Unwilling Accomplice - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "You called the cops already?"

  "They won’t do anything until she’s missing at least a day. The worthless fucks, but what are you going to do? So much for my tax dollars."

  Munch didn’t get a big picture of Lisa filing a 1040. She was probably referring to sales tax.

  "Lisa, it’s not like she’s a toddler. Teenagers do play hooky sometimes. I know you did."

  "Char’s not like that, and she didn’t run away. Nothing is missing from her room. You don’t know this kid. She never misses a beat, everything’s gotta be just so. She’s kinda fanatical like that. Besides, if she was going to split, she’d take her Doc Martens and her music."

  Munch thought about her own police connections. Mace St. John was in homicide and Rico--Rico was out of the question. "Lisa, it’s too soon to freak out. Wait until school’s out. She’ll probably come home pretending she was there all day."

  "Why won’t anyone listen to me? Something’s wrong. A mother knows."

  "I knew something was wrong the minute I saw her. " Munch looked at the Peg-Board full of work orders and briefly debated the value of expressing her honest reactions to Lisa and then decided to go for it. "I understand that you’re upset, but where do you get off acting surprised?"

  "Are you going to help me or not?"

  Munch sighed. This was how it always started. She pinched the bridge of her nose between two grease-stained fingers. "If she doesn’t come home by tonight, give me a call."

  Lisa hung up without telling Munch to have a nice day.

  Munch stared at the phone for a moment then dialed Mace St. John’s number. She had met Mace St. John in a biker bar in Venice. It was February 12, 1977. She remembered the date because it was her last day drinking and using. He was a homicide cop, there to arrest her for the murder of her father, Flower George. Now he was her friend. He’d married her former probation officer Caroline Rhinehart, and the two of them were Asia’s godparents. So much had changed. The only thing that hadn’t changed was that Flower George was still dead. Thank God. George Mancini was the kind of guy you wanted to dig up so you could shoot him again.

  Munch was surprised when St. John personally answered the phone. "West L.A. Detectives."

  "Slow day?"

  "I’m not complaining," he said. "What’s up?"

  "Asia’s aunt and two cousins have moved back to town."

  "She’s got an aunt? You never said."

  "Yeah, well, I never expected to hear from her again. She went into the witness protection program. I always thought that was a lifetime commitment."

  "Not necessarily. What’s her name?"

  "Lisa Slokum. She might have gone back to her maiden name, Garillo." Munch looked up as Lou emerged from his office. Lou mimed lifting a coffee cup to his lips and pointed to her. She pantomimed back, Make it a tall one. "She’s got two kids, girls. The older one is fifteen and Lisa thinks she’s gone missing."

  "Thinks?"

  "Apparent1y the kid didn’t make it to school this morning."

  "Fifteen you said?"

  "Yeah."

  "Any signs of foul play?"

  "Not that she said. She’s claiming maternal instinct, but June Cleaver she’s not."

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

  "Nothing to do, right? Not till the kid’s been gone for a while?"

  "Well, yes and no. Just to be prepared, you might want to tell the mother to locate the most recent photo of . . . what’s the missing girl’s name?"

  "Charlotte. I’ll tell her. Thanks."

  "What’s his face hasn’t called, has he?"

  St. John was of course referring to Rico the Dumper, aka He Who Must Do the Right Thing When an Old Girlfriend Shows Up Pregnant. "No, I didn’t even get the wedding invitation. Where did the happy couple register? Condoms-R-Us? No, too late for that." They’d probably had the kid by now.

  "So you haven't heard?"

  "What?"

  "I don’t know the whole story" he said. "I stopped in at the Pacific Division Station last week and ran into Art Becker. "

  Art Becker had been Rico Chacon’s partner when Rico had first moved to Los Angeles. He was also Rico’s partner when Rico and she fell in love and was still his partner when Rico broke her heart. "And how was Art baby?"

  "Good. Maybe I shouldn’t say any more."

  "Oh, no, you don’t. What do you know?"

  "Turns out Kathy was never pregnant and the wedding never happened."

  Munch felt a funny buzzing in her ears and shooting sensations of heat radiated up her back. The feelings weren’t entirely unpleasant, but then neither is that first second when scalding coolant contacts your flesh. In that first instant of getting burned, you can’t even tell if the water is hot or cold. The blisters that form later are always a big clue.

  "Munch?"

  "I'm still here."

  "The guy’s an asshole any way you look at it."

  "I know. I was there, remember?"

  "Yeah, but I know how women are. They get stupid over this kind of thing."

  "I'm not most women."

  "You don’t have to tell me."

  Munch smiled at the left-handed compliment. St. John couldn’t know that one of her secret beliefs was that other women, normal women, had very different instincts from her when it came to life issues, especially those concerning men. Some women were looking for a man to take care of them. She was more interested in the kind of guy who wouldn’t get in the way of her doing her own thing.

  "Thanks for the heads-up," she said, and instantly regretted using the phrase. You give the guys at work a line like that and you were opening yourself up for a comeback like "That’s what she said." To which her only response could be to walk away. Fortunately, St. Iohn wasn’t that kind of guy at least not to her.

  She hung up and considered calling her AA sponsor, Ruby, but she had already spent too much time on personal business. It was time to get to work.

  ***

  Come midday, she was on the gas island imprinting a credit card when some man spoke to her over the tops of the cars getting their tanks filled.

  "You should be ashamed," he said.

  She didn’t know who he was, but he was looking right at her when he spoke.

  "You’re taking advantage, holding me hostage," he said.

  A lady in a Buick stopped putting on her lipstick to listen. The guy gestured to a Chevy Impala that had been towed in an hour earlier. Munch put it together now. The guy needed a

  new starter.

  "You’re ripping me off," he said, louder than was necessary to reach her ears, but he was playing to an audience. "Eighty dollars for a new starter, forty dollars to put it in. You people are crooks."

  She could have explained to him that he was in Brentwood.

  That in an upscale neighborhood everything costs more, from gasoline to rent. That on whatever planet he came from the cost of a starter and solenoid might be cheaper. She could have suggested he go to the Chevy dealer if he thought her station’s prices were unreasonable. No dealership would offer him a rebuilt unit, and they got a hundred and thirty for the part new. Never mind the labor.

  But this guy was obviously just interested in being a jackass, was pissed off at having to spend unplanned money and was venting his frustration by embarrassing her. She finished imprinting the credit card, put the slip on a small clipboard, and faced the guy.

  "You’re going to have to pay in cash," she said. Since he was already being a big poop butt, she wasn’t going to give him an opportunity to stop payment on a check or refuse the charge on his credit card bill.

  He didn’t like that either and walked away in a huff. Munch resisted the temptation to move the guy’s job to the front of the line so as to be rid of him faster. She didn’t believe the nicer, patient customers should be penalized for not being obnoxious.

  As it turned out, he was out of there an hour later, much to everyone's relief.

  At four-thirty the school bus dro
pped off Asia at the corner in front of the gas station. At five Munch called Lisa.

  "Still no word," Lisa said. "I’m going nuts."

  "l need to go home and check on the dog. If you want, we’ll come over and help you look."

  "It’ll be dark by then."

  "l’m sure she’s been out after dark before." Judging from the girl’s punk—goth look, she probably preferred it.

  ***

  Jasper was waiting at the front window when Munch and Asia arrived home. His whimpers of delight sounded as if he were in pain with pleasure. Munch remembered making similar noises with Rico.

  She and Asia sank to the floor with Jasper and indulged him with ear scratching and words of reassurance that he was the best dog ever and they had missed him, too. The fur on his muzzle below each eye was darkened with streaks of moisture.

  "He’s been crying," Asia said, using her white Catholic-school-uniform shirt to wipe the dog’s face dry.

  Munch went into the kitchen to check the answering machine.

  "Mom," Asia called from the living room, "come here quick. You’ve got to see this."

  A stack of their shoes was piled next to where Jasper had stood vigil at the front window. They hadn’t been chewed, but judging by the strands of red-gold hair and indentations on the tops, he had lain on the shoes for hours.

  "Aww," Asia said. "He wanted to smell us." She pulled him into a hug. "Don’t worry, boy, we’re never leaving you. Ever. "

  Jasper gave Munch a bloodshot, woeful look.

  "You’re going to be high-maintenance, aren’t you?" she said.

  He squirmed free from Asia and rolled on his back, hind legs flopping apart. She hoped he wasn’t the kind of dog who did that in public every chance he got.

  Munch pushed PLAY on the answering machine. Lisa’s fatalistic-sounding voice reported that Charlotte had still not surfaced. Munch called her back, got directions to her house, and promised to be over as soon as she had changed from her work clothes.

  Munch and Asia brought Jasper with them. He’d already proven himself to be a good car dog. When he wasn’t looking out the window, he curled up quietly in Asia’s lap. And when they arrived at Lisa’s ground-floor apartment in Palms, Jasper never strayed farther than two feet from his new family.

  Munch liked that he didn’t need a leash. Mace St. John's dogs, which she sometimes watched, couldn’t be trusted not to gallop off to points unknown. Especially Brownie the hunter, who would chase a rabbit into the briars, thorns be damned.

  Lisa was waiting for them on the concrete stoop. She wore black leggings, an oversize man’s shirt, and tennis shoes with no socks. There were tears in her beady little eyes.

  "Did you eat?" Munch asked.

  "Not yet."

  Munch handed her a McDonald’s bag filled with an order identical to the ones she and Asia had just consumed. Big Mac and fries for Lisa, a Chicken McNuggets Happy Meal for Jill.

  Once inside, Jill immediately took Asia in hand. The two of them plopped down on the lone piece of furniture in the front room, a beanbag chair. Jasper chewed burrs loose from his front paws as the girls watched MTV on a stack of televisions.

  The top set provided the picture, the bottom unit the sound. Janet Jackson strutted in black leather and pumped her fists while demanding to know, "What have you done for me lately?"

  Munch scanned the room. Lisa’s homemaking abilities hadn’t improved any over the years. A stack of blankets and two pillows were in the corner under a floor lamp with three metal, cone-shaped shades—two of which dangled loose from their pivot plates. Neo-Dumpster motif. Someone was reading a Danielle Steele novel—Munch preferred Ken Follet or James Michener, or whatever abridged versions Reader’s Digest Condensed Books sent for the month. The carpet needed vacuuming. Lisa was probably waiting for someone to throw away a Hoover that still sort of worked.

  "May I?" Munch asked, pointing toward the hallway leading to the other rooms.

  Lisa shrugged. "I don’t know what you think you’re going to find."

  "I don’t either." Munch glanced back at Asia and decided she was safe enough for the moment.

  The first bedroom was obviously Jill’s, decorated with a jumble of color and bright plastic. Hello Kitty and Disney characters adorned the walls. Clothes almost covered the floor. The second bedroom was smaller and darker and suited the missing girl. There was no third bedroom.

  Instead of taking one of the rooms for herself and making the kids share, Lisa chose to sleep on the floor.

  Charlotte’s walls were covered with punk-rock posters of bands that had taken a darkened and perverted twist on the sixties and seventies celebration of dope and free love. The bands’ names said it all: Suicidal Tendencies; Black Flag; Circle Jerks. Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols glared with violent malevolence from the glossy depths of their two-by-four rectangles of immortality. Rock ’n’ roll was going downhill.

  Charlotte’s bed was a mattress on the floor. The blankets were askew. A hair dryer was plugged into the top socket of the outlet next to her bed. A boom-box cord utilized the bottom socket. Her clothes were folded neatly in two plastic milk crates. In fact, on closer inspection every item in the room, with exception of the bedcovers, showed a keen attention to symmetry. The posters were arranged in neat rows, the cassettes in even stacks. Four glass thermometers in their plastic cases lay parallel on top of one of the clothing crates.

  "What’s this about?" Munch asked, pointing to the thermometers.

  Lisa shrugged. "Kids."

  Munch felt bad about invading the girl’s space. It seemed to be about all she had. A narrow track of the carpet between the door and closet was worn to the wood beneath. The expression someone’s walking on my grave came unbidden to her mind. They used to say that all the time back in the day, but she hadn’t said or thought it for years. Must be Lisa’s influence, pulling out the old memories. She shook it off.

  "You got any recent pictures of Charlotte?"

  "No," Lisa said, around bites from her burger, "we couldn’t find that box."

  Munch considered again the sparsely furnished apartment.

  Apparently many boxes had gone "astray." "Maybe the school would?" Munch stepped into the room and saw no desk. What would St. John be looking for? she wondered.

  Lisa brushed shredded lettuce from her shirt. "Yeah, she said something about working on the yearbook."

  "How long have you been back?"

  "You mean in L.A.?"

  Munch made note of the stall and waited for Lisa’s answer.

  "About a year, but we’ve moved a few times."

  Munch picked up a cassette by the Dead Kennedys with their current hit, "Too Drunk to Fuck." That made her smile. Been there. Now the opposite was true. Too sober to fuck. Hell, she could barely dance sober.

  She put down the tape and stood in front of a Boy George poster as he poutingly asked, "Do you really want to hurt me?" Yes, she thought, and felt herself take a firm step toward the next generation, the older one who "just didn’t get kids these days."

  Munch opened the closet and found it no wider than the door. Three pairs of identical black jeans hung from white plastic hangers. The shelf above the clothes dowel held two pairs of high-top tennis shoes, the favored black Doc Martens boots, a blender, two blackened bananas, and a jar of protein powder.

  "Look at this shit," Lisa said. "She’s gonna bring ants."

  Munch didn’t answer. Ants were the least of their worries.

  True to form, a marinade of denial and non-responsibility Lisa had to keep pretending that she was a normal mother faced with middle-class problems.

  Munch pulled down a boot, surprised at its weight. She reached inside, closing her fingers around the neck of a glass bottle.

  "What’s that?" Lisa asked.

  "Vodka."

  "Oh, God," Lisa said, a fat, bloated hand moving theatrically to her throat. "She shouldn’t have that."

  Munch reached into the other boot an
d pulled out a month's worth of birth control pills. The ring dispenser was still full.

  "I got her those," Lisa said proudly.

  "She hasn’t taken any."

  "She doesn’t like how they blow her up. Says she'd rather just not have sex. I said, 'Whatever.' I just want her to break the chain, you know?"

  The chain of unwed mothers, teenage pregnancy crime, and poverty? Or poor housekeeping and hygiene? Munch wondered. She was starting to question if bringing Charlotte home was the right thing after all.

  "Here’s how I know something’s wrong," Lisa said.

  Munch followed her into the kitchen. Lisa opened the refrigerator and produced a brown cardboard box. She opened it and showed Munch the rows of glass bottles with rubber tops.

  "Her insulin. She can’t go more than twenty-four hours without it. Now do you think I’m overreacting?"

  "She’s diabetic?"

  "Yeah, it’s been a real bitch, too."

  "What did the cops say when you told them that?"

  "Uh, they, uh. . ."

  "You did tell them, right?"

  "I’m not sure."

  "That should have been the first thing you said. What’s the matter with you?"

  "Fuck them anyway" Lisa said. "We don’t need their help."

  Munch pulled three vials from the cardboard box.

  "What are you doing?" Lisa asked.

  "I’m taking these with me."

  "It has to be kept refrigerated and you'll need these." Lisa rummaged through a drawer under the counter and produced a handful of individually wrapped syringes. Munch froze. She was allergic to needles and drugs; they were liable to make her break out in addiction. This is different, she told herself. This is medicine.

  "How will I know how much to give her?"

  Lisa handed Munch an insulin test kit of a lancet and strips.

  "She knows what she needs."

  "Write me a letter authorizing me to act as your agent."

  Munch said.

  "My what? "

  "I’m going to go to the school and try to get a picture of Charlotte. They’re not gonna want to help me without your say-so. You should be here in case she comes back or calls. Where does she go to hang out?"

  "Don’t you think I would have looked?" Lisa said. "Be1ieve me, no one’s seen her because she didn’t leave on her own."