An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella Read online

  Well, duh, Munch thought. She'd forgot she was wearing the tiny solitaire diamond on the delicate gold band that Rico had given her a month ago. Guess Ellen didn't have to be Sherlock to figure that one out. Munch held out her nicked-up, grease-stained left hand. It wasn't as banged up as her right, but the girly ring still looked odd on her finger.

  "I only wear it on weekends. I don't want it getting messed up at work." Even now, the diamond setting sported a strand of thread.

  She pulled the pocket lint free. The ring was pretty, but totally impractical.

  "So, have you set a date?" Ellen asked.

  "We're closing in on one. I'll let you know." She hoped she wasn't lying. "So how's your love life?"

  "Nobody real special, per se. I've been keeping my options open, if you know what I mean."

  "Open options can be fun if you don't have a little kid watching your every move."

  "Yeah, I can see how that might crimp a person's style. Not that it isn't worth it."

  "You still have your condo?" Munch asked the question casually, but what she was really trying to gauge was how well Ellen was managing her inheritance. Both her parents had died within a month of each other and Ellen had been their sole beneficiary. Munch had worried that the windfall would be the end of Ellen, that she'd go on the Cali Cartel diet until there was nothing left of her.

  "I've got the condo, my car, and a money market account earning nine-and-a-half percent interest. You don't have to worry about me. This time it's you that needs worrying after."

  "How's that?"

  "The Pride is reorganizing, trying to get the Venice chapter active again."

  "Great." The Pride was shorthand for the Satan's Pride Motorcycle Club. Outlaw motorcycle clubs had a recurrent theme to what they called themselves: Hell's Angels, Heathens, Pagans, Satan's Slaves, Devil's Disciples. Munch had had some bad experiences with the Satan's Pride just before getting sober. Seems she had transmitted a social disease to a few of the members. They were gang-raping her at the time, so she didn't feel too terribly guilty about it. Besides, who were they to point fingers as to where a disease originated?

  Long story short, to their way of thinking, she had done them wrong. Kind of like a burglar suing the homeowners because he tripped over their furniture in the dark. Instead of taking her to court, the bikers had planned on selling her to a sadistic murderer. She had turned the tables on them, which resulted in their president, Crazy Mike, being shot dead by the cops and the rest of the pack departing for points unknown.

  "It gets worse," Ellen said. "I heard a rumor that there was a bounty on your ass."

  "For what?'

  "You know how those guys are. You embarrassed them."

  "What was I supposed to do? Let them kill me?"

  "A good ol, lady would have."

  They looked at each other and laughed. Neither of them had ever been in contention for Harley Whore of the Year. They were both too opinionated to make the cut. Good biker babes didn't have a point of view until their men told them what it was.

  "How much?" Munch asked.

  "Their patch."

  Munch knew that instant membership, without having to go through the year-long initiation of being a prospect, was quite an inducement.

  "That seems pretty specific for a rumor."

  "Yeah, well." Ellen picked up the platter and headed for the backyard. "Maybe you sleeping with a cop ain't such a bad thing after all."

  "I guess that would depend on the cop."

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY, MUNCH STOPPED ON HER way home from work to do some quick shopping at Royal Market on Washington Boulevard. The mom-and-pop grocery store was across the street from the AA clubhouse and one of the few markets left in Los Angeles that dispensed Blue Chip stamps. Munch and Asia were saving for a kitchen clock they'd found in the catalog. It was shaped like an English country cottage and required twelve books of stamps for redemption. She and Asia painstakingly collected and pasted the stamps between the dotted lines of the booklets. They were only half a book short.

  Munch unloaded her purchases onto the rubber conveyor belt. Harleys idled out front and she wondered if they were being ridden by anyone she knew. Damned if the choppers' deep-throated rumbles weren't still music to her ears.

  The checkout clerk paused. Munch looked up from her purse, expecting a total to be showing on the register.

  The clerk wasn't finished. She dangled a wilted piece of vegetation from her fingertips and looked at it as if she wasn't sure it was something she should be touching.

  Munch realized with a jolt that it was one of her anemic ears of corn. She blushed deeply and looked behind her. Rico stood there grinning.

  "Just throw it away," Munch told the clerk, mortified and amused at the same time. Rico laughed out loud, then kissed Munch on the cheek. She punched his arm. "What are you doing here?"

  Rico waited until Munch had paid for her groceries and collected her change and stamps. He picked up the bags and they headed for the exit. "I did some checking on what Ellen said about the Pride looking for you."

  "And?"

  "She was right."

  "Great. Should I be worried?" Munch did feel a little thrill of dread at his words, but then she refused to give in to that reaction on principle. It was much easier to deal with the bad bikers of her past if she focused on her contempt for them rather than giving them the respect of fear. She was also a tiny bit proud to still be a bone in their craw after all this time.

  "I think we can put an end to this right away," Rico said.

  Munch gestured to the bikes now visible through the market's glass doors. "You gonna turn me in and collect the reward yourself ?"

  "Even better than that. I've got a silver bullet for you. A magic password."

  She opened the door for herself and he followed. "Does it involve clicking my heels together three times and saying 'There's no place like home'?" She glanced at the bikers, but none of them were familiar.

  "The dude trying to revamp the chapter is who we go after. His name is Peter Donner. You might have known him as Petey."

  "Tall guy?" Munch asked. "Black hair, blue eyes?" Munch opened her trunk and Rico put away the bags.

  "So you knew him?"

  "Yeah, he thought he was God's gift to women." Actually, Ellen knew him a lot better. She said he was nothing special in the sack. Pretty boys rarely were, figuring they were doing you a favor being with you, and therefore you should do all the work.

  Rico lowered his voice, speaking softly so that his next words reached only her. "Five years ago, he gave us information that helped bust some Mongols on a murder beef."

  "Isn't that supposed to be, like, confidential? When someone snitches?"

  Rico shrugged. "If two people know a secret, it isn't a secret."

  Munch nodded. Someone always blabbed. It was human nature.

  "So, we, like, blackmail him?"

  Rico nodded. "The Mongols' lawyer knew there was an informant. He was also privy to the informant's code name, but not his identity."

  "What was his code name?"

  "The Desert Fox."

  "Oh, please. Someone tell this guy to get over himself."

  "I think Petey would very much like to keep that information from reaching certain people."

  "So we let him know that if something happens to me, his cover will be blown. What's to stop us from dropping a dime on him now?"

  "We want him in charge, so we can control the threat to you."

  Munch put her arms around Rico's waist and pulled him to her. He didn't resist. "Did anyone ever tell you that you can be very sneaky?"

  He smiled and kissed her. "Maybe once or twice."

  "How do we get the word to ol' Petey baby?"

  "You leave that part to me."

  "You're so good to me." Without her usual sarcastic edge, the words caught mid-throat—it was the unexpected truth of them. How did she ever get so lucky?

  "This is what
it's all about." Rico cupped her face in his hands, smoothing back the skin under her eyes with his thumbs. "I'm your man, of course I'm going to take care of you. You'd do the same for me."

  Again, a concept that was alien to Munch, a lover being a help instead of a complication. "You're not making out so good on this bar gain," she said. "I've got more baggage than the average bear."

  "Don't worry about it." He kissed the top of her head. "I've done my share of shit, too. just remember, when it comes down to it, it's you and me and the kids."

  "Jasper, too."

  "Yeah," Rico said, "he's covered under the kid category?

  "Will I see you later?"

  "I don't know. I'II call if I get a chance."

  They kissed once more and then he was gone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JASPER FELL OFF THE BED AND WOKE MUNCH UP. It surprised her. She always expected animals to be sure-footed and agile, much the way she expected Native Americans to have keen vision. But the reality was she'd met several nearsighted Indians and shared her bed with a clumsy cocker spaniel.

  She got up and pulled on her Texaco uniform. Dawn was just breaking as she retrieved her newspaper. The neighborhood was quiet, giving her the illusion that she had the world to herself. There wasn't anything earth-shattering on the front page. She checked out her horoscope, read some of her favorite comics, and was just turning to the obituaries when there was a knock at the door, sounding louder than normal. Munch looked at the clock, confirming what she already knew. It was too early for good news.

  She glanced out the front window on her way to answer the door. Her caller was Mace St. John. He was dressed for work or court in a dark suit. St. John was a homicide detective with the West Los Angeles division of the LAPD. He was also Asia's godfather. Munch had met him in a Venice biker bar when he came to arrest her for the murder of her pimp father, Flower George. That had been nine years and another life ago. The event that marked the beginning of their friendship also heralded her sobriety from drugs and alcohol. And, like many of her adventures in the bad old days, it began in a biker dive and ended in a police station.

  Those times were behind her, yet always a part of her. The Program had taught her not to dwell nor shut the door on the past. Embrace the lessons. Remember.

  She reached for the doorknob with her left hand, noticing as she always did the faint white scar along the vein that stretched from her wrist to the crook of her arm. Needle marks. Tracks of a right-handed junkie. She'd forever remember that.

  "It doesn't look like I woke you," St. John said. He reached for her elbow and held it. This close, even at a stooped five feet ten inches, he towered over her own five feet. She looked into his face. The bags under his eyes seemed more pronounced. He had nicked himself shaving and completely missed a small triangle of whiskers on his chin.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "I don't have all the details," he said. "It's Rico, honey."

  She wanted him to stop right there, to give her another few seconds of happiness before he delivered his news.

  "I'm sorry," St. John said. "I got the call this morning."

  Munch fought the urge to shut the door in his face.

  He still held her arm. "The details are sketchy."

  "Wait," she said, but he didn't hear her. Maybe she hadn't spoken out loud.

  "Honey," St. John said, "Rico is dead."

  Something went click inside her. Maybe it was her light switch turning off. She wondered if her heart had stopped, that would explain the sharp pain. No. She tried to say the word out loud, but it wouldn't come. She twisted out of St. John's grip and left him standing at the door.

  This couldn't be right. She and Rico were in love. They were going to get married. That was the plan. Happily ever after, just like the movies.

  The throw blanket on the couch was askew. That was all wrong, too. She shook it out and refolded it; her hands jerked at the task, but she couldn't slow them down.

  Asia would have to be told. Munch would hold her out of school today. She'd have to call Lou, her boss at the Texaco station, and explain—

  "Munch?" St. John's voice.

  She scooted the couch closer to the wall, the lamp on the end table wobbled. St. John caught it before it fell.

  "I have to do things," she said.

  "Let me help; what do you need?"

  "I don't know. I can't think. Wait. I told you to wait." She wanted to hit his face, scratch his eyes out, make him bleed.

  He tried to grab her arm again, but she pulled back. "Waiting won't change the facts," he said.

  "God forbid we change any facts." She heard the hysterical lilt to her voice, but didn't seem to have any control over volume or tone. Focus, she thought. Deep breath. God, it hurt to breathe.

  St. John patted the couch. "Here, sit."

  "I can't." There were details to see to. The realtor would have to be called. She'd withdraw the offer on the new house, stay where she could afford the payments alone.

  Alone. The word had an echo to it. And why was she thinking about money now? What kind of a cold-blooded monster was she? She didn't need to ask St. John if he was sure. He wouldn't be here otherwise. When, how, why? None of that was important either, but he was probably expecting her to ask.

  Why would she need to know any of the details? None of those answers would change the fact that Rico was gone, forever. An image of Rico smiling at her floated before her eyes. It was something she would never see again except in her dreams.

  Maybe if she went back to sleep? You're not making sense, she scolded herself.

  "Oh, God, please." She heard the words as she spoke them. She didn't recognize her voice, it was too high, almost otherworldly. Her neck ached, her throat, her chest, but the tears wouldn't release. Tears would help. She"d read that somewhere.

  St. John followed her around the room. She fended him off with outstretched hands. She should never have answered the door.

  "Caroline's on her way over."

  Munch blinked at him, not understanding for a moment the meaning of his words or what they had to do with anything. Caroline, Mace's wife, was Munch's former probation officer and Asia's godmother.

  St. John rubbed the back of his neck. "You want me to call anyone else?"

  Munch massaged her forehead in an effort to get her brain to work. A question needed answering. "His daughter, Angelica. She lives with his ex-wife." Angelica was going to be devastated. She loved her daddy. They all loved her daddy.

  "Someone's going to the house," St. John said gently. "I know you go to work early and I didn't want you hearing about it on the radio."

  They had arrived in the kitchen. She looked down at the table where the "Metro" section of the Times was spread open. "It wasn't in the paper," she said stupidly, feeling as if she were underwater and pedaling desperately for the surface.

  "Not yet," he said. "And I meant is there anyone you want me to call for you?"

  Munch thought of her AA sponsor, Ruby. Ruby would want her to go to a meeting and "share her feelings." She wasn't up to sharing shit. The last thing she wanted now was another dose of reality.

  "No. There's no one."

  What next? She crossed the thin carpet of her living room toward the nook she used as her office, thinking to grab a pen and paper, start a list.

  Her eyes refused to focus. The lined pad before her remained blank. She clutched at her scalp, pulling her shoulder-length light-brown hair as if she might literally draw out the needed answers. She thought of the expression "pulling out her hair" and wondered with detachment if this very sort of action/reaction was the origin of that phrase.

  Make a note, idiot.

  The teapot whistled. She went back into the kitchen and turned off the flame. She didn't want to be more awake. St. J0hn stood in the doorway.

  "You want some coffee?"

  "You got any decaf?"

  He'd given up caffeinated coffee after his heart attack over a year ago.

  "
No, sorry. Strictly leaded."

  "That's all right," he said. He looked uncomfortable. She didn't know what she was supposed to do now either.

  "Help yourself to whatever," she said. "I need to hit the head."

  He nodded. His sad eyes waited.

  She went into the bathroom. Jasper followed her. She closed the door gently behind them, crossed to the sink, and opened the cold water tap.

  Now, the voice in her head urged, do it now.

  She slumped to the floor, covered her face with both hands, and sobbed. Jasper came to her. He was shivering, upset by her emotion. She hugged him to her and cried into his fur, staying that way until there was a soft knock at the front door, and she knew the world was about to intrude.

  Rico was dead and it was all her fault. Her universe was divided into two time zones—before and after this terrible news, and the inescapable fact: If he had never met her, he would probably still be alive.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CAROLINE ST.JOHN VOLUNTEERED TO TAKE ASIA TO school. Munch had found it surprisingly easy to act as if nothing had happened. Asia accepted the St. Johns's presence without question, relieving Munch of the necessity of lying—a skill that came back all too easily when she needed it.

  She kissed Asia good-bye and then returned to the kitchen, where St. John was working on his second cup of herbal tea.

  "You'll be getting some calls today," he said. "The criminal investigation team will want to interview you, and a few guys from IA."

  IA. Internal Affairs. The cops who policed the cops.

  "IA? What's that about?" Munch asked. She grabbed for the box of Raisin Bran, then realized she wasn't the least bit hungry and put it back on the shelf.

  "They investigate all officer-involved shootings." St. John looked uncomfortable. "Just be up-front with them. You have nothing to hide, right?"

  "Oh yeah, my past is a matter of public record."

  "Are you going to be around today?"

  "I thought I'd go over to Rico's dad's house and see what I can do for them." She picked up the TO DO list she had begun, but had difficulty reading it. Her letters were misshapen and most of the words had been left unfinished. She took a deep breath. The pain was still there. Maybe it was a part of her now. "How does this work?"