No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (17 page)

"I got all that already Jigsaw." Bernie cut
in. "White guy mustache, reddish hair. They didn't exchange
names, but she described two tattoos that the guy had on his
forearms. On the right, he had crossed pistons and the words Ride to
Live, Live to Ride, surrounded with a ring of red and black
swastikas. And you're going to love this. On the left forearm he had
a four-inch-diameter blue target with the words One Shot, One Kill
written above and below"

"That's a Marine tattoo, isn't it?"
Blackstone asked.

Bernie nodded. "Force recon, sniper corps."

Blackstone whistled. "What about the car?"

"It was a Hertz rental with Oregon plates. We're
checking on it."

"And a car sheet," she said.

"What's a car sheet?" he asked.

"You know, like to put a baby in?"

"You mean a car seat?"

"Yesh."

"You done good, Angie," Bernie said. "Now
Jigsaw here is going to buy us both a drink."

Blackstone left after paying for their Long Island
iced teas. The trip had been well worth it. The Oregon plates on the
rented vehicle cinched his suspicions that the FBI's case involving
the stolen National Guard weaponry also involved a smuggling
operation across the Oregon/California border. Smugglers often used
rented cars that they paid for with cash. When Bernie described the
target tattoo, Blackstone's scalp had tingled. The guy was an expert
sniper, if you believed the skin advertisement. The crossed piston
tattoo was also familiar as a favorite of bikers, and bikers loved
their speed. It was all starting to fit.

He shuddered at the image of a group of methfueled
neo-Nazis armed with automatic weapons and explosives. If they didn't
get a handle on this one fast, the streets were going to run with
blood. It had already started.

When he got back to the station, he gave Deputy Tom
Moody a call.

"I just got the picture of your John Doe,"
Moody said after Blackstone identified himself.

"I've got a name to go with the picture,"
Blackstone said. "Jonathan Garillo."

"How'd you ID him so fast? Get lucky with the
prints?"

"No, some woman came to the coroner's office
while we were doing the autopsy She wrote his name on a piece of
paper before she fled the scene."

"Who was she?"

"We're still working on that. We were able to
lift some words off the paper she left us. One of them was
Canyonville."

Blackstone heard Moody suck and inhale. He pictured
the sheriff holding a pipe and staring thoughtfully out his window.
"What else?" Moody asked. "Inventory and the words ace
boon coon. Ring any bells?"

"Nah, that's a new one on me. Inventory could be
something interesting?

"That's what I thought. This Jonathan Garillo
might have hung with bikers."

"Yeah, we got some of those assholes up here,"
Moody said. "Gypsy Jokers, Hessians, all your Bay Area rejects."

"I think this all ties into a bigger
investigation," Blackstone said. "Last month the Kern
County National Guard Armory was burglarized. The thieves made off
with explosives and weapons."

"Yeah," Moody said, " know all about
it. M-l4s started showing up here three weeks ago. I notified the
feds."

"So you're working together?" Blackstone
asked.

Moody's laugh was bitter. "They told me to stay
out of their way: In other words, fuck you very much."

"Well, maybe we can help each other,"
Blackstone said.

"Sounds good to me," Moody said. "Goddamn
feds are dragging their heels."

Blackstone promised to stay in touch and hung up.
Alex stuck his head in the doorway " got through to that doctor
in Palm Springs," he said, "the one that owns the apartment
building on Hampton. He told me that unit number six was rented to a
guy named John Garillo."

"So maybe we got a case of mistaken identity,"
Blackstone said, "and Garillo was the target all along. "

"I called Jeff," Alex said, "and told
him to compare the bullets from the Garillo case with the double in
Venice. He says hell do the best he can. Too bad the feds kept the
other bullets."

"We'll just have to work around that."
Blackstone drew another circle, one large enough to accommodate both
victims' names: Ruiz/Guzman. He drew a line connecting the victims,
then backtracked through his notes. The Ruiz woman's boss, the bakery
owner, had mentioned a white woman at the scene with him—a woman
with a baby He made a note to show the man the mug shot of Lisa
Slokum. Then he tapped his pencil point on Jane Dirty Nails's circle.
Or could it be her?
 

15

CLAIRE DONAVON thought that the file room of the
Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood was one of the
most comprehensive in the nation as well as the most orderly.
Referred to as the catacombs, it was located in the basement, three
floors underground. Bright fluorescent lights kept the labyrinth of
hallways lined with filing cabinets in a state of perpetual
brightness.

The personnel files were arranged alphabetically and
cross-referenced by profession. They included quarterly evaluations,
original applications, and psychological reviews, and were full of
interesting asides that often proved invaluable. Today she was
interested in city employees. Her operatives watching the house in
Inglewood had made note of the license plate of Lisa Slokum's
visitor. From there it had been an easy matter to come up with a
name. Not surprisingly Lisa Slokum's caller—the woman who had
already caused them problems—had a record and was on probation.
Useful.

The file the FBI agent thumbed through now caused her
to smile. Before becoming a probation officer, Mrs. Olivia Scott had
applied to six different law enforcement agencies—another wannabe.
The woman would be no problem at all. Before she left, Claire Donavon
looked up one more file and then headed for Santa Monica.

It took less than three minutes from the time Claire
entered the Santa Monica Courthouse building to when she was seated
across the desk from the probation officer.

"FBI?" Mrs. Scott said, lingering the
embossed business card. "You know, when I was your age they
didn't allow women to be field agents in the FBI."

"That's a shame," Claire said. "The
agency cheated itself out of many wonderful applicants."

Mrs. Scott had applied in '68, but Claire didn't
disclose that she knew this. She never tipped her hand when it wasn't
necessary

"I'll help any way I can. Anything you
need"—Olivia Scott leaned closer and lowered her voice—"any
way you need it handled. You'll find me most cooperative."

Claire smiled. " appreciate that. A case I'm
working on involves one of your clients."

"I don't believe in coddling these people,"
Olivia Scott said. "Half of them—and I'm being generous with
that statistic—should never have been allowed back on the streets.
They're animals. Who is it that you're interested in?"

"Miranda Mancini."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"I shouldn't," she said. "Nothing in
this business should surprise me. I just thought . . . never mind.
What has she done?"

"I wish I could disclose that to you."

"I understand," the probation officer said,
disappointment showing clearly on her face. "Just tell me what
you need."

"Let's start with her file and the terms of her
probation."

"Certainly" Mrs. Scott turned to her filing
cabinet. "Our clients," she said the word as if it tasted
foul, "have no rights in regards to search and seizure. I can
draw up a warrant and have it at her work in forty minutes. I don't
believe in coddling these people."

"Yes," Claire
said. "You mentioned that."

* * *

At mid-morning, Munch lifted the Dodge Dart's rear
tire off its studs. Her mind wasn't on her work. She balanced the
tire on her knee for a second and then set it on the floor. She took
a deep breath, held it, and then wrestled off the brake drum.
Asbestos dust swirled around her head. At one point, she had taken to
wearing a surgical mask when she worked on brakes. Then one day she
caught herself lifting the mask to take a drag from her cigarette and
realized she was being ridiculous.

"Does he need them?" Jack yelled from the
office. She leaned forward and studied the lining of the brake shoes.
"Yeah, he's almost to the rivets."

"I'll call him," Jack said.

A moment later he reemerged. "You got it,"
he said. " ordered your parts."

"Uh, Jack?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"What would you think about me bringing a baby
to work?"

"Are you pregnant?"

"No," she said quickly "It's my uh,
goddaughter."

"You got a goddaughter?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's a recent development. Anyway I was
wondering if she could like tag along while I was working.

"How old is she?"

"Six months. If I set up her crib in the—"

"Stop right there," he said, holding up his
hand. "A garage is no place for a baby What were you thinking?"

She was thinking there were worse places, but said
nothing. His expression told her that nothing she could say would
affect his decision. She recognized stubborn. It had been a stupid
idea anyway Why hadn't she realized that when she rehearsed the pitch
earlier? Time for plan two.

"I need to take a few days off," she said.

"When?" he asked.

"I was hoping the rest of the week."

"Is anything wrong?"

"I just have some things I need to take care
of."

"Check with Lou," he said.

She looked across the lot and saw the other mechanic,
Lou, shaking hands with a teenage boy He flashed her a grin and
walked over to her.

"I'm thinking of taking some vacation time,"
she said when he joined her.

"What did Jack say?"

"He said I should check with you."

"I'm taking a week in December," he said.
"When did you want to go?"

"Now."

"Kind of sudden, isn't it?"

"Just tell me yes or no."

"Geez, so go. I was just asking. You don't need
to bite my head off." He fanned a Fistful of twenties at her. "
sold the Impala," he said. They had bought the car together last
month when the owner couldn't afford to repair it. Lou had bought a
used transmission, and she had installed it. After some minor
cosmetic improvements, they painted "$600" on the
windshield in white shoe polish and parked the Chevy on the corner,
taking care to wash off the grime that settled on the paint job every
couple days.

"You get our price?" she asked.

"And he paid cash."

"That's my favorite kind of money" She held
out her hand, and he counted out her cut—fifteen twenty—dollar
bills.

"So what are you going to do?" he asked.

"Do?"

"On your vacation. Are you going anywhere
special?"

"I have some stuff I need to take care of,"
she said.

"Well, have fun."

"Oh, yeah. Nothing but."

Just before lunch, as she was washing up, Jack
knocked on the door to the back room. "Are you decent?" he
asked.

She dried her hands. "It's open."

He came in and sat on a case of coolant bottles. He
watched her for a moment and then asked, "So you'll be back
Monday?"

"Yeah."

"You aren't in any kind of trouble, are you?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Can't I
just take a little time off without everyone giving me the third
degree?"

"Relax. I'm just concerned," he said. "
know you've had some shake-ups lately I told Lou—"

She sighed. Anyone who said women gossiped obviously
hadn't spent time around a bunch of men. "No offense, Jack, but
I really wish you'd keep out of my personal life."

He stood without saying another word and left. She
watched him go, saw the slump of his shoulders and the shake of his
head. She almost called after him to tell him never mind, that it was
all right, but she didn't. She had a right to her privacy after all,
and not to be the subject of their speculations. There was caring and
there was interfering. Jack needed to learn those limits.

When she stepped out of the back room, she saw Mrs.
Scott pulling into the shop's driveway Another woman followed in a
separate car. Both women parked in the adjoining lot, side by side.
Neither smiled or reacted when an eighteen-wheeler behind them
applied its air brakes. Munch felt a momentary weakness flash through
her legs and then straightened her back. What was the worse they
could do, kill her and eat her? Screw 'em.

The two women exited their cars. Mrs. Scott beckoned
Munch to her with an imperious linger. Munch dusted herself off and
approached slowly "What's up?"