Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (16 page)

St. John nodded and made a pretense of checking his
notes. Logan Sarnoff steepled his fingers and let them come to rest
on his nose. The room was quiet enough to hear the secretary typing
at her desk in the reception area. Finally the attorney seemed to
come to some inner decision.

"There was one other thing."

"Yes?"

"Sam Bergman left burial instructions in his
safety deposit box. A box that was in his name only. His illness
prevented him from retrieving these instructions before he died, but
he did alert me to their existence. Acting in the role of his
executor, I met with the bank president and presented the situation.
Because I could show cause as to why I needed access, I was able—in
the presence of one of the bank's officers—to enter that safety
deposit box. My privileges only extended to the document I was there
to retrieve. However, I did see other things." He stopped
talking and looked at St. John. "I wouldn't mention this except
in these extraordinary circumstances."

"
Yes, sir. "

"There were photographs in the box. Photographs
of Diane. Compromising. Pornographic. Who knows? Perhaps grounds for
blackmail."

"Are these photographs still in the safety
deposit box?"

"Yes, no one else would be able to open the box.
Even you would need a court order. Sam's estate is still in the
probate process."

"
Yes, sir." St. John was well aware that
flashing his badge wouldn't get him far at the bank unless he was
willing to pull his gun as well.

He took down the name of the bank branch where Diane
Bergman's husband had had his safety deposit box and thanked the
attorney for his time.

"I hope you'll be discreet," the attorney
said as he ushered St. John out the door.

"Don't worry," he said. "I have to
live with myself, too."

St. John left the attorney's office, took the
elevator down to the fifth floor, and found Ken Wilson's office. He
showed his badge to the receptionist and was pointed to an open
cubicle in the corner. The broker was on the phone but glanced up at
the detective and nodded to a chair.

Wilson had no sooner completed one call when his
intercom buzzed and he was alerted to two more. The broker looked at
St. John with a helpless smile and took his calls.

St. John waited one more minute and then pulled out
his badge and held it in front of the broker's eyes.

Ken Wilson's face went pale. "Let me get back to
you," he told his caller.

St. John introduced himself and explained he was
investigating the death of Diane Bergman.

"How can I help you, Detective?"

"Were you at a party with her last Friday
night?"

"Yes. It was a fund-raiser for the Cancer
Center. I'm on the board of directors for the foundation,"

"Did you speak to Diane Bergman at the party?"

"Briefly"

"Were you aware of any arguments she might have
had with anyone?"

"The only annoyance I was aware of at the party
was the man we hired for security. He was an off-duty police officer
and he kept cornering guests and talking their ears off."

"About what?"

"I believe he thought he was networking. He said
he was retiring soon from an important chief of detectives position.
He was telling all the lurid details of his cases. I guess he thought
we'd be interested or impressed or something. I know he wanted
references from us, the board members."

"Do you remember the guy's name?"

"Owen. Peter Owen. Do you know him?"

"Yeah," St. John
said. "I know him, all right."

* * *

The hardware store down the street makes keys, but he
never goes to the same locksmith twice. That would be stupid. You get
a routine going and people start recognizing you. All he needed was
some nosy hardware clerk to ask why he needed so many keys
duplicated. Ask him what line of work he's in that requires so many
different car and house keys. He has a strategy prepared if anyone
ever recognizes him from another time. He'll just start asking them
questions about themselves. People never noticed you were being
evasive if you got them talking about their own lives.

Well, regular people anyway not cops.

But it isn't going to come to that, he's reasonably
certain. West Los Angeles has too many places where they make keys.
Even some of those private mailbox places made them, although he
doesn't quite trust their expertise. The other secret to his success
is his ability to blend in. The trick there is to act bored. You sure
don't accomplish anonymity by pulling a hat brim over your face or
wearing dark shades indoors. That only attracts attention and he's
learned his lessons well. Like what you leave behind can nail you,
whether it's something as nebulous as suspicion in some witness's
mind or something more concrete, like a footprint or strands of hair
or semen.

He's also grateful for the abundance of RadioShacks.
He always pays cash for his purchases of resistors and transformers.
To date only one clerk has tried to get chummy asking him what he was
going to do with the toggle switches, twenty-gauge wire, and box of
alligator clips. He mumbled something about picking the stuff up for
his boss; then he looked at his watch so the guy would take the hint
and his money and let him out of there. He isn't exactly on the
clock, but his absences are noted by some and he doesn't need that
kind of attention.

His dream is to invent something. He knows a guy who
got rich just from one stupid idea. The guy worked at some Styrofoam
plant and one day noticed all those curly shavings that they swept up
and threw away every day. The guy gets the idea that they would be
good packing material, takes out a patent, and the next thing you
know this guy is living in a mansion, driving Italian sports cars,
and dating babes young enough to be his daughter.

Just one good idea, that's
all it takes. He's been playing around with one gizmo for a while.
It's simple, like most brilliant concepts. He took a piece of
two-by-four and drove two ten-penny nails through it. The nails are
six inches apart. He has soldered wire to the heads of each nail. The
other ends of these wires are connected in series with a common,
everyday desk lamp. He's got a field generator, found it in an
army-navy surplus store in Santa Monica. When he spears a hot dog—an
ordinary raw hot dog—on the tips of the two nails, cranks up the
generator, and flips the switch:
voila!
Within only ten seconds the hot dog is thoroughly cooked. The beauty
of his invention is that the device can be used over and over.

* * *

That night Munch woke from what must have been a
nightmare. She opened her eyes as soon as she was conscious. As wide
awake as if she'd had a jolt of adrenaline. She got up and checked on
Asia, then read, then turned out the light and just lay there. In the
dark. Feeling unnamed and unwarranted panic. It was three in the
morning. She had to get up in the next few hours. If she didn't get
some more sleep, she'd be brain-dead all day. She tried lying quietly
so at least her body would be rested. She realized she was clenching
her fists and relaxed her fingers. Her neck and shoulders were also
taut, so much so that she was barely using the pillow to support her
head. She pressed finger-tips to her wrist. Her pulse was still
accelerated; it was as if whatever flight-or-fight impulse her dream
had triggered would not shut off.

She thought about the act of rape, about what Emily
Hogan had said about conviction rates being so much higher in
attempted rapes as opposed to the completed act. Was that still true
today? It would sure be nice if she could believe what that pamphlet
said about women not being to blame for their rape. The thought was
comforting in some ways but terrifying in others. Maybe she and Asia
should move to a security building. Perhaps all this free-floating
anxiety had its root in unresolved issues. Had she repressed her
emotions all those years ago? Did that kind of psychoanalyzing even
apply to practicing drunks? She could barely remember what Culley
looked like. Kind of square-jawed, wasn't he? And clean—shaven. And
strong. He had been much stronger. Even if she had gotten away where
was she supposed to run in a graveyard?

Gypsy had lots of hair, down to his shoulders. It was
red and curly. Full beard, too. Who knew what he looked like under
all that? She remembered he used to wear Levi's everything, kept his
keys on a clip that he wore at his side, and that stupid knife of his
strapped to his leg like he was some kind of desperado. They'd all
been pretty full of themselves back then. The farther she got away
from that life, the more she wondered what she'd ever found to like
there. All the men, the lifestyle of selfish partying. All right,
enough of that, she told herself. The war was over. She'd surrendered
eight years ago, sweating out her addictions in the backseat of her
car.

Someone was trying to hurt her. She needed to focus
on that. Trying to figure out who wanted to hurt her led to thoughts
of anyone she'd ever done wrong, how her own greed always got her
into trouble. She thought of that nice guy who used to come in a year
ago. He had an old Caddy convertible. She sold him an intake manifold
gasket job. She had been convinced at the time that it would solve
his rough idle problem. When it didn't, she charged him for the work
anyway and sent him off without a word of explanation. If she knew
then how that act would still be haunting her at—she sat up and
glanced at the clock—three-ten in the fucking morning, she'd gladly
give him his money back. But that was just the point, wasn't it? You
weren't supposed to wait until the consequences of your sins
threatened you before you were sorry for them.

She tried to direct her mind to more pleasant
memories but could find none. She couldn't derail her past sins from
her thoughts. Logic told her that she must have done something right
sometime in her life. She just couldn't put her finger on anything at
the moment. Whatever small act came to mind, she could easily tie to
some self-serving motive. Like Garret. How long was she going to keep
up the charade with him? Wouldn't it just be kinder to end it now? To
free him to find someone who'd appreciate him? Was she being selfish?
Keeping him around until someone better came along? Or was what they
were going through now a phase? Were relationships like sobriety? Did
you need to hang on and keep on keeping on even when you forgot all
the reasons why?

She threw off her covers and swung her legs out of
bed. Now she was standing in the bathroom. She locked the door behind
her even though she was alone in the house save for Asia, whose sweet
snores were loud enough to penetrate the walls. She faced the
mirrored medicine cabinet and crossed her arms over her chest,
hugging herself. This exercise worked only with direct eye contact.
She looked deep into her own hazel eyes and said with as much
conviction as she could muster, "I love you, self."

Then she said it again, and once more after that. She
returned to bed and recited all the prayers she knew to shut out
whatever self-destruct committee members were still gunning for her.
Her last prayer to God was for the strength and wisdom to do the
right thing.

And then the phone rang.
 

Chapter 14

M
unch reached for the
receiver, her heart beating so hard it hurt. Before she picked up the
phone, she flicked on the tape recorder.

"
Hello?"

"Couldn't sleep either?" the caller's
mechanical voice asked.

"What do you want?"

"I never meant to hurt her," the voice
said.

"You mean Robin." she asked. "Or
Diane?"

"Diane? Don't go putting ideas in her head."

She remembered how St. John had coached her not to be
confrontational. They wanted her to develop a level of intimacy, let
him do the talking.

"So you mean Robin. You didn't want to hurt
Robin."

"I love her. I know this sounds crazy. I'm not
saying I understand it myself."

"Were you the one at the school?" she
asked.

"I don't mind her having friends," he said.
"But I can't have her being poisoned against me, not before I
get a chance to win her over. Haven't you ever been so drawn to
someone that you would do anything to be with them?"

"I understand irresistible urges," she
said.

"Of course. Like so many of these girls, you
were a drug addict. It's probably very similar."

She felt a little trill of fear in her stomach. "How
did you know that?"

"
You don't consider it a big secret, do you?"

She saw her opening then. "It's not something
I'm proud of. I don't deny it. I don't pretend it didn't happen."

"Have you told Garret everything? Does he know
about the drugs? How you would do anything and I mean anything to get
a fix?"

The implied threat of his words triggered her anger.
"What is this? You think you have something on me? You think you
can blackmail me?"