"So how did Asia's father die?" Mace asked. "Natural causes?"
"You could say that," Munch said. "He got on the wrong end of a methamphetamine deal with the Gypsy Jokers."
"Loser," Mace said.
"More than you know," she said.
They drove against traffic inland to catch the San Diego freeway southbound. It, too, was crowded. They made some small talk about people spending hours in smoggy traffic on their day off for the privilege of paying five dollars to sit on hot, tarry sand and then fight the traffic again to get back home.
An hour and a half later, the freeways merged north of San Clemente. The wind, took on a sudden freshness, and then they were on the Coast Highway. The ocean to their right was blue, dotted with sailboats. Flocks of seagulls, their wings white chevrons against the cloudless sky, circled above. Sitting inside the hot car with the scent of the crisp salt air in her nose, it was hard to argue with the wisdom of the throng of beachgoers parked along the shoulder.
Munch knew a woman who considered the ocean her Higher Power, claiming that the shifting enormity of the Pacific Ocean was a lot easier to believe in than some bearded entity on high.
"You ever pray?" she asked Mace.
"Isn't the first question, 'Do you believe in G0d?' "
"Do you?"
"Only when I'm really desperate," he said. "How about you?"
"When I first got sober," she said, "it was like every time I turned a corner some kind of miracle was happening. Big things, coming just in time to save my butt. Back then everything was a miracle: correct change at the market, finding a short in a wiring harness, parking places opening up when I needed them. Everything was like, 'Wow, you mean getting loaded had to do with this, too?'"
"And now?" he asked.
"Things have been going along pretty evenly. Work, meetings, shuttling Asia to all her different activities. God doesn't come into the picture too much until the shit hits the fan."
"He must be used to that."
She smiled at the ocean, liking the idea of God understanding human nature and not holding a grudge. Then she turned back toward Mace so she could watch his face for the first sign of a lie. "How's Caroline?" she asked.
"She's, uh," he said as he rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, "probably happier."
"Probably?"
"We separated. We've agreed to disagree," he said, his I voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well . . ." He sped up to pass the Buick in front of him, cutting back into the lane just inches in front of the other car. She gripped the armrest.
"What happened?"
He looked out the window. She saw the muscles in his jaw flex. "You hungry?" he asked.
"Not really."
"We'll stop in San Diego. I need to check in with a buddy of mine at the San Diego PD."
"Yeah, okay" They crossed over a bridge. A train trestle ran parallel to them. She thought about his train car, the one he was always fixing up. The 1927 office car was parked on a siding of track on Olympic Boulevard. She passed it Wednesday nights when she went to an A.A. meeting held at a women's recovery house. It was a beautiful piece of engineering and craftsmanship inside and out. He'd taken her on a tour once, shown her the lush interior created for railroad executives and lovingly restored by him. The exterior was painted Pullman green and still had the original leaded-glass windows, though Mace had covered them with grating. Like a ship, she had a name: Bella Donna. It was stenciled along her side in gold-leaf script. Mace told her once that one day he and his dad were going to hire an Amtrak engine to tow them up the coast. She had thought that sounded so cool, especially when he told her there were tracks that ran through parts of the country unspoiled by any other symptoms of civilization. Crystal blue lakes stocked with noncancerous fish, virgin forest. just you and your portable self-contained armored car.
"How's your dad?" she asked.
"He . . ." Mace St. John blew out his breath, looked to his left, then straight ahead. "We lost him."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know. Was it a stroke?"
"Nothing that clean. Six months ago he just started to slip away. He wouldn't eat unless you ground the food up in the blender, and then only a couple of bites."
"That must have been rough."
"I fucked that one up, too," Mace said.
"How did you fuck up?" she asked, realizing now that for all the anger he exhibited, the majority he reserved for himself. "He was old, right?"
"Yeah, right."
She knew she had gone too far. The temperature inside the car seemed to drop thirty degrees. His whole body was rigid, from the hands gripping the steering wheel to the taut muscles in his forearms. Even his head angled forward awkwardly as he watched the traffic.
"Look at this asshole," he said, climbing up behind the black Chrysler in the lane ahead of him. The Chrysler peeled off into a slower lane. Mace muttered, "Fucking jerk," and glared at the driver as they passed.
They drove several miles in silence. She wondered if cops ever listened to music when they were on the job. The silence in the car was setting her teeth on edge.
"What about the dogs?" she asked. "Didn't you have a couple of dogs?"
His face relaxed then. His lips puckered in a kissing motion. "My babies, " he said.
"I'm glad you still have the dogs," she said, knowing for a fact how kids and dogs had a way of keeping your heart alive. He looked at his watch, and said, "We'll reach San Diego around noon."
She rubbed her eyes and yawned. "You mind if I take a little nap? I didn't get much sleep last night. "
"Yeah, you do that," he said.
She closed her eyes, but only pretended to sleep.
CHAPTER 12
Munch and Mace arrived at the San Diego police station ten minutes after twelve. Mace flashed his badge to the uniformed cop guarding the entrance to the parking lot and was directed to take any available space.
After they parked, Mace reached into the backseat and retrieved a large manila envelope. They entered the building. Mace again showed his police identification at the front desk. He was given a plastic badge to clip onto the collar of his shirt. Munch was issued a sticker badge that read, VISITOR. The day's date was stamped across the bottom. SAN DIEGO POLICE DEPARTMENT was printed in blue across the top.
Mace asked the cop on duty how to get to Enrique Chacón's office.
"Narcotics," the cop said. "Third floor, left as you exit the elevator."
Mace thanked the guy and told Munch to follow him. As they waited for the elevator, police of all sizes, sexes, and colors walked past them. Munch realized that she would have had trouble making over half of them as cops. Maybe it was how they smiled when she made eye contact. She looked down at the pass pasted to her shirt and decided it was much better to be a visitor than a guest.
They took the elevator to the third floor and turned left. The hallway was full of cardboard file boxes. A sign with an arrow directed them to the Narcotics Division. Mace led the way, the manila envelope full of morbid pictures tucked under his arm.
They entered the open door of a room with NARCOTICS stenciled on the opaque glass inset of the door. Smooth roughwire mesh, she thought to herself as she ran her hand over the multifaceted surface. Six months with a glazier filled your head with all sorts of useful information like that. Desks lined the walls of the narrow office. In the corner, a gang member in starched khaki pants traded jokes with a seated detective. When the boy turned, she saw the police badge hanging from a chain around his neck.
Damn, she thought, has he even has tattoos.
Another Hispanic cop was on the phone with his back to them. He swiveled in his chair, and his face opened in a broad smile when he saw Mace. He held up a finger to say just a minute.
Mace waved for him to take his time.
The seated cop finished his call, stood, and extended his hand to Mace. "Mace St. John," he said. "How are you?"
"Chacón, this is my friend Munch Man
cini?
"Call me Rico."
Munch shook hands with Mace's friend. The narcotics cop's hand was warm and his manner friendly. She wondered if he saw her old needle marks. Would that chill him out?
"So what brings you to town?" Chacón asked.
"Munch has a limousine that crossed the border yesterday. We were hoping to track it down," Mace said.
"Officially?" Chacón asked.
"We really don't have that kind of time," Mace said. He had explained to Munch on the ride over that relations between the two countries' law-enforcement factions were not good. In fact, he'd said, the Mexican federales were downright hostile to American lawmen. Asking for permission would only invite trouble. The two of them would get much more cooperation just going in as civilians.
All that she understood. But why wasn't Mace telling his friend about the murder investigation?
The other two cops left the room.
"I need a silver bullet," Mace said.
"I figured there was more," Chacón said, looking in the direction of the departing officers.
Mace opened his manila envelope and pulled out some photographs. Munch recognized them as the same pictures he'd shown her earlier. "I think this guy is operating in TJ." Mace said. "I got a tip that another victim showed up this morning. She might have been driving the missing limousine."
Chacón looked at Munch sympathetically. "Friend of yours?"
Munch nodded and blinked back tears. She had to remind herself that she wasn't going to make any assumptions until she knew for sure.
"I want to go see without raising any flags," Mace continued. "You still got your connections down there?"
"I'll call my mother," Chacón said.
While Chacón dialed, Mace leaned over to Munch. "His family knows the family who owns funeral homes all through Baja. They have a contract with the city to handle murder victims. Rico helped them out of some trouble last year."
Chacón finished his conversation and wrote down directions. "Just tell the girl you know me."
"Thanks," Mace said.
"What are you driving?" Chacón asked.
"An unmarked unit. A Caprice."
Chacón opened his desk drawer and threw Mace a set of keys. "Yellow Pontiac station wagon," he said. 'The plate number is on that white tag. You buy your own gas."
"We'll be back in a couple hours," Mace said.
"Good luck," Chacón said. He spoke the words like he really meant them.
Mace and Munch took the elevator back down but exited the building through a side door that took them to the parking lot. They found the lemon-colored station wagon. While Munch checked the oil and water, Mace locked his badge, ID, beeper, and gun in the trunk of his Caprice. Within minutes they were back on the freeway and headed south.
"What was the trouble?" Munch asked.
"Huh?"
"At the mortuary. You said Rico helped the people out."
"Oh, yeah," Mace said. "They do autopsies there. Turns out that a couple of their customers weren't all the way dead."
"Great," she said. "And a silver bullet is. . . ?"
He shrugged. "A favor. A free pass."
In San Ysidro, Mace exited the freeway and pulled into the driveway of a Carl's Jr.
"What are we doing?" Munch asked.
"I need some coffee," Mace said as he stopped at the drive thru speaker phone.
"Make that two," Munch said.
Five minutes later, they were back on the southbound freeway. The line of cars waiting to cross the border stretched eight lanes wide and half a mile long. After they entered Tijuana, they maneuvered through a maze of one-way streets. Every other building seemed to be a pharmacy or a body shop. Men stood on the street waving rolls of window tinting or the flat, round hammers they used for pounding out dents. Horns honked constantly. The smell of raw rich exhaust gave her a headache.
Mace urged the big yellow station wagon forward. A man carrying bundles of brightly painted miniature guitars knocked on Munch's window and held up his wares. For a brief instant she thought of Asia, wondering if this would be something she'd like. She was careful to keep her eyes blank so as not to encourage the man.
They drove until they reached the funeral home. A large truck was parked in front of the entrance. Two men unloaded caskets of all hues: purple, pink, glossy white. There was even a chrome one. Mace circled the block and parked around the side, squeezing between a green taxi and a Monte Carlo with no license plates and the darkest tinted windows Munch had ever seen. She got out of the car, locking the door behind her. She tried to see inside the Monte Carlo, but even the windshield was blackened.
Before they turned the corner, a thin, dark boy of perhaps thirteen crossed the street to catch up with them. He carried a plastic grocery bag and held his hand out for Mace's coffee cup. Mace turned from the boy, and said, "No." The boy persisted, mutely holding his hand out for the paper cup, his fingers curled as if already holding it. Mace finally shook his head in defeat and handed over the cup. The boy took it and immediately brought it to his lips.
What sort of place was this, she wondered, where children begged far lukewarm coffee? She handed him hers also. He clutched it close to his body with his other hand and slunk away
Mace and Munch walked around to the front of the building and pushed through the glass doors. The reception area smelled of mildew. A glass curio case exhibited box-shaped urns made of stone and polished metal. She wondered what you were supposed to do with it once it was filled. Did you display it on the mantel? Make it into a lamp?
The woman behind the reception desk looked them over, then greeted them in English.
"We are here to identify a family member," Mace said. "Enrique Chacón told us that you received the body of a woman this morning. We think we might know her."
The receptionist grabbed a ring of keys and came out from behind the counter. She wore a short black dress and three-inch spike high heels that brought a slight definition to her plump calves.
"Hector," she called into the anteroom on the other side of the entrance.
A man came out. She held up the keys, pointed at Mace and Munch, and fired off a string of Spanish. Then she turned back to the waiting gringos. "Follow me," she said. They walked through a viewing room, between rows of upholstered benches covered in the same sort of thick plastic that people staple to their carpet to protect high-traffic areas. Large gilt crucifixes adorned the walls. The woman led them to a door to the right of the viewing platform and down a hallway To their right, the wide doors of a service elevator gaped open.
"This way," the woman said.
Mace and Munch followed her until they came to a room with a double sink. Hoses fitted to the faucet connected to an embalming pump. The louvered windows above the sink were open, letting in flies and sounds from the street. Munch was glad the steel gurney in front of the sink was empty. She noted the blood smears near the center and the used bandages lying on the floor next to the drain.
"Not here," the woman said, and led them to a second room. She genuflected before opening the door. "Come back out front when you're through."
The hum of refrigeration pumps filled the dank room. Three bodies awaited service, their feet poking out from under plastic tarps. The dead girl was laid out on a table in the center of the room. What appeared to be a shower curtain covered her. It was too opaque to make out the facial details, but it was clear that the dead woman was naked. Munch stopped at the doorway.
"You all right?" Mace asked. His hand wrapped around her elbow. The simple gesture made her want to cry.
"Just give me a second," she said, feeling in no hurry to enter the hot, rancid room. "It smells like someone forgot to empty the outhouses."
'That's not what you're smelling," he said.
"I guess I knew that," she said. "I'm ready when you are."
"Let's do it."
They approached the body on the table together, still linked by his hand on her elbow.
&
nbsp; Mace reached forward and grabbed the top corner of the tarp. Slowly, he pulled the veil of plastic back so that the face was exposed.
Munch sank to her knees, suddenly too weak to stand. "That's not her," she said, surprised at the tears streaming down her face. "It's not Ellen."
He knelt down beside her. "You okay? You feel sick? Faint? She steadied herself against his strong arm and pulled herself up. "No, I'm fine. just relieved, but still . . ." She stared at the slender prepubescent body before them.
"Sorry?"
"Exactly." She looked at him with new respect. There was only one way he could know how she was feeling. "I don't know who this girl was," Munch said, "but she's too young to be so dead and naked and alone. She looks thirteen, fourteen."
"Yeah," he said. "They're getting younger."
"Who are? The victims of that Band-Aid guy?"
He looked at her sharply.
"I heard you on the phone," she said. "It doesn't matter. I'm not dumb. I figured there was some connection." She looked again at the dead body. "You're going to get this guy, right? I don't like the idea of him living in the same world as me."
Mace pulled the sheet back to reveal the rest of the corpse. Half inch strips of white surgical tape were pasted over much of her torso. Each strip overlapped another, forming crisscrosses. Mace peeled back the edge of one of the crosses, and Munch saw at its center a knitting-needle-size puncture parting the girl's skin.
"Can you handle this?" he asked.
"What am I looking at?" she asked.
"Hold this," he said, indicating the edge of the plastic tarp.
"I want to get a picture of the wound."
She held back the tarp while he peeled off the crosses one at a time and placed them inside a thick plastic evidence envelope. After removing each makeshift bandage, he lifted the Polaroid camera hanging from his neck and took pictures. Then he took a second camera, a 35mm, from his pocket and shot another series.
"Okay," he said. "That should do it."
He walked over to the other two bodies. "These must be the two from the river," he said.
"You still need me?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But I'm going to be a while."
Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Page 10