Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (21 page)

"You can hear for yourself. I dubbed the tapes
before I handed them over."

He stopped pacing and looked at her as if something
had just occurred to him. "Where's Asia?"

"Just to be on the safe side she's going to stay
with the St. Johns for the next few days."

"I'm not leaving you alone," he said. Then
he made a self-satisfied nod. "Bet you're glad you're moving,
though."

Munch had forgotten all about their plans to look at
a house this weekend. But she did remember that she hadn't committed
to anything, yet. She was saved from having to respond when their
conversation was interrupted by a banging in the laundry room. Garret
got up to investigate. Munch opened the drain and stepped out of the
bath. In the time it took to dry herself, the thumping hadn't ceased.
She wrapped herself in a towel and followed Garret.

She found him in the laundry room clutching both
edges of the bucking washing machine, attempting to hold it still.
She pushed him aside, lifted the lid, pulled apart a clump of wet
towels, and rearranged them. When she shut the lid the washer resumed
its cycle. Quietly. She wanted to ask him how he had managed to live
almost forty years on this earth and not know how to deal with or
recognize the symptoms of an unevenly loaded washing machine. She bit
back the words. Someone once said you could tell the people who were
in the most successful relationships by the bite marks on their
tongues. To be honest, she was more concerned with her character than
her relationship. She didn't want to be a bitch.

Perhaps that would be the excuse she would use when
she finally ended it with Garret. Last Sunday morning had been a
prime example. They had been watching TIL and she came in and sat on
the edge of the bed. She knew she was blocking his view. She was
trying to give him an opportunity to stand up for himself. That's all
she wanted, him to be his own man and not some meek little puppy dog.
Instead he had just moved aside and not said anything, leaving her to
feel like a shrew and wondering why she couldn't appreciate this guy.

She also knew that if it had been St. John there in
the laundry room playing Billy Bronco to the bucking washer, she
would have thought it was cute. Maybe with the right guy, she
wouldn't have to be a bitch.

She was pulling on her dress when Garret called to
her from the living room.

"Where's the tape?"

"Still in my tape deck."

"Mind if I play it?"

"Go ahead." She heard the clicks of the
sound system being turned on and took a deep breath to calm herself.
"His voice is gonna sound weird. He does something to disguise
it."

Garret didn't respond. She came out of the bedroom
and stopped in the doorway of the living room. He had put the
headphones on to listen to the tape. She saw the spools turning and
his expression darken. When it was over, he ripped the headphones
from his head and said, "How does he know my name?"

"I don't know," she said. "It's like
he reads my mail or listens to my telephone conversations."

"Maybe you should start keeping more to
yourself."

"Whatever happened to, 'You're only as sick as
your secrets'?"

"Forget about all that. What I want to know is
who is this guy?"

She shook her head. "If
we knew, he wouldn't be roaming the streets."

* * *

Twenty minutes later they were in Garret's Camaro
heading for the cocktail party in the Palisades Highlands. While he
drove, she painted her short nails with dark red lacquer. The sharp
scent of acetone filled the car.

"You know everyone's going to be talking about
Diane Bergman's death tonight," she said.

"Let's see what we can find out."

She smiled in his direction. Sometimes he was all
right.

The house was elegant. A glass cabinet in the foyer
held porcelain figurines painted in delicate pastel shades. The
sunken living room had a fire going. A camelback antique clock kept
time on the mantel. White sofas stood out on richly colored Persian
carpets. Tuxedo-clad servers wove among the guests with trays of hors
d'oeuvres and drinks.

Munch felt a sharp cramp in her stomach and wondered
if her body was already telling her it was time to leave. Garret
brought her a soda and announced that he was going to mingle. He
seemed right at home. She watched him make the rounds, drink in hand,
smiling, shaking hands, and chatting it up. He could be a regular
little social butterfly when necessary She knew he wanted to own his
own independent repair shop one day and be a fixture in the
community. Good for him. Ambition was an admirable thing.

He was soon swallowed by the crowd of local
philanthropists. Business cards flew like confetti. She backed into a
corner of the room and tried to act as if she were having an
interesting time. A half hour crept slowly by and then her stomach
grumbled. She hadn't eaten since around ten. The line by the food
table had died down. She walked over to the impressive array of
finger foods and reached for a canapé. Her nails felt weird, like
they couldn't breathe. The dark color she'd used to cover the grease
stains seemed to draw extra attention to her hands. This suspicion
was only confirmed when a well-dressed man at her elbow said,

"Aren't you the mechanic?"

"
Yes, sir," she answered. "And you
are?"

"Logan Sarnoff."

"Ah, our host. You have a great house."

He made a modest gesture of acknowledgment. "Did
you study auto mechanics in high school?"

She'd only gotten as far as ninth grade but to this
man she said, "It wasn't offered to women then."

"Was your father an auto mechanic?"

She considered briefly telling this guy the whole
truth, imagining the shock on his face when she announced that her
father had been a pimp—also not a profession offered in high
school. She went with a milder truth, saying only "No, he wasn't
mechanically inclined. I just figured it would be a good trade
wherever I wound up."

"And do you work on your own car?"

This was not the first time she had been asked this
question. Still, the blatant stupidity of it always surprised her.
"What sort of law do you practice?" she asked. "Criminal?
Defense?"

"No, I do the occasional litigation but mainly
I'm a family attorney specializing in estate planning."

"And did you write your own will or pay someone
to do it?"

To his credit, he chuckled and said, "Touché."
He took a sip of his drink and added, "Say I could have used you
a few months ago."

"Did your car break down?"

"No, I had a litigation involving an automobile
transmission. I had to learn all about the darn thing so I could
argue whether the new transmission was rebuilt or reconditioned. That
determination is based on how many parts had been replaced as opposed
to merely cleaned and greased."

"And the difference was?" Munch asked.

"A couple thousand dollars." He shrugged as
if it were small change.

"That must be a cool part of your job," she
said, "always learning about new stuff."

"It can be."

Munch looked down, swirled the ice cubes in her
Coca-Cola. "Isn't it sad about the Bergmans?"

"Yes," he said. "I knew them both.
Terrible thing."

"I still can't believe it." She pulled an
envelope out of her purse. Diane's name was written across the front.
"I meant to give her these pictures the last time I saw her."

"Pictures?" he asked.

"
Of my limo," she said, returning to her
purse for a business card. "So the people at the auction can see
what they're bidding on." She handed him two cards, in case one
of his rich friends wanted one, too. "Have you heard anything
more about what happened to her?"

Sarnoff took a sip of his cocktail and fixed her with
gin-glazed eyes. "I have friends in the DA's office. I know the
police are expending every effort to catch the killer. They have
reason to believe he has struck in this area several times in the
last few months, although this is the first murder."

"As opposed to . . ." She let the statement
linger open-ended.

"Rape," he said.

"The rapist that uses a cattle prod or
something?" she asked.

"I'm not sure how much I'm at liberty to say,"
he said.

"It's been on the news," she lied to salve
his conscience. There was no reason for him to know she was privy to
inside information. She didn't have time to convince him she could be
trusted. St. John told her once that a good way to get a guy to talk
was to lead him to believe he wasn't the first or only source.

"Well then, yes," Sarnoff said, "Diane's
murderer was most probably the sick bastard who has been raping and
torturing women with electrocution. In Di's case, he went too far."
His face crumpled and he made a high, keening noise as if he were
going to cry.

She put a hand on his arm. "I know the homicide
cop on the case. Don't you worry. He'll find the killer and bring him
to justice."

"
Let's just hope that happens before another
innocent woman has to suffer," Sarnoff said.

Garret rotated back toward them. His face made her
think of a satisfied chipmunk, the way his round cheeks were flushed
red and his brown eyes glowed. He must have made some gratifying
contacts. She introduced him to Sarnoff, who removed a white
handkerchief from his pocket.

"You've got quite a woman here," the lawyer
said, dabbing his brow with the hankie and seeming to have set his
grief aside. "A real go-getter."

"
Yes, sir," Garret said, hugging her to
him. "She's something, all right."

Sarnoff nodded and wandered off. The doorbell rang,
followed by shouting and laughter. She heard glass breaking from the
direction of the kitchen, but nobody registered alarm. Garret still
held her. His thumb rubbed repetitive swirls on her arm until her
flesh burned. She put a hand over his to stop the growing friction.
The room felt close with body heat and exhaled air.

"Hear anything interesting?" she asked,
having to raise her voice a bit to be heard above the growing din.

"Sam Bergman had big bucks and no kids. He and
Diane met at his bank. She worked there as a loan officer."

"He owned the bank?"

"Among other things. He was thirty years her
senior. You didn't tell me that."

"Are you saying she was a gold digger?"
Munch asked. "People aren't saying that, are they?"

"More like wondering who gets the money now,"
he said.

"Best bet is they left it all to their charity
unless some long-lost relative shows up."

She sneaked a look at her watch. It was nine o'clock.
Surely they had made enough of an appearance here. Someone jostled
into her back. The beginning of a headache was forming behind her
eyes.

She pulled him into a corner. He stood beside her,
facing the crowded room. "Garret?"

"Hmm?"

"If you could be anywhere in the world right
now, where would you be?"

He fixed her with a particularly sappy look. "Right
here with you."

Her stomach spasmed again. It wasn't the answer she
had been looking for. She was thinking more in terms of at the beach
on a sunny day or even at the movies. "Would you mind if we left
now?"

"Not at all."

He put a protective arm around her shoulder and they
fought their way to the front door. She couldn't tell if he was
guiding her or holding her back.
 

Chapter 18

 
M
ace St. John
was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. He'd spent the whole
day talking to friends of Diane Bergman and visiting the stores where
Diane shopped. Everyone gave him much the same story. Diane Bergman
was a nice woman, unpretentious, caring, but somewhat private. Nobody
he spoke to had seen her after the party last Friday night.

Her car still hadn't shown up. Chances are it was
already south of the border being fitted with new VIN tags and
license plates or being parted out at some chop shop. The toxicology
results from the coroner weren't in yet. He was told he could expect
them the middle of next week.

He read the mail addressed to Diane Bergman that had
arrived since her death, listened to her voice on her answering
machine, and spent a few more hours at her house on Chenault. He was
starting to feel as if he knew her. It was a common phenomenon when
investigating a murder as the victim's life and habits took shape.
Their voices, faces, even desires, became part of his memories. That
part of the job didn't get to him so much. It was the living who gave
him the problems—recalcitrant witnesses, pushy reporters, and the
frequently small-minded, always self-interested brass.

Now it was time for him to leave all that at the
office. Caroline had a meat loaf in the oven. Asia was at the kitchen
table, cutting out pictures of brides from a magazine and pasting
them into her scrapbook.