Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella (9 page)

He called her at home.

As he listened to the phone ring, a thousand thoughts
flitted through his mind. Why did he feel he needed the armor of an
excuse? Why didn't he just call her and tell her how empty his life
was without her? Because she said she needed her space, that he had
wrung her dry.

"Caroline St. John," she answered.

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

"
Oh. Hi."

"Yeah, I ran into somebody today. Well, I didn't
actually see her, but I thought you might be interested." Oh,
God, he thought, real smooth. I hate this shit, this growling.

"Who?" she asked.

"Munch, Munch Mancini."

"How is she?"

"She's got a limo service. We should throw her
some business some night. You know, take in a show downtown—go out
to dinner."

He waited for her to jump in, but she said nothing.
He wished he could see her face. Was she hopeful? Annoyed?

Pleased? Bored?

"So, how are you doing?" he asked. "How's
work? I mean."

"Busy. Same as always. Caring too much, getting
disappointed a lot."

Was that meant for him?

"
Is the car running all right?" he asked.

"
The car's fine."

"
And you've got everything you need?" he
asked.

"I'm fine."

"Good, good," he said. He paused, lowered
his voice. "I went to see my dad this weekend."

"
How often do you do that?" she asked, her
tone gentle. "When I'm in the neighborhood. I like to put fresh
flowers up. You know, make it look like someone cares."

"
Mace, he knew you cared. No one could have done
more."

"I don't know why he stopped trusting me,"
Mace said. It was an old debate, but one he'd yet to come to terms
with. His dad had died, and his last words uttered could never be
erased. I've got no one.

"You can't take to heart the things he said. He
wasn't thinking clearly. I wish you'd believe that." She paused.
"Are you still having those dreams?"

He bit back the familiar heat of irritation that
rushed through his chest. If she were with him, she wouldn't have to
ask. Big Miss I-give-everyone-a-chance couldn't get past her
husband's single infidelity. If you could call going to a hotel room
with an old girlfriend only to discover that you'd made a mistake an
act of infidelity. He'd gotten as far as unwrapping the condom before
he realized there was no way he could go through with it. Technically
he hadn't cheated, but he hadn't told Caroline that. She'd already
convicted him on the evidence. It was all he could manage now to keep
the bitterness out of his tone.

"I've gotta go," he said, looking around
the empty room.

"
Cassiletti's giving me the high sign. You got
any message for Munch if I talk to her?"

He heard her click her tongue. She did that when she
was exasperated. "Tell her I'm really proud of her for moving on
with her life."

"I'll do that." He straightened up in his
chair, cleared his throat. "Well, listen then, I'll call you
later when we have more time to talk."

"You do that. "

He hung up the phone, dropping the receiver into the
cradle as if it were too hot to handle. "That went well,"
he said out loud.

"
Sir?" Cassiletti called from the doorway.

Mace spun around to face him. "What you got?"
he asked. Cassiletti consulted the yellow legal pad in his trembling
hands. He was either nervous or excited, Mace knew. In an effort to
build the big man's confidence, Mace encouraged his junior partner to
take some initiative. He would die a happy man if he could get
Cassiletti to drop the inevitable question mark that punctuated half
his statements.

"I ran the name Raleigh Ward through NCIC,"
Cassiletti said, referring to the National Crime Information Center.

"
Anything?"

"No." Cassiletti sounded as if he were
apologizing. "So I ran a DMV search?" he said, looking up
hopefully. "State of California issued him a driver's license
two years ago? We should be getting a copy sometime tomorrow."

"Just two years? Did you try running an address
update?"

The address update was one of their tricks for
backing into a social security number trace.

Cassiletti flipped frantically through his notes,
looking for what wasn't there. "I'll be right back."

Mace felt a twinge of impatience as he pulled out the
Social Security Index.

Cassiletti returned moments later and handed Mace the
nine-digit social security number issued to Raleigh Ward. The first
three numbers identified the state of issuance, in this case
California. According to the index, the number had been issued prior
to 1973.

"Just for fun," Mace said, "let's run
him through civil-court records and voter's registration."

Twenty minutes later, the two men compared notes.

"What did you come up with?" Mace asked.

"A lot of blanks. Too many blanks. Then I pulled
utility records?"

"And?"

"
This is where it gets interesting. The account
was opened last year by the diplomatic branch of the State
Department, but until six months ago the meters hadn't clocked any
usage."

"
Six months ago?" Mace asked, thinking of
the Westwood murder. "I want to talk to this guy."

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the blank
wall. He'd been around long enough to spot a smoke screen. Sounded
like this Raleigh Ward was either a protected witness or some kind of
spook.

"
Write down this number," Mace said,
reciting the TCP number on the cab's bumper. "I want to
interview this cabbie. We'll have the photo lab make some prints of
the bald guy I'll take one to Munch."

"
You're going to go see her?"

"
Yeah. I could use the reminder of happier
endings."

Cassiletti didn't ask, and Mace didn't explain.
 
 

CHAPTER 7

At one o'clock Ellen and her customers reached San
Diego. By then they were all on a first-name basis. Victor Draicu
announced that he was hungry.

"
What are you in the mood for?" Ellen
asked.

"Do you really wish an answer to that?"
Victor asked. Ellen noticed that he had unbuttoned his shirt almost
to his navel and was massaging his chest muscles as he spoke.

"Oh, now, g'wan," she said, gracing him
with a giggle. "You know what I'm talking about."

Victor nudged Raleigh and winked at him. "She
knows what I speak of also," he said.

Raleigh's mouth tightened. "Take us to a Mexican
joint," he said. "Might as well get this show on the road.
You'll join us, of course."

"
Thank you, Raleigh. Y'a1l are such gentlemen."

Raleigh snorted. "Oh, yeah, we're the cream of
the crop."

Victor laughed and slapped Raleigh's shoulder. "Cream
of the crop. I love it."

Ellen looked in the rearview mirror to catch
Raleigh's eye and give him some silent sympathy. The venom she saw in
his expression made her stifle a gasp of surprise. He looked like he
didn't know whether to spit or go blind.

She got off the freeway at Balboa in the small San
Diego community of Pacific Beach. After driving three blocks, she
spotted a small whitewashed restaurant. Painted above the doorway in
the red and green colors of the Mexican flag were the words PAPA
GOMEZ'S. A cardboard sign in the window promised homemade tamales.

The final selling point of the restaurant was the
three empty parking spaces in a row and the lot's two driveways.
Driving a limo was like driving any other car, she'd discovered, but
you had to pay special attention when you planned to stop somewhere.

The three of them entered the small, dark restaurant.
It smelled of beer and fried meat. A dark-haired Hispanic waitress
wearing thick eyeliner seated them at a booth. Victor gestured for
Ellen to slide in, then quickly took the place next to her. She
sneaked a quick glance at Raleigh and saw that this irked him, but by
now she'd noticed that everything Victor did seemed to annoy Raleigh.
Victor, in turn, seemed oblivious to the other man's disgust. Or
maybe he just didn't give a shit. The busboy, a young man with hair
so thick that it stuck straight out from his scalp like a porcupine,
set down paper place mats and flatware. He worked without looking up.
"We need menus," Raleigh said.

Without meeting anyone's eyes, the boy pointed at the
waitress.

Raleigh pointed at the center of the table and held
his hands out as if to show they were empty.

This time the busboy seemed to understand. He held up
a finger, hustled off, then returned with a basket of chips and two
dishes of sauce. The first dish contained traditional salsa of
chopped tomatoes, onions, and cilantro. The sauce in the second dish
was soupier and green. The waitress followed with three menus.

Victor attacked the appetizers like a man who hadn't
eaten in days. He devoured two large scoops of each sauce before his
face changed color. Tears filled his eyes, and sweat broke out on his
forehead. He slapped the table with the palm of his hand, then
clutched his throat, all the while making small strangled noises.

Raleigh chuckled. "I usually wait until they
bring the water," he said, "before I start on the hot
sauce."

Ellen waved her napkin to get the busboy's attention.

"
Agua, por favor
,"
she said when he came over. "Pronto."

The busboy nodded and quickly returned with three
glasses of water. Victor took a deep drink and coughed without
covering his mouth.

Raleigh grinned, and said to Ellen, "So, you
speaka the spic?"

The waitress appeared at the edge of the table. "Have
you decided?" she asked.

Oh, yeah, Ellen thought as
she looked from Victor to Raleigh, both of these bad boys are going
to pay. She ran a fingertip over the outline of the folded
hundred-dollar bill in her pocket, and thought of the many more to
come. Maybe working a straight job wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

Munch, sitting at her small dining-room table,
adjusted the radio to an all-news station, picked up the phone, and
pushed REDIAL. It was senseless, she knew, to keep trying to call the
limo. Still she had to do something.

The recording came on again, telling her that the
mobile-phone customer she was trying to reach was not responding or
had left the service provider area. Munch knew the same recording
played when the mobile phone wasn't turned on. She also knew there
was no way Ellen would know how to use the phone in the car, if she
was even aware of its existence. A code had to be entered via the
handset before calls could be sent or received. Derek swore he hadn't
told her the code. She was too annoyed with him to explain that that
would have been the one thing he might have done right even if it was
by accident.

Had Ellen ripped her off? she wondered. She had
trouble believing that. Was the limo wrapped around a telephone pole
somewhere? Perhaps.

The gnawing truth was that anything was possible with
Ellen. Actually, that was part of her charm. The first time Munch had
met Ellen was twelve years ago, when getting high had still been fun.
It was at Ellen's coming-out party—Venice Beach style. After
serving four months in juvenile Hall, Ellen was a free woman. The
celebration was held at a beer bar on Lincoln Boulevard.

The party had been going for hours when Munch got
there. She shared a pitcher of beer with her then-best-friend Deb and
then broke away to use the bathroom. While Ellen had been away, Deb
had taken up with Ellen's boyfriend. Out of loyalty, Munch was fully
prepared to hate the returning bitch. But then she'd opened the
toilet-stall door and found Ellen sitting there, tossing reds into
the air and catching them in her mouth. Ellen hadn't missed a beat,
just invited Munch to join in. The evening had ended with new men for
all of them, and fuck any cheating bastard who couldn't take a joke.
Ellen was one of a kind, all right, and not without principles. If
she had the choice between taking the easy way out or hurting you,
she'd do her utmost to look for other options. In the end she might
still sleep with your old man, but she damn sure would give him a
hickey. And let him try to explain that. You had to love her.

Even now, when the rules were all different, the
thought of Ellen brought a rueful chuckle to her lips. Fucking Ellen.
Was it just a coincidence that she had come back and craziness had
followed?

The news came over the radio again, and Munch turned
up the volume. Two people reportedly found dead in a Hollywood
apartment. The details were few, as was always true with breaking
news. The radio announcer did not know the age or sex of the alleged
victims, only that the police were investigating, it was a double
homicide, and it had probably occurred in the early-morning hours.