She patted his shoulder. "The cops will be here soon," she said, hearing the chorus of approaching sirens. "They'll know what to do."
He nodded and mumbled something she couldn't make out. If she stayed, the cops would want answers from her. Answers that she really didn't have. But that wasn't her main concern. She knew they would take the baby and place her in protective services. Sleaze would have a terrible time getting her back.
She left the man standing there and walked quickly around the building, out of his sight, and then back through the hedge with the baby clinging to her side. She threw the diaper bag into the back seat, strapped Asia into the car seat, and ran around to the driver's side.
When she started her car, she noticed that her hands were shaking, and that surprised her. She had been about to congratulate herself for staying so calm, but then she had always excelled during crisis. Practice, she supposed. Swallowing the hot saliva filling her mouth, she shifted the car into reverse. It kicked backward with a protesting shriek as she floored the accelerator. Asia's head jerked forward. Munch patted her leg and said, "Sorry about that."
Asia opened her mouth and shrieked.
Three blocks later, Munch realized that Asia might be hungry She pulled over at a liquor store and rummaged through the bag of baby stuff. Clanking around in the bottom were two cans of formula. She poked one open with her pocket knife, filled a clean bottle, and handed it to Asia.
The baby sucked fiercely.
"How long were you all by your little self?" Munch asked her, tucking a bib under the baby's chin and leaving grease smudges on the white terry-cloth. And what was the connection between the dead couple and Sleaze? People were always getting themselves killed around Ghost Town and the Flats; maybe it was just a full moon or something. Yeah, right.
Hopefully Lisa would be able to supply some answers.
Halfway to Inglewood, Munch's pulse had just about returned to normal. Thank God, she thought, for little favors. If her timing had been different, she might have been in the middle of a shooting or sucked into a police investigation. What good would she be to anyone dead or in jail?
A large jumbo jet passed overhead just as Munch pulled up in front of Lisa Slokum's small wooden house on 96th Street. The noise of the planes engine drowned out Janis Joplin singing about how she once had a daddy who said he'd give her anything in sight. Munch paused before switching off the ignition, waiting for the next lines and anticipating the goose-bump-raising thrill of Janis screaming out her lyrics. When the plane's noise didn't subside, Munch closed her eyes and sang the words herself. When she opened her eyes, Asia was staring at her.
A bare plot of earth fronted Lisa's house. The screen covering the front window was ripped and the paint was peeling on the shutters nailed permanently on either side. Two Big Wheels plastic trikes were parked to the left of the walkway On the right, a child's wading pool overflowed with beer cans. Munch locked her door and then went around to the passenger side and lifted Asia out. With the baby balanced on her hip, she let herself in the chain-link gate and walked up the front path. The door was open, but the screen door was shut.
There was no welcome mat.
"Hello?"
She heard a TV blasting. A door slammed inside the house.
"Lisa?"
Munch waited for a moment, then opened the screen door and called, "Hello?"
"What?"
"Can I come in?"
"It's open," Lisa yelled, sounding annoyed. Munch stood in the doorway until her eyes adjusted to the interior darkness. She saw Lisa, finally swaddled in blankets and lying on the couch. Behind the sofa, in the corner, was a mattress partially covered with skewed sheets. Munch pulled the screen door shut behind her.
Lisa made no move to get up or lower the volume of the television. It was a Happy Days rerun, Munch saw, the one where the Fonz and Mrs. C. took dance lessons, and everyone thought they were doing it.
"You can put her in the crib," Lisa said, motioning with a languid gesture towards a cradle in the corner.
"That's all right," Munch said. " don't mind holding her." She more than didn't mind. The baby fit in the groove of her waist as if she'd been grown there. The warmth of the baby carried through the fabric of Munch's shirt and settled inside her chest.
"Shit," Lisa said, giving Munch a once-over. "I haven't seen you in a long time."
"I've been working."
"You look different."
"So I'm told."
Lisa glanced back at the TV and chuckled at Richie Cunningham's distress.
Munch perched on the arm of the couch, debating how much to tell big-mouth Lisa about what she'd found at Sleaze's apartment building.
"You heard about Karen, right?" Lisa said, nodding at the baby
"I heard she died." Munch grabbed one of Asia's feet between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently Asia flexed her foot, curling her toes in response. Munch was seized with an impulse to put those fat little toes in her mouth. One of Asia's hands rested on Munch's cheek.
"Sleaze was the one who found her. The needle was still in the bitch's arm."
"That's cold," Munch said. The baby grabbed at the chrome tire gauge in Munch's pocket.
"He hasn't used since."
"Nothing?"
"No, he's been doing good. Just pills."
Munch nodded, remembering her old definition of staying clean. Taking absolutely nothing had been a radical concept.
"Why'd they name her Asia?" she asked.
"She looked chinky when she was born," Lisa said. "Big old fat cheeks and her eyes all squinted up."
"She's a little heartbreaker now."
"Easy to say when you're not cleaning up after her all day"
"Do you watch her much?"
"Too much. You bring any of her shit?"
Munch held up the pink bag. "Just this."
"I'm all out of clothes for her. Sleaze said you'd bring more. He, as usual, flaked out."
Munch looked past the living room doorway into the kitchen. There was a washing machine next to the sink; clothes were piled in front of it. "Do you want me to help you do some laundry?" she asked.
Lisa sighed. "This is what I'm saying. I got enough to do with two kids of my own without minding his little rugrat."
"Where are your kids?"
"They're around here somewhere."
Munch laid the baby down in the crib. "Can I use your bathroom?"
"Help yourself," Lisa said.
Munch decided that was how most things were done in this household as she walked clown the darkened hallway to the bathroom. She had to skirt an industrial stainless steel sink leaning on its side against the hallway wall. "What's with the sink?" she yelled to Lisa.
"I'm going to put it in the bathroom. The one in there is cracked and the landlord won't do shit."
“You want some help with it?" Munch asked. "Maybe between the two of us we can hook it up."
"No," Lisa said. " wasn't planning on dealing with that today"
Munch stepped over the sink into the bathroom. Mismatched towels hung haphazardly from the cracked shower door. A pair of Lisa's panties were on the floor by the toilet, looking as if she had just let them lie where they dropped. The sink was full of hair and the mirror above it had lost most of its silver backing. Munch peed without sitting down, then discovered there was no toilet paper. She ripped a page from the magazine sitting on back of the tank when she surmised from its other missing pages that this was its intended use. She then grabbed the cleanest towel she could find and dampened it with warm water from the bathtub faucet.
When she returned to the living room, she found Lisa's children standing in front of their mother demanding that she settle their dispute. The two little girls eyed Munch momentarily then seemingly dismissed her presence.
"I thought I'd change the baby" she said to Lisa. Another jet passed by overhead, drowning out the TV and making the walls shake. Munch found a Pampers wrapper in the bottom of the cloth bag and removed the
last diaper.
Lisa's two children stood poised before their mother. The older of the two girls, Charlotte, was the same age as Boogie, which would make her close to seven. Munch knew that the younger girl, Jill, was four. Lisa and Munch had been pregnant at the same time. Munch often did the math.
She changed Asia's diaper, cleaning the little girl's bottom with the wet towel. The baby had a rash, but Munch couldn't find any cream or powder. She wrapped the soiled diaper in the empty Pampers wrapper and dropped the towel into the pile of clothes on the kitchen floor. The plane finally passed, and the little girls picked up where they left off.
"It was my turn," Charlotte said.
"You're a stupid," Jill countered.
"That's enough from both of you," Lisa screamed.
"Why do you two always have to scream at each other? Go clean your rooms. I'm tired of always picking up after you little bitches. I could use some help around here."
Munch flinched, but said nothing.
"You want a beer?" Lisa asked.
"I don't drink anymore."
"Nothing?" Charlotte said, wide-eyed.
"Not for eight months."
Charlotte considered this for a moment. "Not even apple juice?" she asked.
Munch laughed. " mean nothing with alcohol in it, like beer and wine and whiskey"
"Oh," she said, clearly unimpressed.
"You still smoke doobies, right?" Lisa asked, pulling out a half-smoked joint.
"No," Munch said, "Nothing. I don't use anything anymore. That includes pot."
Lisa turned to her daughter. "Honey go get Mama her lighter" Jill ran ahead towards the bedroom with Charlotte protesting after her.
"She asked me, you little freak. Mommmm!"
"Don't run in the house," Lisa yelled after them. Munch moved to stand by the open door, taking the baby with her. "When is Sleaze supposed to get here?"
Lisa shrugged. "Who knows?"
Charlotte returned with the lighter and a roach clip. "So you don't use any drugs anymore?" she asked.
"No," Munch said.
The girl seemed to consider this information."That's good," she said.
"Thank you."
"Does that mean we won't have to wake you up in the bathtub anymore?"
Munch stared at the child, trying to imagine what she must remember. Had she stood in the doorway while a blue-lipped Munch was repeatedly submerged in a bathtub full of ice water? The cold water was the best antidote for a heroin overdose, next to a shot of Narcan. Of course she had been there and seen. Munch had never considered the impact such a sight would have on a child. How was she supposed to make amends for that kind of shit?
"C'mere," she said. Charlotte walked over to her uncertainly Munch knelt down and hugged her "That's exactly what it means." She turned to Lisa. "Is there anything else you need? You got enough food and diapers?"
"I've got two dollars in food stamps that's supposed to last me to the first." Lisa carefully pinched out the joint's burning end. " don't know how they think a person can survive on what they give you."
Munch released Charlotte and put the baby back in her crib. She reached inside her purse and pulled out her billfold. Lisa's eyes followed Munch's movements.
"Sleaze said he was going to pay me for baby-sitting," Lisa said. "I was counting on that money"
Munch extracted a twenty "This should tide you over." She found one of the shop's business cards, wrote her home phone number on the back, and handed it to Lisa along with the money "Call me when you hear from him."
"Yeah, and if you see the fucker," Lisa said to Munch, "tell him I'm pissed off."
"So what's new? Right?" Munch said, forcing a laugh.
"I heard that."
Munch leaned over Asia's crib and wiggled her foot. "We'll just have to see what's keeping your daddy won't we?"
"Oh. Oh," Jill said, raising her hand and hopping on one foot. "You know who I saw the other day?"
"Who?" Lisa asked.
"Daddy. He was in a car."
"Daddy who?" Lisa asked, laughing indulgently
"Daddy Darnel or Daddy James?"
"Daddy Darnel," the little girl answered. Munch looked back at the baby and silently promised to return.
She was already on the freeway when she realized that she hadn't left the car seat with Lisa. She fought the urge to turn around. It was hard enough to leave the kid there the first time and she had plans. She couldn't stop thinking about those liquid brown eyes staring at her, as if waiting for her to do the right thing. She'd take the car seat over tomorrow. By then, hopefully Sleaze would have shown up and she could stop worrying.
Blinding light filled her rearview mirror and she cursed. She hated how the headlight beams of pickup trucks and vans shone right at your eye level—especially when they followed you so closely She slowed down, giving the offending vehicle—a blue van with tinted windows—no choice but to pass her.
6
WHEN BLACKSTONE GOT back to the station, the first thing he did was open his desk drawer and sift through his file of twenty-four-hour reports. The daily bulletins were issued to all detective bureaus and listed short synopses of state and local felonies committed in the previous twenty-four hours. He found the report he was looking for and read it quickly A little over a month ago, the National Guard Armory in Kern County had been robbed. The thieves made off with semiautomatic weapons, pyrotechnic devices, and ammunition—some of it armor-piercing.
Thats got to be it, he thought. In the issued bulletin, the feds asked to be notified immediately if any state or local agencies came into possession of any of the aforementioned weaponry The contact agent—the Special Agent in Charge—was listed as Claire Donavon. No wonder the report had stuck in his mind. He tacked the paperwork on the cork board mounted on the wall directly across from his desk. The walls of his cubicle were plastered with evidence reports, case updates, and composite sketches. But unlike those in Alex's work space, Blackstone's were aligned symmetrically and updated periodically
The cubicle was an innovation by the station's newest lieutenant, Mace St. John. He'd divided the homicide war room with standing partitions, and given every detective his own desk, phone, and three walls to do with as he wished. The lieutenant felt the men might work better if each was given his own space.
God, Blackstone thought, how these guys talked once they got married. You never heard a bachelor talk about breathing room.
He dialed Jeff Hagouchi's number in Firearms.
"I was just about to call you," Hagouchi said. "I got some information for you on that freeway sniping."
"Already?"
"The bullet we dug out of the road was a 7.62 by 21 mm."
"So the weapon is going to be an M-l4."
"Uh-huh. I haven't gotten to the good part. I also found a fleck of green paint in the windshield."
"Which tells us . . . ?"
"Military AP rounds are color-coded, the tips are painted green. Last month the FBI issued a memo to all the firearm crime labs. If we came across any military weaponry they asked us to let them know immediately"
"Yeah, I know. It was that Kern County armory job. Did you call the feds yet?"
"As soon as I got in. They just left."
"They came right over?" Blackstone asked, amazed at the response speed.
"Surprised me, too," Hagouchi said.
Blackstone tapped his pencil on his blotter, then drew a circle. "Was one of the agents who came by Claire Donavon?" he asked, careful to keep his tone casual.
"Do you know her?"
"We've crossed paths."
"Built like a brick—"
"Did she say if they had any leads?"
"Like they'd share them with me? You know those guys, Jigsaw. I'm just a lowly lab rat."
"Did she give you anything at all?" Blackstone asked. Was she wearing a wedding ring? he wanted to ask. Does she still wear her hair long?
"She did want to know if we'd confiscated any grenades lately"<
br />
"Like you'd call her about the ammo and not about a grenade?"
"Yeah, well, what are you going to do?"
"I'll stop by later and sign out the evidence."
"Uh, Jigsaw?"
"What?"
"She already took it."
"Damn," he said, trying to sound upset. "Looks like I'll have to talk to her myself."
"You want her number?"
"No, I've already got it." He also kept a catalogue of business cards from all the law enforcement officers he'd ever worked with. He would have held on to hers regardless. He looked down and realized that he'd unconsciously written her name inside the circle. "I gotta go."
'Yeah," Jeff said, "me, too. Some of us work for a living."
Blackstone pushed the button to disconnect them and then dialed Claire's number.
While he waited for her to answer her phone, he toyed with the jagged skull fragment on his desk that he kept as a memento. It was one of the larger of several fragments he'd found stuck to the motor that ran the electric door of a freshly painted garage.
From those few shards of bone he had built a case that went to conviction. He kept the incriminating piece of evidence as a reminder that sometimes the good guys finished first, especially when they remembered to look up.
"FBI," a woman's bored voice said.
"Claire Donavon, please," he said.
"Special Agent Donavon isn't in right now," the operator told him. "Would you like to leave a message?"
He told her he would and left his information, adding that his business was urgent. She promised him that his message would be delivered. Pushing back his chair with a sigh, he checked his watch. There were two hours left on his shift, and he didn't want to spend them sitting. His neck and shoulders ached already from bending over reports and studying crime scene photographs.
Tilting back, he studied the poster of Bobby Fischer taped above his bulletin board. The picture was taken during the match for the world championship with Boris Spassky After winning the title of world champion, apparently Fischer had felt there was nothing left to prove and had stopped competing. In 1975, he lost his title by default. Blackstone wondered if there would ever be such a defining moment in his own life. He hoped not. He loved the work.
No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Page 4
