An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (8 page)

Munch laughed out loud, feeling a touch of hysteria.
She sensed that if she didn't keep it under control, she would be
carried away on a cloud of mindless hilarity. Still, it felt good to
laugh, even as it hurt a little, too. As if some shell were breaking
apart inside her. She leaned over to Asia. "Let's get the Popeye
pizza. Spinach and mozzarella."

"
Okay, Mom. You're the boss."

Munch put a hand to Asia's forehead. "Are you
feeling all right?"

Asia rolled her eyes until only the white showed. It
was an expression she'd been making since before she could talk.

Munch let her hand linger and Asia didn't mind. How
many more years did they have before Asia would get too hip, slick,
and cool for her mom?

The waitress set water in front of them. "Are
you guys ready?"

After they had placed their orders and the waitress
had left, Munch put Asia's napkin in her lap. "I saw Angelica
today."

"
Was she sad?" Asia asked, a tiny crease
appearing between her brown eyes.

"
Yeah, although with her it's hard to tell."

"
I know what you mean," Asia said. "She's
a piece of work."

Munch choked on her water. "Where did you hear
that expression?" Ellen raised both hands as if to plead her
innocence.

"
I get around," Asia said, affecting
nonchalance.

Munch pushed her shoulder. "Cut that out. You're
nine. Now act like it."

Asia stuck her tongue out.

"
That's better."

"
Who's Angelica?" Ellen asked.

"
Rico's kid."

Asia raised her hand. "She was going to be my
sister."

Munch pulled her daughter close to her. "She
still can be. That doesn't have to change. In fact, she needs us now
more than she knows. Rico would want us to be nice to her, don't you
think?"

"
Okay, but she better be nice back."

Munch tweaked Asia's nose. "Don't hold your
breath. It might be up to us to make the first move."

Ellen sat up straighter and pulled her shoulders
back. Some good-looking guy must have come into view. "Where did
you see Rico's kid?"

"
At the father's house. Rico 's father. They're
going to have everyone gather there after the services. Apparently
it's just going to be family."

Ellen toyed with one of her dangling earrings.
"Didn't Rico have a gang of brothers? And what about all his cop
friends?"

"
He had six brothers and a sister. Most of them
will be there, but . . ."

Ellen turned too-green eyes on her and tilted her
head in a silent question.

Munch lifted the napkin from Asia's lap and stood to
let her out of the booth. "Asia, honey, go wash your hands."

"
But—"

"
Don't worry about mine."

Asia slumped her shoulders as she climbed out of the
booth. "Ohh, all right, Mother."

Ellen smiled after her. "She's a trip and a
half."

"
Tell me about it." Munch rubbed her face
with both hands. When she lowered them back to the table, Ellen was
focused on her.

"
What's going on?"

Munch glanced toward the bathroom door, knowing her
time was limited. "I don't want a bunch of his co-workers at the
service. I don't want to have to look at them. The cops are the ones
who shot Rico. Some narc assholes."

Ellen's eyes swiveled to Munch's mouth as if she
couldn't believe the words that had just spilled from it. "What?
Was it some kind of accident? Did he know the guy?"

Everyone else in the restaurant was momentarily
forgotten.

Ellen's eyes filled with tears, matching Munch's own.

"
I don't know. I'm trying to find out more."
Munch spoke quickly, needing to get it all out before Asia returned.
"Now a question has been raised about how honest a cop he was.
His pension, death benefits, all that is being held back. Mace St.
John said that none of his cop buddies are gonna want to get caught
on the wrong side of whatever was going on."

"
No way," Ellen said. "There's
absolutely no fucking way that boy was on the take." She took a
sip of water and dabbed her lips with her napkin. "No. He was
into it—the whole law-and-order thing. I never got any other vibe
from him."

Munch wiped at the tears leaking down her cheeks. She
never knew she could cry so much. "You ask me, I think the narcs
are just trying to cover their own asses. I'm not going to let them
get away with it."

"
Honey." Ellen reached over and patted
Munch's hand. "This is me. Be real. If the cops want it to read
a certain way, ain't a damned if thing you can do about it."

"
I'm not looking to change the world. I just
want some answers."

"
That's probably doable." She paused to dab
at her lower lash line. The smudge of mascara there disappeared.
"I'll help any way I can."

"
I might need you to look after Asia for a few
days."

"
God, you must be desperate."

"
I'm going to go see this guy tomorrow."

Asia returned to the table
and the subject was changed.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, Munch drove downtown again to
Parker Center, also referred to by those familiar with the building's
multiple stories of green windows as The Glass House. The cop behind
the counter smiled in recognition. Munch wondered at his open
friendliness, then she had to remind herself that she no longer
dressed like biker trash and had shed the pallor of addiction many
years ago. It was still hard to get used to cops treating her like
she wasn't prey or another scumbag to be wary of.

And sometimes vice versa.

Bayless was expecting her, but she was early. While
she waited, she observed. The cop at the front desk had the patience
of a saint, fielding all sorts of stupid questions. He was probably
used to it. She'd gone on a ride-along once—Rico had set it up when
she expressed an interest. Mainly it had been for the novelty of
riding in the front seat.

She'd felt a bit like a spy as she rode with a
sheriff's deputy in East Los Angeles on his 6-A.M.-to-2-PM. shift
that Saturday. His name was Mike Savage. A lot of cops were named
Mike, Officer Savage said. Saint Michael was the patron saint of
cops.

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.