Unwilling Accomplice - Barbara Seranella

by Barbara Seranella

  "I’d love to, but actually I’m in a hurry."

  "Has something new happened?"

  "Maybe. I need to meet the police over at my niece’s apartment. There might have been a break-in there and they want me to help them determine if anything is missing/’ Munch wondered why she was telling Meg Sullivan all this. They hadn’t agreed that Munch would share everything she knew, and she didn’t like it when she caught herself bragging. A miniature collie stuck his pointed nose out from behind a counter, took one look at Munch, then yapped in a high-pitched bark that set Munch’s teeth on edge. She stuck out her hand toward the dog in that stupid way humans have when they want to show a dog they’re friendly.

  "Queenie, hush," Meg Sullivan commanded.

  The dog gave Munch one last malevolent look and then slunk back.

  "Sorry about that," Meg Sullivan said.

  "Cute dog," Munch said, thinking how lucky she was to have gotten a non-neurotic purebred in Jasper.

  Mrs. Sullivan handed Munch an envelope of photographs and a piece of paper with a phone number written on it. "I talked to Cheryl Koon, Steven’s mother. She’d like to meet with you."

  "She would?" Speaking to the mother of one of Charlotte’s friends might provide valuable information. Munch’s gut reaction was to avoid the experience. She didn’t want to spend time with a grieving mother. Lisa, she could handle because most of the time Munch was pissed off at her and that blocked her feelings of sympathy. Lisa’s histrionics could also always be traced directly back to Lisa’s actions and attitudes, so Munch didn’t feel vulnerable around her. Cheryl Koon might be the rare "innocent victim"—a term in police parlance that was almost an oxymoron.

  Munch wondered if Asia would agree to be fitted with a Lojack—one of those tracking devices buried deep in a vehicle’s wiring to facilitate recovery if it was ever stolen—when she turned thirteen.

  "Cheryl’s expecting to hear from you," Sullivan said.

  "I just hope I don’t say something stupid that makes her feel worse."

  "Let her do the talking, then."

  Munch smiled at the obvious, but good, advice. "I’ll be in touch."

  Rico was waiting for her when she pulled up in front of Lisa’s apartment.

  "You look nice," he said.

  "Lisa didn’t call."

  He opened his trunk and pulled out a large flashlight even though it was daytime. She figured it was because he didn’t want to miss anything. "She was arraigned this morning. Normally they’d probably kick her out Friday."

  "Yeah, Jil1 didn’t think she’d be gone for more than a few days. The kid has experience." Munch looked in his trunk. You could read a lot about a person by how he kept his trunk. His held a gym bag, a box labeled CS1, and a shotgun.

  He turned to her. "How’s she doing?" he asked, adopting an intimate tone.

  "Breezing right through, from all appearances. I took her to school this morning and told her not to leave with anyone but me."

  "That was smart. She’s lucky to have you."

  Munch noticed that her breathing changed around him, as if suddenly she needed more oxygen. She also had an absurd worry about how her hair looked and tried to remember the last time she’d brushed it. "What do you mean ’normally’ they would kick Lisa out in a few days?"

  He opened the CSI box and she saw that it was filled with rolls of yellow perimeter tape, a camera, and an assortment of evidence collecting bags. "If this is a kidnapping for exchange ransom, the Feds aren’t going to want to let Lisa go until they’re convinced she’s not withholding any information."

  "Anything pan out with that Mobile Pet Supply?"

  "The phone is disconnected. We’re tracing the account, but if the guy paid cash . . ." Rico shrugged, turned back to his trunk, and dug beneath the evidence bags.

  Munch sneaked a look at herself in the car window’s reflection. It was as helpful as a fun-house mirror. "Are we going in or not?" she asked.

  "Relax." He handed her a pair of paper bootees and latex gloves. "Put these on." Rico shut the trunk, blew into his own gloves to inflate them before slipping them over his large fingers.

  "We’re really taking this seriously now, aren’t we?" Munch asked as she mimicked his moves.

  "You bet." He switched on his Maglite. "Follow me."

  They entered the apartment. Rico stopped her at the doorway. "Anything look different?"

  "Not yet."

  They walked into Jill’s bedroom. "How about here?"

  "I’m not sure. A few things might have been moved, but I didn’t watch Jill collect her stuff." Munch noticed for the first time a collage of photographs pinned to a corkboard. Jill with a large chipmunk, or rather a Disneyland employee in a chipmunk suit. There were also photos of Jill at Sea World, Knott’s Berry Farm, and Universal Studios. The kid was bound and determined to have a happy fun-filled childhood. Good for her.

  They entered Charlotte’s room. "Her boom box is gone."

  Munch had Rico shine his light toward the closet. The secret panel was intact. "Her clothes are still here, it looks like." She debated again whether to show Rico Charlotte’s hiding place, torn between protecting the girl and withholding from the police—from Rico. She could always pretend to discover it later.

  "We should check the refrigerator," she said.

  "Hungry?" he asked.

  "She keeps her insulin in there. There were nine bottles last time I checked."

  They walked into the kitchen. Rico opened the latch carefully so as not to disturb any fingerprints. The shelf that had held the insulin was empty.

  "And now there are none," he said.

  "Yep," Munch said.

  "What are you so happy about?"

  "You don’t need insulin for a dead diabetic."

  "So you’re encouraged?"

  "I think they want something she has and they’re going to keep her alive till they get it."

  "l hope she’s smart enough not to give it to them."

  "l have a feeling she is."

  They were still standing in the kitchen. Rico took her arm to guide her outside again. She felt his body behind her as if a charge of electricity connected them.

  "I sent our evidence from the storage unit to the DOJ lab," he said.

  "The tape and hair?" Munch asked, thinking now that "our" included her and liking the feeling of that inclusion.

  "Yes. We should get some results soon."

  They were standing on the front porch now. Munch thought of Charlotte out there somewhere, probably bound and gagged, scared and alone. "We’re going to get her back, aren’t we?" It wasn’t really a question because she was only going to accept one answer.

  "I’m not quitting till we do." He drew her to him for a quick hug and she let him, savoring the moment of comfort. She hoped she’d done the right thing, not showing Rico Charlotte’s hidey-hole or mentioning what the shrink had told her. If it did come to light that Charlotte pulled out her own hair, the police end of the investigation might lose some serious steam.

  The phone rang once, startling them both. Munch looked at it a second, then ran out to the limo. She turned on the ignition key and was rewarded by the ringing of the limo’s mobile phone as the call was forwarded. "Hello?" She gestured for Rico to listen in.

  "You still offering that reward?"

  Rico’s cheek was pressed against hers. She cupped her hand around the mouthpiece so the sound of his breathing wouldn’t give him away. Rico pointed to the receiver and mouthed, Who is it? Munch held up a finger to shush him.

  "Who is this?"

  "I met you in Hollywood. You’re looking for that chick, right? I think I have something for you."

  Rico made a rolling gesture with his hand, urging Munch to keep the guy talking. She shut her eyes, not needing his distraction or obvious advice.

  "I'm listening. Dave, right? Painter Dave."

  "Not over the phone."

  "Don’t waste my time," she said.

  "My time is valuabl
e, too."

  Munch smiled at his audacity. He wasn’t that much different from the wannabe con artists she’d hung out with in her teens. In fact, he reminded her a lot of Sleaze John.

  "And, hey it’s your kid," Dave said, pushing the obvious.

  "When and where?"

  "One o’clock. Where we met before."

  A minute later, the limo phone rang again, only they didn’t hear it ring in Lisa’s apartment first, which meant it was being forwarded from Munch’s home line. The woman caller identified herself as Cheryl Koon.

  "Can you come see me?"

  "Well, uh . . ." Munch heard the desperation in the woman’s voice. The appeal was so naked—the woman sounded so low; Munch knew she’d feel worse if she refused or made some excuse. Rico was watching her with narrowed eyes. She knew that look. He was jealous.

  "I’m not driving right now," Cheryl said. "I don’t really trust myself behind the wheel of a car."

  "I can come now, if you want." She wrote down the directions and hung up. "That was Cheryl Koon."

  "You didn’t say you knew her."

  "l don’t. She wanted to meet me. I guess ’cause she heard about Charlotte. Look, anything I can bring you might help, right?"

  "Just be careful," he said. "It's not unheard of for guilty persons to insinuate themselves into an investigation to keep track of what’s going on."

  She promised Rico that she would call him later and left him waiting for the forensic team.

  ***

  Cheryl Koon lived in Venice Beach, in one of those incongruous sleek, modern houses sandwiched between two run-down World War II-vintage bungalows. Overgrown banana trees shadowed the neighbors’ homes, which looked like the kind of places where the bodies of dead movie starlets might be discovered. The Koons’ house had meticulous, if minimal, landscaping. A Jaguar was in the driveway and a basketball hoop was over the garage door.

  Steven Koon’s mother greeted Munch at her front door. The woman had long hair that she’d allowed to go gray and a coarse complexion, no doubt made rougher from grief. Garlands of dangling turquoise and silver jewelry hung from her ears and around her throat. A belt of leather studded with silver conchas cinched her tight jeans, which were fashionably distressed. She tugged at the open collar of her gypsy blouse as she motioned Munch inside. The lacy front and billowing sleeves covered more flaws than they revealed, but none of that detracted attention from the dark bags under the woman’s eyes and the tremble of her hands.

  "Can I offer you a drink?" she asked, raising her own glass.

  Her breath was foul and bitter, a drinker’s breath. It was only eleven in the morning, but Munch wasn’t there to judge her. They settled in the living room. Pictures of Steve in all stages of development adorned the mantel. He had been a slight boy who never seemed to look directly into the camera. One of the photos showed a Christmas tree in the background. Young Steve was wearing a black cape and top hat. A flag draped from the wand in his hand read YOUNG HOUDINI. Next to him a good-looking man smiled broadly with perfect white teeth. He could easily have graced the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly or modeled chic sportswear in one of Charlotte’s catalogs.

  Munch felt a stab of guilt, remembering what she had concealed from Rico. How could he make a fully informed investigation if she was choosing what he should know?

  Munch pointed at the photo. "Your husband?" She was pretty sure it was. Her reasons for asking were twofold. She wanted to stop thinking about Rico, and she needed to see how Cheryl responded when she answered questions truthfully.

  "He’s been so upset. He’s known Steve longer than he’s known me."

  Munch must have looked confused.

  "Michael is not Steve’s father, not by blood anyway but in every other way that’s important. He adopted him after we got married."

  Munch nodded, wondering why people even needed to make the distinction. She remembered Rico telling her that the father had cried when he got the news.

  "Steve met him through the Big Brother program. They made up for lost time. Michael took Steve everywhere with him." Her voice turned husky "Then Steve went into his teenage angst and started pulling away rebelling. I thought it was natural, but still, Steve’s rejection hurt Michael after all he’d done for him."

  "I worry about that, too. My kid is eight, but I already see the signs."

  "Steve was so darling at eight. Always small for his age, but so earnest." She stood, crossing the room to stand before a huge entertainment center. One shelf was devoted entirely to videotapes with handwritten labels. Judging by those labels, most were home movies. Christmas, 1980. Anniversary, 1983. M0m’s Surprise, 1984.

  Cheryl selected a tape at random and slid it into the player. "Little Houdini" did a card trick for the camera. She touched the screen when Steve broke into uncontrollable giggles at his mark’s amazement when he announced which card the mark was holding. "So anxious to please. He seemed to change overnight. Clothes, attitude, hair."

  "Drugs?"

  Cheryl waved a dismissive hand through the air in front of her face, as if dispersing smoke.

  "I put it off to hormones. Michael wanted him tested. He’s always been anti-drugs. I said no. I didn’t want to invade Steve’s privacy. Maybe I was I wrong. You never know which is the right way to go. More or less. Then, when he started running away . . ." She shut off the television. Little Houdini collapsed into a thin bluish line that became a tiny white dot, then disappeared into the dark void.

  The blackened screen cast a muted reflection of the room.

  "Is your husband at work?"

  "He keeps busy" Tears leaked from Cheryl’s eyes. She dabbed them with a moist tissue. "I never knew I could cry so much. Just when I think I’m completely wrung out, I start again."

  Munch didn’t think the booze helped. She showed the woman Charlotte’s picture. "Steve was friends with my niece Charlotte Slokum. Have you met her?"

  "I want to. I should have. I should have known all his friends."

  "They were in school together."

  "She works on the school paper, doesn’t she?"

  "The yearbook, I think, maybe the paper, too."

  "He doesn’t . . . didn’t bring many friends home. Michael was always the social director. We thought Steve was happy this time and would stay finish high school. We thought we could finally put the bad times behind us." The tears trickled unchecked down her ruddy cheeks. "I want to know what happened. I need to know what happened."

  "I’ll do my best," Munch said, thinking Cheryl Koon’s desire for involvement was coming a tad late. Absolution, apparently, was still an issue. A black Range Rover pulled into the driveway. Cheryl looked at the door with a guilty start and slid her glass behind what appeared to be her wedding photo. Cheryl glanced at the clock on the mantel and then back to the door.

  Munch thought the woman should chew on a few breath mints if she really hoped to disguise her bad habits. Maybe she was new to the alcoholism thing.

  "Your husband?" Munch asked, finding Cheryl’s unease contagious.

  "l wasn’t expecting him. I hope nothing’s wrong."

  Munch had to wonder how Cheryl defined wrong. It seemed to her that nothing here was right. Outside, a car door slammed. Cheryl flinched slightly plucked at her blouse, and ran a finger under her lower lip to clean up the lipstick line. Munch watched the doorknob, waiting for it to turn.

  "I’m glad he’s here," Cheryl said.

  You should tell your face, Munch thought.

  "You’ll see when you meet him. He’s a wonderful man. Hardworking, attentive. And handsome."

  "I noticed," Munch said, nodding toward the picture.

  "I used to wonder"—Cheryl briefly touched her husband’s photograph—"why he picked me. All the women he could have had."

  The door opened and Cheryl’s private paragon entered. He smiled with his perfect white teeth, although his forehead was grooved with worry lines. Finding his wife with company obviously surprised him, but he re
covered quickly.

  "Hi," he said in a radio-announcer voice, "I’m Michael Koon."

  Munch had to admit the guy had presence. One of those types who expected to be noticed when he entered a room. Noticed and remembered. He was a little slick for her taste. Cheryl introduced her.

  "Her niece is Charlotte Slokum. Charlotte was one of Steven’s friends from school."

  Munch nodded to confirm that this information was correct. She stuck out her hand.

  "Glad to meet you."

  Koon’s handshake was firm and dry Nothing less than what she expected.

  Cheryl said quickly, "Her niece is missing and she’s been working with the police."

  Munch felt a little annoyed at having her business reduced to those few terse sentences. Cheryl made it sound as if Munch were the intruder rather than being here reluctantly at Cheryl’s own request. Maybe Cheryl hoped to deflect attention from herself.

  He walked over to the couch and bussed his wife’s cheek. His eyes passed over the highball glass, but he didn’t react. Mourning had its own protocol. It was also paradoxical, leaving you delicate and invulnerable at the same time. Priorities shifted. To be linked with someone in shared pain was a special relationship.

  "Is there something we can help you with?" he asked, turning to Munch.

  "I don’t know," Munch said, wishing she hadn’t come. "I guess I’m just on a fact-finding mission at this point."

  Cheryl looked up, her rheumy eyes clearing for a moment of unexpected intensity. "I’m sure you think something like this could never happen to you. I hope it never does. I pray that your niece returns home safely."

  Munch tried to make her mind go blank. It was as if Cheryl Koon had read her thoughts.

  "I don’t mean to scare you. I’m only saying I thought I was safe, too."

  Michael Koon patted his wife’s shoulder and she fell silent. Munch had seen odder couples. Obviously Michael saw a different woman from the one Cheryl Koon viewed in the mirror. She wondered if Cheryl was the bank. It sounded pretty cynical, she knew, but Munch had an instinctive distrust of guys with clean hands, movie star smiles, and deep tans. She edged toward the door.

  "I really should be going."