An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (10 page)

"
I can do that."

"
And in the future, don't call me. I'll call
you."

"
When can I expect that?"

"
As soon as it needs
to be. Don't worry, I'll be in touch."

* * *

Munch got home at noon. Jasper treated her like a
long-lost love. She took the time to pet him and tell him how much
she loved him, but it felt as if she were just giving him lip
service. Petting him didn't give her the pleasure it usually did. She
noticed the same sort of thing around Asia. A layer of insulation had
grown around her heart, keeping out the good and the bad feelings.
She wondered if this was going to be a permanent change.

There were no messages on her answering machine. She
opened the refrigerator out of habit. Caroline St. John had dropped
off a casserole. Munch decided to save it for dinner. Life went on no
matter how you were feeling. You had to act as if something would
matter later. She'd been down the fake-it-till-you-make-it road
before. Rico's coat hung in her bedroom closet. She stared at it a
minute before reaching into the pocket for his address book. She
needed to go through it and call everyone he knew to give them the
news and the time of the funeral if they were interested. Not
everyone read the obituaries faithfully.

The mortuary had given Fernando a form to fill out
for the public notice, and Munch had offered to take care of that for
him. Free obituaries were a line or two and listed only the
deceased's name and that of the mortuary, along with the phone number
of the funeral home.

Those obits had always seemed so sad to Munch, as if
no one was left or cared enough to give some sort of accounting of
the person's life and passing. The longer obits were paid for. There
were also symbols that could be purchased to appear to the left of
the name: hearts, flags, roses. She chose a police badge. Like many
recent decisions, this was a tough one. She would only have one
chance at this and she wanted to do it right.

She started with the statistics of Rico's birthplace
and date, and then added that he was cherished by many and killed way
too young. She also listed the loved ones who survived him, as well
as those who had preceded him in death. She cried the whole time she
wrote it, and was glad for the opportunity. She'd read somewhere that
the brain produced endorphin when tears were shed. Some trade-off!
She hesitated a moment before opening Rico's little address book,
trying to prepare herself for the surprises it might contain of other
women he might have loved or who had loved him. She knew that
shouldn't matter now, but knowing and feeling were two different
beasts.

Stuck to the black vinyl cover of the address book
was a scrap of paper. There was an address written on it in Rico's
street writing, not the clear block letters he used when filling out
a police report or a shopping list, but a barely legible scrawl. She
realized she had been there when he wrote it. It was the information
he had recorded from the gang-banger with the pit bull. She flattened
the crumpled scrap with her hand and stuck it in the novel by her
bed. Then she opened the address book and picked up the phone. Art
Becker's home and work numbers were listed. She went with the work
number.

Art Becker had been Rico's partner when he worked
homicide.

She got to know both men when they were investigating
the deaths of Ellen's mom and stepdad. Rico she had gotten to know a
lot better. Art Becker had always treated her decently. He was a
complex man, capable of gentleness, but certainly not gullible. A
detective for twenty years, Becker was on the backside of fifty, and
still married to his original wife. The last, she knew, was a real
rarity among cops. She wasn't exactly the poster child for monogamy,
but she admired it in others. Had she been given the chance, she had
planned on being a really good wife.

"
I've been meaning to call you," he said,
once she had identified herself.

"
That would have been nice."

"
No, really, I mean it. In fact, let's meet for
coffee. How're you holding up?"

"
I don't know. I was hoping you could shed some
light. There's a lot of bullshit flying."

"
Tell me about it. You know that pie place in
Santa Monica?"

"
The House of Pies?"

"
That's the one. Can you be there in twenty?"

She looked at her watch, as if that had anything to
do with how fast she drove. "Sure."

"
I'll tell you what I know, but it's not much."

"
I'd really appreciate that. I've been feeling
kind of . . . lost." She cleared her throat, wiped the tears
from her eyes as they formed, and got her emotions under control.
"How come there hasn't been anything on the news about the
shooting?"

"
We can talk about that, too."

"
Thanks, Art."

"
For what?"

"
For not disappearing on me."

"
Sure, kid. Sure." His voice was gentle.
"Drive safely, there's sharks in the water."

"
Isn't the expression 'blood in the water'?"

"
Right now, there's both."
 
 

CHAPTER TWELVE

ART BECKER HAD PICKED THE HOUSE OF PIES FOR MANY
reasons, Munch figured. Proximity, privacy, and the chocolate silk
with Bavarian cream and semi-sweet shavings. Becker was a formidable
man. Under six feet and over three hundred pounds. He barely managed
to squeeze in between the booth's high-backed seat and fixed table.

The waitress came and took their orders.

Munch studied Becker's face as she sat across from
him.

If the events of the past week had added lines to his
face, she couldn't tell. Becker's complexion had always been a study
of craters and crevices. His eyes were small, but not cold. At least
not to her.

She got right to it. "They told his ex-wife that
he was a dirty cop. They're threatening to deny all his benefits."

Becker mopped sweat off his forehead with a napkin.
"I know."

"
I don't believe it; do you?"

Becker sighed. "I don't want to. I've been a cop
for thirty years, most of those working major crimes. I've seen too
many things that defy explanation."

She didn't expect any more or less from him. "Have
you known any dirty cops?"

"
There've been a few."

"
How does that happen? Do they sour on life? Get
greedy? What?"

"
Most of the dirty ones are bad before they ever
join. I got a friend who works in personnel, doing background checks
on applicants. Ever since this, whatchamacallit, affirmative action
shit passed, we've been hard-pressed to meet the quotas. He showed me
three applicants' sheets last month. Two had juvenile beefs, one
being a homicide. The third had been indicted, but not convicted, for
assault with a deadly weapon. My friend's captain tells him he's
gotta pick two of them."

"
Harsh." The next question she was almost
afraid to ask. "Are you coming to the funeral?"

"
Sure. Of course."

She blinked back tears and got busy with her napkin.
Rico had been lucky to count Becker as a friend. "When can the
family have the body?"

"
Hasn't the department sent a liaison over to
help with all that?"

"
Considering the circumstances, the family has
refused to work with the department."

"
Probably just as well," Becker said. "I
hate the bullshit that goes with cop funerals. All those politico
assholes using the day as an excuse to get before a camera. Desk
jockeys who've never seen action and wouldn't deign to acknowledge a
workingman if it didn't further their career, acting like they give a
shit."

"
I don't think that would happen with Rico. You
know, considering."

"
Nothing would surprise me. The department
always shows two faces. No matter what the internal gossip is, they
wouldn't miss an opportunity to service their own agenda." He
looked around impatiently for the waitress, as if his agitation had
fueled his appetite. "I'll call the coroner when I get back to
the office, make sure he's done on his end. Have you made
arrangements with a mortuary?"

"
His father wants to use the same home that
handled his mother."

"
Oh, yeah, Christ, that's right. She passed not
that long ago."

"
Coming up on a year in June. Poor guy, they'd
been married forever."

Becker nodded. "What kind of service are they
having?"

"
What do you mean?"

"
Are they having Rico buried or cremated?"

"
Buried."

"
That gets pricey, what with the embalming and
coffin, and all. You sure they want to go that route?"

"
They're Catholic. They don't burn their dead,
something about respecting the bodies of the deceased and honoring
the places they rest."

"
I'm just trying to save you-all some expense.
People always spend too much money on funerals."

Munch clenched her fists under the table. "I
don't think we'll change our minds. There's gonna be a vigil with all
the rites and prayers. Just the family and close friends are invited.
They've got the church reserved for Friday. The body is supposed to
be present for that so we can say our good-byes."

Becker looked out the window, then back at her. "I
don't think you'll want an open casket."

She didn't want to ask, but her mouth formed the
words anyway. "Why is that?"

The waitress set Becker's pie in front of him and
told Munch she'd be right back. Becker didn't dig in immediately and
waited for the server to leave before he continued. "Gunshot
wounds get kinda messy, especially multiple ones."

She started scratching at a spot on her thumb and
couldn't seem to stop herself. She knew Rico had been shot dead; she
hadn't expected further details such as how many bullets had hit him
and where to make her feel worse. Becker took her silence and filled
it.

"
Your mortician is gonna need current
photographs to reconstruct his features, but are you sure that's the
way you want to remember him? Maybe you could just put a nice framed
picture on top of the casket. I've seen them do that."

Munch nodded. "l've seen that, too." He
might as well have stuck his fork into her chest. She massaged the
ache there, wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like. St.
John had once described it to her, said that it felt like an elephant
was standing on his chest. Since Monday, she'd been swallowing
aspirin like candy, wishing she could use something stronger.

The waitress delivered Munch's order, looked briefly
at the expressions on Munch's and Becker's face, and left without
asking if they were all right or needed anything else.

Becker carved off a wedge of his dessert and shoveled
it into his mouth.

Munch cleared her throat and made an attempt at her
apple pie. "Do you know about the case he was working on?"

Becker shook his head before he started talking. "I
couldn't talk about it if I did. The indictments are still sealed.
The DA wouldn't jeopardize his case for love nor money."

Munch slid the pie around her plate, "I was
thinking, maybe it was a case of, like, friendly fire. You know, Rico
is working his case and these other narcs from another division are
working theirs, and the second group of narcs don't realize Rico is
one of theirs .... " She stopped talking because Becker was
shaking his head again.

"
Wouldn't happen. All investigations go through
a clearinghouse. They keep a war board that shows all ongoing
operations. They got photos of the cops, license plates and makes of
the undercover vehicles, times and locations when and where buys are
going down. All that to prevent just that sort of thing."

"Oh," she said. "I was just thinking,
you know, that might explain it. Everyone makes mistakes."

"
It happened in the seventies a couple times,
cop versus cop. One buying, one selling, then everyone flashes their
badges and not a bad guy in sight."

"
I was just thinking of possibilities, like I
said."

"
I thought you'd want the truth," he said
gently.

"
Yeah, no, I do." She doctored her coffee,
her theory dissolving like the sugar. She'd really pinned her hopes
on that explanation. It took her a while to be able to look at him
again. She wanted to ask the right questions, but she was drawing
blanks. She felt as if she were trying to crack a time-controlled
bank vault; one wrong turn and the mechanism would lock up for hours
she didn't have. "When will the indictments get unsealed?"

"
Hard to say, honey. Hard to say." He
scraped the last of the whipped cream from his plate. "Might be
some time. Depends on the size and scope of the case."

She pushed her pie away uneaten. "I'll talk to
the family, you know, about the body."

"
Get multiple copies of the death certificate,
at least five. That'll come up a lot." He picked up the check
and patted her hand. "I'm sorry it has to be this way."