Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella (12 page)

"When will she be back?" Mace asked.

"
She didn't say," Munch said.

"Where did she go? Who was her customer?"

"
Look," Munch said, exhaling with defeat,
"here's the thing. I don't know for certain. Some guy called.
Ellen said something to him about not sending a blonde because of
what they thought of blondes down there. When she left, she asked
Derek if he wanted her to bring back any Fireworks. I've tried to
call her on the mobile phone in the limo, but she either doesn't have
it on or she's out of range."

"
Is that why you called the apartment on Gower?"
he asked. "To try to track her down? You think she's with
Raleigh Ward?"

"
Let's just say business hasn't exactly been
booming. Since prom season died down, I've had about three calls.
Raleigh Ward told me last night that he was going to be needing the
car off and on all week."

"
To entertain this Victor guy?" Mace asked,
pointing at the photograph.

"
Possibly." She showed Mace the note from
Ellen. "I think they might have gone to Mexico."

A beeping noise interrupted their conversation. Mace
looked down at the device attached to his belt.

"
Mind if I use your phone?" he asked,
tilting his head toward the phone on the table.

"
Help yourself,"
Munch said. Taking Asia by the hand, she led the girl back to her
room, and asked her, "Haven't we talked about not using certain
words no matter where you hear them?"

* * *

In response to the page, Mace called Parker Center.
While he waited to be put through to Cassiletti's extension, he
checked out his surroundings. There was a bulletin board mounted on
the wall next to him. On it was a map of the city and a list of phone
numbers for the major airlines. Checks addressed to Munch filled the
left edge of the board. Each was stamped with either INSUFFICIENT
FUNDS, ACCOUNT CLOSED, or PAYMENT STOPPED in red ink across the face.
Assholes, he thought. Cassiletti answered his phone. Mace identified
himself and asked what was up.

"
I showed the picture of our witness to the
concierge at the Beverly Wilshire," Cassiletti said. "I've
got a name to go with the face: Victor Draicu."

"
That checks with what I have," Mace said.
"What else you got?"

"Draicu is a Romanian diplomat. He's connected
with the Olympics."

Mace made a note to himself. That connection bore
some looking into. "Any luck with the cabbie who picked him up?"
he asked.

"Yea.h, I tracked the guy down. He remembered
the call. Said he took Draicu to titty bars by the airport and
dropped him off. I asked the hotel personnel when Draicu got in, but
nobody remembers seeing him until this morning, when a limo picked
him up."

"
What make and color?" Mace asked.

"
Gray Cadillac?" Cassiletti said.

"
All right, good work," Mace said, wishing
the big man had half the confidence of Munch's daughter. "I need
you to call Border Patrol. You got a pen and paper?"

"Just a minute."

Mace glanced skyward while he heard Cassiletti fumble
for writing utensils.

"
All right," Cassiletti said. "I'm
ready."

Mace read off the license number of Munch's limo.
"Find out if this vehicle has passed the checkpoint today and,
if so, when." If the limo had gone to Mexico, that would be a
break, Mace knew. The American Border Patrol had increased security
because of the upcoming Olympics. All commercial vehicles entering as
well as exiting the country were being noted and entered into the
agency's database.

"
You want them to stop the car?" Cassiletti
asked.

"That would be the idea," Mace said, trying
to stifle his impatience.

"
What should I tell them?"

"
That the vehicle is physical evidence in a
homicide investigation, and that the driver and passengers are needed
for questioning. Tell them to proceed with caution."

"What are you going to do?" Cassiletti
asked.

"
I'm going to head back to downtown. I've got a
meeting with Steve Brown."

"
OCID?" Cassiletti asked, referring to the
Organized Crime Intelligence Division.

"
Yeah, he said he might have some answers for
me." And given Steve's line of work, Mace knew anything he had
worth listening to wouldn't be said over the phone.
 
 

CHAPTER 10

He felt restless. The fluids coursing through him
screamed for release. The woman driver who had been tantalizing him
the entire evening drank like a man, he noted with disdain. Who did
she think she was? And she was noisy. The woman was unbearably full
of herself.

The hot liquid of his own juices bubbled within him,
the pressure of it building. He could feel the vessels behind his
eyes dilating, threatening to split his skull apart. It didn't stop
here, this distention of his fluids. The swelling reached even to the
marrow of his bones. He knew his cycles well. The force of it both
awed and—yes, he was man enough to admit it—at times the power
frightened him. What if he did nothing to answer this call? Would the
noodle-shaped pieces of his own precious brain spill out in red,
oozing gobs?

He tapped his fingers on
the rim of his glass, staring in the rippled mirror behind the cash
register, and visualized the pulsing organs of the loud, brash woman
seated at the end of the bar. He knew a lot about anatomy. Even as a
child he'd studied the miracle of the circulatory and digestive
systems. Often he'd been late to school, enthralled by the sight of
dead animals on the roadway, with their insides squished out into the
open, the tread of a tire imprinted on their fur and intestines, the
milky look of their open eyes. His mother thought him lazy. Lazy,
filthy monkey boy. But she had been wrong about him. Very wrong. He
realized he had an erection. He had to do something soon.

* * *

Mace drove to the headquarters of the Organized Crime
Intelligence Division. The OCID made its home in a windowless
three-story building across the street from the Greyhound bus station
on the edge of downtown. Cops in the know referred to the
headquarters as Fort Davis, in homage to the former chief, Ed Davis.

Mace had called ahead. If he hadn't, the flashing of
his detective's shield would not have been enough to get him inside
the ultra secret fortress. He only knew of its existence through his
friendship with Steve Brown. Detectives working under the auspices of
the OCID not only never made the news, but also never made arrests.
Their duties were only to gather intelligence. They weren't choosy
about their methods—a fact that never held up well in a court of
law. If the odd crime was observed, OCID investigators passed the
information along. Sometimes they used the anonymous WETIP line. But
Steve fed his intelligence directly- to Mace.

He greeted Mace at the doorway. A lean, handsome man,
Steve stood a shade under six feet and had a touch of gray at his
temples. He looked more like a TV anchorman than the spy Mace knew
him to be.

"Let's take a walk," he said to Mace.

"
So what did Tommy Lasorda have for lunch
today?" Mace asked.

"
The usual," Steve answered, not rising to
the bait. The duties of the OCID, despite its name, had little to do
with investigating organized crime. OCID investigators were divided
into teams that covered politicians, entertainers, athletes, team
owners—anybody who was anybody. Information was gathered and stored
in private facilities throughout Los Angeles, giving the chief of
police Hoover-like power over the Who's Who of the city.

"You've got a name for me?" Steve asked.

"
Raleigh Ward." Mace slipped his friend a
piece of paper.

"Here's his address and everything else we could
find out, which was damn little. I can't even get a photograph out of
the DMV.

Steve slipped the paper into his pocket. "You
think this guy is a spook?"

"
He's something."

"
Preparing for the Olympics has brought all
kinds of shit to town. I've worked double shifts for a month. Fucking
spooks think they can do anything they want, like the rules don't
apply to them."

Mace coughed into his hand. If that wasn't the pot
calling the kettle . . .

"I've got an unusual signature on the D.B.'s,"
Mace said. He described the washing of the bodies, the placement of
the victims' hands, and the white crosses of tape covering the
wounds. He knew that OCID shared information with organizations
similar to their own in other countries. He also appreciated the lack
of bureaucracy involved. So much time was saved when cops didn't have
to mess around with rules of conduct, protocol, and giving rights to
those who deserved none.

"It's a big world," Steve said. "Anywhere
in particular you think this guy might have operated?"

"I filed a report with Interpol six months ago,
after the December homicide, just in case the suspect was a tourist."

He'd been grasping at straws, but there were no other
leads to follow. All the victim's family and acquaintances had
checked out. He could find no motive. The victim's jewelry had not
been stolen. She had no enemies, according to everyone he
interviewed. It was the worst kind of murder to try to solve: murder
by stranger. "But that doesn't mean the Eastern Bloc countries
are cooperating. I also need you to keep an ear out to Mexico. I have
information that my guy might be there."

"
I'll see what I can find out," Steve said.

"
One other thing," Mace said. "My
homicide victims"—he wrote down the women's names and
address—"had their rent paid by Southern Air Transport I
didn't find any record of either one of the women's employment
there."

"
I know the company," Steve said.

"You do?" Mace asked. '

"
Government op. They
fly DC-3s and DC-4s in and out of Central America. Good cargo planes,
I understand, and able to operate on short runways."

* * *

Ellen woke up cold, vaguely aware of the sound of
rushing water. Rocks and branches poked her back. She sat up. Her
pants were pulled down to her knees; her shirt was on inside out and
full of foxtails. A quick check confirmed that she'd recently had
sex. She had a vague recollection of getting friendly with one of the
American sailors at the bar. She pulled her pants up and checked her
front pocket. The money was still there. Thank God. For a moment she
had been really worried.

She continued to take inventory. In a back pocket she
found a cache of capsules wrapped in coarse toilet paper. Where had
those come from? She had a vague recollection of arranging a trade
with one of the local working girls. The pills were chloral
hydrates—a tasteless tranquilizer that dissolved quickly in liquor.
She didn't know what their medical use was, but they made great
Mickey Finns.

Judging from the position of the moon, now high
overhead, it had to be close to midnight.
What
else happened during the missing hours between one-drink-won't-hurt
and waking up in these nasty old bushes?

The last thing she remembered was sitting in the bar.
The navy boys were lining up shooters. Raleigh got all pissed off
when she told the one sweet-faced fella that she was from North
Carolina.

"
I thought you said Georgia," he said.

She didn't remind him that Georgia had been his idea,
and she had just gone along to be agreeable. Men like to feel like
they know something—that they're smart. You can just see them preen
their feathers when you tell them what they want to hear. And what
was the big deal anyhow? Georgia was right next to North Carolina,
wasn't it? Maybe she grew up on the border or something. What harm
was there if she told a lonely sailor boy—a member of the Armed
Services of these United States—that they hailed from the same neck
of the woods? Still, she thought, zipping her jeans shut, you would
have thought sweet-faced North Carolina would have had the manners to
pull her pants back up.

She heard shouting from farther down the embankment
and realized that these noises were what had wakened her. Angry male
voices raised in argument, and in the background was the sound of
rushing water. She recognized Spanish swear words.
Pinche
this and
cabrón
that.

She stumbled down the bank toward the source of the
commotion. It was Raleigh and Victor, she saw, with two Mexican men.
The Mexican doing most of the shouting was young, maybe twenty. The
other man was thicker in the chest, old enough to be the youth's
father. They all stood beneath a bridge that spanned a muddy river.
With the palm of his hand Victor pushed the younger Mexican. The man
staggered back, sending out a stream of invectives and pointing at
Raleigh. She caught the Spanish words for "sister" and
"brother" and something that sounded like "mortar."
The man's voice broke as he shouted. His hysterical tone made her
instinctively crouch under the cover of a bush.