Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (3 page)

The bitch had brought him to this juncture, he
reminded himself. He wasn't going down for her. Why should he?

He inserted the plug into the special circular wall
socket and twisted it into the locked position. His hands were
awkward in the thick rubber mitts. The four-foot hank of cable and
plug had once been attached to an industrial dryer. Earlier he had
separated the three wires inside the cable and soldered copper spikes
on the ends of the two hot leads. He capped each sharp point with
cork, taking care they wouldn't touch inappropriately. Contacting
only one lead at a time was safe enough. But to connect with both
simultaneously could prove fatal.

He used extreme caution as he scooted the insulation
off the end of each of the rods and poised them at opposite ends of
her body. He knew that there was no point in delaying, yet still he
hesitated. A drop of sweat tickled as it rolled down his chest. He
wiped his sleeve across his brow and with that gesture pushed away
remaining doubts. Grunting slightly, he brought the tips of the rods
down until they connected with her white, white skin. The world
around them exploded in a bright, paralyzing flash of light followed
instantaneously by a sharp crack. Her body arched, lifting off the
floor. Muscles contracted, veins darkened. The skin over her chest
bubbled and turned to chalky ash as the current arced across, singed,
and then penetrated the resisting layers of epidermis and
subcutaneous fat tissue. The charge soared through her body, muscles
contracted in one last violent spasm. The smell of burnt flesh filled
the room, bearing a curious resemblance to roast lamb.

He stepped back, holding one of the two smoking rods
high over his head. With his free hand he twisted the bulky 22o plug
away from the outlet.

"Well," he said, after a moment, still
feeling awed at the force of the current. "That's that."

Then he got busy The night's work was far from over.
 

Chapter 4

TUESDAY MORNING

M
unch was the first to see
the blonde in her hot pink dress park her little three-series BMW
near the hibiscus hedge at the far end of the lot. The BMW's door
opened, and a long shapely leg wearing a red stiletto-heeled shoe
emerged.

Munch edged into a position where she could watch the
show. Because the shop was in Brentwood, they catered to a variety of
professional athletes, movie stars, and millionaires. There was also
an excess of beautiful women. Actresses, models, trophy wives and
their trophy daughters. The gas station's south driveway poured into
a small cul-de-sac of merchants. Parking for those businesses was
limited. The gas pump attendants weren't supposed to let
non-customers park in the station's lot, but they were known to make
exceptions. Lou, the owner, looked the other way in the interest of
morale.

Another long leg swung out the door of the BMW and
then the as woman stood. Her dress was tight for all the right
reasons, as Lou would say. This was going to be interesting.

Munch always got a kick out of how these women would
come to the station in sexy outfits and make their voices go all high
and helpless. Didn't the guys realize there was no way these women
were going to put out for a tune-up?

Even Lou would tell them right to their faces, "I
can't take it to the bank, honey" Two years ago Lou might have
acted differently. He had been a much happier man then, working on
cars instead of owning his own business. She looked at him now
through the office window, bent over the morning's books. Business
had been slow all month and nobody was happy about it. The mechanics
worked strictly on commission, getting paid half of what the shop
collected on labor, and nothing on parts except for tires and
batteries, for which they received five bucks per unit. When there
wasn't enough work to go around, it brought out the worst in
everybody. Lou's face reminded her of one of those depression-era
farmers in those old photos, looking out the window of a rusty pickup
truck, a litter of kids in the back, the dust bowl in their wake.

The blonde was halfway across the property now,
acting oblivious to the rubbernecking of every man on the lot, from
customer to pump jockey. Munch laughed out loud when one of the guys
interrupted his windshield washing to gawk and dribbled soapy water
on the crotch of his pants.

She turned to go back into the lube room but stopped
when she saw Mace St. John's department-issued Buick pulling into the
driveway

Her heart did one of those fluttery things it had
been doing lately at the sight of him. In the old days, the sight of
a cop had always been enough to release spiders in her stomach. Not
that she had anything to fear now. But it was interesting what close
cousins fear and excitement were, how the physical manifestations
were identical. The dry mouth, the increased pulse. As with
everything else, it was all a matter of how you interpreted your
perceptions.

Mace St. John was an LAPD homicide cop. Seven and a
half years ago, February 1977, when they had first crossed paths, she
had been a prime suspect in one of his murder cases. She'd been
twenty-one and floundering. He'd been floundering, too. Each had
saved the other: he, by giving her a chance; she, by showing him that
not all offenders were necessarily lifetime assholes. That people
could change. Seven years had passed before they met again, when
different murders had brought them together. And through her help,
the killer had been stopped, and a new phase of their friendship had
begun.

The sex dreams starring the detective had started
only recently. In the dreams, they were more than just lovers, they
were married. She always woke up just about the time she thought to
ask, "Hey what happened to Caroline?"

When he called yesterday and said he would be
stopping by she figured it had something to do with his never-ending
restoration work on the Bella Donna, his 1927 Pullman train car. St.
John had bought the Santa Fe—designed green-and-gold business car
twelve years earlier, in 1972, and had been working on it ever since,
proving once again what willing slaves men were to their passions.

If anybody noticed that Munch had worn a little
makeup to work, mascara and blush, no one had said anything. Not that
she was being obvious. And not that she ever in a million years would
act on her private fantasy. She'd been through this situation before
and knew that the solution to an inappropriate infatuation was just
to wait it out silently.

She figured this latest crush was some kind of
phenomenon like the Stockholm Syndrome. Spend enough time with a
pistol-packing guy who doesn't hurt or kill you and you start to
wonder if he's "the one."

The detective parked his car in front of the office.

"
Hey" she said, tucking in her uniform
shirt and smiling. "You just missed seeing Asia off to school."

"Yeah, I got a little delayed this morning."
He brushed what looked like dog hair off his navy blue sports coat
and grinned back. Mace St. John had one of those craggy faces that
work so well on some men. He was a shade under six feet, with a
boxer's trim physique. A touch of gray had crept into his temples and
a thick gold wedding band shone at her from the ring finger on his
left hand. She wanted to touch it.

"You got a minute?" he asked.

"Maybe even five if you're lucky. "

Her ex-boyfriend Derek had once said to her, "You
think you can have any man you want." She didn't remember what
the argument had been about, only the exasperation in his tone, and
her answer.

"Yes," she had said, "I do." It
wasn't that she thought she was so earth—shatteringly beautiful,
but she knew she was cute. That her body was well proportioned. And
when she took her shoulder-length hair out of its severe braid and
applied a little makeup, she garnered a few second looks of her own.
But all that aside, she also knew that all it really took was letting
a guy know you were his for the asking. The art was in how you let
him know. Men were always watching for the signs, and women learned
from an early age how to exploit that. Another lesson courtesy of her
late father, the unlamented Flower George, who had also taught her
that exploitation was a two-way street.

Behind St. John, the panting face of a mutt appeared
in his driver's-side window. It was an appealing face, brown with
white markings, ears fringed in black. The dog grinned at her with a
look that seemed to say "I'm lucky and I know it."

"Who's this?" Munch asked.

"I don't know. I found her on the freeway. "

Munch reached her hand in the semi-opened window and
ruffled the pooch's shaggy ears. She didn't see a collar. There was
an empty hamburger wrapper from Jack in the Box on the floor of the
backseat. The dog's breath smelled of secret sauce.

"What do you need?" she asked St. John, but
she accompanied the question with no sly smile.

"I wanted to borrow your air-conditioning
tools," he said, gracing her with one of those grins that
transformed his deeply lined face into a thing of beauty. That little
cigar clamped in his teeth seemed appealing and manly even sexy.

"Is this for the Bella Donna?" she asked.

"I'm ready to add Freon."

"Let me help you," she said. "I can
swing by after I pick up Asia from school. How's five sound?"

"Tonight?"

"Is that a problem?"

"How long will it take, you think?"

She shrugged. "Hour, maybe."

"Okay, let's do it. I've got a case I'm working,
but an hour won't make or break it."
 
"Hey,
that reminds me," she said. "What was that all about
yesterday morning?"

"All what?"

"By the Sunset off-ramp. Major cop activity I
saw the coroner's wagon, too. What I didn't see was a fire engine or
a tow truck or any kind of wreckage."

"So you were just wondering," he said.

"Can you tell me anything?"

"Not much to tell, yet." Behind them, the
dog barked once sharply as if to remind them not to ignore her. St.
John stuck his hand in the window and stroked the animal's head. The
dog closed her eyes and soaked in the attention.

"All the radio said was that a body had been
found," Munch persisted, "that the police hadn't ruled out
foul play. Is that your case?"

"We're still working on identifying the
deceased." St. John reached into his suit pocket with his free
hand. He removed a Polaroid photograph but didn't show it to her
immediately. "You always say it feels like the whole world
passes through here."

That was true. The office wall was filled with signed
celebrity photographs, everyone from James Garner to Betty White.
DeLorean stopped in for a fuse once in the middle of his trial. Munch
had felt so sorry for him—how the cops had entrapped him—that she
hadn't charged. o.J. Simpson and Magic Johnson regularly had their
Ferraris waxed by Pauley the detail guy. Even presidential motorcades
passed by occasionally.

Munch held out her hand.

He handed her the picture. "Did you know her?"

Munch studied the photograph, feeling an odd dropping
sensation in her stomach, knowing she was experiencing one of those
moments that would always be etched in her memory. This was the way
it always was when she learned that someone she knew and liked was
dead.

St. John watched her closely.

"Yes," she said, staring in surprise at the
lifeless face. "It's Mrs. Bergman. Diane. Diane Bergman."

"Was she a friend?" His thin cigar had gone
out. He tossed the butt in one of the shop's fifty-gallon-drum trash
cans.

"She's a customer. I mean, I liked her. But I
knew her from work. In fact, I worked for her the other night. My
limo was on standby for this party she gave in the Palisades."

"When was this?"

"Last Friday She was perfectly fine then."
Oh that was brilliant, she thought. How many people got sick before
they were murdered?

"Does she live nearby?" he asked.

"On Chenault."

"With her husband?"

"No, she was widowed about six months ago,
around the middle of April. They both used to come in here. Then he
got sick and stopped going out. I read about his death in the paper
and sent a note." Why was that important to say? she asked
herself. So you can impress him with what a good person you are? She
tried to do three good deeds a day, but not tell anyone. It was a
character-building exercise. Getting credit negated the whole point.

"Can you get me the address?" he asked.

"I'll have to look it up."

She looked at the picture again, still wondering how
such a vibrant woman could become a police statistic. "What's
that black stuff on her face?"

"I can't comment."

"She was murdered?"

"I really can't say. "

Can't or won't? she wondered. As if his being there
with a dead woman's photograph and being cagey with information
didn't already tell her that foul play was involved. "I'll go
get that address."