Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (19 page)

The bank manager at First Federal helped St. John
personally. He was a tall black man with short cropped hair showing
signs of silver. He introduced himself as Felix Tornay.

"We'll all miss Diane," he said as he
ushered the detective into the safety deposit vault.

"Did you work with her?" St. John asked.

"Yes. We still saw her at least once a month."
Tornay removed two keys from his pocket. "What's the number
again?"

"Three twenty-eight."

Both men scanned the walls until they located the
box. Tornay slid the keys into their slots and turned.

"When was the last time she was in?" St.
John asked. Tornay paused, looking up to his left. "Early last
week. She made a deposit, I believe. I can check our records if you
need the exact day" He lifted out the box and set it on the
freestanding table in the center of the room.

St. John slipped on a pair of latex gloves and raised
the lid. There were several thick documents in the box. Vehicle
titles, a deed to the home on Chenault, and an unsealed white
envelope. St. John saw the rectangular bulge of the photographs. The
warrant was written for seizure of the entire contents, but he knew
the bank manager would want a written inventory.

"Ready?" St. John asked.

Felix Tornay poised his pen over his pad. "Go
ahead."

"One ownership certificate to a 1982 Honda
Prelude." He dropped the document into the brown paper shopping
bag he'd brought. "Title to the house on Chenault."

Tornay wrote without looking up.

St. John lifted the thick white envelope, parting the
opening for a quick peek inside. Diane Bergman, in a full-frontal
naked exposure, pouted seductively at him, each hand cupping a full
white breast. "White envelope full of Polaroid photographs,"
he said as nonchalantly as possible.

Tornay stopped writing and looked up. St. John
grabbed another document and continued. "Ownership certificate
for a 1980 Mercedes." It took another few minutes to empty the
box. St. John thanked the bank manager and left.

Don't ever get murdered,
he wanted to tell the guy. We find out everything about you.

* * *

Munch had problems concentrating. She chalked it up
to more than just lack of sleep. Last night's caller knew she was
sober, knew she had been an addict, knew she was dating a man named
Garret. And, if she could trust what he said, she had spurned his
advances. By ten-thirty she knew she needed more caffeine if she
hoped to last until five. Ducking her head into Lou's office, she
asked, "Want a cup?"

He lifted the half-full mug on his desk and sniffed
it. "Yeah, sure."

He started to reach in his pocket for money but she
said, "I'll get it."

Crossing the lube bays, she studied her coworkers.
Carlos was on the phone with his back to the driveways, head tilted
and shoulders hunched. No doubt speaking to his wife of two months.
She was already pregnant, Munch knew. No way this head-case rapist
could be Carlos, her buddy. They'd been together for years. She
helped him all the time. He helped her, too. Though in her case it
was usually helping him diagnose a problem, and the help he returned
was more along the lines of lifting or pushing.

Since her promotion, the dynamics of their
relationship had changed. She now had authority over him, but that
wasn't the whole story She took her position as service manager
seriously. Owning her own limo business had raised her consciousness
as to the concerns of management: rent, price increases, taxes,
credit card chargebacks, and customer complaints. Unless the shop was
making a profit, there would be no jobs. She knew she was right when
she chewed Carlos out for being late or Stefano for not repairing a
car correctly and then trying to bullshit his way out of it. She was
also conscious of their unhappy looks. Especially Carlos's unspoken
accusation that she had changed—as if she had somehow betrayed him.

She stopped by where Stefano was standing. He was
spraying his tool box with WD-4o, rubbing the fragrant lubricant
across the red paint with a shop rag until it gleamed beneath the
fluorescent lights. The freestanding tool chest was a monstrous
thing, the most expensive model Snap-on tools made, and that was
saying a lot. She wondered now if perhaps his obsession with his
tools wasn't some symptom of inadequacy or overcompensation on
Stefano's part. She would have to check with Emily Hogan on how well
he fit the rapist's profile.

Certainly calling him a loner wasn't too much of a
stretch. He always ate his lunch out, and never offered any
explanation of where he went when he fired up his noisy little Alfa
Romeo midday.

He stopped spraying and looked down at her. "Yes?"

"I'm making a run to the bakery. You want
anything?"

An arrogant little smile played across his mouth. He
lifted both eyebrows and stuck out his chest. "Well . . ."

Oh God, she thought, you give these guys one little
opening and they think you want to get between the sheets with them.
"C'mon," she said impatiently.

"Tea," he told her. "Black."

"You would have to be different," she said,
then smiled to soften the words.

He smiled back. Even that was slimy.

She was almost down the driveway when she saw Pauley
coming to work in his van full of detailing supplies. How much did
she really know about him? Or the mailman, for that matter, if she
was going to start looking at everyone. Talk about paranoia. This
could get crazy quick.

She was still laughing at herself when she cut across
the rows of metered parking to reach the bakery. D.W.'s van was
parked in front. She stepped into the bakery and saw him standing at
the counter. Shoelaces dangling, counting out his money. The cashier
was putting two cups of coffee in a white bag already bulging with
muffins. He finished his transaction and turned.

"Morning," she said.

"Oh, hi," he answered. His ears colored a
little and he looked down at the bag in his hand.

"On your way to work?" she asked, wondering
at his discomfort. Then she put it all together. "Two cups,
huh?"

He smiled sheepishly.

She felt a funny twinge of something almost like
jealousy. "I wondered what happened to you this morning,"
she said with a knowing smile at his double order. What on earth did
she feel jealous about? The spiritually correct emotion would be
happiness for him. She neither expected nor wanted him to wait for
her. He was free to pursue somebody else, somebody more receptive to
his charms. She shook her head. Funny how vanity and accompanying
delusions sneak up on a person.

"Yeah, well," he said, pawing the linoleum
with his big work boots and not meeting her eye.

Had she made him feel guilty? As if he were cheating
on her? She reached over and grasped his arm. His muscles were solid
under the flannel of his work shirt. "Have a good day," she
said. "I mean it."

"You, too." He walked past her.

"Oh, by the way," she said. "Have you
heard from Robin?"

He stopped and turned. "I won't see her again
till Tuesday Why?"

"She's not answering or returning my calls."

"Well, she can be funny that way. "

"I stopped by but she didn't seem to be home."

"Maybe she left town," he said.

"Could be. Her car was gone. Wouldn't she have
notified the Meals-On-Wheels peop1e?"

"I'm sure she would have," he said. "I'll
call the office and check if you like."

"Yeah, I would. Let me know as soon as possible,
okay? I'm worried."

"Well, uh, I gotta get going now. " He
lifted the bag of coffee by way of reminding her that she wasn't the
only woman in the world.

"Talk to you later," she said.

She put in her order for the coffees and tea. The
smell of brewing coffee made her think of A.A. meetings and her
sponsor, Ruby. She hadn't called her in weeks. She missed the sound
of Ruby's soft Ozark accent. That voice had helped her through many a
rough time. Now she had to ask herself,
Had
someone else in Ruby's household been listening in to those calls?
 

Chapter 16

 
S
t. John
arrived at Century Entertainment in the early afternoon. The club
where Joey Polk and rape victim Veronica Parker aka "Ginger
Root" worked was close to the San Diego Freeway highly visible
to the traffic going to LAX. LIVE GIRLS, the sign above the
windowless building proclaimed. ALL NUDE. Then to stress the point,
xxx. And finally the redundant, but grammatically correct, NUDE
NUDES.

In the fifties the club had been a bowling alley with
a little coffee shop in front. The walls were still painted in
alternating wedges of green and pink. The coffee shop had been
supplanted with a retail outlet that sold all manner of sex supplies
for the discriminating adult.

He had to circle the block several times before
entering the entertainment complex off Century Boulevard. When it had
been Century Bowl, there was access to the grounds from the side
streets. But now all those other entryways were barricaded and the
long driveway running alongside the main building was mined with
steep speed bumps.

He parked his Buick in a space in front reserved for
customers in search of X-rated videos or a battery-operated dildo for
that special someone. A group of businessmen jostled toward the
entrance. One of the guys whipped out a credit card.

St. John followed, paid the cover charge, and walked
through the curtained entrance. The place was dark and loud. Up on
the stage a naked woman lay on her side, facing a customer in the
front row. She raised her leg and gave the guy a full shot. St. John
averted his gaze, embarrassed for them both. He thought of his wife,
how much she would hate a place like this. And, hey he didn't exactly
approve either. But as he often explained to Caroline, he had to go
where the job took him. Crimes committed in hell were not witnessed
by angels in heaven.

An Asian girl in a bikini stopped at his table. "Can
I get you a drink?" she asked, all smiles, small tits, great
ass.

He reached for his wallet. "Bring me a Coke."
The place was beginning to fill up. Men on their lunch breaks, he
imagined. He feigned interest in the floor show while keeping an eye
out for Joey Polk.

His drink arrived several minutes later followed by a
voluptuous, tall redhead dressed in a leopard-print sarong.

"Six dollars," the waitress said and
waited.

He pulled out a ten. "Give me a receipt, will
you?"

The redhead put a hand on his shoulder and leaned
over so that most of her tits showed. "Looking for some company
honey?"

"Is Ginger working today?" he asked, using
Veronica Parker's stage name. The waitress returned with his change
and a wet register receipt. He gave her a dollar tip.

"No, honey but I can fix you up," the
redhead said. "My name's Sunny. Sunny Delight. What's yours?"

"Mace."

"What's your pleasure, Mace?"

"Think we could go somewhere a little more
private?"

"Sure thing," she said. "Individual
private dances are fifty dollars. We do accept American Express,
Visa, and MasterCard."

He unfolded his badge holder and gave her a quick
peek. "I just want to ask you a few questions. Won't take long."

She sighed and called over her shoulder, "Lenny."

A large, no-neck bald guy approached. He was wearing
a navy blue T-shirt with the word SECURITY written in white block
letters across the back.

"
Cop," she said.

Lenny stuck his chest out belligerently. St. John
took his measure. Fat, muscle-bound morons didn't impress him. They
were slow and clumsy He pretended respect anyway. "I don't want
trouble. Just a little information."

Lenny's face was blank of all expression. His
posture—legs slightly spread, hands crossed and covering his
groin—showed his San Quentin breeding. That and the predominantly
blue, homegrown jail tattoos adorning his muscular arms. "What
can we do for you, Officer?"

"I'm following up on an assault report. The
victim's name is Veronica Parker. You might know her as Ginger."

A flicker of recognition crossed Lenny's eyes. "She
stopped working here after what happened. I don't know where she
went. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help to you."

St. John seriously doubted the sincerity of Lenny's
remorse. He gave them both business cards. "Call me if you hear
from her. She's not in trouble. I'm trying to catch the guy who raped
her. "

Sunny let her hand trail provocatively across St.
John's chest. "Sorry you couldn't stay and enjoy the show. "

"Yeah," Lenny echoed. "Real sorry. "
His tone made it clear that as far as St. John was concerned, the
show was over. The detective stood and started to walk toward the
entrance.