Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (12 page)

According to Lou, bad luck and financial reversals
had hounded Pauley for years. He'd once even owned his own gas
station but had lost it to the tax man. It must be pretty humbling
for Pauley Munch thought as she watched him run soapy mitts over the
hood of a Lincoln Continental, to be merely leasing what amounted to
three parking spaces and a wooden storage locker now.

During the summer, as soon as Pauley's business
started to take off, the people in the apartment building next door
complained of runoff. The city got involved and told him he had to
install an asphalt berm around his wash area that funneled the water
to a drain connected to the sewer. Lou split the cost with him, but
it hadn't been cheap.

She gave him a little wave. He nodded in
acknowledgment as he rinsed off the Lincoln. She started the Mustang,
drove it over to the lube bays, and hooked it up to the scope. Pauley
pulled the Lincoln over to his spot in the shade in front of Lou's
office and began squeegeeing water off the hood and roof.

Spiking lines on the oscilloscope pattern soon
informed her that the Ford needed spark plug wires. She shut off the
engine and heard a woman's strident voice. The source was a
well-dressed Brentwood matron. The object of her complaints seemed to
be a mauve Jaguar. Pauley stood beside the gleaming car, looking
conciliatory, as the woman pointed to the wheels.

"
There are water spots on the rims," she
said.

"Yes, ma'am," Pauley said. "I noticed
that when the car came in. I rubbed them out twice."

"Well, it's not good enough. Are you telling me
you can't polish chrome correctly?"

"No, ma'am." Pauley had a soft towel in his
hand and bent to demonstrate. "These stains are permanent."

Munch walked past the two of them on the way to the
phone and shot Pauley a sympathetic look, but he was concentrating on
trying to please the woman. She passed Lou's open office door and saw
that he, too, was watching what was going on outside.

"And what about this?" the woman asked,
pointing to a drip of water escaping from the gas cap flap. "I
suppose you're going to tell me that this was here when I came in?"

Pauley said nothing. He used his rag to wipe at the
water, then walked around the car and made several other swipes for
show. The woman watched with lips pursed, one hand on her hip, while
she checked her watch and tapped her foot.

Munch found the Mustang work order and called the
owner's work number. She was in the middle of selling the needed
repair when Lou suddenly slammed down his pencil and rushed out his
door.

He came to a stop between Pauley and his unreasonable
customer and lifted his hands high above his head in a gesture of
exaggerated befuddlement. "What do you want him to do for you,
lady" he asked in a voice that carried throughout the shop,
"shit blood?"

Munch winced at the crudeness. The woman's jaw
dropped. Pauley looked at his feet. The air around them all hushed
with tension. Lou waited a moment for the woman to respond, then
dropped his hands and returned to his office. Another moment passed
and then time seemed to start up again. The woman paid Pauley and
left. Munch finished her call to the owner of the Mustang. By the
time she hung up the phone, she was grinning. Vulgarity aside, there
were times when she really loved Lou. She walked back outside,
thinking to share a laugh with Pauley but when she caught his eye he
was glaring at her with an emotion she couldn't fathom. She could
understand his anger, but why was he directing it at her?

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head and walked off in the direction of
the bathrooms. She decided he was embarrassed and left him alone.

By nine—thirty, the shop was caught up on all the
jobs. The Mustang was running like new and the customer would pick it
up when he got off work at five.

She looked at the deserted shop and sighed. She hated
it when it got slow. That's when the idiots emerged, usually in the
form of bored coworkers. There was nothing more annoying than men
with time on their hands. Guys liked to tell stories, she noticed.
And the fact that you'd already heard many versions of the same tale
didn't stop them. It was like they had some sort of secret pact. You
listen to my bullshit, and I'll listen to yours. Bikers did it, cops
did it, dopers did it. If someone didn't have anything new to say she
often wondered, why didn't they ever consider just shutting up? Or
reading a book? Or, God forbid, one of the service bulletins put out
by the Bureau of Automotive Repair. She also had to ask herself how
much of her resentment stemmed from the fact that the majority of her
stories couldn't be shared with the present audience.

Needless to say, she was more than relieved when Mace
St. John's Buick pulled into the driveway. He parked in front of the
office. She met him at his car.

"How are you holding up?" he asked.

"I'm about to go crazy. You could shoot a cannon
through the back room and not hit anything."

"Let's go see your friend."

Munch let Lou know she was taking a break. He
responded by looking at his watch.

They took St. John's car to Barrington Plaza Gardens.
The gate guard asked them for their names, clipboard in hand. Before
Munch could say anything, St. John flashed his badge. The gate guard
shrugged and let them on through. Fahoosy's black Mercedes passed
them going out. She recognized the custom antenna and scooted down in
her seat.

"Problem?" St. John asked.

"
Just some jerk customer." She sat up
again. "What am I hiding for? You've got a gun, right?"

He smiled. "What did this guy do?"

She told most of the story only leaving out the part
where she "forgot" to put the Mercedes's spare back in its
trunk. St. John found the guest parking spaces. He locked the Buick
and the two of them walked up the path to unit 62.

Robin answered the door in a dark green jogging suit.
The thick fleece managed to accentuate her thinness rather than
conceal it, but at least she had changed out of her bathrobe and
brushed her hair.

"Can we come in?" Munch asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Please.”

Munch kicked off her shoes and left them by the front
mat. Robin directed her guests toward the sofa and settled in an
armchair. Munch made introductions.

"Can I get anyone anything?" Robin asked.
"A Coke? Water?" They both declined.

St. John sat next to Munch on the couch and said,
"I'm going to see Pete Owen later today. I'll offer him whatever
assistance I can. I'm sorry this happened to you. I want you to know
that we make catching these kinds of predators a number-one
priority."

"I hope so," she said. The refrigerator
made a loud, gurgling noise and Robin jumped as if reacting to a
gunshot. Munch squeezed St. John's arm although she was sure he'd
noticed. She was too honest with herself not to realize when she was
making an excuse to touch him.

"I know this will be difficult," he said,
using a gentle tone, "but I need you to tell me everything you
remember about your attack and your assai1ant."

Robin perched on the edge of the chair cushion,
barely making a dent. She told her story in a monotone, her eyes
never leaving her hands. She told them how she never saw it coming.
She'd been on her way home alone from an evening out. He had come up
from behind, wrapped his arm around her neck, and choked her until
she passed out. When she came to, he had taped her eyes shut. He told
her he would kill her if she didn't do what he said. She believed
him.

"He talked to me." Robin rubbed the palm of
her hand down her thigh, stopping at her knee. She did this
repeatedly as if it gave her some sort of comfort. "He said he
had been watching me. His voice was disguised, like he was talking
through some kind of vibrating filter. He said, 'You don't know how
long I've waited for this.' "

St. John leaned forward. "What about the voice?"

"The only way I can describe it is to tell you
it was like listening to static, something that shouldn't be human,
forming words. Horrible words."

"Did you tell this to Detective Owen?" St.
John asked.

"I might have. I don't remember how thoroughly I
described everything. I was pretty shook up when I spoke to him."

St. John's eyes had an intense glow to them. He
balled his fist and sank it into the cushion next to him. "What
happened next?"

She told them how he'd put her in her own car and
they'd driven in what felt like circles. She didn't think they had
ever gotten on the freeway, but there was the sensation of going up
and down hills. At last they'd stopped. He'd led her out of the car.
Two steps up to the front door, across a floor that wasn't carpeted,
and then down some stairs.

"Then he told me to remove my clothes,"
Robin said.

"His exact words?" St. John prompted.

"'Take it off, honey. Take it all off.' "
Robin paused and took a deep breath. "When I hesitated, he
pressed something against me that burned and tingled. He said he
could adjust the level, that I'd stay conscious through the pain. I
took everything off. The tape was still around my eyes. Every time I
tried to cover myself with my hands, he'd put something cold and
metallic to my chest and start to count to three. I never let him get
past 'two.' I was so scared that I could only whimper as I felt the
ropes tighten against my ankles and wrists."

Robin pulled at her fingers and looked to her right.
Her face grew taut. Munch noticed a rash of red bumps on her face
that extended down to her throat. Probably a result of malnutrition.
She told them how she'd heard a click and a whir. It took her a
second to identify the familiar sound of a camera shutter opening and
closing. Film forwarding.

"'Please don't hurt me,' I begged. I didn't even
recognize my own voice. He said everything would go smoothly if I did
what I was told."

Munch had listened to many women purge themselves,
clean addicts that she sponsored. She'd heard stories of incest,
child neglect, even one case of bestiality She herself was no
stranger to the cruelty people were capable of. None of it compared
to what Robin told them next.

"Then I felt something being taped to my skin.
Later I realized that they were wires." She lifted her pant leg
and showed them the rows of red shiny scars.

"I heard a chair scrape across the floor and
stop beside me. He was breathing hard. I could smell his sweat."
Robin paused, bit her lip. When she continued her voice was much
higher. "I heard a sound that I couldn't identify. I thought he
was grinding coffee beans, only there was a little ringing noise
going on as well—I had the impression of something spinning. The
jolt came so suddenly, like a slide hammer pulling through my body. I
heard something in my shoulder pop when I tried to pull away "

"He shocked you with electricity?" St. John
asked; his voice was lower than usual. Munch saw him work his mouth
as if it were dry.

Robin nodded. "After the first time, he only did
it when I disobeyed him." She scratched at the side of her face
until it grew red and raw. Munch wanted to grab her hand to stop her.

"He raped me for hours. Vaginally, orally
everywhere. The whole time he kept asking me if I loved him—if I
could grow to love him. Did I feel the magic?" She paused and
cleared her throat. "I told him yes. I would have told him
anything. Afterward he had me take a shower. He even brushed my hair
and gave me a nightgown to put on. He said because I had been such a
good sport about helping him act out his fantasy he was going to take
me back to my car."

Tears rolled down Robin's face before she made her
final admission. "I actually thanked him. Up to that point I was
thinking I was going to die. I didn't want to die."

Munch moved to sit next to her. "And you didn't.
You made it. You're safe."

"Safe?" Robin asked. "I can't even
remember what that felt like."

"You said something about him calling you?"
Munch prompted gently

Robin stood and walked across the room to her
kitchen. Without another word, she pushed the play button on her
answering machine.

There was a beep and then the odd, mechanical voice
said, "I miss you." It paused. "Are you thinking of
me, too? The first time is always awkward. I'm so glad we're past
that."

The machine beeped again.

"We need to talk this out," he said. The
longer he talked, the easier he was to understand. "Please don't
ignore me. We have unfinished business, you and I."

Munch felt the breath leave her body. "That's
him," she told St. John.

"Your guy?" he asked.

Munch nodded.

He held up a hand as if to put her on hold and then
turned back to Robin. "What did you do when you got back to your
car?"

"I drove to the hospital. They called the
police."

"When did the calls start?" St. John asked.

"As soon as I got home from the hospital. The
police have already tried to trace them. They weren't able to.
Apparently the guy is using a mobile phone, and they have no way to
trace it. Something about needing to know the origin of the call and
then they can triangulate the signals. Well, shit. If we knew the
origin of the call we wouldn't need to trace it, would we?"