Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella (25 page)

Mace showed Sugarman the Polaroids of the Tijuana
victims.

"
Yes," Sugarman said. "Quite possibly
the same weapon used for the female."

"
And the men?"

"
Hmm. Single-edged blade. Very sharp. Can I
examine the bodies?"

"'
Fraid not. We'll just have to make do with the
pictures."

Mace picked up the espionage book. "Can I use
your copying machine?"

"Be my guest," Sugarman said.

After making copies of the picture of the murder
weapon and its estimated dimensions, Mace returned to Parker Center.
He found Cassiletti hanging up his phone.

'"
That was the impound lot," Cassiletti
said. "They've gone over the limo. Munch can pick it up
anytime."

"
What did they find?"

"
Mud, fibers, assorted vegetation. They were
able to lift prints from glasses and bottles, too."

"
Any blood?"

"
No."

"
Great," Mace said, disgusted. "I
don't suppose any unaccounted prints were lifted at Munch's house?"

"
Not yet. But SID rolled on the Gower apartment
early this morning. They sprayed Luminol in the living room and it
was just like you thought. They found blood splatter on the
hide-a-bed hinges and springs. There was also a faint trail in the
back cushions and carpet underneath."

"
We got the tox report on the victims."

"I saw that," Cassiletti said. "Looks
like our killer drugged the women prior to the assault."

"
Which explains how he controlled two victims at
once," Mace said.

"
Pretty cool customer to take the time to
sanitize the bodies."

"You think he was just washing away evidence?"
Mace asked.

"
Well, yeah," Cassiletti said, not looking
very certain at all.

"Then why tape the wounds shut? No, I think
we're dealing with one sick pup here. He's intelligent, but mainly
he's ruled by his compulsions. Compulsions so overwhelming that he
risked being caught to carry out his ritual." Mace threw down
the photographs from the Tijuana morgue. He pointed to the pictures
of the dead men with the slit throats, and said, "Father, son."
He then picked up the photograph of the young girl in the red wig.
Holding it in front of Cassiletti's face, he said, "Daughter,
sister."

"
Same guy did them all?" Cassiletti asked.

'"
They're connected," Mace said. "l
don't think the men were the primary targets. They more likely just
got caught in the kill zone."

"
The lab did a fiber comparison on the pieces of
tape you brought in from the Tijuana victim. They all match up with
the tape we took off the Gower victims."

"
And the tear marks?" Mace asked.

"
Fit together like a jigsaw puzzle."

Mace tapped a pencil on the desk in nervous
agitation. Victor Draicu had checked out of the Beverly Wilshire, and
his current whereabouts were unknown. Mace had had copies of his
photograph made and circulated to patrol officers at morning roll
call with a "please advise" request if he was spotted. The
APB on Ellen Summers was still in effect.

Mace hated the waiting part of an investigation the
worst. Especially when he knew he had a serial situation—one that
was obviously escalating. He threw down the pencil and picked up his
phone.

"
Who are you calling?" Cassiletti asked.

"
Caroline." He dialed his father's old
number. After the discovery of Asia's soiled and missing panties, his
suggestion that the three females stay home had been met with no
argument. Caroline had canceled her appointments. Munch had called
her boss at the gas station, explained that she had a family
emergency, and kept Asia home from school. Caroline answered on the
second ring.

"
Hello?"

"
Hi," he said. "It's me."

"
How do you feel?"

"
I'm all right."

"Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"
Enough," he said, rubbing his stiff neck.
"I don't know how Digger spent so many years in that chair,
though."

"Any news?" she asked.

"
Nothing of much help." He picked up a pen
and poised it over his legal pad. "Munch can pick up her limo.
In fact, let me talk to her. I need to ask a few questions."

"
She's not here. She went off to try to find her
friend."

"
What?" he almost shouted. "Why didn't
you stop her?"

"
How was l supposed to do that? Besides, she's
doing what she needs to do. After what you told me last night, I
think you're going to need all the help you can get."

Mace threw the pen down. "I don't want her out
on the street. You were all supposed to stay put. I can't do my job
if I have to worry about everybody."

"
You can't do anything if you have to worry
about everybody. For once in your life, have some faith."

Faith. Sometimes it was like they lived in separate
universes. Could they ever find their way back to each other? He
sucked in a large breath and blew it out. "All right, all
right." He forced his voice to sound calm. "Tell her to
call me as soon as you hear from her. It's very important we talk to
Ellen, and I don't think we're the only ones looking for her. "

"
Have you set up a task force?"

"
There is no task force," he said.

"
On a case this important?"

"Times are tough," he said. He took another
deep breath and rolled his head side to side, feeling the stiff
muscles, hearing his neck crack. "What's Asia doing?"

"
We're making cookies," Caroline said. She
dropped her voice to a whisper. "She wanted to know what your
favorite kind was. I think I have some competition here."

"
Not in a million years, babe," Mace said.

"
I'll call you as
soon as I hear from Munch," Caroline said. "I'm sure she'll
be checking in."

* * *

l Munch drove through Venice noting the abundance of
liquor stores. Every corner seemed to have a building with WINE AND
SPIRITS painted on a stuccoed wall. She parked in a lot on Market
Street that was a half block up from the boardwalk. Venice Beach had
changed little from the time she used to hang out there. Tattooed
gang members still walked their pit bulls. Even that crazy tall black
guy on roller skates with the guitar was still there, singing Jimi
Hendrix songs. He nodded to her and smiled as he rolled past.

She walked until she came to the semicircle of
benches they called the pagoda because of the Japanese—style awning
sheltering them. The pagoda was a favorite hangout of the local
winos, who drank their spirits from brown paper bags. If , anyone
knew who was around, it would be one of them. She looked for a
familiar face.

"Thirteen cents," a red-faced man yelled at
Munch. He held out his palm and pointed to the change already there.

"
I'm just thirteen cents short," he said.

Munch lifted her arms out from her sides as she made
an exaggerated shrug. "Sorry," she said. In good
conscience, there was no way she could give them change, not for
their poison of choice. Helping an addict/ alcoholic was a tricky
business. The line was often very thin between helping and enabling.

"Willie around?" she asked.

"Who wants to know?" a large, surly black
man asked. "He's a friend of a friend," she said.

"
What friend is that?" the man asked,
crossing his arms over his chest.

"
White girl named Ellen," Munch said. "You
seen her?"

"I ain't even seen you, " the man said, and
turned his back on her.

Munch realized that the winos weren't going to be any
help after all. She headed back up the boardwalk. Across from Small
World Books, she spotted a skeletal woman sitting crosslegged on the
grass. As Munch drew closer, she realized she knew this woman. It was
Pat, looking thinner but much the same as she had when Munch last saw
her. Pat had been a junkie so long that there was no telling her real
age. One thing about smack, it retarded the aging process. It was
rare to find a using junkie with wrinkles or all their teeth for that
matter. Personal hygiene tended to fall by the wayside. Munch was
glad to see that Pat had hers in today

Pat had a blanket spread out before her. On it she
had a ragtag assortment of costume jewelry, kitchenware, and used
paperbacks. Munch kicked a string of wooden beads with her toe. "How
much?" she asked.

Pat looked up, her eyes quick and calculating. Munch
realized Pat hadn't recognized her. The woman was too busy sizing up
a potential mark, taking in Munch's clothes, posture, age, anything
that would give her a clue how much to charge for her collection of
knickknacked goods.

Munch crouched down so that they were eye level.
"Hello, Pat."

Pat regarded her suspiciously, and Munch knew her
dope-addled mind was flooded with a new set of decisions. The first
being if she would acknowledge her own name. Then something clicked
in her tired eyes.

"
Munch?"

"
What's up?" Munch asked.

"Nothing," Pat said.

Now she's trying to remember how happy she should
be to see me, Munch thought. She's asking herself if she ripped me
off the last time we met or if maybe I owe her.

"Yeah, I see," Munch said, looking at the
junk on the blanket. "Nothing's changed at all."

"
Where you been? " Pat asked.

Munch spread out her grease-stained fingers. "I've
got a job working on cars. I put down. I haven't used in seven
years."

"
You on methadone? I never see you at the
clinic."

"
No, I don't do that shit. I don't do anything."

Pat regarded her with fresh suspicion. "What
brings you here?"

"
I'm trying to find Ellen."

"
Who's El1en?" Pat asked.

"You know, Crazy Ellen. Wears those wigs all the
time? Southern accent?"

"
Big tits?"

Munch smiled. She hadn't thought to mention those.
"Yeah, that's her."

"
Why you looking for her? She rip you off or
something?"

"
She's in danger." Munch studied the gaunt
face across from her. "Are you hungry?"

"
What?"

"
Can I buy you something to eat?"

"
If you got a buck or two to spare," Pat
said, scratching her arm. "Maybe I could buy some groceries
later, you know."

"That's not the offer," Munch said.

"I can't leave my stuff," Pat said.

"
I'll bring it to you." Munch walked across
the boardwalk to the pizza stand and bought Pat a slice of pepperoni
pizza and a Coke.

"So this danger Ellen's in—how bad is it?"
Pat asked, biting into the pizza.

"Pretty serious."

"You might want to check with Farmer."

"He still on Brooks? "

"
Yeah, he's still there."

Munch started to leave, but then stopped. She
crouched, once more so that their faces were level. "You know,
it doesn't have to be like this. There's another way to go."

"Which way is that?"

"I can get you a bed at the detox in West L.A.
We can hit some meetings together."

"And then what?" Pat asked. "I get
clean. I get a job. I walk around in panty hose, working myself to
death for minimum fucking wage. Then I die. What's the difference? At
least this way I get high every once in a while."

Munch stood. "As long as you're still having
fun."

"
Munch?"

"
Yeah?"

"Thanks for the pizza."

"Sure." Munch walked back to her car and
paid the ransom to get it back. It only took five minutes to reach
Farmer's place. She parked in an adjacent lot, then walked back to
pound on his door. She tried to turn the knob but found it locked.
Yelling his name also brought no response. She was about to give up
when, from around the corner of the building, she heard the familiar
roar of a Harley with straight pipes.

Farmer appeared seconds later and pulled up on the
sidewalk astride his ratty Panhead. She waited as he put down his
kickstand. While the motorcycle idled uncertainly, Farmer swung his
leg over the Fat Bob tanks and took two steps to his door.

'
°You want something?" he asked as he unlocked
his door and swung it open. The naked fingers protruding from his
cut-off gloves were almost as dark as the leather.

"
Hey, Farmer," she said.

He raised his cheap black sunglasses and blinked
once.

"
Munch?"

"
Yeah. Long time."

He returned to his bike, remounted it, and kicked it
into gear. Before he let out the clutch, he asked, "You looking
for Ellen?"