An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (15 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MIINCH TURNED ON HER AIR-CONDITIONING TO ITS COLDEST
setting and set the blower on high. The scratches on her face were
drying, starting to scab. She moved her rearview mirror to study them
and noticed that a blue Shelby Mustang was keeping a careful distance
of two car lengths behind her. The car had a California license
plate. The driver's hands were at the two and ten o'clock position on
the steering wheel. She changed lanes without signaling. He did the
same. She slowed so she would miss the light, leaving the guy no
option but to catch up with her.

She almost laughed out loud when she saw the look of
consternation on the driver's mustached face before he pulled his cap
down in a half-assed attempt at a disguise. It was her buddy, Roger
the not-so-artful dodger.

Munch raised her hand and let it drop, all the while
shaking her head at his blatant ineptness. After a second of
pretending he hadn't seen her, he waved back. When the light changed,
she pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. Roger pulled up next
to her. They both left their engines running.

Rico's uniform was draped over her passenger seat.
His hat sat atop his shoes. She had his photograph in her purse.

"
What are you up to?" Roger asked in that
too-cheery voice. She pointed to the clothes on her seat. "I'm
on the way to the mortuary. You want the address or are you just
going to keep following me inconspicuously?"

"
So the funeral is Saturday?"

"
One o'clock. Why? Are you coming?"

"
I'll probably be lurking in the back somewhere.
I think it would be better if you didn't acknowledge me."

Suddenly cold, she crossed her arms over her chest,
tucking her hands next to her sides. "Were you a friend of
Rico's?"

"
We knew each other from the job, enough to say
hi and shoot the shit."

Now the trembling had reached her legs and she rocked
from foot to foot to hide it. "Are you . . ." She ran out
of breath before she finished her question and had to fill her lungs
and begin again. "Are you sorry he's dead?"

"
Of course."

"
Will Detective Chapman be there too?"

"
Probably, why?"

"
I just want to know what to expect," she
said. How many bullets to pack was what she was really thinking, but
she didn't know if Roger-baby would get her humor or if she was even
joking. "I don't want a bunch of assholes there that didn't know
Rico or who aren't sorry he's dead. I think his family deserves
better than that."

"
You probably do," Roger said. "But
there are bigger forces at work here. The mayor and the chief might
not show up, but we'll at least have the assistant chief and his
lieutenant. They'll say some words, get their names in the papers,
suit up in those uniforms they never wear. Maybe a spot on the
evening news if it's a slow news day."

"
I was warned about the hypocrisy," Munch
said.

"
Yeah, well, it's all politics. What happened to
your face?"

"
I cut myself shaving."

Roger pulled some Polaroids from his coat pocket and
handed them to her. "Do either of these guys look familiar?"

Munch felt Roger watch her as she perused the photos.
If he was waiting for a reaction, he sorely underestimated her. The
two men in the photographs were Hispanic, tattooed, in their
twenties, defiant-looking, and very dead. The last she knew because
she had just come from their memorial. The captions at the bottom of
the photos were dated February 1986. Last month.

"
Bad guys?" she asked.

"
You recognize them?" Roger sounded
impatient now, and there was a touch of challenge to his voice.

Munch didn't know if she had been spotted going in or
coming out of the house in Venice, but she had to assume she had. She
briefly described the house in Venice and the gangster-style memorial
service she had walked into. She left out the part about the
fistfight and the cocaine. "I think they were the two guys
killed with Rico."

"
You're right about that," he said.

"
So who were they?"

"
Xavier and Candolario Santiago. Brothers and
drug traffickers. How did you know about the house on Hampton Drive?"

"
I've been contacting Rico's friends to tell
them about the services. I found the address in one of his pockets,
I'd never been there before, but it could have been someone important
to him. I didn't know."

"
Did you invite anyone you met there to the
service?"

"
No, I saw they knew he was dead. There's a
notice that will run in the paper tomorrow if anyone is interested."
She touched the scratches on her face and recoiled as surprise hit
her. "The obit doesn't run until tomorrow, but they knew he was
a cop already."

Something switched in Roger's eyes. His face didn't
change expression as much as lose all vestiges of one. "Can you
go back to the house on Hampton?" he asked.

"
Why would I want to?"

"
Is that a yes?"

"
Yeah, I could go back there. What the hell.
They didn't kill me the first time. Humberto said something about me
earning some money. I guess I could find out what that's all about."

"
You'd be wearing a wire," he said.

"
Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"
We'll be close by."

"
Let's not bullshit each other, okay? If and
when I go in there, I'll be alone. If I get made or someone wants me
dead, a whole army parked across the street ain't gonna save me."

"Okay, you're right. But you can't work for us
and not be monitored. We need to make our case against these guys,
and your hearsay ain't gonna get it."

Munch wondered if her past would always shadow her.
She know it—all assholes like Roger would continue to judge her
based on a dated rap sheet. People changed. She knew that for
certain. Then again, sometimes people changed back. She knew that,
too. "When do you want to do this thing?"

"
Soon. If it's all right, I'd like to meet you
back at your house and show you how the equipment works."

"
I've worn a wire before, about six months ago."

"
This time will be different."

That's what they all said. "Okay." She
looked at her watch. "But it will have to be later, like around
five."

"Will Asia be home?"

Munch winced. She hated to hear him call her daughter
by name, as if they knew each other, as if they were friends. "Come
to think of it, she will. Can we do it tomorrow instead, in the
morning, after she's out of the house? Say about nine?"

He changed back into Jolly Roger. "Okay, nine it
is."

Munch climbed back in her
car. Roger waited for her to take off first. She noticed she had
buckled her seat belt and signaled her turn. She usually only drove
like that when there was a black-and-white in her rearview mirror.

* * *

The funeral home of Galvan & Sons looked like a
church. The walls were constructed of antique bricks in alternating
hues of terra cotta. A large evergreen pear tree in full bloom had
left a pretty mess of white blossoms on the front lawn and cast the
river rock wishing well in perpetual shadow.

A woman in a gray dress greeted Munch as she entered,
taking Rico's uniform from her as she asked, "Enrique Chacón?"

"
Yes," Munch managed to mutter before a
sudden keen escaped her throat. It was a single, high-pitched mewl, a
weird and embarrassing sound as if someone had stepped on a mouse. If
she loosened her jaw, she might manage a proper howl, but that would
be even worse.

The woman patted her shoulder. "Have a seat. Mr.
Galvan will be right with you."

The waiting room was filled with comfy sofas, tissue
boxes on every table, and discreetly placed hardbound, three-ringed
catalogs of caskets and urns. There were also business-card holders
with contact information for florists, and some scattered brochures
for caterers and limo businesses.

Munch had a small sideline livery service. A&M
Limousines. Actually, it was limousine, singular, but most clients
booked one car at a time and she networked with a few other
single-car operators. So who needed to know?

She was flipping through the photographs of the
caskets when the funeral director entered the room.

"
Ms. Mancini?"

She lifted her head in a tight-lipped nod to
acknowledge him, not trusting herself to speak.

"
May I join you?" he asked.

He had a black leather-bound folder which he placed
on his lap. The right half of the binder had an invoice clipped to it
with "Chacón" written across the top, the other pocket was
full of documents.

"
Would you like some coffee or water before we
begin?" He offered her the box of Kleenex as if they were mints.

Munch grabbed some tissues. "I'll be fine."

Galvan put the box on the table in front of them.

She wrung the tissues in her hands. "Did the,
uh, body get here?"

"
It arrived this morning."

Munch pulled the photograph from her purse and handed
it to him. Rico was smiling one of his awful posed smiles where he
thought the object was to show as many teeth as possible. "He
was much better-looking than that," she said.

Galvan grabbed the photo by the upper right corner
and Munch had to will herself to let go. "We'll do the best we
can."

"
I brought his hat, too."

"
Would you like it resting on his folded hands
or on top of the casket?"

"
Hands. No . . . casket. No . . . sorry, his
hands. Put it on his hands and bury him with it."

Galvan smiled gently. Munch felt the tears rolling
down the sides of her face and blotted them with the tissue.

Galvan clicked his pen open and indicated the casket
catalog. "We have some floor models downstairs. It might be
easier to choose if you can see the actual product."

Munch followed the funeral director downstairs. She
was glad for the railing as she concentrated on putting one foot in
front of the other. The showroom was brightly lit. Floral
arrangements flanked the various caskets lining the walls. The more
the coffins cost, she noted, the more impressive the flowers. Caskets
were stacked three-high in individual nooks like so many cocoons. The
ones on the floor were open, showing off the tufted silk and satin
linings. Parked at the base of the room's central support pillar was
a stuffed armchair. She wondered who would want to linger here. Maybe
it was for the comfort of the bereaved who became too overwhelmed to
stand.

Fernando had left the choosing to her. He'd buried
his wife in a mahogany box that set him back twenty-five hundred,
soup to nuts. She felt herself drawn to the buffed bronze, adding
that to the cost of the concrete inner lining to prevent seepage,
embalmment, the service, interment, marker, and plot—and the bronze
job would bring the total to four large and change.

She told herself that the money spent on the funeral
was not the indicator of their love for him. Still, she had earmarked
money for the wedding and honeymoon, so it wasn't like she didn't
have it. Plus, that Humberto guy said he'd chip in some bucks. She
hoped that would happen before he got his big ass busted and his
assets seized.

"
The bronze."

"
And the interior fabric?"

"
White satin."

"
Very nice."

Munch smiled grimly. At least someone approved of her
today. "We're going to need five copies of the death
certificate."

Galvan made a note. "No problem."

"
Can I see him?"

Galvan's pen stopped moving. "Now?"

"
Yeah, I need to. This has all been so unreal."

"
It's a little soon. We'll have him cleaned up
tomorrow for the viewing." Galvan looked over his shoulder as if
seeking help from someone.

Munch put a hand on his sleeve. "It's all right.
Just one minute and I'll leave."

Galvan appraised her for a moment. "Wait here,
and I'll see if he's presentable."

"
Thanks."

Galvan returned a moment later and asked her to
follow him. They walked down a hallway devoid of pictures. The floor
was concrete, and though there was no draft, the temperature had
dropped ten degrees. Galvan pushed through a wide knobless swinging
door. He reached back a hand to her as one might to a child when
crossing a busy street.

"
I'm okay," she tried to say, but she
didn't have the wind to push the syllables through her voice box. She
filled her lungs, taking with that air the oddly sweet odor of
formaldehyde. An embalming pump gleamed in the corner. Glass
canisters with stainless steel tops held cotton balls, disposable
razors and gauze pads. Scissors, hairbrushes and black plastic combs
were spread across the top tray of a wheeled cart.