An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (12 page)

"
Are you willing to take a polygraph?"
Chapman asked when she had signed and initialed all their documents.

"
Waste of time," Munch said.

"
Is that a yes or a no?" Chapman pressed.

"
Go ahead and hook me up," she said. She
didn't have to look in a mirror to know her eyes were dry and flat.
She heard it in her voice, too. Her emotions had leveled out to a
slow steady burn. She knew how to feed off the energy her anger
generated. Fire had been her plaything all her life, it seemed.

They took her to another room where a polygraph
examiner had set up his machine. A tube was run around her chest, and
other sensors monitored pulse and respiration. She was instructed to
limit her answers to yes and no. Munch nodded. She knew the rules.
The examiner asked her if her name was Miranda Mancini.

"
Yes," she said.

The examiner noted the movement of his needles across
the readout tape. Chapman and Rodger watched over the guy's shoulder.

"
Ask me again," Munch said.

"
Is your name Miranda Mancini?"

This time she answered, "No."

Munch also didn't have to see to know that the
movement of the needles was identical to when she'd given the
opposite answer a moment ago. It was all about controlling the burn.

The examiner looked at the detectives, obviously
annoyed. "Do you want me to continue?"

Chapman and Roger conferred in whispers. Two minutes
later Munch had been unhooked from the machine. They returned to the
room with the plants and the cops gave her some last-minute advice.

"
When you meet with these guys, be careful not
to get caught in a lie," Chapman said. "Speak in vague,
knowing terms."

Munch knew this technique by another name, one that
involved male bovines and their excrement.

"
Act like you know what's going on without being
specific," Roger added. "Remember to shut up and let them
fill in the silence. Any other questions?"

"
Will I get paid?"

"
We have a small discretionary fund for
mercenaries," Chapman answered.

Roger looked disappointed at the question.

"
I wouldn't ask," Munch said, "but the
money I make at the gas station is based solely on commission and
I've got bills."

"
But your motivations for doing this are as a
good citizen, right?"

Chapman let a touch of sarcasm emphasize his words.

"
I can be a good person and get paid. Wouldn't
bother me a bit."

"
We'll work something out," Roger said.
"But first we'll need a good-faith effort from you."

"
Like what?"

"
Be creative. Surprise us."
 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AFTER DROPPING ASIA OFF AT
school, Munch drove over to Ellen's condo. It was Thursday. The
mortuary was picking up Rico's body today and bringing it back to
Santa Monica to prepare it for the viewing. Before leaving the house,
she slipped on the ring he'd given her. It felt loose on her finger.
One of many things that weren't fitting lately.

Munch hadn't called ahead. She'd been hearing
suspicious clicks on her home phone ever since she'd talked to the
cops, and didn't want to alert them to her every move. Now she found
herself praying that her friend was home. The building had a locked
entrance and an intercom system. Munch pushed the button opposite the
name E. SUMMERS and heard the beeps and tones of a phone number being
dialed.

"
Can I come up?" Munch asked.

"
Are you alone? I don't quite have my face on
yet."

"
I'm alone," Munch said. She needed to get
used to saying that again.

The buzzer sounded and Munch pushed the security gate
open. Door-jà vu.

Ellen's unit was at the end of a long courtyard,
giving her an extra minute to prepare for her callers. When she came
to the door, Munch was momentarily speechless. She wasn't used to her
friend's honest colors. Barefoot and without the big hair, Ellen was
only an inch or two taller than Munch.

Ellen opened the door wide. "What are you
waiting for, honey, Christmas?"

"
Excuse me, miss; have you seen my friend
Ellen?"

"
Come on in, I'm getting kind of a late start
today."

Ellen's hairpieces adorned Styrofoam heads on a shelf
in her closet. She had painted facial features on the forms so that
they resembled a lineup of jack-o'-lantern hookers. Her bathroom
looked like a closeout sale at a cosmetic factory.

"
How soon can you be ready?" Munch asked.

"
Depends. What did you have in mind?"

"
I want to drop in on some people from Rico's
other life." She showed Ellen the address she'd found in Rico's
pocket.

"
Hmm." Ellen stared into her closet. "Blond
and brown, I think."

She grabbed a long blond wig that practically
screamed
I'm a game puta, amigo
.
"You want me to do you, too?"

"
Nah, I might need the guy to recognize me."

Thirty minutes later they left in Ellen's car. Their
destination was in Venice, more specifically the Hispanic section.
Munch knew the area well. In the seventies, she and a bunch of
like—minded dopers had lived in an apartment building there which
they had affectionately referred to as Tortilla Flats.

The neighborhood hadn't changed much. V13's were
spray painted on the block walls, the signature of the predominant
Latino street gang. The small market across the street advertised
masa harina
, dried
corn husks, and freshly baked
pan dulce
.
The store was also running a special on chorizo. Munch used to love
chorizo until she read the list of ingredients on the package. She
didn't mind the chemicals, but the pig intestines was much more
information than she wanted. Funny she should think of that now. That
one of the perils of knowledge was delicious things turning
unpalatable. The address they sought was in the three-hundred block
of Hampton Drive between Rose and Sunset Avenues. They turned the
corner on Rose to find the street jumping with action.

"
What's all this about?" Ellen asked.

"
I don't know," Munch said, "but
that's our address."

People trudged toward the house as if in the throes
of some ancient Mayan dirge. They carried pots and platters of food
and cases of soft drinks and beer. Black crepe paper hung from the
door. Three pickup trucks with jacked-up suspension and Brahma bull
horns fastened to the hoods were parked on the street directly in
front, wheels half on the curb. The gun racks were empty, though
probably not for long. Two of the trucks' license plates were
Mexican. The third was Texan.

Ellen parked halfway down the block, careful not to
encroach on the neighboring community known as Ghost Town. There the
Shoreline Crips ruled, and white people were only popular as targets.
Munch and Ellen walked the remaining distance to the house.

When they got to the yard, an ancient station wagon
limped into the carport on mismatched tires. The engine expired with
a few protesting knocks and the stench of unburned fuel. Munch
immediately diagnosed the cause of the pre-ignition as a too-high
idle speed. The idle was probably turned up to compensate for other
problems, maybe something as simple as a broken piece of vacuum
tubing or retarded timing. She was tempted to offer to have a look,
but didn't think her help would go over too big in this
neighborhood's macho environment.

The woman driving directed kids of varying ages to
carry in the bags of paper plates and plastic utensils stacked around
them in the backseat. She opened the tailgate and steam rose from the
food packed there.

"
Need some help with this?" Munch asked.

"
Gracias
, " the
woman said.

"
De nada
, "
Munch answered as she hefted a steamer full of tamales.

Ellen followed with a white-frosted cake. "You
ever crash a wake before?" she asked out of the side of her
mouth.

"
Nope," Munch whispered back, as she
climbed the steps to the front door. "An autopsy once. But this
is a first."

"
Lead on,
mi hermana
.
In for a peso, in for a pound."

Folding tables in the backyard had been spread with
cloths. Vases of handpicked flowers sat between three framed
photographs of Latino men. Twenty or so votive candles burned quietly
in front of the pictures and plaster busts of Jesus Malverde, the
patron saint of drug smugglers.

Rico had explained once that Jesus Malverde was a
bandit who met his end as the twentieth century began. According to
legend, he was something of a Robin Hood. Having the Mexican
government put a price on his head had only improved his reputation.
Peppy ballads—carridas—told of his martyrdom. Soon after his
hanging, locals prayed to his bones and miracles had resulted: lost
cows were found, fevers passed, and babies were born healthy.

Jesus Malverde's shrine, built on his remains, was in
Culiacan, the capital city of the Mexican state of Sinaloa. The
saint's first apostles were the poor highland residents, the classes
from which the current crop of drug traffickers emerged. Now
offerings were made for a safe drug run north, a bountiful marijuana
harvest, and not to be shot again.

Munch had asked Rico what the church thought of this
narco-saint. He had shrugged and said,
You
have to remember, it's different down there. Sure, the priests hate
that a man who robbed and killed is deified. But what can they do?
The people are poor and the police and government are corrupt. Who
should their heroes be?

Munch set the food on the counter in the kitchen,
then went out to the backyard to get a closer look at the men in the
pictures while Ellen helped arrange the food.

She waited her turn behind young tattooed men with
shaved heads. They wore their street uniforms: pressed white
T-shirts, creased khaki pants, and thick wool Pendleton overshirts
with only the top button fastened. The men genuflected and kissed the
religious medals hanging from chains around their necks as they
passed the memorial.

Two surly pit bulls watched morosely from behind the
chicken wire defining their run. A spring pole used to strengthen the
dogs' bite-and-shake muscles hung from a cross beam on a sturdy
chain. White foamy drool hung from the dogs' open mouths and strands
of glossy mucus looped over their snouts. Munch didn't think the
fencing surrounding their small pen thick enough to hold the beasts
if they really wanted out.

She walked slowly past the pictures. She didn't
recognize the two Hispanic men on either end, but the middle picture
was all too familiar.

Rico.

It's a trick. It's all a trick
,
she reminded herself. Simultaneously another voice in her head told
her not to kid herself. It was true. Not only was Rico really dead,
but these people were mourning him as one of their own.

"
Hey, I know you," a man's voice spoke.

She turned. "Do you?"

"
Yeah, I seen you with Enrique. You had that
pretty dog. The cocker."

"
Okay, yeah. I remember you now. You had the pit
bull."

He touched his nose. "I'm Chicken."

She pointed to Rico's and the other men's pictures.
"What happened?"

"
Were you Enrique's
querida
?"

"
More than that." She held up her hand to
show off her diamond ring. "We were getting married."

Chicken seemed surprised at the news, but recovered
quickly.

"
I'm sorry,
chica
.
You should meet this
varón
over here." Out of the corner of his mouth, in a confidential
whisper, Chicken added, "He's just in from Mexico."

Munch nodded, as if this meant something to her.

Chicken seemed pleased to have impressed her as he
pointed at a solidly built
hombre
standing by a statue of the Virgin. If the Mexican were a biker,
they'd call him something like Tiny, just to make a joke of the
obvious. Only he didn't have the beer gut and slovenly hygiene of
scooter trash. His fancy cowboy boots added another inch to his
impressive build.

She let Chicken lead her through the throng of
mourners to the human roadblock.

Her escort presented her as if she were some sort of
prize. "This is Enrique's woman. They were to be married."

She realized Chicken didn't know what else to call
her. "I'm Munch."

"
A terrible thing," the big Mexican said.
"Es verdad. We all feel the loss."

"
And you are?"

"
Humberto. If there is anything you need, ask."