Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (18 page)

"Did you happen to notice Robin Davies leave
today?" St. John asked.

Munch leaned across the front seat. "Gold Toyota
Celica?"

The guard stared off to the right for a moment and
then shook his head. "But she might have gone out the Montana
exit."

"There's another exit?" Munch asked.

"Sure." The guard pointed down a street to
their left.

"Thanks," St. John said.

"Are you feeling all right?" Munch asked,
noticing his pallor.

St. John put a palm to his forehead. "I must
have a bug or something."

"Don't breathe on me," she said. "I
can't afford to get sick."

"Me neither. "

When they arrived at the alternate gate, they found
that it operated automatically—opening as soon as their car passed
through unseen sensors. One-way spikes stretched across the exit
driveway accompanied by signs warning of severe tire damage. What
made the scene laughable was the entrance gate to the right. Not only
was it open, but judging from the bougainvillea stems twined through
its bars, it had been in the open position for weeks, possibly
months.

"So much for high security," Munch said.

"It was always an illusion anyway;" St.
John answered.
 

Chapter 15

S
t. John dropped Munch
back at the gas station and pondered his next move. Robin's
disappearance worried him more than he wanted Munch to know. He also
knew that pursuing leads in the matter was going to require
diplomacy. If he called the department liaison at the phone company
and asked them to check the lines going to Robin Davies's apartment,
he would have to make a report of his request. On that report he was
also obliged to list a case number. Since Robin Davies was not his
official case, he was left with few options.

He headed back to headquarters. On his way he stuck
one of the cassette tapes of Munch's calls into his tape deck.
Replaying the tape only reinforced his agitation. This was one sick
fuck they had on their hands. He opened his glove box and pulled out
the large jar of antacid tablets. Three-quarters gone. He'd purchased
the bottle only two weeks ago.

He parked in the police lot and entered through the
side door, climbing the stairs to the detective squad room. He didn't
go directly to his desk. Instead he stopped at the cluster of desks
that comprised the Major Assault Crimes unit, or MAC as it was
called.

Pete Owen was sitting in a cloud of cigarette smoke,
talking on the phone. Owen was a gaunt, pale man with thinning brown
hair. Sunken everything: eyes, chest, shoulders. He looked up at St.
John, then made a quick, furtive gesture for St. John to take a seat.
Owen's eyes darted from St. John to a pad on his desk. "Let me
get back to you on that," he said into the phone, pulling a
report file over to cover his notepad. He concluded his telephone
conversation with "Tomorrow, before five. Sure thing." He
hung up, covered his face with both hands, and exhaled noisily.
"Man," he said, letting his hands drop, "everybody's
in a big hurry. What can I do for you?"

"Robin Davies," St. John said.

"What about her?"

"
Rape case. Early last month."

Owen started to nod and sift through the midden of
paperwork on his desk, exposing the notepad. Three questions were
scrawled across it: Medical insurance? Vacation time? 4o1k plans?
Owen flipped the pad over.

"Looking for work?" St. John asked.

"I've got something lined up," Owen
admitted. "But I'm keeping my options open. You know Charlie
Long out of South Central?"

"Oh, sure. Retired two years ago."

"He was all set up to take over security at this
lodge up in Big Bear. He and the wife sold everything, bought a
cabin. Charlie was going to spend his golden years hunting and
fishing."

"Sounds like Charlie."

"Then his wife gets allergies. Can you beat that
shit? She can't take it up there. So what happens to Charlie? He's
got to move to the desert. Now he's counting golf carts at some
la-la-land golf community in Palm Springs. Hates it. Just hates it.
Says Frank Sinatra is an asshole."

"So this Robin Davies."

"The one in Brentwood? Calls herself a model?
You know her?"

"
Friend of a friend. Anyhow, she's gone
missing."

"Since when?"

"This morning. She tell you she was going out of
town?"

"No. You think there's a reason to worry?"

"You know she's been getting harassing phone
calls?"

Owen's face grew cautious. "Yeah. I took the
report. We trapped her line but couldn't trace the call."

"So she said. The caller was using a mobile
phone."

"Sounds like your interest is more than casual."

"Several months ago another woman was raped and
dumped on the freeway Rampart handled the case. Vic's name was
Veronica Parker. Her rapist also shocked her into compliance and then
later provided her with a nightgown."

As St. John talked, Owen had located the case file
for Robin Davies and opened it. He looked up now and said, "Yeah,
I know about that one. Sounded to me more like a case of a whore
getting beat out of her fare."

"According to the Rampart dicks, the suspect
used an electrolarynx. Whether he's missing his vocal cords or just
uses it to disguise his voice, I don't know. You might want to check
into that."

"Yeah, just might," Owen said, but he made
no move to make a note to himself.

"There's also a possibility that your UNSUB,"
he said, using cop speak for unknown subject, "might also be
responsible for a homicide I'm investigating. White female named
Diane Bergman. Her body was recovered Monday morning—"

"
Diane Bergman as in widow of Sam Bergman?"
Owen interrupted.

"You know her?"

"Yeah, she's on the board of the Bergman Cancer
Center out at UCLA. That's where I applied for a job as head of
security. Shit."

He sank a little farther into his chair, ran bony
fingers through his thin hair.

Obviously St. John realized, Owen didn't bother
reading twenty-four-hour crime reports or the newspaper, or this
homicide wouldn't be such a surprise. "When's the last time you
saw her?" he asked.

"Last Friday I handled security at this party
they gave in the Palisades. Big estate. Lots of people roaming
around. We kept an eye on things, made sure no one went in any of the
bedrooms, or nicked any pricey little doodads."

"Any problems at the party?"

"Nah, none to speak of. When was she killed?"

"Sunday evening sometime. I have a witness who
saw her arguing with a middle-aged white male at the party on Friday
night. You know who that could have been?"

Owen threw his hands in the air. "That describes
most of the men there. Man," he said, pushing back in his chair
and throwing his pen on the desk. "I think she liked me for the
position, too. You know who's taking over her duties on the board?"

"No. Was she seeing anyone?"

"Not that I know of. She had the look though."

"What look is that?"

"You know, on the hunt. Giving guys the slow
up-and-down. Like she's sizing you up for a cock ring."

"She come on to you?" St. John asked.

"Nah, I'd be way out of her league. What about
her lawyer?"

"Sarnoff? What about him?"

"I should give him a call. I bet he's running
things now. He was at the party too."

"So I understand."

"Yeah, it was a real who's who, if you know what
I mean. All the high and mighty of the West Side. Makes them feel
good about themselves, all this charity shit. You gotta notice that
they give the most time and money to diseases they have a chance of
catching."

St. John nodded.

"And they can't get enough gory details,"
Owen went on. "Love to ask questions about the job, you know.
What it's like to see dead bodies, all that shit."

"What are your thoughts on the guy calling Robin
Davies?" St. John asked.

"Robin . . . ?" Owen started his sentence
as a question and then stopped himself. But not before St. John
caught the fact that he had already put her out of his mind even
though her file was still open at his fingertips. "What more can
we do? I told you the guy calling her couldn't be traced. In fact . .
." He looked down quickly at his notes. "Yeah, here it is.
I told her to change her number and leave it unlisted."

"That didn't make a difference. He got her new
number right away. I need you to call the phone company and check her
line for other taps."

"I can do that." Owen said, closing the
file.

"I'll wait." St. John told him, sitting
back in his chair.

Owen gave an annoyed chuckle but picked up his phone.
He was still shaking his head derisively when he asked St. John,

"How good a friend is this friend of yours?"

Now it was St. John's turn to feel defensive. Owen
couldn't know how close to the bone he'd struck with such a casual
question. How good a friend was Munch? Sure he felt a bond with her.
She'd saved his life. Literally. You don't ever feel casually about
someone after that. But she was a kid. Well, maybe not so much
anymore. The waif he'd first met had transformed herself in the last
seven years. He was not immune to the softness that had emerged in
her, the femininity that colored her moves, whether under a car or
delivering a batch of cookies she'd made him for his birthday.
Another curious development in her personality was her recovered
innocence. Or, perhaps, innocence never lost despite all she had
lived through. She shed her unholy childhood like the husk of a
cocoon, not using it as an excuse. No, she was much too involved in
living now. He loved that about her, how enthralled she was in
everything he told her. It played to his ego, her appreciation of his
ingenuity in adapting equipment on the Bella Donna. The way her large
hazel eyes absorbed his every word when he spoke. This was a new age.
Men and women could be friends. Hell, Munch knew he was happily
married. Wasn't she the first one always to ask about Caroline?

Owen looked up from his phone call, hearing St. John
let out a small groan.
How could he be so
blind to all the signals that had been passing between them?

"What?" Owen asked, hanging up.

"Nothing," St. John said. "I'm just an
idiot sometimes."

"Yeah, me too," Owen said. "Just ask
my wife."

"What did they say?" St. John asked,
nodding toward the phone.

"They'll check the junction box for tampering
and get back to me. You want to wait?"

"Nah, I've got to run over to the Federal
Building and drop off some tapes. You might want to come. I've been
working with Emily Hogan in sex crimes over there. She's building a
database on sex offenders."

Owen looked at his telephone. "Maybe another
time."

"Yeah, sure."

"Oh, hey" Owen said, opening the bottom
drawer of his desk from which he retrieved a Penthouse magazine. "I
bet no one mentioned this." He turned to a dog-eared page. St.
John looked down at the spread featuring Robin Davies.

"What issue is this?" he asked.

"August," Owen said. "This year. Not
quite the innocent little girl next door, eh?"

St. John didn't dignify
the comment with an answer.

* * *

Robin woke disoriented. At first she thought she was
home, then she remembered. A stab of adrenaline-charged fear brought
her fully awake. The strap around her ankle prevented her from
turning over. She sat up. Next to the bed was a vase of fresh roses.
Their scent permeated the damp, dark room. Candles flickered on a
table against the wall. Gradually other forms around her took shape.
She wasn't alone.

"
Morning, Sunshine," he said. He was
sitting in a straight-back chair at the foot of the bed.

"What do you want?" she tried to ask, but
her voice came out in a barely audible croak.

"Thirsty?" he asked.

She nodded, watching his every move, knowing she was
completely at his mercy. The tops of her eyelids seemed to be pushing
into her brows. Her eyeballs felt overly large and distended, bulging
like some cartoon character's when they pop out looking at something
fearsome. He handed her a cup of coffee. She took a sip. It was warm
and sweet. Coffee had never tasted so good. The next thing she felt
was an inexplicable surge of gratitude to be alive, to be feeling
anything.

"Thanks," she
managed, offering him a tentative smile.

* * *

Emily Hogan was at lunch when St. John stopped by her
office. He left the tapes on her desk with a brief note and then
returned to headquarters. Not surprisingly, Pete Owen had nothing new
to report. St. John popped his head in the office of the Special
Investigation Team lieutenant, Joe Graziano, and briefed him on what
he was up to. By one o'clock he had his approved warrant to search
Sam Bergman's safety deposit box.