Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (15 page)

St. John told Emily Hogan about the electrical
torture, the disguised voice, the use of duct tape over the eyes, and
how the guy had dumped two of the women on the freeway when he was
done with them, one of them dead and one alive, but had taken a
third, Robin, back to her car.

"And now our offender has been making follow-up
phone calls to that victim, Robin Davies." He read Emily Hogan
the transcript of the calls. Then he put a hand on Munch's arm.
"Munch is starting to receive calls and we have good reason to
believe it's the same guy."

Hogan nodded and fixed Munch with a sympathetic
expression. "Sounds like this guy believes he's in love with
Robin and he perceives that you're trying to come between them."

"Tell me what I can do to help you all catch
this guy" Munch said.

"We'll set up both you and Ms. Davies with tape
recorders," the agent said. "Turn the recorder on with
every incoming call until you see who it is. Sometimes these creeps
have a friend or even a stranger start the call so that the intended
recipient is caught off guard. This way we ensure that we don't miss
anything at the beginning of the call. We'll give you enough tapes to
make certain that you don't run out. Don't erase the beginnings of
the calls that turn out not to be from the bad guy/'

"Why?"

"Two reasons. First, to show that nothing was
erased, and second, in case the creep has someone else call and then
chickens out."

"I know," Munch said. "Think weenie."

Hogan smiled. "Now, when he does call, see what
you can learn about him. Give him open-ended questions. We don't want
yes-or-no answers, but something that will get him to launch into
free narrative."

"Like what?"

"Like: 'Why are you doing this? What will it
take to make you stop?' "

"
So you want to get into his head?"

"I want anything he'll give us," Hogan
said. She reached under her desk and pulled out two tape recorders.
From her drawer she retrieved two unopened six-packs of cassette
tapes. She gave Munch quick directions on how to attach the machine's
microphone to her handset at home. She also instructed Munch to keep
a log of the time of the calls.

"As soon as you hear from him, call me,"
St. John added.

"Should I try to set up a meet?"

"Only if he suggests
it. If you bring it up first he'll probably suspect a trap."

* * *

On the way home, they stopped at Robin's. The gate
guard didn't want to let them in, but St. John flashed his badge
again and told the guy to open up. Minutes later, they knocked on
Robin's door.

"Yes?" she called from inside.

"Robin, it's Munch and Mace St. John. Can we
come in?"

She opened the door a little more quickly than she
had before. Progress measured in inches.

They gave her the questionnaire and explained that
they needed the answers filled out in detail. While Robin looked the
questions over, St. John hooked up the tape recorder and instructed
her on how and when to use it.

"I brought you some brochures," Munch said.

Robin reached out for them but then grabbed Munch's
hand.

"I never wanted to end up like this," she
said.

"You won't. You haven't. It's not over."

Robin held up the list of questions she was to
answer. "I'll have these for you tomorrow. "

"Call me when you do," Munch said. To seal
the deal she gave Robin a hug. The woman had the body mass of a
child. "Meanwhile, eat something. We are not going to let this
bastard win."
 

Chapter 13

 
M
unch returned
with St. John to the Texaco station in time to see the mailman hiking
up the sidewalk.

"
Hey Phil," she said. "Anything for
me?"

"As a matter of fact . . ." His voice
trailed off as he sifted through the bundle in his hand. "Here
you go," he said finally handing her a white envelope. The
return address was the Bergman Cancer Center. Munch felt a sudden
weight around her heart when she recognized Diane Bergman's
handwriting.

"Mind if I use your phone?" St. John asked.

"Go ahead," she said, ripping open the
envelope. Inside were several pages of paper, folded in thirds. A
Post-it note stuck to the center read, "As promised. Good luck.
Hope this does you some good
and thanks
again. D. "

Munch didn't fight the tears. In fact, she welcomed
the relief of them. She unfolded the papers and saw that they were a
list of names, addresses, and phone numbers printed on Bergman Cancer
Center stationery. The top center of the papers still bore
indentations from a clipboard, most of the names had small check
marks next to them, and there was some scribbling in the margins,
numbers and letters written in pencil: 1oo,ooos CARC 35% -23 followed
by the date 1o/1/84.

St. John noticed and looked at her questioningly He
started to say something but then spoke into the phone, "This is
Detective St. John with the LAPD. Is Mr. Sarnoff in?" He covered
the mouthpiece with his hand. "I'm on hold. What is this?"

"The guest list from last Friday night. Diane
sent it to me."

"Tell the mailman to wait."

She ran after Phil. "We need to ask you a few
questions."

Phil put the mailbag pull cart in an upright
position. "What's up?"

She looked back at St. John, who was finishing his
call. He held up a finger, said his good-byes into the phone, and
walked over to them.

Munch made introductions

"How can I help you, Detective?" the
mailman asked.

"Can you tell me where and when this letter was
mailed?"

Phil looked at the envelope. "It's got a return
address."

"How about the cancellation stamp?" St.
John said. "What does that tell you?"

"It's stamped with yesterday's date and the
local zip code. That means it came through the Brentwood substation.
It was probably posted sometime yesterday. "

"How about if it was mailed from a residence"

"You mean someone's personal mailbox? Depends on
when the delivery truck got it."

St. John consulted his notebook and read off Diane
Bergman's street address.

Mailman Phil thought a moment. "They get their
mail midday, around noon or one."

"Even on Saturday?"

"Even earlier on Saturday" Phil said.

"So if the postman picked up outgoing mail on
Saturday, when would it be processed?"

"Monday."

"So if this letter was mailed from the house on
Chenault, it was probably put in the homeowner's mailbox after the
mail had already arrived on Saturday morning, picked up on Monday and
processed Tuesday."

"Yep, or mailed at a curbside box or at the post
office on Tuesday."

St. John took out his notebook and wrote down Phil's
name and number. "Thanks for your help."

Phil said no problem, and left.

St. John turned to Munch. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she said, wiping her face, "just
sad."

He pointed at the list. "I'm going to need
that."

She held it out to him. The Bergman Cancer Center
stationery listed its officers in the left-hand margin. "Is this
the same Sarnoff you just called? Logan Sarnoff?"

"Yes, it is. Do you know him?"

"I know who he is. I'm going to a thank-you
reception at his house on Friday. He's the first vice president of
the Bergman Cancer Center Foundation."

"He's also the family attorney I'm on my way to
meet with him now. "

"I do know this guy the treasurer, Ken Wilson,"
she said, pointing to the third name down. "He's a customer."

"Was he at the party?"

"Yes, and he's on the guest list, too, with his
name checked off."

"What does he do?"

"He's a stockbroker. Lou uses him. He drives a
red Jeep. Funny vehicle for a white-collar guy don't you think? He
lives in Encino and has an office on Wilshire. When does he need
four-wheel drive?"

"Do you know the address on Wilshire?" St.
John said.

Munch reached under the service desk and pulled out
the phone book. She could find no individual listing for Ken Wilson.

"I'll have to get it from Lou's Rolodex."

She copied Ken Wilson's office address on a sheet of
paper and brought it back to St. John.

"Hmm," he said. "I'm heading over
there now. This is the same building Logan Sarnoff's office is in."

"
I'm not surprised.
Birds of a feather and all that."

* * *

 
Fifteen minutes later, St. John was
ushered into the comfortable office of Logan Sarnoff. It was on the
eighth floor of a modern office building on Wilshire Boulevard. An
oval window looked out toward the Pacific Ocean. Catalina Island was
a vague lump on the orange-brown horizon. He sat down in a plush
leather chair opposite the attorney a trim, clean-shaven man in his
sixties, wearing a suit that probably cost as much as the detective's
privately owned vehicle.

"I'm investigating the death of one of your
clients," St. John said without preamble.

The attorney didn't speak immediately and when he
did, he spaced each word theatrically. These guys charged by the
hour.

"Yes, Diane Bergman. Alfred called me."

"I understand that Mr. Bergman preceded his wife
in death. What did he die of?"

"Pulmonary cancer. It came on very suddenly. His
loss still saddens us all."

"I'm sorry," St. John said.

"But you're here about Mrs. Bergman—Diane."
The attorney looked thoughtful. "The newspaper reported that an
autopsy was scheduled."

"Yes, and I've been assigned to investigate the
death," St. John said. "When was the last time you saw Mrs.
Bergman?"

"That would be last Friday night. There was a
charity function in the Palisades that we both attended. I'm not even
sure if I spoke to her that night. She was so busy with all the
arrangements."

"Did she seem upset?"

"More like harried, which was to be expected."

"Did Mrs. Bergman have a will or life insurance
policies?"

Again, the attorney paused before replying. "I'm
sure you're familiar with the concept of
quid
pro quo
, Detective," Sarnoff said at
last. "Before I can give you any information, I need to know
that I'm not compromising the interests of any of my other clients. I
don't expect you to reveal to me all aspects of your investigation,
but I will need to know more than what you've told me so far. Do you
have any suspects?"

This time it was St. John's turn for contemplation.
He balanced the attorney's offer in his time-honored fashion,
weighing what he stood to gain against possible losses. "This is
to be kept confidential."

The attorney nodded sagely.

"Diane Bergman's body was discovered on the
shoulder of the San Diego Freeway early Monday morning."

Sarnoff nodded. "I knew that much from the media
reports."

"We are ruling the case a homicide. To date we
have neither suspects nor a motive. Anything you can tell me that you
think would be pertinent, I would appreciate. I've been to her house.
I know she was widowed earlier this year. I need to know what her
financial assets were and who might profit from her death."

The attorney closed his eyes, but neither his
expression nor his tone wavered. "Mrs. Bergman did make
arrangements with me," he said. "In the event of her death,
her entire estate reverts to the Bergman Cancer Center. "

"Where is this?"

"At UCLA Medical Center. It's a remarkable
facility. Quite state of the art. The latest in diagnostic tools.
Early detection often means the difference between life and death. It
most certainly would have made a difference in Sam's case."

"Any life insurance?" St. John asked.

Sarnoff nodded. "Again, the Cancer Center was
the beneficiary Diane wanted our work to continue."

"And who controls those funds?"

"The foundation is fully incorporated and
governed by a board of directors."

"
Yourself being one of them?"

"Yes. I and eight others."

"And what about Alfred?"

"He wasn't on the board."

"Were provisions made for him in either of the
Bergmans' wills?"

"Between you and me?"

St. John made reassuring noises.

"Sam and I discussed this very thing and decided
against splitting the estate. Alfred Bergman has his own money and no
dependents. Sam wanted to pass on knowing that Diane would be well
provided for. "