" Munch blinked once, feeling the anger rush up her neck, making her fist clench. She shrugged off the agent's hand, hoping the guy in the eighteen-wheeler was watching. "Why don't you take your best shot, bitch, and spare me the bullshit."

  Claire Donavon studied Munch for a long minute and then beckoned to Mrs. Scott. "Your client has just told me that she's been associating with known felons. I believe that violates the terms of her probation."

  Mrs. Scott produced a pair of handcuffs. Munch glanced at the semi, heard the thunk of gears shifting.

  The truck groaned as its brakes released. She didn't look over in her co-workers' direction. She didn't want a last image of the expressions in their eyes as she was manacled and placed in the back seat of Mrs. Scott's car.

  The drive to jail seemed to take no time at all.

  16

  That evening, when Blackstone got home, he studied his living quarters from Claire Donavon's eyes. Would she appreciate his strategic location? Or would she wrinkle her nose at the proximity of the freight trains and the looming profile of the downtown office buildings?

  His mail was mostly junk. He put it to use lighting a fire in what had formerly been used as an incinerator but now served as his fireplace. The high ceiling and open floor plan of the converted brewery made it difficult to heat, but he wanted Claire to be comfortable. This was a calculated sacrifice to his own comfort. And later, if his loft got too warm, he could always crack open the skylight transom directly over his bed.

  Again, he surveyed the room through the eyes of his visitor. Everyone's first impression was always how unobstructed his space was. It was the cathedral ceilings and the absence of inner walls, he knew. The color scheme also enhanced the room's natural simplicity. What walls weren't brick or steel, he'd painted white. The arched ceiling was blond pine and a masterpiece of engineering that eliminated the need for center beams. Instead, the roof was supported by an intricate network of col
lar braces and crown supports that ran the length of the building and resembled the skeleton of an overturned ship. She would like it, he decided.

  While the room heated, he retired to the small but efficient kitchen in the corner space beneath his bedroom loft to make ready for his guest. Sink, stove, and refrigerator were all within easy reach of each other. A butcher-block counter sat atop a storage area. Filling a teakettle with water, he set it on a medium flame. Then he laid out the tea bags, sugar, and two cups. They would eat at the counter, he decided, and set two places. Arranging the plates, napkins, and silverware just right seemed to take him an extraordinarily long time. He checked his watch. He hadn't even showered and changed. He should have told her to come later.

  He rushed through his shower, barely taking the time to dry himself. His chinos stuck to his legs as he tried to pull them over his still-damp skin, and the first two shirts he put on were all wrong. Without even realizing it, he had strapped on his gun belt over his pants. Six-fifteen found him standing before his open armoire, undecided what to do with his weapon. He usually kept the two-inch Smith & Wesson Chief Special in the holster at the base of his spine or beside his bed next to the phone. Surely this evening would not be one of those occasions that required deadly force. He slid off his belt, putting the gun in the pocket of his coat, then refolded a shirt he'd disturbed and pulled a sweater on.

  Twenty minutes later, he heard the dogs. His only neighbor was a dog kennel and the boarders there always let him know when a car approached his gate. Their chorus of frantic yelping now told him that his guest had arrived

  "I'm sorry I'm late," Claire said when he opened the door.

  "Did you get lost?" he asked, taking the bag of Chinese takeout from her arms.