"No."
"How about without the beard?"
"That would be hard to say Maybe. Who is he?"
"Nobody important."
"Somebody who looked like that would really stand out around here."
"Yeah, he always stood out."
Chapter 12
Munch got home that night, she found that a thick letter with a Sacramento postmark had arrived. Roxanne's telephone bill. Many long-distance phone numbers were circled. There were at least thirty to Oregon, another ten to Los Angeles, and three to Amsterdam.
Munch wondered what time it was in Amsterdam as she put the call through. With Deborah, the boundaries between night and day didn't matter. The last time Munch had spent time with Deb, it had been "wine-thirty" pretty much all day
"Yeah," a sleepy voice answered.
"What are you doing?" Munch asked without bothering to identify herself.
"I was sleeping. How the hell are you?"
"Good. Are the tulips blooming?"
"Oh, yeah, it's fucking beautiful" A half a world away Deb yawned loudly "What's up?"
"Your son's staying with me. I thought you might like to know."
"Is he there right now?"
"No, he's still at work. He got himself a job doing construction."
"That's the man I raised."
Oh, shut up, Munch wanted to tell her. How dare you take credit for his survival skills? "He sure did grow up nice."
"Yeah, I'm real proud of that boy He had some rough spots, but he got through 'em."
"You ever hear from his father?"
"I thought you knew. Walter died."
"He did? No, I didn't know. Bummer. How?"
"Yeah, it was really sad. Just when he was going to get to know his son."
Munch was quiet. In the years she had known Deb and Boogie, from when he was six months old until he was a cute little boy of seven, his father had made no attempt that she knew of to spend time with his son—not that Munch was especially tuned in to that kind of thing then.
"I've been going through all this bullshit with Social Security to get Boogie survivor's benefits," Deb said. "But it's a big hassle because, you know, we weren't married and I didn't put Walter's name on the birth certificate."
"Why not?"
"It wasn't anyone's business. I tried to change it, but that was a whole other hassle and I had the wrong year for Walter's birthday "
"Sounds like real work," Munch said, but Deb missed the irony
"Tell me about it. That man worked three jobs at a time when he was trying to get his band together. Shit, the government took half his paycheck."
"Not half. "
"Damn near."
Munch chuckled, remembering her own shock at her first legitimate paycheck and how much deductions had cut into it. It wasn't easy to be young and single and following all the rules.
"I'm only trying to get what's coming to my son. They're being real assholes about it. I already gave them copies of Walter's death certificate and tax returns."
"How'd you get those?"
"Walter's mama sent them to me."
"What else do you need?"
"They want more paperwork that documents Walter was the father. I showed them a few cards Walter sent when I was first pregnant, and he wrote a song about it. But that wasn't enough. Now they want me to get all these affidavits from people who knew us then to swear that Walter was the daddy."
"How many do you have?"
"I'm still working on it, you know, trying to track people down. It's not easy "
"Especially from bum-fuck Amsterdam," Munch muttered.
"What?"
"How about Thor? Heard from him lately?"
"Jane's Thor?"
"Yeah, only he's not Jane's anymore. She's been killed. Beaten to death and dumped in a storm channel."
"Damn."
"That's what I thought too."
"Shit, I haven't heard from Jane in a long time. She called me a few years ago. She was holed up in some women's shelter in Santa Monica. I told her to come on up to the country but she thought word might get back to Thor somehow and he'd get her."
"He'd go all the way to Oregon?"
"She seemed to think so. I never heard a woman so scared."
"It appears she had good reason."
"Yeah, and don't you go looking for him. You're doing good. You don't want to mess that up."
It was like having an anorexic tell you to clean your plate. Deb seemed to have forgotten that their relationship had shifted. Munch was the one leading the straight life with a real job. She knew very well what was at stake.
"What was the name of the place where Jane holed up?"
"Gimme Shelter,. something like that," Deb said, yawning loudly again. "Or Helter Skelter."
"The Helter Skelter Shelter?" Munch asked, laughing. "I don't think so."
"Hell, I don't know." Deb laughed herself into a coughing jag.
"All right, thanks."
"Say; Munch?"
Across transatlantic lines, Munch heard a match strike and Deb inhale.
"Yeah?"
"Take good care of my boy."
"I'll do whatever I can."
After Munch hung up with Deb, she went to her purse and pulled out her wallet. She wrote Roxanne a check for a hundred dollars and stuck it in an envelope, wondering if she was being a hypocrite after all her talk about tough love and teaching the boy accountability for his actions.
She called her sponsor next, dialing Ruby's number from memory
"Aren't you involved with some abused-women shelters?"
"Why?"
"Is there one on the Westside that sounds like Gimme Shelter?"
"There's a facility in Santa Monica called Shelter from the Storm."
"That must be it." Munch wrote down the name.
"What's this about?"
"Remember my friend Jane, the one I told you got murdered?"
"Yes."
"I think she maybe stayed at Shelter from the Storm for a while. I need to get in there, ask a few questions, see what I can find out."
"The location is a closely guarded secret. Those women are running for their lives."
Munch heard the front door open and Nathan's voice in the living room.
"I won't tell anyone," Munch said into the phone, then added, "I'm helping Mace St. John."
"I'm glad."
"So can we do it?"
"Let me call ahead."
Munch left Nathan and Asia eating pizza and watching television. Ruby met her at a Mexican restaurant on Pico, near the college. Munch offered to drive to the shelter. The truth was, she hated going anywhere in someone else's car. Ruby directed her to a large warehouse-type building near the college.
The sign on the door read SACKEE'S SEED. There was a driveway that led to a large roll-up door that was closed. Ruby rang the bell.
"Can I help you?" a woman's voice scratched through the intercom.
"It's Ruby" The door buzzed.
The outer office had a tall counter desk. The woman seated behind it had a phone at her disposal. A television monitor connected to what had obviously been a concealed camera pointed at the outside entrance; After Munch and Ruby entered, the door behind them closed with a heavy thunk.
Ruby escorted Munch through another door that opened onto a large compound of two-story buildings. Munch could see children playing in a gymnasium as she and Ruby walked through a rose garden full of meandering paths, birdbaths, and sculptures.
A few women sat on the benches, wrapped in thick coats to ward off the evening chill, their faces and spirits in varying states of repair.
"The kids aren't allowed in this garden," Ruby said, speaking in low tones. "Sometimes the moms need a break."
Ruby took her through what she explained was the schoolhouse. Several children were doing their homework, concentrating over maps of California, painstakingly labeling mountain ranges and bodies of water. Munch reached out to stroke the he
ad of a little boy who looked Asia's age, but he shied away from her touch.
"Those are the living quarters," Ruby explained, pointing to what looked like motel rooms. "They're double suites connected by bathrooms. We had to install industrial fixtures to keep up with the wear and tear of traffic."
"Where is everybody?"
"Let's try the cafeteria." They walked to another building with steaming vents and a large Dumpster parked outside. Ruby pushed the doors open and they were greeted by the clatter of banging pots and running water. Six women were cleaning up after the evening meal. They stopped and stared at Ruby and Munch; then someone said, "They' re okay," and work resumed.
Munch pulled the picture of Jane out of her pocket and showed it around. The first few women she approached glanced at it quickly shook their heads no, and turned their backs to her. Finally one woman asked in a suspicious tone, "Who's this?"
"Friend of mine. I was hoping someone here remembered her."
"I know her," a skittish little bleached blonde said. Her head twitched as she spoke, as if she were fighting the urge to flinch. "She's good people."
"You know her from here?"
"Uh-huh. She makes dresses for the kids' dolls. Really fancy ones. I can show you if you want."
"Please."
"Okay Yeah, sure. This way"
Munch and Ruby followed the woman to one of the housing buildings.
"I'm Tammy; by the way but if you call here to talk to me, you'll have to ask for Lizzie. That's my code name."
"I'm Munch, this is Ruby"
Tammy made a queer bobbing bow with her head.
"Pleased to meet you." She giggled inappropriately then opened the door to what must have been her room. Toys were scattered across the floor. The bed was unmade. A suitcase sat on the floor, half unpacked. "She's good at fixing them too." Tammy reached into the suitcase and retrieved a plastic doll in a red velvet dress. The dress was trimmed with white lace, but one of the sleeves was missing. With a sheepish grin Tammy showed them a naked doll whose arm had been torn from the socket.
"Uh-oh," Munch said.
"My son did that. Janie said she'd make it good as new. "
Munch couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
"He's a good boy He just gets overexcited sometimes."
"How old is he?"
"Seven. And I know what you're thinking. He's old enough to learn to control himself. That's what my husband used to say before he disciplined him."
Munch spoke in her warmest tones. "I wasn't judging your· son or you. " Although the husband sounded like an asshole.
"Kids are like anyone else," Ruby said. "There's no such thing as too much love. Just you being here tells me you're on the right track."
Tammy looked at her shoes. "Thanks. You didn't have to say that. " But it was clear she was pleased.
"When's the last time you saw Jane?" Munch asked.
"A few weeks ago. She's supposed to come around for group, but she missed it. You know where she is?"
"She died. I'm sorry " Munch watched Tammy closely to see how she reacted to the news. Tammy's eyes immediately filled with tears.
"What?"
"She got killed sometime around Valentine's Day"
"Oh no." Tammy sank to the floor and covered her mouth with her hand. "How?"
"She was beaten to death."
"That's how she always expected to go."
"I know. When I knew her, she seemed to be waiting for it. The cops are trying to retrace her last few days. They haven't had much success. Do you know where she lived?"
"I do. I've got it in my book."
Chapter 13
Friday morning, when St. John and Cassiletti pulled into the Texaco station, Munch was hammering a wheel bearing race into the hub of a Lincoln Town Car. A big-gutted man in an ill-fitting suit sipped coffee from a king-sized freeway mug and looked on. She was fifteen minutes away from finishing the job, and the driver (she suspected he wasn't the owner) was impatient. She would have insisted he leave the car to have the work done, but the lube bays were conspicuously vacant, and she had no good excuse for why the guy couldn't wait and watch other than that she found his company annoying.
Lou walked out of the office to shake St. John's hand. "Munch, your fan club's here."
She looked up, exasperated, her hands full of thick wheel bearing grease. Couldn't he see that she was working as fast as she could? She still had to pack the new bearings, rehang the hub, brakes, and tires. Then there was the ever-important test drive, and the equally important task of writing and collecting the bill.
"I only have two hands here." A lock of hair that had worked loose from her braid fell over her right eye. She pushed it back with a clean section of sleeve on the top of her right arm. "It's going to be a minute"
"This will only take a second." St. John pulled back his coat to reveal the shield clipped to his belt and said to the big guy hovering over Munch, "Sir, if you wouldn't mind stepping away?"
Munch grinned. "Stay as long as you like."
St. John crouched so that he was eye to eye with her. She caught a whiff of his cologne over the pervasive odors of petroleum and asbestos dust.
"You find out anything?" he asked.
"I talked to a friend," she said, keeping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper so that he was forced to lean in closer. "She said the last she heard from Jane, she was in a shelter for battered women."
"Which one?"
"Some place called Shelter from the Storm. I went there last night and met someone who knew Jane. She gave me Jane's address and phone number. It's in my pocket."
There was an awkward moment while they both looked at her shirt pocket and then at the gooey grease coating Munch's fingers. She had a sudden impulse to point her breast at him and see what he did. Cassiletti would probably faint.
"I'll wait," St. John said.
Munch finished with the messy part of the job, wiped her hands clean, and then fished out the phone number herself.
Another time, she thought, another place, another lfe.
Certainly not in a world where a nice lady such as Caroline St. John could get hurt.
"Did you find Thor?" she asked.
"I'm getting closer all the time"
"You might want to think about shooting first."
* * *
Before driving over to Jane Ferrar's apartment, St. John wrote and got approval for two search warrants—one to the telephone company for a list of all calls made to and from Jane's number in the last month, and another to search her apartment for any clues to the circumstances of her murder. The search warrant would be necessary if Jane hadn't lived alone. As it was, the building manager unlocked Jane Ferrar's apartment without asking to see anything besides St. John's badge.
The living room, single bedroom, even the kitchen and bathroom of the small apartment in El Segundo were full of dolls. All types in the living room there were Cabbage Patch Kids, Betsy Wetsys, Chatty Cathys, numerous Barbies and Skippers. Even a few Kens staged in nonthreatening poses—arms down, faces blank. She obviously did her repairwork here. A card table held various doll heads, arms, legs, shoes, and clothes. The bedroom was devoted to less commercial, more collectible brands (as he deduced from the brass nameplates): Madame Alexanders, Ellenbees, Storybook. The dolls were decked out in elaborate costumes and frilly dresses and displayed on shelves, some under domes of glass. The bedroom closet was devoted to miniature wardrobes, divided evenly between winter clothing and summer dresses. There were several framed ribbons on the wall, including a first-place award from the 1983 Orange County Fair for "Best Formal" Next to the medallion and attached blue ribbon was a newspaper clipping showing a smiling Jane. The caption identified her as Marie Dobson. No wonder he had been unable to turn up any trace of her. Jane Ferrar had gone underground, but not far
enough.
Perhaps her killer had used her affection for dolls to lure her out of hiding.
In her kitchen trash he foun
d pieces of a greeting card. There was also a blue envelope that seemed to match the card. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, gathered the torn pieces, and assembled them on her kitchen table. The printed message read: "I think of you often, though the years and miles have divided us." There was an additional handwritten note, unsigned. It read: "I haven't forgotten you."
St. John made a note to obtain Cyrill McCarthy's jail booking records for a sample of his handwriting. He called Shelter from the Storm when he got back to headquarters. An operator answered. She told him that he needed to speak to an advocate, then took his name, badge number, and supervisor's name. The call was returned to him through dispatch.
"This is Janet Moriarity from Shelter from the Storm," she explained in a pissed-off tone of voice. "I'm returning your call."
Not: What can I do for you?
"I'm trying to solve a homicide. I have reason to believe that the murder victim volunteered at your facility and I'm trying to reconstruct the last few days and weeks of her life."
"Was she killed by her batterer?"
"We don't know that yet."
"Look at the statistics. ln fact, why don't you check your nine-one-one logs and see how many times your officers were called out to save her?"
Yeah, he thought, and how about how many times she refused to press charges? "Her name was Jane Ferrar."
"l can't give you any information," she said.
Her hostility was palpable. He took a calming breath. One of them needed to be composed.
He knew where she was coming from. Women went to shelters because they had been battered, were seeking haven, and understandably had a problem with trust. St. John's team had once lost a witness when they placed her in protective custody at a battered women's shelter under an assumed name and then misplaced the pseudonym. The staff at the shelters felt a deep responsibility to keep their clients safe and their identities confidential. They wouldn't confirm, even to the police, especially not to the police (who were often batterers themselves), if a woman was there or had ever been there. The LAPD had a bad habit of not taking domestic violence seriously and in fact was being sued for it.
St. John remembered working patrol and how he and his fellow officers felt about domestics. If a cop was going to get hurt, chances were it would be during a husband/wife thing. Standard operating procedure was to pull the woman aside and ask what she had done to provoke the guy Then they told the guy to take a walk and calm down. They treated them both like criminals. Eighteen required hours of "sensitivity training" later, all that had changed.
Unpaid Dues Page 9
