An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella

by Unknown

  The thing that had amazed her most about the day was the trivial, often ridiculous, bullshit people felt compelled to report. Lovers called the cops on exes; drunks in trailer parks called 911 to mediate beer distribution disputes; and, during the shift she shared, a disgruntled customer called the police when he felt an automotive shop had overcharged him for the removal of a cross-threaded head bolt. Savage called her over to help with that one. The owner of the garage had been Korean, the customer Hispanic, the car Japanese. After sorting out the language barrier, Munch had convinced the customer that the ten-dollar fee was fair. The whole business had used up twenty minutes of their patrol time.

  When she and Deputy Mike stopped for lunch, he speculated aloud about what great legs she must have under the long pants she'd worn. This seemed to be another common thread among male cops. Total horn dogs.

  Two plainclothes cops laughed about something as they walked past her now. Their suit jackets swung open to reveal the badges and guns clipped to their belts. She saw no black elastic mourning bands crisscrossing their shields. She wanted to stick out her foot and bring them crashing to their knees.

  She looked down quickly, worried that her anger might transmit and bring unwanted attention to herself. Christ, she'd never ever seen these guys before. But, then again, what if they were the ones? What if they had already trimmed their long undercover hair, changed out of their grubby street clothes, and resumed their straight-cop lives?

  She felt a strong compulsion to follow them, listen to their conversation, maybe shoot them if they needed it.

  One of the elevators whooshed open and Bayless stepped into the lobby. Munch clipped on her visitor's badge and crossed onto his turf. Parker Center had been built in the fifties and still had the original linoleum flooring. In some places the patterned top layer had worn through. The black-and-white photographs on the walls looked as if they'd hung there since the Korean War. The men in the pictures perched on the edge of desks and wore white shirts, thin ties, and hats. Everyone smoked. The women behind the typewriters, their legs crossed at the ankles, were all wearing mid-length dresses and heavy makeup. It was easy to tell the good guys back then. They were all white.

  She realized she had taken the lead in the hallway and that Bayless was barely keeping up. She stopped to wait for him. What was she doing leading when she didn't know where they were going?

  He pulled keys from his pocket. "Were you serious when you said you'd be willing to do anything to find out the truth?"

  She almost smiled. This was going perfectly. "Absolutely."

  "I can't say too much, but on reviewing the evidence, I'm forced to agree with you. Something doesn't add up."

  They stopped in front of a frosted glass door that was slightly ajar. She assumed it was Bayless's office. Munch felt all her antennae stretch to their max. The whoosh of the air-conditioning, the creak of a chair in another office and the muted voice of one man, probably speaking on the phone—she recorded it all. Smells of burned coffee, ammonia, and a touch of mildew registered also. She brushed the wall with her Fingertips, and stared again at the dead guys pictured there. It was all real. She was here. This was happening. "What can I do?"

  Bayless's eyes stopped twitching for the second they rested on her. "You may very well have some means of access unavailable to me."

  "You mean, like I could talk to the officers involved, undercover-like?" She wondered why they hadn't gone into his office. It couldn't be healthy for the investigation—or her, for that matter—if the two of them were seen talking together too much. Especially if they were going to work together.

  He touched her elbow gently and directed her across the corridor.

  "This room has a video camera," he explained as he opened the door.

  "What are we taping?"

  "I have a contract we need to go over and you have to sign. It protects both of us."

  "I'm sure," she said.

  PART TWO

  Moving On

  CHAPTER TEN

  ABEL DELAGUERRA SIGHED AS HE STARED OUT THE SECOND-STORY window of his villa in the west coast Mexican state of Sinaloa. Today the sweeping vistas of the Sierra Madres brought him scant comfort. His health was excellent, his doctors assured him, and would be for a man half his age. He had planted many seeds in his younger, wilder days. His many children, scattered across three countries, were doing well. His sons were growing into fine young men; his daughters becoming as beautiful as their mothers. He was lord and master of all the land between his home and the mountains. Most men would be content with that, but he wasn't like most men. He had vision.

  He had also suffered several expensive losses in recent weeks. No man would be pleased about that.

  He pulled his bathrobe shut and knotted the sash. A major reorganization was called for. Whether his recent reversals were a result of bad luck, fate, or the evil machinations of his enemies, this rash of misfortunes was not to be tolerated. Too many people were watching, waiting to fill his position. If he wasn't constantly in motion, moving forward, then they would soon be pouring dirt on his face. That was the way of the world.

  Three weeks ago, one of his planes carrying a huge payload had crashed in the mountains. They had recovered the marijuana, but not the cocaine. He suspected guerrillas had stumbled across the shipment; Lord knew there was enough there to finance a revolution. He was doing what he could to track the missing product; someone would talk soon enough. The business could absorb the loss, but Victoria would have to wait for her silver jaguar with the zebrawood dashboard and steering wheel. He'd tell his wife that for the craftsmen to meet her exacting standards would take time. Spoiled as she was (and for that he blamed himself), she would accept that.

  The worst of this month's bad luck was the death of three of his better soldiers. They had died in a hail of gunfire as they made ready to liberate two of his more daring and successful narcotraffickers. The smugglers had been arrested in a surprise raid and were looking at years in an American prison. Delaguerra knew what a tremendous boost of morale such a rescue would generate.

  Not only had the mission failed, but he had lost three more good men. Training and selection took time, time that would not come back, precious effort wasted. He sighed as he considered the years he'd worked on these people, placing them in position, gaining the trust of those they would deceive.

  The loss of human life was also a tragedy. He wasn't immune to the survivors, suffering. Sometimes he wished he didn't feel the pain of the people he'd taken into his protection. When possible and practical, he made it a point personally to deliver the sad news that the job often generated.

  It wouldn't do for him to be bleary-eyed, smelling of bad habits, and unkempt when he made these calls. This set a poor example. Also, to show up drunk would show a terrible lack of respect. He sipped his chili-spiced chocolate, made the Mexican way. His only vice. Perhaps he should get some exercise in. An article he'd read in one of Victoria's American magazines touted aerobics as an effective means to battle depression. God knew, his shoulders were heavy with the weight of widows' tears and their doe-eyed children. Some days, the burdens of his business outweighed its creature comforts.

  "Oh, no," Victoria wailed from the garden below.

  Shit, he thought, what now? He stepped out to the patio and looked down.

  Victoria stood with her hands in her long black hair. The object of her concern was a large trellised rose she had trained to cover the arbor. "You've ruined it."

  The gardener stood in the shadow of her wrath, his expression one of overacted innocence. A pair of garden loppers hung from his hand, the tool's sharpened ends just touching the sun-baked earth at their feet.

  Abel set down his cup. "Do I have to do everything?," he yelled to no one in particular.

  Victoria looked up and saw him. Some women look beautiful when they're mad. His wife's anger had the opposite effect. Her lips pulled back unbecomingly to show more of her gums than he cared to see, the skin around her
eyes puckered, and the whites turned red. His stomach soured at the prospect of hearing about her stupid fucking roses for the next week. He slammed the bedroom door after himself as he made for the stairs.

  The gardener cowered as Abel approached. This only brought to mind the worker's previous lack of respect, which in turn only fueled Abel's anger. He saw the thick severed rose stalk intertwined with the healthy vines. What a mess. Stupid peasant. He was surrounded by imbeciles. How did one expect to soar with eagles when surrounded by goat fuckers?

  Victoria pointed to the base of the plant, where the stem had been severed almost in two. "Send him back to the fields," she said. As if Abel would keep one so careless on his staff. He pulled his pistol from his pocket and held it to the gardeners head. Victoria shut up.

  "You want him back in the f1elds?" Abel asked.

  Victoria didn't seem so sure of herself now.

  Abel pressed the barrel to the man's temple. "You want me to take care of this?" The gardener tried to tilt his head away from the gun. Abel grabbed him roughly by the sleeve, holding him upright. A dark stain spread at the crotch of the gardener's pants. Abel didn't need to look at the expression on the man's face now. He knew what it would be.

  Victoria raised her hands, palms facing each other as if she were about to clasp them in prayer. "You don't have to do this."

  Abel felt his heart rev, speeding the blood through his veins. "Yes? Now you are going to tell me what I need to do?" With a quick movement, he compensated for the gardener's flinch and pulled the trigger. The man crumpled, dead before he hit the ground. "Now you need to get a new gardener. Can you handle that?"

  "Yes," Victoria said in a small voice.

  "You're sure? I could make all your decisions for you. Is that what you want?"

  She shook her head no. Her lips parted slightly but no words emerged.

  Abel felt a grim satisfaction. She was much prettier when she was frightened and vulnerable.

  At the sound of the shot, Humberto, Abel's second, came running from the house with his gun drawn. Humberto was surprisingly quick for such a big man.

  "It's okay now," Abel said.

  Humberto holstered his pistol, but his forehead still wrinkled with concern.

  Abel knew Humberto was worried that security had been breached, that he had failed at his job. Abel put his mind at ease.

  "Don't worry; this one was never a threat."

  "What do you want me to do?" Humberto asked, his expression still anything but relaxed.

  Abel nudged the dead gardener with the toe of his slipper. "You know his name?"

  "Nestor," Victoria said, her hand to her throat. She looked as if she was fighting off tears. At least she wasn't yelling anymore. Praise God for small favors.

  Abel turned to his lieutenant. "Find out if he has any other family working for me and take care of them."

  Humberto nodded and Abel was pleased to see the respect in the other man"s eyes. It never hurt to reinforce his position now and then. He grabbed Victoria's long hair and pulled her head back for a kiss. "Go upstairs. I'll be there in a minute." He slapped her ass, feeling better already.

  "And when I find the family?" Humberto asked.

  "The usual." Abel dismissed the man with a curt wave, his mind already on the pleasures that awaited him upstairs in his bed. He was glad the children were at school. Their mother could be loud. Humberto would see to the details about the other thing. He was a good soldier and knew what his patrón wanted.

  No matter what, Abel Delaguerra always took care of the families. It was the only way he slept at night. "And Humberto? Make it quick. I need you to go to Los Angeles."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MUNCH TOOK A SEAT AT AN INNOCUOUS WOODEN TABLE. Unlike most furniture found in interrogation rooms, there was no graffiti scratched into the top. It was, however, bolted to the floor. The camera was not concealed. Apparently any subjects who found themselves in this room knew full well they were being recorded and there was no need for subterfuge.

  Bayless Xeroxed her driver's license and took her fingerprints. "We'll need to call up your criminal record and include it in the file."

  "Whatever floats your boat," she said.

  He put a contract before her. "I'll need you to initial each page as we go through them."

  Munch lifted the hefty document. "This could take some time."

  "Some stipulations won't apply."

  "That's a relief."

  He smiled in that nervous manner of his that she still hadn't figured out. You'd think if anyone's conscience was clear, it would be his. Cops didn't get transferred into IA unless they were squeaky clean.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  Bayless started the camera and sat down opposite her. "State your name."

  "Miranda Mancini." She smiled at the camera, then looked back at him. He also asked her age, her citizenship, and whether she was a public official, employee of a financial institution or school, member of the military service, a representative or affiliate of the media, or a party to or in position to be a party to privileged communications, such as a member of the clergy, a physician, or an attorney.

  After she had said no to everything, he smiled apologetically. "As I said, many of these clauses are nonapplicable, but we need to go through the list."

  "By all means," she said, smiling to put him at ease, "dot your i's."

  "Are you now or have you ever been a substance abuser?"

  She looked at him, then at the camera, then back at him. Deciding this would look shifty as hell, she resolved to keep her attention focused solely on Bayless. She didn't know to whom this videotape would be shown, or how much that audience would understand about recovery. "I used drugs years ago. I have been completely clean and sober for nine years."

  "Do you have any relatives in law enforcement or under their employ?"

  "Not to my knowledge," she said.

  He twitched. "Can you clarify this statement, please?"

  "I have no living relatives that I know of." She wanted to add that she was a self-made orphan, but didn't think this the time for her to reveal her wit. Not everyone got her. Major understatement.

  "Is your decision to aid in this investigation voluntary, and will the information you provide be truthful?"

  She hesitated only a second. "Yes."

  "The Los Angeles Police Department will strive to protect your identity."

  She nodded. At least he wasn't making any promises he might not be able to keep. They paused while she initialed pages.

  He cleared his throat. "I have some additional instructions."

  She was again seized with the desire to alleviate his angst. Maybe that was his game.

  "First," he said, "you must abide by all instructions."

  "Okay." She almost smiled. Ask any mechanic; instructions were the things you read when all else failed.

  "You are not an employee of the LAPD and you must not represent yourself as such. This means you can't enter any contracts or make any promises on behalf of the department."

  "Fine." She wondered what past cluster fuck had made that rule necessary to spell out.

  "You can't carry a gun, controlled substances, or engage in any criminal activity."

  "I wasn't planning on it."

  "The department cannot guarantee any rewards, payments, or other compensations to you in your role as a confidential informant, or CI."

  Or snitch, Munch thought. She looked at the camera and said, "That's not what I'm about."

  Bayless held up his index finger as he continued to read from his crib sheet. "ln the event that the Cl receives any awards, payments, or other compensation from the justice Department, the CI is liable for any taxes that may be owed."

  "Oh, that's just beautiful," Munch said.

  "I'll need you to sign a confidentiality agreement, also. Please read it carefully."

  Munch waded through the legalese. Basically, she agreed in signing this last document
that she would not divulge the information she was about to receive under penalty of jail time and/or fines. She wondered if those fines were tax-deductible.

  "All right," she said, pushing the last of the papers back to him. "What do you want me to do?"

  Bayless turned off the camera and brought his chair around so that the table no longer separated them. "The cocaine business has brought in a lot of money to the city. With money comes temptation."

  "I'm sure that's true." Munch tried to keep her posture relaxed and nondefensive. She was here to expose the truth and prove to this guy that Rico wasn't dirty, but she didn't want to appear close-minded.

  Bayless picked at an imaginary nit on the knee of his slacks. "Are you familiar with the CCE act and the asset seizure laws?"

  "Sort of. What does CCE stand for?"

  "Continuing Criminal Enterprises?

  "Sounds like a rock band."

  Bayless went on as if she hadn't spoken. Not even a smile. "When someone is found in the possession of illegal drugs, no matter how small the amount, his or her money and other property are subject to seizure by the arresting officer."

  She always thought that law sucked but wasn't going to offer her opinion unless asked. Hadn't she just signed on to be a team player? Bayless leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands loosely between his knees. "In theory, forfeiture is meant to punish drug kingpins by taking away their toys. In practice, it is an invitation for terrible abuse of power."

  Munch shifted to attention. Maybe her and Bayless's beliefs weren't so far apart after all. "Go on."

  "Case agents get their pick of seized cars. I've seen cases where people with no criminal record, but really cool rides, suddenly come under indictment and the next thing you know their car is in our lot."

  "And this ties to Rico's case how?" Munch asked, already thinking about the Shelby Mustang.

  "The officers who shot him were under investigation for just that."

  Munch exhaled. No wonder he didn't want her carrying a gun. "So we nail one of them for that and maybe he'll roll on his buddies for the shooting."

  "How good an actress are you?" Bayless asked.