No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (18 page)

Mrs. Scott smiled thinly "Special Agent Donavon
has some questions for you."

Special Agent? Munch set her face in a blank
expression, neither bored nor worried, and waited. The FBI agent
turned to Mrs. Scott. " hope you don't mind, but I need to speak
to Ms. Mancini alone."

Mrs. Scott minded very much, Munch saw as the
probation officer walked stiffly back to her car It probably killed
her to be so close to the action and shut out. Munch would trade
places with her in a heartbeat. She turned to Special Agent Donavon.

"Will this take long? I'm pretty busy"

The agent looked around before speaking. "You
like working here?"

Was there some sort of implied threat in her tone?

"I guess. Pays well, the people are nice."
What did she want?

"What was your relationship with Jonathan
Garillo?"

Munch forced her face not to twitch. "He's
someone I used to know"

"Did he visit you before he died?"

"Yes. He came to see me the day he was killed."

She figured she wasn't telling this woman anything
she didn't already know

"What did he say to you?"

The shadow from the semi hadn't moved. There was no
parking on Sepulveda Boulevard and the light should have changed by
now Movement out the passenger-side window caught her attention. A
man's arm, clothed in a black leather motorcycle Jacket, reached out.
The hand adjusted the side mirror, which jiggled in time to the
diesel rig's idle. She saw the passengers garbled reflection and
realized that he was watching her. She couldn't make out his face,
only that he had reddish hair and wore mirrored sunglasses.

"Ms. Mancini?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked you what the two of you spoke about."

Munch looked back at the agent. "Not much. He
wanted me to come hang out with him. I told him I didn't associate
with his kind anymore. That I was on probation"

"Did he give you anything?"

"Just a hard time," Munch said. The woman
didn't smile.

The hand retreated from the window and then returned.
This time it waved something. A pink flag. No, not a flag. She saw
the sleeves, the feet at the bottom of the pant legs. It was a baby's
romper. Asia's romper. The one she had been wearing the night before.

"You've never done federal time, have you? Mrs.
Scott is fully prepared to assist me in any way I choose. For
instance, if someone were in my way interfering with an
investigation, and she could put that person away for thirty days . .
."

Munch knew this power game only too well. This was
the part where she was supposed to roll over and show her soft
underbelly She cast her eyes down and let her shoulders slump.
"Please don't do that. I haven't done anything wrong." She
gave the agent a hopeful, tentative smile back, hoping she'd buy the
act.

"I don't want to hurt you," Claire Donavon
said. " want to feel that you're doing everything you can to be
a good citizen." She put a hand on Munch's shoulder. Anyone
observing their exchange would think they were getting along just
line. "But if I find out you've been fucking with me," the
FBI agent continued, smiling with only her mouth, "I'll nail
your little ass to the wall."

"You will, huh?" Munch blinked once,
feeling the anger rush up her neck, making her fist clench. She
shrugged off the agent's hand, hoping the guy in the eighteen-wheeler
was watching. "Why don't you take your best shot, bitch, and
spare me the bullshit."

Claire Donavon studied Munch for a long minute and
then beckoned to Mrs. Scott. "Your client has just told me that
she's been associating with known felons. I believe that violates the
terms of her probation."

Mrs. Scott produced a pair of handcuffs. Munch
glanced at the semi, heard the thunk of gears shifting.

The truck groaned as its brakes released. She didn't
look over in her co-workers' direction. She didn't want a last image
of the expressions in their eyes as she was manacled and placed in
the back seat of Mrs. Scott's car.

The drive to jail seemed to take no time at all.
 

16

That evening, when Blackstone got home, he studied
his living quarters from Claire Donavon's eyes. Would she appreciate
his strategic location? Or would she wrinkle her nose at the
proximity of the freight trains and the looming profile of the
downtown office buildings?

His mail was mostly junk. He put it to use lighting a
fire in what had formerly been used as an incinerator but now served
as his fireplace. The high ceiling and open floor plan of the
converted brewery made it difficult to heat, but he wanted Claire to
be comfortable. This was a calculated sacrifice to his own comfort.
And later, if his loft got too warm, he could always crack open the
skylight transom directly over his bed.

Again, he surveyed the room through the eyes of his
visitor. Everyone's first impression was always how unobstructed his
space was. It was the cathedral ceilings and the absence of inner
walls, he knew. The color scheme also enhanced the room's natural
simplicity. What walls weren't brick or steel, he'd painted white.
The arched ceiling was blond pine and a masterpiece of engineering
that eliminated the need for center beams. Instead, the roof was
supported by an intricate network of collar braces and crown supports
that ran the length of the building and resembled the skeleton of an
overturned ship. She would like it, he decided.

While the room heated, he retired to the small but
efficient kitchen in the corner space beneath his bedroom loft to
make ready for his guest. Sink, stove, and refrigerator were all
within easy reach of each other. A butcher-block counter sat atop a
storage area. Filling a teakettle with water, he set it on a medium
flame. Then he laid out the tea bags, sugar, and two cups. They would
eat at the counter, he decided, and set two places. Arranging the
plates, napkins, and silverware just right seemed to take him an
extraordinarily long time. He checked his watch. He hadn't even
showered and changed. He should have told her to come later.

He rushed through his shower, barely taking the time
to dry himself. His chinos stuck to his legs as he tried to pull them
over his still-damp skin, and the first two shirts he put on were all
wrong. Without even realizing it, he had strapped on his gun belt
over his pants. Six-fifteen found him standing before his open
armoire, undecided what to do with his weapon. He usually kept the
two-inch Smith & Wesson Chief Special in the holster at the base
of his spine or beside his bed next to the phone. Surely this evening
would not be one of those occasions that required deadly force. He
slid off his belt, putting the gun in the pocket of his coat, then
refolded a shirt he'd disturbed and pulled a sweater on.

Twenty minutes later, he heard the dogs. His only
neighbor was a dog kennel and the boarders there always let him know
when a car approached his gate. Their chorus of frantic yelping now
told him that his guest had arrived

"I'm sorry I'm late," Claire said when he
opened the door.

"Did you get lost?" he asked, taking the
bag of Chinese takeout from her arms.

She held up dirty hands. "Flat tire," she
explained. "Do you have somewhere I can wash up?"

He directed her to the bathroom and then laid out
their dinner. Minutes later she emerged from the bathroom. He noted
that she had applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

When they finished eating, he suggested they take
their tea into the main room and get comfortable. She surprised him
when she ignored the obvious choice of the couch and instead remained
standing in front of the fireplace.

"Are you cold?" he asked.
 
"No,
it just feels good to stand. I've just been sitting all day doing
paperwork? She pointed to the lone picture on the mantel. "Your
mother?" she asked.

"The grand dame herself."

"She looks—"

"Prosperous?" Blackstone asked.

"I was going to say elegant. I like the coat. Is
it sable?"

"You have a good eye," he said.

"The frame is Cartier, isn't it?"

"I'm doubly impressed. It's somewhat ornate for
my tastes, but it was a birthday gift from Evelyn last year, so what
could I do?"

"And Evelyn is?"

"My mother. "

"And your father?" she asked.

"Two husbands ago. We don't hear from him much.
Are you always this inquisitive?"

"Comes with the job, I guess. Does it bother
you?"

"For you I'm an open book. In the spirit of
interoffice cooperation and all that."

Her fingers grazed the Lalique crystal frog next to
the framed picture. "You don't seem to be hurting," she
said.

"It doesn't cost that much more to go
first-class," he said. "Not if you focus on the things that
really interest you." Her hands fluttered nervously to the top
button of her blouse. A trace of black grease was still visible on
her knuckles. She had also chipped a nail.

As they talked he opened the bottom drawer of the
chessboard table and removed a heavy box wrapped in a soft white
towel. Balancing the box in his lap, he folded the towel twice and
used it to wipe off the table's clear lacquer surface, taking a
moment to admire the alternating squares of burgundy Italian elm burl
and blond maple that lay beneath the protective coating. If only life
were laid out in such an orderly fashion, with each space denoted
geometrically and all players a known quantity

"How about you?" he asked. "Do you
have family near?"

"They're in Arizona," she said. "Tempe."

"That's a college town, isn't it?"

"Yes. Both my parents are professors?

"What did they think about you joining the FBI?"

"They were disappointed. My father thought I
could be anything I wanted."

He grunted a small laugh. "Sounds like something
Evelyn would say"

When he was satisfied that the cloth had not found
any stray dust, he lifted the lid off the rosewood box on his lap.
The chess pieces were individually wrapped. They were made by Jaqué,
the prestigious London firm. The set had cost him over a thousand
dollars, but it was well worth the expense. Each piece was
hand-carved and -weighted. The black pieces were ebony the white,
Indian boxwood; circles of leather had been glued to the bottoms.

The chessmen weren't overly ornate. The knight was
the classic horse head, not some armor-clad crusader aboard a rearing
steed. Serious players cared more for the weight and feel of the
pieces. He'd seen some sets where it was impossible to distinguish
bishops from pawns, kings from queens, and had refused to play with
them.

Working from the magazine notes, he arranged the
pieces of the Fischer-Najdorf game played in 1962. The game had
gotten interesting after the thirteenth move. Fischer had begun his
favorite way—moving out his king's pawn to free diagonal files for
his queen and bishop. Najdorf had responded with the classic Sicilian
defense. They had exchanged material, a knight and two pawns each.
Fischer castled, Najdorf did not—devoting his energies instead to
forming a strong center position. It was at this point that
Blackstone invited Claire to sit.

"I'll take white," he said.

"That makes me Najdorf, I suppose," she
said.

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Where's your chess clock?"

He pulled out the dual-faced timer. "What should
I set it for?" he asked.

"Let's try five-minute intervals."

"Speed chess?" he asked.

"It's a good exercise for making yourself rely
more on your intuition," she said. "is it your move?"

He answered by placing his queen on A4.

"Check," he said.

"You picked an interesting place to begin,"
she said and brought her knight over to protect her king.

"Good move," he said.

"It was the obvious choice," she said.

His heart beat faster. Now the game was going to heat
up. He considered the board and said, " know about the
Canyonville connection."

She looked at him, but said nothing.

He captured her bishop with his rook. She lifted an
eyebrow His rook was vulnerable to a center pawn. Hardly an even
trade of material. She took the bait.

"So you understand our involvement," she
said, capturing his rook.

"Was John Garillo an informant?" he asked.

"I'll check with the head office."

He moved his knight towards the center of the board.
"To see if he was or to see if you can tell me?"

"Either or both," she said, her eyes never
leaving the board. The ticking of the clock seemed to Fill the room.
She brought her kingside bishop out, clearing the rank of squares
between her king and rook. She was looking to castle, a good
protective move. It had just come too late.