An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella Page 3

  "What do you mean?"

  She blinked back tears. "Does the department arrange the funeral? Should I call the coroner's office? I'd like to make it as easy on the family as I can."

  St. John seemed to know what she needed and what she didn't. A word of sympathy right now would completely unwind her.

  "I'll let you know the timetable as soon as all that is decided," he said. "We usually do a showy funeral for the troops and PR. The hypocrisy is painful at best."

  "Usually?" she asked, again picking up on some reluctance in his voice and body language. "When haven't they?"

  "The only cop funerals I've seen go ignored and unannounced were suicides and bad off-duty situations."

  "It wasn't either of those," Munch said firmly. "Especially not suicide. He was Catholic. A good Catholic."

  "Of course he was," St. John said. "To the best of my knowledge, it wasn't anything like suicide. He died fighting."

  Several hours later, Munch had to get out of the house. She walked to the market and bought a quart of milk. Caroline St. John took Asia to school at 8:30 A.M. They had decided not to tell Asia until after school. Let the kid have a few more hours of blissful ignorance. This also gave Munch a little more time to come to terms with it all before having to explain the unexplainable to her daughter.

  Remember the Challenger, honey, and how that schoolteacher died? This is much worse.

  The world had changed. People conducted their business, gave up their money for services and products, grew impatient with traffic, cared about the color of their houses and how much water the neighbor used to water his lawn.

  Munch had a secret. None of that shit mattered. It was oddly freeing. She even felt superior, maybe enlightened was more like it. The problem with this newfound wisdom was that when nothing mattered, nothing mattered.

  When she got back from the store, Munch changed out of her Texaco uniform to go visit Rico's father. She put on a pair of Levi's, T-shirt, and tennis shoes.

  Fernando Chacón had a small house in Lawndale. He lived there with his son Cruz. Cruz was thirty-three, but would always need help for the simplest of life functions. His fingers and toes curled spastically inward and he moved in lurching steps. He had the mental capacity of a toddler and spoke in a minimal language only understood by his immediate family. An older Mexican woman came in five days a week to cook and clean for the two men since Rico's mother had died.

  Like a toddler, Cruz needed constant supervision. When the family had lived in San Ysidro, the border town in California opposite Tijuana, Cruz had once gotten out of the house and walked across the footbridge connecting the two countries.

  Rico and his mother had had to use connections and bribes to locate the missing man in a Tijuana jail and negotiate his release. Rico had hated the way they did business in his country of birth, but knew how to operate within its corrupt system.

  Fernando was sitting in his garage when Munch pulled up. He was wearing lace-up boots, thick canvas pants, and a matching long-sleeved shirt. A dark oval of unbleached fabric over the pocket remained where a name tag had once been stitched. He, like Munch, had opted for clothes that gave him maximum mobility.

  Soon, she knew, he would be breaking out his black suit and dusting off his lone pair of shiny black loafers.

  Fernando kept a card table set up in his garage with several folding chairs. A heavy bag hung in one corner and the big round plastic dial of a chocolate-brown Admiral radio was tuned to a Spanish-language talk station. Rico used to call the setup his dad's fort. When Rico's mom was alive, Fernando purposely smoked big smelly cigars to ensure her exclusion.

  Today there was a bottle of mescal on the table and two other middle-aged Mexican men sat with him gripping jelly-jar glasses in their callused hands. Their faces were brown and deeply lined, their bodies solid with muscle and unstooped by age, their otherwise dark hair gray-streaked. The men didn't smile when she approached. Fernando's expression under the brim of his Dodgers cap was particularly grim. Munch didn't feel he'd ever approved of her. She supposed he thought that his son needed and deserved a more traditional wife.

  She wondered if he also blamed her.

  Fernando lumbered to his feet. He seemed to have aged twenty years overnight. She hesitated at the entrance of the garage, willing to accept whatever recriminations he had for her. He crossed the cement floor to meet her. His arms raised up. She flinched. He pulled her to him and hugged her tightly. Munch buried her face in his shoulder. She tried to cry quietly and hold back the racking sobs. This man who would have been her father-in-law, this poor man who must deal with the loss of his wife and son, didn't need a hysterical woman on his hands.

  After a too-short moment, Fernando released her. She instantly missed the feel of his rough shirt against her cheek. The moment of comfort was as surprising as it was brief.

  A Gran Torino pulled up to the curb behind Munch's GTO. Two white men in suits got out. The flashing of their badges was redundant.

  "Here we go," Munch said.

  Fernando grunted and put a hand on her shoulder. For him the gesture was as eloquent as any crafted speech.

  "I'm looking for Fernando Chacón," the cop who had been the passenger said.

  "You found him," Fernando said.

  "I'm Detective Martin Grimes, this is my partner Phil Bayless. Can we go somewhere private t0 talk?" Both cops were gladiator-type specimens. White, six feet tall, with requisite cop mustaches. Obviously, Munch thought, they had joined the force before affirmative-action mandates had tilted the requirement scales. Fernando stood tall and squared off. "I already know my son is dead."

  "We just have some questions, sir," Bayless said.

  "Can I see your identification again?" Munch asked.

  "And who are you?" Grimes asked, obviously annoyed at having his authority questioned.

  "Miranda Mancini," Munch said, also holding her ground.

  The two cops looked at each other. "We have some questions for you, too," Bayless said.

  He showed her his identification and gave her a business card. Bayless was with Internal Affairs. Playing the memory association game in her head, Munch instantly dubbed the two Grimy and Ball-less.

  "Ask me anything you want," she said.

  Bayless took her aside and pulled out a notebook. "So what do your friends call you?"

  She studied him dry-eyed for a second before answering.

  "Munch."

  "How long had you and Detective Chacón been seeing each other?"

  "About a year and a half. You know we were planning on getting married, right?"

  Bayless looked up from his notebook. He seemed ill at ease, or maybe he was just the nervous sort.

  "I'm sorry," he said, and those words sounded genuine enough.

  "Had you combined households?"

  "We were going to buy a house, but I canceled the deal."

  "When?"

  "This morning. Right after I got the news Rico had died."

  Bayless nodded, as if the timing made sense, but then asked, "Why?"

  "Why?" Munch wondered if this was some dumb-cop routine, but decided to play it straight with the guy. "Because it was supposed to be our house and I couldn't afford it alone."

  "Was Chacón supplying the money?"

  "We both were."

  "And did you have a joint bank account?"

  "No."

  "Did Chacón get any mail at your house or perhaps at a PO box you knew about?"

  She felt her hackles rising. What were they insinuating? "I'm not even sure what kind of stamps he preferred. You want to tell me what any of this has to do with anything?"

  "If you would just answer the questions to the best of your knowledge, we'll determine that when all the facts are in."

  "He was a good and moral man."

  Bayless nodded.

  Munch pointed at his open notebook. "Write that down."

  "Would you say he was loyal?" Bayless asked.

  "Completely," M
unch said, deciding to limit her answers to one-word responses. It wasn't looking like she and old Ball-less here were going to be new best friends after all.

  "And you characterize him as an honest man?"

  A two-word response came to mind, but she didn't want to come off defensive. "Yes, I would."

  "How far would he go to protect a loved one?"

  Munch blinked. "How is anyone supposed to know the answer to that? I'd step in front of a train for my kid. Is that the kind of protection you're talking about? Who was in trouble, and why?"

  Bayless waved aside her question as if he were swatting a gnat.

  "When was the last time you saw him?"

  "A week ago."

  "Was that unusual?"

  "We made time together when we could. It was never enough."

  She looked over and caught Fernando's eye. He had crossed his arms over his chest and was shaking his head no to Grimes's questions. Soon he would lose his English.

  "Who's handling the criminal investigation?" she asked Bayless.

  She wanted to add, Not this bullshit witchhunt; but she didn't. It was too early to burn this guy as a possible resource.

  "They'll be contacting you in due course."

  "Then I should probably get home."

  "Just one more question," he said. "If you remember anything else, or if something comes up in the future that doesn't make sense, would you give me a call?"

  "The man I loved is dead. How is anything supposed to make sense?"

  "Maybe that's something we can figure out together."

  "Yeah, sure, You and me. What a team we'll make."

  Bayless had the grace to look uncomfortable. Munch felt an unwilling response of empathy for him. Since she'd been promoted to service manager at her gas station, there had been more times than she cared to count where she'd been an asshole for the sake of the business. And not always to the people who deserved it.

  After the IA cops left, Munch stood on the sidewalk with Fernando.

  "What's going on?" she asked. "No one has even told me how it happened?

  "He was shot. Many times." Fernando's mouth turned down from the bitterness of the news. "This is all I know."

  Munch shut her eyes against the image of ripped flesh and shattered bone. "Have you spoken to Angelica?" she asked, although what she was really wondering about was if Fernando had turned to Rico's first wife, Sylvia. Was Munch jealous even now? She couldn't tell and didn't want to examine her feelings too closely. She already had enough to hate herself for.

  "Yes, they are coming over later with the rest of the family."

  She was glad he wasn't going to be alone. That's what was important. "Can I use your phone?"

  "Of course, hija." Daughter. He'd never used that endearment with her before.

  She passed through the darkness of the garage quickly. Her grief had settled in her throat, making it difficult to swallow. Cruz was in the living room, standing as she often saw him with his forehead pressed against the bronze-veined mirrored wall, head bent down so that he could see the reflections. He turned to her, startled by the noise, and she saw that his face was wet with tears. She put a hand on his shoulder and said, "We'll get through this."

  She used the kitchen phone to call Ellen.

  "Hi," was all she said.

  "What's wrong?" Ellen immediately asked.

  "It's Rico."

  "What's he gone and done?"

  "He died."

  "He what? Oh, shit. No way. Oh, sugar, I'm sorry. Damn. How? When?"

  "Some kind of shoot-out, I think; they haven't told me much or with whom. Listen, I need your help."

  "Anything," Ellen said without hesitation. She knew Munch well enough to know she'd only ask once.

  "I need to go over to . . ." Munch hesitated. Was it far-fetched to think that the phone might be bugged? "The mall. I'm going to need a new Outfit."

  "Where are you now? You want me to pick you up?"

  "Yeah, meet me at the Brentwood Country Mart. We can leave my car there."

  "Should I bring anything?" she asked.

  "You might want to wear comfortable shoes."

  * * *

  The Brentwood Country Mart was a grouping of faux barn buildings on the corner of Twenty-sixth and San Vincente. The mini-mall had all the neighborhood essentials, including a hardware store and a market. If people didn't care about paying top dollar, they could get film developed, prescriptions filled, and buy toys. There were also a world-class deli, a central courtyard where shoppers could nosh on rotisserie chicken, and several boutiques that sold the other necessities, such as three-hundred-dollar beaded evening bags and hand-made Italian loafers.

  Munch parked among the Mercedes and Cadillacs. Ellen was already there waiting, although it took Munch a moment to recognize her friend in long black beaded braids, fringed buckskin jacket, and matching moccasins. Ellen walked over while Munch locked her car. Munch took a closer look. "I like the eyes."

  Ellen batted her long lashes. "Honey amber. I just got them."

  They embraced. Munch drank in the body contact, felt nourished by it, and—in another first for them—let Ellen break it off first. Ellen brushed a lock of hair from Munch's face and tucked it behind one ear. "How you doing, kid?"

  Munch shrugged. She didn't like to lie or complain, and that left little to say.

  Ellen put a protective arm around Munch's shoulders. "Now, Miss I-Need-a-New-Outfit, where are we really going?"

  "Rico's house. I want to look around. Something stinks."

  CHAPTER SIX

  RICO'S HOUSE WAS IN SANTA MONICA CANYON. THE garage faced the street and the front door was actually on the side of the house, facing the next-door neighbor's side fence. Munch had Ellen park a few doors down the street.

  "Honk twice if you see anyone coming." Munch looked up and down the block as she got out of Ellen's Camaro.

  "You want me to create a diversion or something?"

  Munch had to smile. Creating diversions was one of Ellen's specialities. She didn't even need a reason and it often involved lifting her blouse to her chin. "Let's play it by ear, Pocahontas."

  Munch used her key to let herself in. Once inside the door, she turned off the alarm. She looked for signs that someone else had been there, but couldn't detect any. Neither the police nor the coroner had put their seal on the door. Not that a piece of gummed paper would have stopped her.

  The two-bedroom beach bungalow was definitely a bachelor's pad. No dining room. A Pac-Man video game served as a small table. The kitchen was open, defined from the living room by a high counter. On the occasions that they had eaten meals there, she and Rico had perched on the barstools side by side.

  His stereo system was top of the line, Harman Kardon, and every room boasted a television suspended by brackets from the ceiling. Over the large overstuffed leather sofa hung a framed fight poster advertising last year's bout between "Boom Boom" Mancini and Bobby Chacón. Mancini had won by a unanimous decision. Munch wondered if anyone would object to her keeping the poster.

  The focal point of the master bedroom was the king-size bed. The spread was pulled hastily across lumpy sheets. She lay down on his side and rested her head on his pillow. He always took the side closest to the door. He wanted to be the first line of defense against an intruder.

  How far would he go to protect someone he loved? Where had that question come from? Was it a fishing expedition, or had Bayless been trying one of those cop head trips on her? Sometimes they were able to finesse a confession by providing the guilty person an out. People naturally wanted to tell the truth. Giving them a logical excuse for their actions made honesty that much easier.

  She studied her image in the mirrored closet door, curious to see if her grief showed in her face. So far she looked the same. The dark circles under her hazel eyes would come later, after the long sleepless nights. There was an odd sort of comfort in her melancholy; maybe it was just the return to familiar territory.

 
; Rico's brown corduroy coat sleeve prevented the sliding closet door from closing all the way. It was the jacket he had worn the day they ran across the gang-banger with the pit bull. She pulled the coat off its hanger and put it on. She had to fold back the cuffs three times before the sleeves ended at her wrists.

  She slid the door open and stared at the costumes of his under-cover work mixed with his dress clothes. A clear plastic dry cleaner's bag shrouded a blue uniform with its patches and rank insignia. Last year, she had helped Ellen pick out the clothes to bury her parents—all three of them, counting her stepfather. The Colonel, Ellen's long-lost dad, had left instructions to be buried in his uniform. Rico would have wished the same thing. He told her once that being a cop was the only career he'd wanted since high school. Yeah, being buried in his uniform was one of those traditions he probably would have dug.

  A chill came over her and she pulled the jacket tight around her. She went into the second bedroom, the one Rico used as his office. On the top of his desk was a file folder with "Wedding" written on the tab. She opened it to find menu selections and a sheet of lined yellow paper torn from a legal pad. It was a working copy of the wedding-guest list. How convenient to have a roll call of all the same people she would be inviting to the funeral. Rico had also torn out a glossy magazine ad of a tuxedo with a ruffled shirt. It made her think of the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror of his low rider. Sometimes the guy was such a beaner, it made her want to cringe. Not now. Now all his idiosyncrasies and flaws would be forgotten or remembered with affection.

  She lifted the desk blotter and found a United Airlines envelope. Inside were two airline tickets to Hawaii. Under that envelope were two aged Hallmark greeting cards. The printed cards were gushy miss-you, love-you types and signed by two different women: a Victoria and a Christina. The names meant nothing to her. Munch wished the bitches had had the consideration to date their declarations. Now she'd have to wonder.

  The airline tickets were in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Enrique Chacón. She put the tickets back. They were too sad to contemplate, and she didn't want anyone to accuse her later of taking anything of monetary value.