Unwilling Accomplice - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "My mother always says that the kids won’t starve to death, you just have to wait them out." Nancy Reagan red.

  "Bribing them gets too expensive." Volunteer lady

  "Especially as they get older." Young and earnest.

  "Thank God school has started." Business suit.

  "I’m in my car eight hours a day." Volunteer lady. "Traffic seems to get worse every month."

  "Any store that delivers gets my vote. I even have my dog food brought to the door. " European accent.

  "Mobile Pet Supply?" asked the lady whose top Munch had complimented. "They stopped answering their phone. I think they went out of business. I’m not surprised. Their prices were entirely too reasonable, they had to be losing money. "

  All eyes riveted on the last speaker and all mouths opened at once. Even the men stalled in their perusing to look over. The verbal free-for-all coalesced into one important question

  and Munch was there to ask it.

  "Have you all used that service? Recently?"

  The room grew quiet, not the quiet of silence, but that hushed reverence of breakthrough as one by one each of the women nodded affirmation.

  "Let me go tell Detective Chacon." Munch’s cheeks almost hurt from her huge smile as she climbed the stairs. She felt like a kid running to show off to the teacher and slowed her gait so she wouldn’t arrive at his desk out of breath.

  When she got to the second floor, Lisa was sitting on the bench with her hands behind her back. A uniformed cop helped her to her feet and Munch saw that Lisa was in handcuffs.

  "Can you believe this shit?" Lisa asked. "Who’s supposed to take care of my kids?"

  "Don’t worry about that," Munch said. "I’m on it. What’s going on here?"

  "They wanted me to take a lie detector test and I told them to blow it out their ass. I’m the victim here."

  Munch threw her hands in the air. "Oh, for crying out loud."

  Chapter 8

  Munch stormed to Rico’s desk. "What’s going on?"

  He acted unperturbed, but Munch knew to look at the small muscles on the sides of his jaws. They quivered when he was angry. They were quiet now, but Munch also knew that the flatness to his eyes meant he'd put up his shields. A fine film of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  She remembered how he seemed to run a few degrees hotter than most. She also remembered liking the moist warmth of his skin, once upon a time.

  "She has warrants," he said.

  "Her kid is missing. Why would you even run a check?"

  "She’s not being completely truthful."

  "Imagine that."

  "I’m trying to help," he said.

  "How is busting her helping?"

  "She left me no choice."

  His crooked nose that she once thought gave his face character now just looked damaged.

  "Have you always been like this," she asked, "or did I just never notice before? Where is your heart?" Sometimes he was such a cop.

  "If she were more cooperative, this would never have happened. It’s out of my hands now."

  Munch shook her head in disgust and then remembered what she had come upstairs to tell him. "Write this in your book: Mobile Pet Supply All the victims used the service recently and now it seems to be out of business. Their prices were—get this—'too good to be true.'"

  "How did they come to use it? Is it a storefront? Where is it located? What sort of vehicle was used for the deliveries? What’s the owner’s name?"

  "That’s your job to find out. What were Lisa’s warrants for?"

  "Traffic violations. Failure to appear."

  "Is there bail?"

  "Eventually. That’s up to the judge."

  Munch looked at the clock. It was close to three. She needed to get over to Lisa’s house and be there when Jill got home. "Am I free to go or did you want me to blow in a Breathalyzer?"

  "You’re free to do whatever you want. Thanks for calling me and all your help."

  She gathered up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. She had so many immediate decisions to make. Should she slam out of there in a huff or hold her head high and walk away with dignity? If he watched her butt retreating, did she want to swish it at him? And what message was she intending to send? All these thoughts came to her in the second it took to unhook her purse from the chair, then he laid them all to waste.

  "My mom died." The words sort of blurted from his mouth and he looked as surprised as she was at their utterance.

  "When?"

  "In June. June third."

  "I didn’t know she was sick. I’m sorry."

  "It was sudden. A brain aneurysm. Anyway that’s part of the reason I didn’t call. He took her back to Mexico to bury her. My dad has been taking it really hard. It never occurred to any

  of us that she might go first."

  Women, Munch had noticed, adapted easier to surviving. Men tended to react as if they had been cheated somehow.

  "I wish I'd known," she said.

  She’d never met the woman but pictured her as a tough old matriarch. By American standards, Rico had once conceded, she would have been considered a child abuser. Rico’s father had left her in Mexico with six sons and a daughter while he set up a new home for them in America. She had ruled the small house she built herself with humorless and violent proficiency.

  "I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me," he said. "You made yourself pretty clear on that point."

  "Well, yeah, you told me you were going to marry Kathy. I didn’t think that left much room for us." Besides, the issue of Rico having more kids had been raised, an arena in which she could never compete, having rendered herself infertile in the bad old days. Men wanted sons, at least one. It was better to leave things as they were. Whatever magic that had been between them had soured the day she found out Kathy was pregnant and engaged to Rico.

  "Kathy has some problems."

  "We all have problems." She didn’t want to hear about Kathy though it was funny to feel so much jealousy over someone Munch thought she had no intention of getting involved with again. "I’ve got a kid coming home from school—two kids, now that I have to look after Lisa’s other daughter. I need to be there for them. Then I’m going to find Charlotte and explain to her why her mom wasn’t out on the street looking or home waiting for her. Why her mom was in jail on some traffic ticket." Munch strode from the room. She stretched her hand toward the railing, not wanting her dramatic exit marred by a tumble down the stairs.

  She didn't believe Lisa knew where Charlotte was. For one thing, if Lisa had done something to Charlotte, she wouldn’t have wanted Munch to get involved in the search. Then again, she had to admit a few things weren’t adding up.

  In the parking lot, the woman in red caught up to Munch.

  "Are you a policewoman?" she asked. A man came and stood next to her. Munch recognized him as one of the men who had been checking out the wanted posters in the roll-call room.

  "No, I was just helping out. My niece is missing and her disappearance might be connected to the burglaries."

  "How so?"

  "The boy who was found murdered in the stolen car was a friend of hers."

  The man and woman looked at each other with marital telepathy. "Little Steven Koon," the man said. "A terrible business." He had a slight Irish brogue, particularly noticeable in

  his r’s.

  "How old is your niece?" the woman asked.

  "Fifteen."

  "Let's exchange numbers," the woman said, handing

  Munch a business card for an art gallery in Westwood. The name Meg Sullivan was written in gold script across the bottom opposite her phone and fax numbers and the phrase By appointinent only. Munch liked that. It sounded classy. She made a note to add that line to her next batch of limo cards.

  "Maybe we can help each other," Meg Sullivan said. "You seem to be making as much progress as the police."

  "l don’t know about that. They’re working on it and they’re open to sug
gestions. " When they’re not being Nazis, Munch added to herself. She gave the woman one of her A&M Limousine business cards. "I’m Miranda Mancini. Everyone calls me Munch."

  "Who’s the A?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

  "My daughter, Asia." Having a business that started with also put her first in the Yellow Pages' limousine section.

  "How darling to include her," Mrs. Sullivan said.

  "It’s a side business. I’m a mechanic at the Texaco station in Brentwood."

  "How entrepreneurial," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Is there no end to your talent?"

  Munch felt a blush coming on. "It’s been nice meeting you. I have to run." She wondered why she always felt the need to dodge compliments as if they were bullets. "Good luck."

  "Keep in touch," the Sullivan's insisted, as Munch inched away from their intense eye contact.

  "We’ll make it worth your while."

  ***

  When Munch got back to Lou’s truck, Jasper was standing on his hind legs, paws on the windowsill, watching for her. She wondered if he had been standing like that the whole time she was in the police station. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring him along. As least at the house he had access to the yard, his water bowl, and the softer cushions of her furniture.

  She stroked his head, and he flopped across her lap with a deep sigh.

  When Munch got back to Lisa’s house, Bea was sitting on the front porch with the telephone beside her. The twenty-foot cord was stretched to its limit. Munch watched her study the street, glance at her wristwatch, back inside the house, and then up the street again. A blue cloud of cigarette smoke hovered in the eaves above her head.

  Munch pulled into the driveway and Bea stood. Bony fingers briefly touched each temple as if checking to see if her face was still attached.

  "Any calls?" Munch asked.

  "A few. " Bea thrust some envelopes into Munch’s hands with scribbling on the back. "A man called a few times asking for Lisa. He wouldn’t leave a name or number. Where is Lisa, by the way?"

  She delivered the question with a nervous giggle as if maybe a joke was in there somewhere and she was willing to get it.

  "Lisa didn’t make it back." Munch glanced at the envelopes. They were unopened utility bills addressed to Jill Garillo and a phone bill addressed to Charlotte. Munch wondered if Lisa was intent on ruining the girls’ credit. She also wondered why Bea had taken the trouble to write the non-messages down.

  1:15, man called for Lisa.

  1:40, man called again. No name. Same guy.

  2:10, man again. Lisa still not here.

  Bea delicately picked a fleck of tobacco from her lip, rolled it between her fingers, and let it drop to the floor. It seemed a practiced gesture.

  Jasper, sitting at Munch’s feet, leaned into her legs and looked up expectantly.

  The phone rang. Bea reached for the receiver but Munch waved her off. On the second ring, Munch picked up and did her best imitation of Lisa’s nervous whine. "Hello?"

  "Where have you been?" a man growled.

  Whoever this was, Munch realized, he expected Lisa to recognize his voice. Munch kept her voice high and quavery—an upset mother near hysterics. "Is she with you?"

  "I’m only going to say this once." His tone was menacing, almost a whisper, as if he had to keep it to a pitch where he wouldn’t be overheard. "Nobody has to get hurt. Do you have it

  or not?"

  "Have what?"

  "Who is this?" he demanded.

  "You first." Munch said in her normal voice.

  "Put Lisa on."

  "She got busted. What do you want?"

  "Who are you?"

  "Family. If you want something from Lisa, you’re either gonna have to wait or deal with me."

  "What did she get busted for?" he asked.

  "Contempt of cop as far as I could tell. Who is this?"

  "I heard her kid was sick."

  Munch knew that one of her gambits had paid off. How else would this guy know about Charlotte’s health problems?

  "Charlotte’s diabetic. If she doesn’t have insulin regularly she could be in big trouble. Is she with you?"

  "Like I said, this doesn’t have to end badly. You tell her that."

  Munch wanted to suggest he tell her himself, but he had hung up.

  "Everything all right?" Bea asked.

  Munch looked at the woman and thought that that was one of the dumbest questions she’d heard in recent history. Controlling her anger, she said, "I’ll wait for Jill. Thanks for your help."

  "Sure thing, honey. Anytime."

  Taking the phone with her, Munch went inside Lisa’s house and closed the door. "Fetch, boy," she said. Jasper cocked his head sideways but made no other move.

  "I know. It would help if we knew what we were looking for."

  She lifted the blankets in the corner of the front room, shook them open, then folded and stacked them with the pillows.

  She flipped through the pages of the paperbacks by the bedding. A receipt for groceries fluttered to the floor. She inspected it briefly then stuck it back in the book it had fallen from. The refrigerator held a carton of milk. Munch checked the date, smelled it, then poured the lumpy contents down the drain. There were also three wilted carrots, a shriveled tomato, and a small saucepan full of hardened white rice. The insulin was still there. Nine vials left, stacked neatly in their cardboard box like little glass soldiers.

  The cabinets held a carton of white rice, a box of Cheerios, and packages of soy sauce and ketchup from fast food restaurants. just to be thorough, she pulled back the cardboard tops of the dry goods and sifted through the contents with a long knife. Nothing.

  She looked at Jill’s room with its cheerful chaos. Stuffed animals filled her bed; pink and yellow and periwinkle-blue clothes overflowed from her closet. There were games and toys, some suited for infants and on closer inspection mostly broken. A bookshelf held a mishmash of titles and even a few movies on videotape. Munch decided that Jill shopped at the same curb as her mother.

  The girl’s name written in different mediums filled the walls: wooden plaques, brightly colored Styrofoam, dried beans, and macaroni spray—painted gold and glued to construction paper. JILL, JILL, JILL. Munch wondered if this was a show of pride or an affirmation of her identity. When children followed their parents into the witness protection program, were they allowed to keep their first names or did everything change?

  She went into Charlotte’s room. The contrast between the two girls struck her again. Charlotte was a minimalist, in color and mood. No toys, no books, few clothes. lf Charlotte had more clothes, the tiny closet wouldn’t have held them. Something was out of whack. Charlotte’s closet shared a common wall with the bathroom on the other side. The bathroom was L-shaped to accommodate the bathtub, which left plenty of space for Charlotte’s closet to be full-size.

  Munch went into the bathroom and paced the distance from the hall door to the tub enclosure, then returned to Charlotte’s room and did the same to the closet. She rapped what should have been the dividing wall between the two with her knuckles. It wasn’t Sheetrock, it was plywood, painted to match the inside of the closet. The carpet pulled up easily to reveal a loop of cord. Munch tugged on it and the siding came loose. Charlotte, it seemed, had her own storage unit. This one was filled with an odd assortment of booty. Brand-new clothing—shirts, socks, underpants—double-wrapped in plastic grocery bags with all the inventory tags intact. Looked like Charlotte indulged in a few five-finger discounts. There were also picture frames, again with price stickers and still filled with those generic, all-American-family pictures. Mom and dad, brother and sis, a golden retriever. Everyone smiling, everyone perfectly coiffed.

  Munch found a stack of magazines: Good Housekeeping, Country Home, Town 8 Country, Esquire. And catalogs—thick, glossy publications with many dogeared pages. Stuck between the pages of one of the catalogs was a newspaper clipping. Munch unfolded the yellowed paper and saw that it was a story abo
ut her and how she’d helped catch a murderer. The story had run in the Times back in January.

  "Hi," Jill’s overly sweet, girlish voice greeted Munch from the hallway. "What are you doing?"

  She seemed unperturbed to find Munch in her sister’s room. And if she noticed Munch hurriedly closing the closet door to disguise what she had been up to, she didn’t let on. "Your mom’s not here," Munch said, trying not to look too guilty. "She wanted me to watch you."

  "Watch me what?"

  "You know, take you home with me until she gets back."

  "Where did she go?"

  "She’s in jail." Munch could think of no easy way to put it.

  "Those warrants?" Jill asked.

  "Yeah."

  "So probably just a few nights. I’ll pack a bag." Jill turned on her heel and left. Nothing, apparently was going to derail her sunny disposition. Munch replaced the panel in Charlotte’s closet. While Jill gathered her clothes and whatever else an eleven-year-old needed to spend a few nights away from home, Munch opened up the phone bill and was pleased to see which service options the family subscribed to. She punched the necessary symbols on Lisa’s phone to activate the call forwarding, dialed her own number, and hung up on her answering machine. They made it back to the gas station in plenty of time to meet Asia’s school bus.

  "So how was school?" Munch took Asia’s knapsack and put it on the passenger-seat floor.

  "Fine." Asia climbed into the backseat with Jill and buckled her seat belt. She was thrilled to see both Jill and Jasper.

  "Who’d you eat lunch with?" Munch knew better than to ask yes-and-no questions if she hoped to get any information about Asia’s day.

  "Caitlin, Iessica, and Sarah."

  Best friends all. Sometimes Munch really missed being a kid—when the world was a safe and friendly place and her mother was still alive.

  "How does Stroganoff sound for dinner?"

  "Why don’t we just swing by McDonald’s?" Asia asked with casual sophistication.

  "Oh, no, honey You’re powerless over Chicken McNuggets."

  "What does that mean?" Jill asked.

  "It means she’d eat them for every meal if she had her choice, and that wouldn’t be good for her."