Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (29 page)

Robin still moved in odd, jerky motions. Fast and
then slow. Munch pointed at the half-used roll of silver duct tape on
the floor by the bed. Robin picked it up as if it might bite her and
handed it over. Munch used it to wrap Pauley's wrists together. Then
she moved down to his feet and wound three layers of the strong,
thick tape around his ankles. He wasn't going anywhere.

Robin picked up the tape when Munch was done with it
and tore off a twelve—inch strip. She lifted Pauley's head up off
the floor by his ear. His lips parted slightly Bright red blood
dripped from his nose.

"Let's just get out of here," Munch said.
"We'll call the cops."

Robin found a rag on the floor and began forcing it
into Pauley's slack mouth.

"Robin," Munch said. "C'mon. Time to
go."

Robin stretched the strip of tape across Pauley's
face, making it impossible for him to spit out the rag. His eyes
flickered open.

"My turn/' Robin whispered. She walked across
the room and retrieved the camouflage box she had been cranking
earlier. Munch realized where she'd seen such a device before. It had
been on TV in one of those old World War II movies. The guy who
carried it was always called "Sparks." While artillery fire
held the platoon at bay Sparks would crank up his field generator,
power his radio, and put in a desperate call to command for backup.
At some point, Sparks usually took a bullet in the back right through
his equipment pack.

The spinning, ringing sound of the generator building
current filled the room. The concrete walls and floor amplified the
noise. Robin's eyes filled with a queer, even maniacal light. Munch
reached down, putting her hand over Robin's, making her stop.

"Don't do this," she said.

Robin looked disappointed, then her shoulders sagged
and she began to cry.

"C'mon," Munch said, helping her to her
feet. "Let's go find a telephone."

Munch stared at the photographs covering the wall and
then down at Pauley again. All this time, he had been watching her.
His short, short hair and clean-shaven face was a disguise, as was
the soft voice and concerned air he presented at the station. She
thought of the peephole in the bathroom wall and knew it had been
Pauley He had spied on her and every other woman who came into the
station, getting some strange vicarious thrill from catching his
victims unawares. He probably fondled himself as he watched the women
wipe, listening to conversations not intended for his ears, intruding
and perversely sharing their most private moments. It was revolting.

"You're still inadequate," she told him,
not caring if he understood. She picked up the odd contraption made
of wood, careful to avoid the charged nails. It was tempting, all
right. She stepped on the trailing wires and yanked the piece of wood
upward until the solder broke. "We're better than this,"
she told Robin.

The two women hiked back up the stairs and out to the
van. Munch found Pauley's mobile phone in the console between the
seats. She called 911 and explained the situation. The operator asked
for her location.

"Mandeville Canyon, I think," Munch said,
looking at Robin for confirmation.

Robin nodded. "Bluebird Lane."

"Bluebird Lane," Munch repeated for the
operator. "And call Detective Pete Owen of the West Los Angeles
Police and Emily Hogan of the California Bureau of Investigation.
They know all about this."

The operator told Munch to keep the line open until
the police arrived.

"No problem,"
Munch said. "Tell them to hurry You know, code three."

* * *

The patrol car arrived first. Followed soon afterward
by Pete Owen in his unmarked Buick. Munch led the cops back inside
the house. They made her stay behind them, descending the stairs with
their flashlights and guns extended.

Pauley had rolled onto his back. The duct tape around
his ankles and wrists had held. Blood spattered his shirt, but wasn't
flowing actively. One of the patrol cops shined his flashlight down
the length of Pauley's body.

The second uniformed cop panned his flashlight across
Pauley's trophy wall, then let the beam come to rest on the bed where
four leather restraints lay in wait for the next victim.

"Shit," he said.

Owen leaned down and shined his light in Pauley's
face. One pupil was larger than the other. Owen removed Pauley's gag
and said over his shoulder, "Head injury here, it looks like."

Pauley only blinked. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"Let's get him out of here," Owen said,
straightening. The first uniformed cop rolled Pauley back onto his
stomach and replaced the duct tape with handcuffs.

Owen looked at the wall of pictures and shook his
head in disgust.

"This is Veronica Parker," Munch said,
pointing to a photograph of the stripper she'd met at Joey Polk's
studio. "She got raped about two months ago."

Owen grunted when he saw the photo of Robin tied to
the bed, her mouth twisted in pain.

"What I don't see," Munch said, "are
any pictures of Diane Bergman/'

"That doesn't mean much," Owen said.

"How can you say that? The pictures were a huge
part of his ritual."

"The guy's a wacko. You can't expect him to
follow an exact schedule."

"But he kept pictures of the others."

Owen looked at Pauley's trophy mural again. "He
didn't kill the others."

"That's part of my point," Munch said. "He
didn't know we'd ever see this wall. So why would he leave her out?"

"Give it a rest," Owen said, not unkindly.
"We got the guy It's over. With what we got here we can put him
away for a long, long time."

Munch noticed a sheet of Peg-Board studded with key
hooks mounted by the door. From the hooks dangled keys, both
automotive and residential. Beneath these keys were neat labels
listing addresses and license plates. She found the key to her house
on the next to the bottom row. That explained why her keys had been
out of order on her ring after Pauley waxed her GTO. She also found
Robin's address and corresponding keys, but on none of the labels did
she see a Chenault address nor mention of a Honda Prelude.

Pauley groaned as he was helped to his feet. He spit
blood.

"Arrest her," he said, pointing with his
shoulder at Munch.

"Her and that other cunt assaulted me. I
probably got a concussion."

Owen held his middle finger extended in front of
Pauley's face. "How many fingers do you see?" he asked. He
spun Pauley around and gave him a rough shove, propelling him in the
direction of the stairway. "We give medals for what they did,
you little piece of shit."

Munch followed the procession of cops and prisoner
out into the light. Emily Hogan had arrived. She was wrapping a
blanket around Robin's shoulders and leading her to her car. Munch
joined them.

"I guess this means you'd better cancel that
all-points bulletin on D.W."

"Already handled."

"Can I catch a ride with you?" Munch asked.

"Yes," the agent said. "I need you to
come to the office and make a statement."

"I'd be happy to, but first I need to get back
to my kid and boyfriend and let them know what's going on."

"I'm sure they'll be very relieved to know it's
over," Agent Hogan said.

Munch wished she felt as mollified as everyone seemed
to think she should be.
 

Chapter 24

 
E
mily Hogan
took Munch to her car. The engine was still running. Munch checked
her watch, knowing that she had missed all of Asia's game and how it
wasn't going to be simple to explain why to her daughter without
revealing some of the world's ugliness. At least Garret had been
there. It had to be so much easier to raise a kid with a partner. Not
to mention how much cheaper it would be to split the expenses of rent
and utilities on a bigger place compared with what she spent on a
smaller house alone. But wasn't there supposed to be more to a
relationship than a pooling of resources?

She heard people talk about needing others. And she
bought the concept up to a point. She needed customers. She needed
the fellowship of A.A. meetings. But another adult human being in her
life was going too far. Dependency on other people only led to
trouble. Disappointment and worse.

She pulled into the ball field's parking lot where a
few scattered station wagons remained. Two figures were sitting on
the bleachers. Asia and Garret. Asia raised a hand in greeting. Munch
waved back.

"
What happened to you?" Garret asked. "We
were starting to worry. How'd you get that bump on your head?"

Munch put a hand to her forehead and fondled the
goose egg that had risen there. It was tender. The skin around it
felt stretched. She pulled her collar up to hide the stun gun burns.
"I ran into a little problem. The good news is that Robin's
attacker has been caught. He was holding her captive. My guess is
since Thursday. "

Garret grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. "Thank
God you're all right," he said, holding her face tenderly to his
chest and kissing the top of her head.

I should be feeling something, she thought. Not just
waiting for him to finish.

"Are you still up to house hunting?" he
asked. "I've been telling Asia all about the new yard. We've
been trying to decide what color to paint her room."

"Yeah, listen," Munch said, looking at both
of their open, hopeful expressions, "about that . . ."

"You're tired now," Garret interrupted, "it
can wait."

Munch looked at him sadly, Maybe now was not the
moment to tell him, but sometime soon he would have to hear her
decision.

"Let's get some food and go to a movie,"
Garret said. "How does that sound?"

Asia slipped her hand into his. "Can we get ice
cream, too?"

"Sure." He turned to Munch. "How about
you, Mom? Can we bribe you with ice cream?"

She relented with a smile.
"Yeah, okay anything but hot dogs."

* * *

Munch couldn't concentrate on the movie. She kept
replaying all the events of the last few days. Begging fatigue, she
sent Garret home. Emily Hogan called. Munch answered all her
questions and learned that Robin had been transferred to a
psychiatric hospital in Brentwood.

"How could Pauley brainwash her so quickly?"
Munch asked.

"It's a defense mechanism," Agent Hogan
explained. "Human nature. Robin was faced with a situation where
her captor controlled her life. She had to find something sympathetic
to attach to in his personality in order to survive."

"Like when Patty Hearst joined the SLA?"

"That's a perfect example. We see this with
battered women time after time."

"Abused kids, too, I
bet," Munch said.

* * *

On Sunday she unplugged the phones and spent the day
with Asia. They went to the nursery and bought flats of flowers,
sacks of fertilizer, and vegetable seeds. Together they worked the
dark rich soil of the flower beds, planting the small seedlings that
would bloom in the coming months. Sweet William and stock for scent.
Pansies and snapdragons for color.

The year before, Derek had brought Munch railroad
ties and built a ten-by-ten-foot raised bed for vegetables. Now,
Munch dumped several cubic feet of manure into the bed and then
attacked the clods with hoe and shovel until sweat poured down her
face. Asia sat on the edge, arranging the bright packets of seeds.

"Almost ready" Munch said, feeling the
blisters rising on her palms. Typical. Everything to extreme. Any job
worth doing was worth doing until you dropped.

Asia cupped her hand over her eyes and squinted at
her mother. "You're not hurting yourself, are you?"

Munch drew straight furrows in the dirt with the edge
of the hoe. "You know me." It struck her how comforting
those words were. "You know me," she said again.

"I heard you twice the first time," Asia
said. Munch laughed and squirted Asia with the hose. Asia screamed,
reaching that decibel that little girls achieve so easily.

Munch pointed at the seeds. "Rip those babies
open."

Asia started with the radishes. Under Munch's
tutelage, the little girl knelt beside the newly formed rows, poking
one hole at a time with her perfect little finger, then dropping the
tiny black beadlike seed into the aperture, and covering it up.

They labored for hours, content to be working, to be
together, smelling the earth, feeling the sun on their backs, the
knees of their jeans soaked with muddy water.

Garret would see the product of their loving labor.
See the empty packets of snap peas, carrots, radishes, and broccoli
stuck on round wooden stakes identifying the coming crop. And he
would realize that he was witnessing a work in progress.

Maybe she had a problem.
She wasn't sure if she suffered from rape trauma syndrome. Hell, she
barely believed in carpal tunnel syndrome. One fact was clear. A fact
that she couldn't deny any longer. She wasn't in love with Garret and
never would be.