Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (5 page)

"Sugarman probably. "

"Tell him to look for boiled blood."

St. John made a note on his desk blotter. "What
else?"

"He disguised his voice with an electrolarynx,
one of those speech aids that people who don't have vocal cords use.
We took a ride out to the club, but didn't get much help from the
other employees or management. Shit, the manager didn't even want to
give up his name. Had to damn near beat it out of him." St. John
didn't ask if the guy was speaking figuratively. "What was it?"

"Joey Polk."

"
Joey Polk?"

"
Yeah, you know him?"

"Yeah, he has a long pedigree around these
parts. I busted the father a few times." The realization that he
was on the second generation of yet another family of bad guys made
St. John feel old. He didn't need to count his years on the job.
Every cop he knew kept a running tally happy to boast on a moment's
notice the number of days until retirement.

St. John didn't consider himself decrepit, but he
wasn't the same young buck who had left the army in '64 and gone
straight into the academy. Twenty years had gone by fast. Although he
still felt too young to have been doing the same job for two decades.
Perhaps the fact that he'd worked in different locations helped. He
sure didn't regret his most recent transfer from Parker Center's
Robbery/Homicide to the West Los Angeles Division. That long drive
downtown every day to Parker Center had added stress to an already
pressure-filled existence—what with the 3 A.M. calls to murder
scenes, and the twenty-three-minute code sevens that allowed only
enough time to choke down a Big Mac and fries before hitting the
streets again. Add to that the drinking that so often seemed
necessary just to wind down at night. At forty-two, he was just eight
years shy of middle age, according to Munch. He couldn't remember
when he hadn't answered to a chain of command.

Oh fuck it, he thought. The next thing he knew he'd
be having an irresistible urge to buy a Porsche or start dyeing his
hair or some crazy shit like that. He turned his attention back to
the matter at hand.

"I might run over there and see what I can find
out," he told the Rampart dick.

"Let me know what happens," Rosales said.
The voice sounded young and enthusiastic. "I'd love to catch
this guy."

They hung up after promising to share all pertinent
information.

St. John pulled out the murder book he had started
the day before. He made a note, "Boiled blood," and laughed
that one-note expression of amusement and disbelief men use to save
their sanity in morbid situations. He studied photographs of the body
and dump site. Photographs he had taken himself while waiting for the
coroner's wagon to arrive.

The position of the body had seem staged, with one
leg pointing north, the other pointing west. The killer would most
probably have driven to the site, as it was a freeway underpass. No
tire tracks were distinguishable on the asphalt, but there was an
inch-deep layer of run-off soil where the body had been dropped.
Dropped and positioned, not dragged. He made another note to himself
and then put the pencil between his teeth and bit down. Absently he
checked his shirt pocket for a box of Tiparillos, forgetting he was
out.

The shoe prints were all around the freeway side of
the body. The muck lining the road was equal parts road oil and dirt
with a high clay composite. It should have recorded excellent
impressions, and yet the shoeprints weren't that distinctive. The
dental-plaster casts he had made of those smeared shoeprints had
picked up some blue fibers. There was something else about those
shoeprints as he studied them now, something strangely familiar about
their fuzzy edges.
 

Chapter 6

 
M
unch didn't
have to turn around to know who Lou had sarcastically referred to as
"lover boy." D.W. Sanders had arrived. She heard the creak
of his van door opening.

D.W. called himself a contractor, which basically
meant that he owned a set of carpentry tools and did odd jobs around
the neighborhood. He also delivered Meals-On-Wheels every Tuesday.
She had met him when his van was towed in a month earlier needing a
fuel pump.

D.W. was Lou's height, about two inches shy of six
feet, and closer to forty than thirty. He had a receding hairline and
grew the remaining strands of his black hair long enough to tie back
into a ponytail. Not a bad-looking guy but he would look better if he
lost some of the stoop in his shoulders.

He made it a habit to stop in most mornings, always
bringing her coffee fixed just the way she liked it. He'd claim to be
on his way to a job. The way he told it he had quite a business. The
big time, he hinted, was right around the corner. He referred to his
customers as "clients" and his helpers as his "crew."
In fact, he had said last week, the way things were going, pretty
soon he was going to need help with the bookkeeping and scheduling.
He wanted to hire somebody who was handicapped to run his office.
From her own experience with the small-business circuit, Munch knew
D.W. had far too much free time to be able to afford office help.

He always dressed in standard contractor garb: jeans,
long-sleeved cotton shirts, and work boots, which he never tied until
after his first cup of coffee. The untied shoes reminded her of her
daughter, Asia, who also liked to leave her laces dangling. When
Munch pointed it out the other morning, Asia had archly informed her
that "None of the second graders tie their shoes."

"Well, then," Munch had replied, swallowing
a smile.

The week after D.W.'s fuel pump went out, he came in
needing rear brakes. Rather than have one of his "crew"
pick him up, he stayed at the shop and watched her work. He was
standing behind her when she removed his tires. The brakes were a
mess. Both drums were scored too deeply to salvage, the retaining
springs were ruined, and the wheel cylinders needed rebuilding. New
brake drums cost a hundred dollars each. The whole bill came to just
under four hundred. When she delivered the news, D.W. cried. Not big
heaving sobs or anything, but tears had definitely filled his eyes.
She looked away until he composed himself. She knew it was a fair
amount of change, but c'mon, this was business, and he should have
heard the grinding metal noise every time he stepped on the brakes.
Had he caught it in time, he would have saved himself the expense of
the extra hardware.

Munch and her fellow mechanics, Carlos and Stefano,
always put their initials on the work orders so that the correct
monies would be credited to their pay. They also made a game out of
each other's monograms. Munch's M.M. became "Motor Maid."

Carlos's initials were C.K., so he was rightly dubbed
the "Come-back King". Stefano was S.B., "Show Boat,"
although there were times she wanted to insert an O in the middle and
let him figure it out. It was only natural to come up with
alternatives for D.W. After the brake-and-tear incident she had begun
to think of him as "Darth Whiner."

His reaction had also served to kill any spark of
romantic attraction she might have felt for the guy. Not that she was
actively looking. She already had the thing going with Garret. She
also knew better than to get involved with any guy around the
workplace. Especially knowing how guys will talk. She'd worked too
hard to match her reputation to her license plate: LDY MECH. She had
already perfected the slightly offended look when a stranger cursed
in front of her. And if one of the guys at the shop started to tell a
dirty joke, she walked away before he finished, shaking her head
after the first line was uttered. The old Munch would have stayed
tuned until the punch line and laughed the hardest. The old Munch had
done a lot of stupid things. She was working her way up to the moment
when she could slap the face of a man getting "fresh." Like
they did in those old black-and-white movies when the ladies used to
wear white gloves and all the men wore hats.

Other than Lou, none of the guys she worked with now
knew anything about the wild part of her life. Most of them didn't
even know about her not drinking or getting high. And even fewer knew
that the qualifier "anymore" belonged in that statement of
fact. They knew her as hardworking. Money hungry some of them said,
but that was just jealousy talking. They all worked on commission and
if she could do more jobs faster she made more. Didn't take Einstein
to figure that out. Besides, she had a kid to support. A little girl
with a bright future that would never include her debasing herself.
Not while Munch was alive to prevent it. A lot of things were going
to be different for Asia.

She looked at her visitor now and sighed. D.W. was
nice enough, although too sensitive for her tastes. She liked her men
a little more in touch with their masculine side, maybe to counter
some of her own rough edges.

Sometimes D.W. showed up midday and ate his lunch
while he watched her work. It looked as if today was going to be one
of those days.

"Want an apple?" he asked.

She noticed the Meals-On-Wheels placard on his
dashboard.

"Thanks," she said, taking the fruit, and
hoping he hadn't ransacked anybody's box lunch to get it.

"I can't stay," he said. "I've got
three more deliveries to make."

"It's really nice of you to do this," she
said.

"Yeah," he said, "I figure it's so
little effort on my part for the help I give to those less
fortunate."

Cue the halo, Munch thought. "How long does your
route take?"

"Only about an hour and a half. All my shut-ins
are in the same general area. It's hard to just leave the food and
split though. With a lot of these people you're the only human
contact they have in a day. They want you to stay and talk. Sometimes
they need you to help them do something around the house. Some of
them can't even get out of their chairs."

"So are they all old?" she asked.

"Not all. They just have to be housebound and
alone. In fact, one lady I deliver to in Barrington Plaza Gardens is
closer to our age."

"What's her name?" Munch asked.

"Robin Davies."

"Robin Davies?"

"You know her?"

"Sure. Toyota Celica." She realized Robin
hadn't been around in at least a month. "She volunteers at
Asia's school, mentoring drama students. Apparently she has a lot of
theater experience. She helped choreograph the school's summer drama
production. We did Pinocchio. Robin was really good to Asia—to all
the kids. I should go see her or something. I didn't realize she was
sick."

"As I understand it, she was in the hospital for
two weeks. When she was discharged it came out that she had no family
nearby to help her. They signed her up before she left the hospital
to receive meals as part of her aftercare."

Munch looked back over the mostly vacant shop. Carlos
and Stefano were sitting on the workbench, watching the driveways for
work to roll in. They reminded her of that cartoon of two vultures
sitting on a tree limb. One is turned to the other and saying,
Patience, my ass. Let's go out and kill something.

She turned back to D.W. "Can I tag along?"

"You want to come with me?" he asked,
brightening. "You mean like right now? Today?"

"Yeah, I can take a lunch break for once."

"Give me a second," he said. He slid open
the back door and shoved back a stack of two-by-fours. Then he lifted
a milk crate full of power tools from the floorboard of the front
seat and jammed it into the clearance he'd created. His movements
were jerky, hurried. Twice she saw him catch his fingers in between
the crate and the building materials.

Lou stood in the office doorway and watched with an
amused expression.

"I'll be back in a little while," she told
him.

D.W. had a whisk broom now and was briskly attacking
sawdust clinging to the upholstery of the passenger seat.

"Real1y," she said. "It's all right."
He stepped aside and she climbed in.

The van smelled like fried chicken. She didn't fasten
her seat belt. Their destination was only a couple blocks away But it
wouldn't have made a difference even if it had been miles. She hated
the feel of restraints. She didn't buckle up unless Asia was with
her. D.W. looked as if he was going to say something as he fastened
his own, but then apparently changed his mind.

The Barrington Plaza Gardens was an upscale housing
development complete with spa, fitness center, and lots of Mercedes
in the individual carports. It was also surrounded by a twelve-foot
block wall. They entered the complex through the security gate off
Barrington Way. The gate guard walked out with his clipboard. D.W.
pointed to the placard on his dash and was waved through. Robin's
apartment was toward the rear of the complex. They drove around the
complex's large central fountain. The roads were well maintained and
bordered by flower beds full of roses.

Robin's Celica was in her carport. A fine layer of
the heavier particles of Los Angeles's atmosphere covered the car.
This was odd in itself. Robin was meticulous about how she kept her
vehicle. She had it hand-washed once a week, waxed at least once a
month by the detail business that operated out of the gas station.
She was one of those customers who seemed almost disappointed when
you couldn't find anything that needed fixing or servicing.