No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (3 page)

"No, I'm good," he said.

"I finished the carb overhaul on the plumber's
truck," she said. "I'll come in in the morning and adjust
the choke when it's cold."

"Don't come in just for that," he said.
"I'll do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"All right. See you Monday morning then. Early"

Head still bent over his paperwork, he waved her away

She jogged across the street without waiting for the
light and was slightly winded by time she reached the coffee shop's
front door.

Ruby's shift had ended, and Munch found her sitting
at the counter drinking coffee and gossiping with the afternoon
staff. Ruby turned when Munch pushed through the double glass doors.

"Did Jack let you off early?" she asked.

"I've gotta go see my PO," Munch explained.
"She called my number" Every night, as part of the terms of
her probation, Munch called a number and listened to its recorded
message. After each probation officers last name, a series of numbers
was announced. Each number was in fact a person. Munch was Scott,
thirty-eight. Thirty-eight had been included in last night's
recording, which meant that she had twenty-four hours in which to
report and give a urine sample. "'d thought I'd get a cup of
coffee for the you-know-what."

"How's everything going?" Ruby asked.

"Okay."

The waitress behind the counter brought Munch a large
coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Munch doctored the drink with equal
amounts of cream and sugar.

"Anything else?" the waitress asked.

Munch put a dollar on the counter. "No. Thanks."

"Are you coming tonight?" Ruby asked.

"I'm bringing the cookies."

Munch stirred her coffee. "Maybe we could talk
later."

"What is it?"

"No big deal," she said, not looking up.

Ruby stood and gave Munch a hug. "You sure?"

After all these months, Munch still had difficulty
responding to Ruby's spontaneous shows of affection. Part of her
wanted to answer in kind, to wrap her arms around Ruby's ample waist
and bury herself in the soft warmth of her sponsor's love. But
something always held her back—a moments hesitation that always
served to kill the impulse. Ruby didn't seem to notice as she
finished off her hug with an extra squeeze. "We'll talk
tonight," she promised.

"Yeah, I better get going," Munch said,
picking up her coffee and leaving the change for the waitress who had
served her.

She was on the freeway for ten minutes before she
spotted the wreck closing the right lane. The accident was fairly
fresh, judging from the brightness of the flares. She vaguely
remembered hearing multiple sirens as she was getting ready to leave
work. This must have been their destination.

Three cop cars, an ambulance, a fire truck, and a tow
truck further snarled traffic. The inner lanes slowed to a crawl as
each passing motorist took the look they'd paid for with the
interruption of their commute. Finally it came to her turn. She
almost lost control of her GTO when she recognized the blue truck
with its grille flattened against a signpost. What appeared to be
bullet holes punctured the driver's side of the windshield. A booted
foot dangled out from beneath the open driver's door. The ambulance
drivers weren't rushing to the driver's aide. One of them even
lighted a cigarette. The foot didn't move. Her stomach clutched.

A cloud of tangible sorrow seemed to levitate from
the wreck and land on her chest.

How could he be dead? Sleaze always landed on his
feet. Maybe it wasn't the same truck. Maybe the other guy had been
driving. Where was the other guy? The only people she saw milling
about the crash scene were in uniform. Both the ambulance and patrol
car were empty of passengers. She strained to catch a look at the
driver's face, but the doorpost obstructed her view. Blood dripped
onto the asphalt.

When she didn't move ahead with the other cars, a
highway patrolman waved her angrily on. She leaned across her front
seat, rolled down her passenger window, and pointed to the wreckage.

"I know him. I know the driver," she said.

The cop studied her for a moment, then glanced back
at the crash scene. "Pull over up there."

She nodded. She had every intention of pulling over,
of going to him, but then another thought came to her. Theres nothing
you can do, the voice in her head said.
You don't need any part of
this. Keep moving.

She caught a last look at the mangled pickup, then
swerved back into traffic, ignoring the people who honked and swore
at her.

Goddamnit, Sleaze, now what have you done?
 
 

3

HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Jigsaw Blackstone unfolded his
long legs and swung them out from beneath the steering wheel of his
black, four-door sedan. Before exiting the car, he turned his
rearview mirror and checked that his part was straight. He pulled a
fine-toothed comb from his shirt pocket and carefully ran it through
his mustache until the dark hair was arranged evenly over his upper
lip.

"You're like a cat, you know that?" Alex
Perez, Blackstone's partner, said.

Blackstone didn't respond.

"I'm going to check the victim," Alex said.
"You just take your time."

"That's just jealousy talking."

"Did I say cat?" Alex said. "I think I
meant pussy" Blackstone smirked and returned the mirror to its
previous position. He got out of the car and walked over to the
highway patrolman directing traffic.

"You the first on the scene?" he asked the
officer.

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?" Blackstone took a step
backward and looked down at the body through the pickup truck's
driver's-side window The stiff 's eyes were open; their expression
seemed calm, almost bored. The skin around the head wound was scooted
up; the throat shot had ripped through a carotid artery and shattered
vertebrae.

"I was cruising when I came across this scene."

"So you didn't see it happen."

"No, sir."

"Paramedics get here?"

"Been and gone. Nothing they could do."

"Good. So they didn't move anything? Disturb the
body?"

"No, sir."

"Anyone come forward? Any witnesses to the
shooting?"

"Not exactly A woman in a dark blue GTO slowed
down while I was directing traffic and claimed to know the driver."

Blackstone looked back to where the body was
positioned. "Could she see him?"

"Not from her angle; not the face anyway Maybe
the foot. I guess she recognized the vehicle"

"You let her go?"

"I instructed her to pull over. When I looked
over again, she hadn't."

"Get a plate? No, of course you didn't. Was she
young, old, fat?"

"Caucasian, early twenties, small build, light
eyes, curly light-brown hair—collar length."

"That narrows the field."

"One other thing, sir—her hands and
fingernails. They were . . . not really dirty more like stained.
Lines of black around her cuticles and under her nails."

"All right, Officer . . ." He leaned
forward to read the name tag. "Kerr. That might be something.
Thanks. What was the speed of traffic?"

"Fifty to fifty-five."

"Is Cal Trans on the way?"

"Yes, sir."

Blackstone made a note in his notebook and walked
back to the crash site. The tow truck driver stood at the ready
awaiting permission to haul off the wreck. Blackstone held up a hand
to say not yet. He studied the accordion creases in the hood and the
crushed front grille. The drivers door appeared to have sprung open
on impact. If the truck had collided with the pole at fifty-five
miles an hour, the signpost would have been flattened. Blackstone
walked around to the passenger side, looked inside the cab, and saw
the hot-wired ignition.

"Another fine, upstanding citizen," he said
out loud.

The highway patrol officer looked over but said
nothing.

Traffic advanced sluggishly on both sides of the
freeway Blackstone ignored the shouted questions of the motorists.
People are idiots, he thought, shaking his head. But that was the
job: protecting idiots from assholes. A Cal Trans truck arrived with
flashing yellow arrow boards to redirect traffic. He instructed them
to shut down the southbound lanes five miles before and after the
crime scene.

"It's Friday rush hour," the harried Cal
Trans supervisor explained. "I can give you on-ramp to on-ramp
in both directions. But that's it."

"Fine," Blackstone said. "Just do it."

The coroner's wagon arrived next, escorted by another
black-and-white unit. The coroner's deputies waited until the
photographers took their pictures—eight-point shots of the victim
and vehicle. Blackstone made sure they captured the loose ignition
wires on film. He went back to his car, opened the trunk, and
retrieved his own Polaroid camera. As he snapped his pictures, he
took note of the shooter's skill. Two out of three shots had hit the
driver; both had done serious damage. One shot entered through the
forehead, passed through the brain, and taken with it on exit the
back half of the skull. It had certainly been fatal. The other had
torn out the victims throat, another nonsurvivable wound. He was
either dealing with a shooter who was a crack marksman or one with
the luck of Lee Harvey Oswald. The third bullet had gone through the
dash and floorboard.

Using the toe of his shoe, he opened the driver's
door the rest of the way, then stepped aside while the body was
loaded onto a gurney

The coroner's deputy wearing surgical gloves, went
through the victim's pockets. Alex searched through the dense hedge
of bottlebrush growing along the freeway shoulder.

Blackstone returned to the drivers side of the pickup
truck, where he studied the spiderweb fractures in the broken
windshield.

"Right up your alley eh, Jigs?" Alex asked
from over Blackstones shoulder.

Blackstone let his partners words wash over him.
"What do you think?" Alex was brushing dirt and leaves from
his knees.

"The top one was first," Blackstone said,
running his finger down the cracks in the glass. "See how the
cracks radiating out from the bottom hole butt up against the upper
web fractures?"

"I'll take your word for it."

Blackstone studied the top bullet hole and found that
it was drilled neatly with no deviation. The trucks windshield was
fairly flat, he noted, but had enough of a slope that it might
deflect a projectile as it passed through. The fired rounds must have
entered at almost a perfect ninety-degree angle. Matching holes were
torn through the upholstery of the drivers seat. He scanned the road
up ahead.

There were no overpasses or tall trees nearby

"We got at least two perps," he said. "The
shooter and his driver. We're looking for another truck, maybe a van
or a camper, even a motor home."

"Shit," Alex said, looking down the miles
of freeway "they're long gone by now."

They looked in through the open door of the truck.
The seat was soaked with blood. Bits of bone and red gelatinous brain
matter clung to the vinyl and cloth. If the second kill shot was
intentional, was there some sort of message implied? Nobody sings
with a bullet in his throat.

Blackstone shone his flashlight into the area behind
the seat and saw that the bullets had cut through the sheet metal of
the cab as well.

The investigators formed an impromptu huddle out of
earshot of the tow truck driver. Blackstone addressed the coroner
first. "What have you got?"

"There was a wallet in the back pocket, but the
ID was a forgery"

"I called in the name," CHP officer Kerr
added, "but it wasn't on record with the DMV The truck was
reported stolen yesterday"

"Anything?" Blackstone asked his partner.

"Nah, he must have been alone."

"That's the way we all die, buddy"

"Thanks for the thought."

While they awaited the arrival of the firearms
expert, Blackstone told Alex, " want to find the female in the
GTO. If she doesn't come forward, let's check the printing shops in
the area."

"What are we looking for?"

"Female, Caucasian, early to mid-twenties, who
sets type or cleans the presses."

They looked up as an orange-Jacketed Cal Trans worker
picked up three of their cones so that the police crime lab van could
enter. Blackstone greeted Jeff Hagouchi from Firearms as he exited
his vehicle.

"What have we got?" Hagouchi asked.

"One victim, shot twice, three rounds fired."

"A level shot would have taken out the back
window," Hagouchi said.

"Yeah," Blackstone answered, "that's
what we were thinking, but we wanted an expert's opinion."