No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (14 page)

"It's more a matter of mental intercourse,"
Blackstone said, looking straight at Claire. "How about it?"

She blinked, caught off-guard. "You mean you and
me?"

"A real opponent is so much more interesting
than solitaire."

"How do you play solitaire chess?" Alex
asked.

Blackstone realized that he'd forgotten that his
partner was still in the room; maybe it was just wishful thinking.
"The chess magazine I get publishes games played by the masters.
You try to figure out their next moves, then you check your move
against theirs. Don't you have some calls to make?"

Alex grinned. "Yeah. I better go back to that."

"Thank you, Detective," Blackstone said and
then turned back to Claire. "They've been using a lot of
Fischer's games lately It's been quite a journey trying to get into
his head."

"Any success?" she asked.

"Sometimes. Are you interested?"

"I can't . . . tonight," she said.

"Tomorrow's good with me," he told her.
"I'll be downtown tomorrow afternoon"

"Swing by when you're through. I should be home
by six," he said. You know that smokestack you see off the Five
freeway that has BREW 102 written on it?"

"Yes."

"That's me. I'll leave the gate open."

"I'll bring Chinese," she said. "n
case the game runs longer than we expect."

"That's what I like about you, Claire. Always
thinking ahead."

"And the photograph of your victim?" she
asked.

"Page three, how's that?"

"Thank you."

"Whoa," he said. "I'm not letting you
off the hook that easy. Who was this guy to you? Give me something."

"I would if I could, honestly"

He smiled at her qualifier. Honestly had to be the
singularly most abused word. He turned when he heard the door to
Sergeant Mann's office open. A thin blond man exited. judging from
his air of self-importance, Blackstone made him as another fed. The
partner, no doubt.

"All right, Claire," he said when the
second agent was in hearing range, "I'll see you tomorrow
night."

The thin man glanced at Claire sharply but she didn't
meet his eye. What was going on there? Blackstone wondered. Did the
two of them have anything going? Or did he just disapprove of her
mingling with the local talent?

The blond man reached out a hand to Blackstone.
"Jared Vanowen," he said. "FBI."

Blackstone swallowed a smile. Pompous idiot.

"Jigsaw Blackstone, LAPD." The two men
gripped hands. Vanowen wore a gold fraternity ring set with a blue
stone on his right hand. Blackstone squeezed the man's fingers and
was gratified to see the fed wince. Claire crossed her arms over her
chest, and Blackstone suddenly felt foolish and juvenile. Alex
emerged from his cubicle, sucking a piece of beef jerky and easing
the moment's tension.

"This is Alex Perez," Blackstone said,
releasing Vanowen's hand and nodding toward his partner.

Alex and Vanowen exchanged nods.

After the two agents left, Alex sat on the edge of
Blackstone's desk.

"I think the print shops are a dead end,"
he said. "That's why I'm cultivating a second source."

"You think she'll tell you anything?" Alex
asked. Blackstone reached for his phone. "Let's put the word out
on the street that we're interested in some military-issue weaponry
that might have started surfacing last month. See what we can turn
up."

"Give ourselves a little something to barter
with, eh?"

"You've got to be in the game to play the game"

"Should we keep trying print shops?"

"No," he said. "You're right. That
lead is going nowhere."

After his partner returned to his cubicle, Jigsaw
swiveled in his chair until he faced his typewriter.

Early on he had been cautioned on the importance of
maintaining copious notes. The cop who had tutored him assured him
that the truth would always protect him. Document everything, he had
been taught. Cover your ass.

So when he typed up the evening report, he mentioned
the visit to Lisa Slokum and the FBIt's involvement. He also made
note of the lack of success that they had had in tracking down the
woman from the freeway who, his gut told him, was the same woman who
had appeared at the coroner's office. Turning back to his blotter, he
drew another balloon in pencil and started to write Jane Doe, but
then erased the oe in Doe and wrote Jane Dirty Nails instead. Using a
straight edge, he connected her to John Garillo with a solid pencil
line and carefully printed the two times she'd been spotted.
 
 

12

Jack CALLED MUNCH into his office at mid-morning on
Monday

"You got a call," he said. "Maybe you
better take it in here. She sounds pretty upset."

"Who is it?" Munch asked. Jack just
shrugged his shoulders on his way out the door. She picked up the
receiver.

"Hello?"

"They made me go look at his body" Lisa
said. " hate those motherfuckers."

"Who?"

"The pigs."

What about the murderers? she thought but said, "The
cops are just doing their job."

"Yeah," Lisa said, sniffling. "Everybodys
just doing their job."

Munch looked out the office window and saw Jack
talking to a customer in a Pontiac Le Mans station wagon. His body
blocked the face of the customer, but the car was familiar. It had
been in last week, and she had replaced the brakes front and back.
Jack stood, saw her looking, and motioned for her to join them. She
held up a finger. "Did the cops say if they had any suspects?"

"Their investigation is going to be bullshit,
I'll tell you that right now."

"Why do you say bullshit?" she asked.

"You think they really care who killed him?"
Lisa said. "You know what they asked me? They wanted to know if
he had any female friends that worked for a printer. What kind of
fucked-up question is that?"

Munch felt something drop inside her intestines and
instinctively drew her hands into fists. Were they looking for her?
"Did they say when they'd be back?" she asked.

"They won't be back," Lisa said. "You
still coming over tonight?"

"Yeah, after work. Stay cool." She hung up
and went outside. "Problem?" she asked, addressing both
Jack and the scowling man behind the wheel. "For two hundred
dollars," the man said, "my wife's brakes should feel like
new."

"Are they pulling?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Squeaking?"

"No, but look how far I have to press down the
pedal."

She looked in the window and watched as the man
demonstrated.

"My wife didn't know enough to complain."
He gave Jack one of those you-know-how-women-are-with-cars looks.
Jack's expression was noncommittal.

"You've got power assist on these brakes,"
she explained. "They always feel like that standing still.
What's important is how they stop the car when it's moving."
Whats important, she was really thinking, is that your wife isn't
dead. Nobody you knew was shot over the weekend. Probably nobody you
ever knew was ever shot. Thats whats important.

"Tell you what, Bob," Jack said, reaching
in his pocket for a dollar. "You go across the street and get
yourself a cup of coffee, and we'll adjust the brakes."

After the customer had left, Jack turned to her.

"Watch the phone, I'm going to take this around
the block."

"You want me to put it on the rack first?"

"No, I want to check it out before we do
anything. Get started on that VW clutch cable."

He pulled back into the shops driveway ten minutes
later. She chewed her lip, awaiting his verdict.

"Are they okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, when that guy gets back, you let me
handle him."

"Here he comes now," she said, seeing him
emerge from Denny's.

Jack waved and then waited for the customer to cross
the street. "Let's go for a ride, Bob," he said, patting
the man's back. "You drive."

They returned in another ten minutes. Both men were
smiling. Jack got out at the curb, and Bob went on his way

"He looked happy" she said, joining her
boss as he looked after the retreating vehicle.

"Jerk," Jack said, without letting the word
disturb the smile on his face.

"Well, at least he's a satisfied jerk. What did
you do?"

"The brakes were perfect. I just moved the seat
up."

"Good one."

"What was wrong with the girl on the phone?"
he asked. "Or is it personal?"

"Her brother got killed."

"Oh, I'm sorry"

"You didn't like him. It was that guy who came
by last Friday',

"I didn't wish him dead," he said, shocked.
"What happened? How'd he die?"

"She said he was shot."

"Geez, I knew that guy was trouble, but shot?
You better stay away from those people."

"I promised her I'd stop by there after work
tonight."

"You sure that's safe?"

"I already said I would."

"You want to leave early? Me and Lou can handle
things."

"No, I'll work all day." She wasn't about
to leave early again. She already had enough things to feel guilty
about. Visiting Lisa again tonight meant she would miss the meeting
she regularly attended on Monday nights at Tarzana Hospital. Ruby
would be concerned if she knew that Munch hadn't been to a meeting
since Friday Good habits were the easiest ones to break, Ruby always
said. Munch decided that what her sponsor didn't know wouldn't bother
her.
 
 

13

BY THE TIME five o'clock rolled around, Munch was
exhausted. She plunked down wearily in the seat of her GTO, pressed
down the accelerator twice before turning the key and then settled
back to let the Pontiac's engine warm up. Rolling her head to one
side, she spotted Asia's car seat. The sight of it brought a smile to
her lips. How satisfying it would be to be working this hard for
somebody else.

She'd never realized before that a baby could have
such a personality She'd always thought them just crying, sleeping
blobs until they were old enough to talk and say something
interesting. But she had been wrong. She'd really connected with that
little baby of Sleaze's.

Just thinking about the little rugrat made her want
to be holding her again. She patted the empty cushion of Asia's car
seat. It crinkled as if lined with plastic. It wasn't very cushiony
either. What had they used to stuff it? Plastic bags and old
newspaper or something? She pulled the seat closer to her and studied
it, finding the places where the cushion attached to the plastic
frame and unsnapping it. She located a zipper in the back. Restuffing
the cushion would be a simple matter.

She unzipped the zipper. A rectangular, shrinkwrapped
package of papers fell out. Beneath that was a second plastic bag
filled with yellowish-white crystalline powder: meth.

Oh, shit.

She jammed the dope back into the cushion with
shaking hands.

Sleaze, you jerk
.

She recalled his words: " just need you to take
the baby over to my sister's and pick up a few things at the
apartment."

I am an idiot
, she thought.

Her car still revved on fast idle. She tapped the
accelerator, and the engine settled down.

The first packet slipped to the floorboard between
her feet. She bent down and retrieved it. Using the small screwdriver
that she always carried clipped in her front pocket, she slit open
the hermetically sealed plastic bag. An assortment of documents
spilled into her lap: photographs, maps, hand-lettered lists of names
and dates.

She looked at the pictures first. They were a series
of photos of two men speaking. The first guy she recognized as the
dude riding shotgun with Sleaze the day he came in. The second man in
the picture—the one in the suit and dark glasses—was definitely
some kind of cop. The two men were exchanging envelopes and sneaking
furtive glances. She singled out one picture that clearly showed the
long-haired guy's face as well as his tattoo and stuck it in her
visor.

Underneath the pictures she found a floor plan of a
building—some sort of warehouse, it looked like—and a schedule of
names and times. The names were all preceded by ranks and the times
were all written militaristically: 1100 hours, 2300 hours.

Beneath the floor plan and timetable, she found
hand-lettered lists of dates, dollar amounts, and number/letter
annotations: M14 (1 case), HC #35 (6 cases), 7.62 X 22mm AP (200),
M16 (3 cases). They appeared to be records of payoffs and monies
collected for weaponry Tux's name was mentioned often. That had to be
Deb's Tux. The dates, all of them late August and early September,
had been circled. Curiouser and curiouser. What had Sleaze stumbled
into? He hated guns. Was this what he had snitched about? Then what
was the other guy in the picture doing? And what about the dope?