Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (8 page)

"
No, nothing like that."

"Did she have any enemies that you knew of?"

"God, no. She lived in Brentwood."

"I might have some more questions later,"
St. John said.

"Whatever I can do to help," Alfred said.
"God, this is just too unbelievable."

On the way out to the car, Shue hiked up his trousers
and scratched his nose. St. John noticed he'd missed a belt loop.

"So, sounds like you got yourself a real
whodunit," Shue said. St. John tried not to betray his
excitement. The Bergman murder was his first hot case since
transferring to West L.A., and he'd been here for months. "Let's
get on that autopsy as soon as possible."

Shue ran a hand through his hair, which up to that
point had threatened to look kempt. "I'll do what I can to clear
a space."

"Good, I can't wait."
He knew to the uninitiated, those words would seem odd. But years ago
the population of the world had divided for him into the "they"
and the "we." The "we" being all those select
individuals who dealt in death.

* * *

At four-fifteen, Munch went into the bathroom and
changed out of her uniform into some cleaner, and coincidentally more
flattering, Levi's jeans and a T-shirt. She also kicked off her
greasy work shoes and put on white tennis shoes. The bathroom was
small, with only one stall. She was tying her laces when she noticed
there was a half-inch-round hole in the tile just above the toilet
paper holder. She put her eye to it, wondering if the hole went clear
through to the men's bathroom that shared this wall. She couldn't see
anything, but just to be safe, she stuffed it shut with a wad of
toilet paper.

Lou was going to love this. Last month, the phone
bill had been through the roof. Ninety three-dollar-a-minutes had
been racked up to one of those sex lines. Between gas pumpers,
mechanics, and the car wash guys, it was hard to say who was
responsible. Lou solved the problem by putting a lockout on 9oo
numbers.

Her GTO was parked in front of the office, glowing
from a fresh wax job. Pauley had left her keys on the floor. She saw
that his van was gone, so she would have to wait until tomorrow to
thank him. She loaded her trunk with what equipment and supplies she
needed for Mace St. John's air-conditioning, and then left to pick up
her kid from school.

Asia attended a Catholic school on the corner of
Bundy and San Vicente. St. Teresa's was close to Munch's work, had a
great after-school care program, and owned a fleet of vans. Like the
wax jobs on Munch's limo and car, most of Asia's tuition was paid for
in trade. Another plus about the private school was that all the kids
wore uniforms. That meant there was one less decision to make during
the morning scramble.

When Munch was a kid, before her mother died but when
she was still old enough to go to school and have overnights at her
classmates' houses, she learned that other people lived differently.
Her friends didn't have their morning cereal poured by strangers or
wonder if their mom would remember to do laundry. They took a lot of
things for granted. Which is how it should be. How it would always be
for Asia.

She turned now into the alley that bordered the
playground. The school was surrounded on all sides by businesses: two
restaurants, three banks, a stationery store, and a dress shop.
Across the street there was a gas station and a Westward Ho market.
Shoppers and every sort of delivery truck used the alley as a
shortcut in between the hours of kids being dropped off and picked up
from school.

The attendant on duty a middle-aged woman, waved and
called for Asia. Asia came running. Her tight brown curls—her
"curlies"—bouncing and shoelaces trailing.

"
Konnichi wa
,"
she said as she climbed into the car and dumped her coat and
schoolbag on the floor of the backseat. Asia had a Japanese teacher
this year, who was teaching her students different phrases.

Mother and daughter strapped on their seat belts.
Munch had to open her door to free the left half of her lap belt.
Asia took note.

"
Mom," she said disapprovingly.

Munch offered no defense. When you're busted, you're
busted. As open as Asia was to learning new things, she also had a
real cautious side. She insisted on seat belts, knee and elbow pads
when skating or biking, and to Munch's disappointment, refused to go
on roller-coaster rides. Which meant, of course, that Munch, too, was
doomed to endless repetitions of "It's a Small World" when
they went to Disneyland.

"I got you something," Munch said, reaching
into the backseat.

"October?" Asia asked, eyes sparkling.

"Hot off the presses," Munch said, handing
her daughter the latest issue of Brides magazine. Asia also had a
private collection of wedding paraphernalia left over from limo runs
and kept her Barbie doll permanently decked out in veil and gown, a
tiny silk flower bouquet at the ready

"Cool," she said now, running her small
hand over the glossy cover.

"How was school?"

"We learned a new song."

Oh no, Munch thought. Anything but that.

"It's a Japanese song." Without further
encouragement Asia demonstrated. Which wouldn't be so bad except that
what the kid lacked in tone and pitch perception she made up for in
full-throated projection. Asia wanted to be in show business. She had
the confidence for it; now all she needed was some kind of talent.
The song had an endless number of verses or so it seemed after two
blocks. Munch had no idea if her daughter was pronouncing the words
right or just making them up as she went along.

She interrupted at the light on Wilshire. "We're
going to see Mace St. John."

"Yeah!" Asia responded. "And Sammy and
Nicky?"

"Sure."

Munch smiled. She knew going to see Mace St. John,
and by extension his dogs, would meet with the girl's wholehearted
approval. She was at that age when she wanted a dog. She wanted a
little brother, too, but Munch explained they would take things one
at a time.

The sun was low in the sky. The brisk snap to the air
was quickly turning to a chill. Asia was dressed only in her
short-sleeved white cotton shirt and plaid pinafore.

"
Where's your coat?"

Asia didn't look up from her magazine. "In the
back."

Munch reached behind her and retrieved it. A note had
been pinned to the front. "
Mind your own
business,
" it read. "
If
I needed to hurt you, I could
."

Munch's throat went dry "Where did this come
from?" she asked as calmly as possible. Heat shot through her.
She felt sweat form in her armpits, under her collar.

"What is it?" Asia asked, reaching for the
note.

Munch held it back, away from her grasp. "Did
you see who pinned this on your coat?" What sick, limp-dicked
son of a bitch?

"I didn't even know it was there until just
now."

Munch stuck the note in her shirt pocket and
struggled to bring her breathing under control. All she could think
of was getting to Mace St. John. He'd know what to do and have the
power to do it. God damn it. She looked over at her precious little
girl and asked with as light a tone as she could manage, "So,
uh, how does the rest of that song go?"
 

Chapter 9

M
ace St. John was
underneath the Bella Donna when Munch pulled into one of the parking
spaces provided for his siding of track. The dogs were with him but
romped over to meet the new arrivals.

"Where's your ball, Nicky?" Asia asked the
border collie mix. Nicky understood and went bounding off to retrieve
a tennis ball. Sam, the husky-Lab, stayed behind to lavish Asia's
willing face with kisses. The new dog, tied by a rope to the train
car's ornate platform, whimpered loudly.

"Always the bridesmaid," Asia said,
breaking free from Sam and going over to the tethered hound, "never
the bride."

Munch opened her trunk and retrieved her
air-conditioning gauges, a case of Freon, and her evacuator pump. St.
John waved to her, smiling around the half-smoked cheroot clamped
between his teeth. His shirtsleeves were pushed up past his elbows.
He had grease on his hands. She walked over to where he was working.
Her composure lessened with every step. By the time she got to him
she was breathing hard and fighting back tears of rage.

"What happened?" he asked.

She showed him the note. "I found it pinned to
Asia's coat when I picked her up today."

"At school?"

"Just now."

"Okay get ahold of yourself."

For just a moment, her agitation switched to him. The
first order of business shouldn't be calming the little lady.
Besides, he was only seeing a tip of how she really felt. She was
already holding on to herself as hard as she could. Not trusting
herself to speak, she glared at him until he continued.

"Let's call the school. No, better yet, I'll
call the watch sergeant over at the station and have him dispatch a
unit. What kind of security do they have at the school?"

Munch thought of the middle-aged woman who presided
over day care. "None to speak of. I mean, they don't let kids
leave with strangers, but it would be pretty easy for anyone to get
in there."

"I'll have the patrol officer speak to whoever
is there and see if anyone unknown to them was around the school
today. That's all we can do for now."

"Should I keep Asia out of school tomorrow?"

"I'll have to think about that."

She looked over at her kid. Asia was still happily
playing with the dogs. She'd made them all capes out of old beach
towels and they were deep into a superhero fantasy She was calling
the new dog "Brownie."

Munch and St. John went inside the Bella Donna to
make the calls. As always, she was slightly overwhelmed when she
stepped inside the train. It was like being instantly transported to
another world, another era. The walls were covered with red velvet
flocked wallpaper. Doorknobs and light fixtures were ornate brass
affairs. The top halves of the windows were leaded glass. The
lime-green satin shades were up, letting in the light but more
important, providing a clear view of Asia.

In the far right corner of the lounge section, behind
the small antique practice piano, and across from the bar, was a
small mahogany table that came out from the wall. As with most things
on the train, this piece of furniture served a dual purpose. The
table lifted out and the bench seats on either side slid down and
together to form a bed. There were small brass hooks in the ceiling
where the porter would hang a curtain for privacy. The phone was on
the table amid a mass of paperwork.

St. John called the police station first and
explained the situation to the watch commander. The desk sergeant
promised to dispatch a unit immediately and to call back with any
news. He would also run patrol checks throughout the day and add the
incident to the briefing items at roll call.

Munch next called the school. The principal, Mrs.
Frowein, was still there and was understandably upset when she heard
what had happened. Munch didn't reassure her that it was probably
nothing, or some kind of stupid prank. Whoever had done this had
crossed way over the prank line by bringing Asia into it. Mrs.
Frowein promised Munch unceasing vigilance in the school yard from
now on.

"Let's get to work on your AC," Munch told
St. John. She wanted to make use of the available light, but even
more than that, she needed to retreat to the safety of work.
Mechanical problems she knew she could deal with. Unlike the rest of
life, where either the same issues kept popping up to haunt her or
brand-new shit hit that she didn't even see coming. And only time
would tell if she needed to worry about something. By then, of
course, it was too late.

They walked back outside. She checked the AC pump for
oil and found it was filled to the proper level. St. John hovered
over her with his hands extended, as if he, too, felt the need to do
something. "Bring over your air compressor," she said. He
wheeled out his portable compressor and plugged it into one of the
extension cords he had running from the storage building next door.
The spur of track that the Bella Donna rested on was private
property. Munch knew St. John had spent many hours following miles of
track to find such a location. When he stayed there full-time, he was
allowed unlimited access to water and electricity. His presence added
security to the industrial park on the V of Exposition and Olympic.
Even though it was five minutes from the Brentwood Country Club and
the miles of professional buildings on Wilshire, you only had to go a
few short miles south to run into serious homeboy territory The
flavor of the neighborhoods in L.A. changed just that quickly. Anyone
who'd ever gotten lost downtown could tell you that. Even on the West
Side you had Marina del Rey sharing boulevards with Venice Beach.
Pasta and legumes on one side of the road, spaghetti and beans on the
other.