Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (7 page)

"What did you mean by we would do more than
talk?" she asked.

Munch pictured Robin hunched over her phone in her
dark house. "I was thinking it would be good for you to get out
of the house." She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk
blotter.

"But on the ride home, D.W. said you believe
this guy is going to come after you again."

"He is." Her voice was dull, flat. "I
know he is. He called me."

"Who?" Munch asked.

"The guy. The rapist."

"What did he say?"

"That the next time would be better. "

"Did you call the cops?"

"The detective assigned to my case was out. I
left a message." She paused. "Yesterday. I'm still waiting
for a callback."

"Change your number," Munch said.

"I have. More than once."

"Then call the cops back. Demand that they do
something."

"They said there was nothing more they could do.
They suggested I move."

"That's it?" Munch asked. "You're just
supposed to give up your life? What a bunch of shit." If Robin
was expecting a soft shoulder, she'd rung the wrong person. Besides,
Munch figured, this woman needed to fight back or risk being lost
forever.

"What choice do I have?"

Munch drew a V for Victory and circled it. "I've
got a friend who's a cop."

"But I've already gone to the cops. You've seen
the results."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. But, believe me,
they're not all assholes. I'll talk to my friend and see if he can
put some heat on for you."

"Thank you. I've been feeling so alone."

"What about your family?"

"I didn't want them to . . . be upset."

"You haven't told them?" Munch asked.

"My mother would have a stroke or worse. She'd
want to come out here and move in with me. I had a hard enough time
getting away from her the first time."

"Still, a little moral support might help you
right now."

"I just can't," Robin said.

"
What's the name of the cop who's handling the
investigation?" Munch asked.

"Peter Owen. That's not your friend, is it?"

"No, I've never heard of him. What division is
he out of?"

"West L.A. That's what it said on his card."

"I was planning on seeing my friend after work
today" Munch said. "I'll tell him what's going on and call
you."

"No," Robin said. "It would be easier
if I called you."

"Oh, right,"
Munch said, remembering all those unretrieved messages on Robin's
answering machine. "Of course."

* * *

The faces of the women look down on him from his
trophy wall. He figures any woman who gets these kinds of pictures
taken knows what guys are going to do with them. Actually, he's just
as interested—even more so—in what goes on with his women above
the neck as below. Besides, what they choose to reveal below leaves
little to the imagination.

He feels as if he's been on an extended leave but
soon must return to duty. It's Nam all over again. When he first
returned stateside, he went up to the Bay Area. It was all hippies
then. Hippies and liberals. Seemed like everywhere he went the
returning vets were accused of killing babies and massacring helpless
civilians. As if any of those people had any idea what it all meant.
What it had been like. He learned to keep quiet about what he'd been,
what he'd done.

The result was a loneliness so deep he is only now
beginning to touch it. It's been unbearable for so long. He's still
not sure where he found the strength to live.

Now he feels as if he's in the eye of a hurricane. It
is quiet. But for how long? He is incredibly exhausted. So much is at
risk. At the very least, his freedom. Jail. Prison. A trial. His
balls shrink from the fear of it. Forget the business. His
customers—his hard-won clientèle—would desert him. He would be
penniless—alone—reviled. Those few who call themselves his
friends would never understand.

Nobody knows true compassion until they're forced to
break all of their own rules.

He sighs and turns to the pictures pasted on the wall
by his bed. He doesn't blame the women all the way. They got it and
want to flaunt it. That's understandable. His fingers trace the
curves of Robin's thighs in the photo. He keeps the ones of Robin
closest to him. Robin with her one-hundred-watt smile.

He laughs at his own unintentional joke. Then sobers
quickly. Feeling ashamed at this joke that comes at his beloved's
expense. She will forgive him and she will come around. Resistance
has its limits. Robin just needs time. She needs the security of
being shown who is the boss. All women do.

And somebody else needs to mind her own business. He
will not tolerate interference. Lady Mechanic, indeed. Who does she
think she's fooling?
 

Chapter 8

S
t. John opened Diane
Bergman's address book and turned to the B's. The closest Bergman
listed was an Alfred in Pacific Palisades. Alfred Bergman's business
number prefix was the same as his home number. St. John called the
work number.

"Bergman Florists," a woman answered.

"Is Al in?"

"I can get him for you."

"No, don't bother. I was planning on coming in.
Will he be there in an hour?"

"Yes, we're open until five."

St. John asked for the address, jotted it down in his
notebook, and then called out to Shue, who was in the hallway doing
hand-to-hand combat with the vending machine.

"Are you ready to go make the Bergman
notification?"

Shue gave the machine one more shake and then said,
"Sure, sure."

Ten minutes later, Shue was seated in St. John's
passenger seat.

While St. John maneuvered through early-afternoon
freeway traffic, Shue systematically searched his pockets.

"I want you just to tell this guy that Diane
Bergman is deceased. Avoid the specifics."

"Yeah, yeah. I know," Shue said, examining
a tiny wad of paper that had apparently made the trip through the
washer and dryer. "No mention of murder. You're just there as a
formality. I make the notification and we see what floats up."
He finally found the object of his search, a roll of breath mints. He
brushed off the pocket lint, unwrapped the foil, and offered one to
St. John.

St. John grinned and took one. Shue was the perfect
partner for the initial phase of the investigation. His air of
confusion, almost befuddlement, made people want to explain things to
him. Even St. John himself easily forgot the man was competent.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Bergman
Florists. The front window was tastefully decorated with Halloween
wreaths, cornucopias, and pumpkins. They entered the front door and
were greeted by a jingling bell and the sweet smells of jasmine and
gardenias. Indoor waterfalls provided gentle background noise and a
sense of tropical humidity

A man with salt-and-pepper hair and the deeply
bronzed face of a dedicated sun worshiper was standing patiently by
while a lady in a knit suit studied a photograph album full of flower
arrangements. He looked up and said, "I'll be right with you."

"Alfred Bergman?" St. John asked, already
having decided he definitely wasn't an "Al."

"Yes?" Bergman gave St. John a long
up-and-down. When he turned to Shue, his smile lost some of its life.

"This is Mr. Shue of the Los Angeles Coroner's
Office. I'm Detective Mace St. John." He gave the man a quick
flash of his badge. "Do you have an office or somewhere we can
have a word in private?"

Alfred Bergman pursed his lips to speak but seemed at
a loss for the proper response. The woman behind the cash register
froze in place. St. John swore he could see her ears perk. Bergman
snapped his fingers, and the woman behind the cash register came back
to life. "Betty, please help Mrs. Ghormley." He put a hand
briefly on the back of Mrs. Ghorrnley who was still deeply engrossed
with the catalog of flower arrangements.

He lifted his eyebrows for St. John's and Shue's
benefit, then said, "Take all the time you need, dear." He
raised a tanned hand and beckoned the two men to follow him toward
the back of the store. His white silk shirt, tucked into
tight-fitting designer jeans, billowed as he walked.

A standing screen divided the shop space and
concealed a large industrial double stainless steel sink. Wooden
drain boards held buckets of baby's breath and fern fronds. Blocks of
green Oasis, rolls of florist wire, and sphagnum moss were stacked on
shelves above the sink. Glass-fronted coolers held additional buckets
of long-stemmed roses, lilies, and carnations.

They passed a thin, long-haired blond man spearing
bamboo skewers through hibiscus blossoms. The three men entered a
small office. St. John shut the door behind them. There were only two
chairs, the padded one on casters that serviced the crammed desk and
a three-legged stool. Bergman pulled out the desk chair and turned it
so that it was facing out.

"Please," St. John said, indicating that
Bergman sit. "Forget I'm here." He took up a position
against the wall and focused on Shue.

Shue lowered himself onto the stool and fixed Alfred
Bergman with an apologetic smile.

"Are you a relative of Diane Bergman?"

"l have a sister-in-law named Diane. Why? What's
this about?"

"I'm sorry to have to inform you. Mrs. Bergman
has been found dead."

"Oh," Alfred said, his posture deflating as
his breath left him.

"Where did you find her? I mean, what happened?
Was it some sort of a car accident?"

One point for Alfred, St. John thought. No audible
gasp, no sharp intake of breath for the sake of the investigator.
Alfred was either genuinely stunned or he was a clever actor.

"I need a family member to ID the body"
Shue said. "If you're not up to it, perhaps there are other
relatives in the area."

"I'll do it. The only family she has is some
crazy aunt in Palm Springs." He lowered his tone to
sotto
voce
. "Lives in one of those trailer
communities." He pressed his fingertips to his lips and snorted
demurely. "I was certain she'd outlast us all." He didn't
seem disappointed.

"Anyone else that she was close to?"

"You mean like a boyfriend?"

"No," Alfred said emphatically. "I
mean, I'm sure she had friends, she was on enough committees. But if
you're asking if she was seeing anyone romantically then I'm sure I
don't know. I doubt it. She wouldn't have done anything to endanger
her public persona. Besides, she lived for my brother. Poor soul."

St. John wasn't sure as to which soul the man was
referring, but he kept his questions to himself for the moment.

Shue leaned forward on his stool and clasped his
hands between his open knees. "One of my duties as coroner is to
work with the family members on how they want to take care of the
remains. Are you the man I should be talking to?"

"Oh, I suppose," Alfred said, sighing
deeply. Tears filled his eyes. "You know, we've just been
through all this with my brother. He passed six months ago. Diane
started her personal war on lung cancer, spending all his money on
that cancer center."

"And everybody loved her?" Shue prompted.

Alfred pursed his lips. “Oh, sure. She was the
queen of the charity circuit. Not the first time a woman from her
background has bought her way into society." He waved his hand
in front of his face, as if to erase the last words he'd spoken. "I
don't mean any disrespect."

St. John made a dismissive shake of his head as if to
say,
No problem, perfectly understandable
.

Alfred turned to him. "And you're the police?"

St. John opened his wallet and fished out a business
card. "I've been assigned to investigate the death."

"Was she murdered?" he asked, looking
aghast.

"Yes, sir," St. John said, thinking how the
expression of shocked outrage suited Alfred. St. John wondered if he
practiced it in the mirror. "When is the last time you saw Mrs.
Bergman?"

"Last week. Last Tuesday."

"And where was this?"

"At the attorney's office. We had probate
business. Oh God," he said. "I guess this changes
everything"

St. John said, "What's the attorney's name?"

"Logan Sarnoff. He's also the executor. "
Alfred spun around to his desk and found a business card.

St. John started to copy the information on the card
into his notebook, but Alfred stopped him with an exaggerated wave of
his hand. "Keep it," he said. "I have others."

"Did Mrs. Bergman ever tell you that she was
being threatened by anyone?"