Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (30 page)

* * *

Mace St. John had been moved to a private room. The
doctors successfully restored blood flow to his heart. He would not
be as good as new, but the damage to his heart muscle was minimal.
Munch and Asia came to see him Sunday night. Caroline was there with
a stack of magazines, surrounded by junk food wrappers.

"How's the patient?" Munch asked.

"Grouchy" Caroline said.

"
So back to normal, huh?"

"What happened to you?" St. John asked.

Munch touched the bruise on her forehead. "You
should see the other guy "

"I heard you had some excitement," he said.
His eyes were sober, awash with conflict. He turned to his wife.
"Honey, why don't you and Asia go grab a bite."

Caroline looked from one to the other and said, "All
right. We'll be back in a little while."

After they were gone, St. John asked, "What the
fuck is the matter with you?"

"What?"

"
I can't turn my back for five minutes."

"Hey it's not like I planned it."

"That's the problem."

She told him everything then, from her interviews
with the strippers until the police took Pauley into custody. "A
few things are bugging me, though."

"Just a few?"

"Do you know if Pauley confessed to Diane's
murder?"

"No, he hasn't. But
don't worry He's not going anywhere."

* * *

Munch went home that night and searched through her
tax records until she found the receipt for her donation of limo
time. Diane had typed her a formal thank-you note on Bergman Cancer
Center stationery She could use the documentation, Diane said, as
proof of her contribution. The members of the board were all listed
along the stationery's left margin. Diane Bergman's name came first,
identifying her as the founder and president. Logan Sarnoff was
second, the first vice president, next in command, attorney for the
estate. Then there was the treasurer, Ken Wilson, the stockbroker.

Everyone was so anxious to tie Pauley's activities to
Diane's murder. What if they had all been wrong?
 

Chapter 25

MONDAY

M
onday morning came with
the usual headaches. Asia woke up grumpy and had to be argued into
every step of the getting-ready-for-school process. This meant a
seven-minute delay in getting on the freeway, which then translated
into a fifteen-minute morning go-to-work traffic snarl, and Asia
almost missed the school bus.

The news of Saturday's misadventures and Pauley's
subsequent arrest had already reached the gas station. Lou had had to
come in Sunday and allow the cops to search Pauley's locker. Among
the items recovered were telephone repairmen's handsets, a
twelve-inch masonry drill bit, and three women's negligees in pastel
colors. All were bagged, tagged, and taken away.

Munch used the rest room and noticed that the tiny
hole by the toilet paper dispenser had been filled in with epoxy.
Things would be getting back to normal soon.

At ten o'clock Lou came out to the back room. Munch
was replacing the timing belt on a Volkswagen Scirocco.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"Getting there," she said.

"You know, if you wanted to take a few days off
. . ."

"And what?"

"I don"t know. Relax a little."

"I relax better when I know my bills are getting
paid. But thanks. I did want to run an errand later."

"Take all the time you need," he said.

She finished the Volkswagen first. Called the woman
who owned it to let her know it was ready and then flipped through
Lou's Rolodex until she found Ken Wilson's business card. She dialed
his number. His secretary put the call through when Munch identified
herself.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I wanted to talk to you about buying some
stock," she said.

"Can I stop by?"

"
Sure."

The first level of the underground parking lot was
all reserved parking and full. Munch continued down the tight
circular driveway to the lower level, noting the black scrape marks
on the walls from other drivers' miscalculations. She found a slot in
the center row and headed for the bank of elevators. After pushing
the elevator button, she studied the building roster. Smith Barney
was on the fifth floor. Logan Sarnoff's firm was on the eighth. Her
elevator arrived. A minute later she was at Ken Wilson's door. The
brokerage office reminded Munch of a detectives' bull pen.
Essentially it was one large room divided into cubicles with desks,
phones, and ticker tape monitors. A young woman sat behind the
reception desk.

Ken came out from the back. He looked paler and
thinner under the fluorescent lights. Munch followed him to his desk.

"Is there any stock in particular that you're
interested in?" he asked.

"California Recycling," she said. "The
Nasdaq symbol is CARC."

His hand went to the knot at his throat. He loosened
his tie before speaking. "How many shares do you want to buy?"

"I understand that the stock took a big drop a
few weeks ago, right after one hundred thousand shares changed hands.
Do you know anything about that?"

Ken cleared his throat. "I read the article in
the
Journal
last
week."

"Can you explain it to me?"

"Earlier this month, an investor acting on an
erroneous inside tip bought the large block of CARC stock. After the
transaction went through, the news broke that the company had failed
to land a government contract and the CEO had resigned. The value of
the stock dropped when the news hit. That's not to say it won't
recover. This is a good time to buy."

"But meanwhile," Munch said, "somebody's
client lost two point three million dollars, plus commissions."

"Hardly the broker's fault," Wilson said.
He looked as if he were going to be ill.

She met his eye and said, "Sarnoff is telling
the story differently. He says that he bought the stock on his
broker's recommendation. On your recommendation."

"That's bullshit. He came to me and he knows
it."

"And what about Diane Bergman? What did she
know?"

"I think you'd better leave now," Wilson
said. He picked up his phone. She understood this gesture as some
implied threat. It didn't matter. She'd gotten what she came for.

She walked out to the hall and pushed the elevator
down button. The car on the left arrived first. Its doors opened with
a ding. She stepped inside and pushed the button marked G2. Moments
later she stepped out into the dark, quiet parking lot. She was
heading for her car when she heard another ding and the doors of the
second elevator opened. Instinct made her turn, but she wasn't
particularly surprised to see who stepped out.

Sarnoff's face was flushed. His fists clenched, arms
bent slightly at the elbow. "What kind of game are you playing?"
he asked. Spittle flew as he spoke.

"No game," she said, backing away from him.

"I don't need any more shit," he said,
advancing. His eyes were open wide. She could see the white all
around his irises.

"Did Diane find out what you had done? Is that
what happened?"

"Of course she knew," he said. "Every
investment I made had her approval. But here's the thing"—his
eyes were glittering, even in the dim light—"everybody
approves when you're making twice the going rate. Nobody remembers
that that means twice the risks."

"That must have really pissed you off," she
said. Her hip bumped into the hood of the car behind her. To her
right was a concrete wall. He blocked her exit to the left. "Was
that why she had to die? Was she going to blame you?"

"You're crazy" he said. "And you're a
liar. I'll prove it. I'll discredit you."

Munch sidestepped across the front of the car, which
she now saw was a Jaguar. "You had to know your luck would run
out eventually" she said to him, desperately trying to form a
plan while she thought out loud. "You've been pretty lucky for a
while now, haven't you? You lose a large sum of the Bergmans' money
and then Diane meets her tragic fate. No one left to ask where the
money went. Pretty great timing for you."

He glanced around him as he reached inside his coat.
"Shut up now," he said, licking his lips, "before you
go too far. I'm warning you."

Munch ran her hands behind her, feeling the smooth
finish of the car. She came to the door handle and tried it, but it
was locked. "How about the photographs you let St. John find?
Did you plant them or was that just luck again?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

She looked him in the eye. "I saw the pictures
of her body. You staged it so carefully to give the suggestion of
sexual assault. And those burns all over her body? How could you do
that to her?"

A pained expression crossed his face. At least he had
a tiny shred of conscience left.

"She was already dead by then," he said, in
a strained, barely audible voice. "She didn't suffer."

"Oh," she answered, feeling no sense of
relief at his admission. He was still a killer.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were much
older, sadder. He pulled out his hand from inside his coat and showed
Munch that he had a pistol. "We're going to take a drive,"
he said. "You don't have to worry. I'm not going to hurt you."

Mace St. John had told her more than once never to go
anywhere with a bad guy that it was better to scream and shout and
take your chances while you were still somewhere where you could be
heard. Bad guys didn't drive you somewhere so they could let you go.
They drove you to deserted stretches of national forest land where
nobody would see them dump your body and they always lied when they
said they weren't going to hurt you. St. John had also told her that
if she ever found herself in a one-on-one situation with a mugger or
a rapist that she was better off yelling "Fire!" than
"Help!"

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that a small
LED light glowed on the dashboard of the Jaguar. This told her two
things. One: it had an alarm. And two: the system was armed. She
squinted her eyes against the pain and then threw her body against
the side of the car. The alarm's motion detector did its job. The air
around them filled with a shrill, pulsating siren.

Sarnoff jumped back. She darted past him. The Jaguar
alarm echoed off the concrete walls. She picked up a chunk of
concrete, lying there broken beside a parking bumper, and threw it
with all her might at his head. He raised the arm holding the gun to
protect his face. The hunk of rock bounced off his arm. His gun went
flying and crashed into the passenger window of a white 38o SEL. The
Mercedes's tempered glass exploded in a shower of glittering shards.
The loud pop of the breaking glass was followed immediately by a
high-decibel air horn that began to blast at one-second intervals.

Munch darted for the driveway. She pulled the small
pocket screwdriver from her shirt pocket as she ran. If he managed to
catch her, he'd learn new meanings of the word uncooperative. The
clamor in the garage was terrible. She felt disoriented, deprived of
one of her senses, and hoped it was affecting him in the same way.
Her body felt weightless as her legs pumped beneath her. If he was
behind her, she would never know it. It was too dark for shadows, and
looking back would only slow her down.

She sprinted up the exit ramp. There was a concave
mirror mounted at the curve of the driveway leading to the next tier
of parking. A reflected movement caught her attention. A flash of red
and chrome. She realized it was the front end of a car and it was
headed their way. The cacophony of alarm horns masked its screeching
tires.

A strong hand clutched her arm. She tried to spin out
of the grip, but it held fast. Her legs kicked out in front of her.
Her head snapped back. She turned to face Sarnoff. The screwdriver
with its puny four-inch shaft led her hand. She slashed his cheek.
His mouth opened to emit a cry A cry that was lost amid the clamor of
alarms. He looked down at the blood dripping from his face in
amazement. Munch took the opportunity to jump back and away from him.
She flattened her body against the wall just as the front end of a
red Mercedes emerged from the top of the driveway.

Smoke surged from the tires as the horrified valet
parking attendant tried desperately to avoid hitting Sarnoff, who was
standing in the middle of its path. The car slowed, fishtailed, and
then rammed into Sarnoff. His body flew back, coming to rest facedown
on the cold concrete.

The parking attendant threw the Mercedes into park
and rushed to Sarnoff's side. The attorney was still conscious. His
right leg bent outward at an obscene angle. Blood soaked his suit.
Munch walked up the parking ramp, away from the noise and the blood.
Other people ran past her, too, drawn to the mayhem. She shrugged off
their shouted questions and kept walking until she reached the lobby
The security guard on duty let her use the phone. She called the West
Los Angeles police station. A recording told her that if this was an
emergency she should hang up and call 911. She stayed on the line
until an operator answered.