Unpaid Dues (12 page)

The knot, the block, the
rope, the doll. They were all going to mean something. He could feel
it.

* * *

St. John put Cyrill McCarthy's scriptors out over the
network of police agencies with a "wanted for questioning"
stipulation. He'd been released from Chino a month earlier, on
January sixteenth. His parole officer was on vacation and wouldn't be
back until the following Monday

St. John also ran Stacy Lansford's name through every
system in the Department of justice's database—CLETS, NCIC, DMV
voter registration, even the phone book—and had come up with zip.
She had existed once, but the paper trail had died four years
earlier. He had struck out similarly with Jane Ferrar. Christine Hill
died from breast cancer in 1983. Poor kid.

Cassiletti knocked on the glass of his cubicle. "Want
to take a ride?"

St. John threw down his pencil. "Yeah, might as
well." He followed his younger partner out to the parking lot.
"Where are we going?"

"The scene of the crime," Cassiletti said,
making his voice melodramatic. "One of them anyway."

He held up an evidence bag that St. John saw
contained a length of rope.

"
I want to follow some leads." Cassiletti
laughed that high silly laugh of his that was so incongruent with his
large build, and St. John half smiled as he fastened his seat belt.

"
Let's take Sepulveda," St. John said. "I
want to stop at Munch's Texaco station. Would you mind?"

Cassiletti stared out his side window, the slightest
hint of disapproval in his tone. "No."

When they arrived at the gas station, Lou was on a
ladder at the gas pumps, replacing one of the fluorescent bulbs in
the canopy

They pulled up beside him, and St. John rolled down
his window. "Munch here?"

"She's on a test drive. Be about fifteen
minutes. Want to wait?"

"No, we were in the neighborhood. Tell her we
stopped by."

Cassiletti nodded to Lou, and for just a moment St.
John saw a look pass between Cassiletti and Lou that seemed to echo
Cassiletti's earlier tone of reproach. St. John felt a split second's
guilt, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He
almost said, "We're  just friends," but stopped
himself.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked,
instead.

Cassiletti's foot spasmed on the gas pedal, sending
the car forward with a lurch.

"
Watch it," St. John said.

"
Do I yell when you drive?"

"
You don't need to."

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"
Would you just go already? Christ, you sound
like an old woman. "

Cassiletti burnt rubber onto Sunset Boulevard,
smiling slightly when St. John gripped the handhold over the glove
compartment. He drove in silence until they arrived at the site that
St. John had identified as the spot where Jane Ferrar's body must
have been dumped into the storm drain. Cassiletti parked the Buick on
the dirt easement beside the stables where a woman in tight Levi's
and a long-sleeved blue shirt was mucking out the stalls. St. John
waited so Cassiletti would be the first to approach the woman.

"
Excuse me, ma'am," Cassiletti said.

St. John winced. Women under thirty, as this one
appeared to be, preferred to be addressed as "miss."

She paused, leaned against her rake, and studied
them. Most of her attention was on Cassiletti, taking in the
detective's full height of six-three. She had a friendly smile on her
tanned face even though she gave St. John no more than a cursory
glance.

"Patricia," she said. "Patricia
Kelly."

"I hate to bother you, Miss Kelly"
Cassiletti said, "but I was wondering if you could help me."

"
Call me Patty " She rested her rake
against the corral wall and pulled off her leather work gloves. "And
you're?"

Cassiletti handed her a business card and her eyes
lit up even more. St. John watched with a pang of nostalgia.
Something about the badge parted more knees than the Charleston.

"What do you need?" Patty asked.

Cassiletti was all business as he produced the
plastic evidence bag containing the rope that had been used to bind
Jane Ferrar. "Is this the type of rope you use around here?"

"
May I?" She reached for the bag.

Cassiletti let her take it. She studied the rope for
a moment. "Nylon."

"
That's right."

"We'd never use it here, not for a lead. I like
cotton, much softer on your hands if the horse shies. Nylon burns
your hands and when you cut it you have to seal the ends or it
unravels."

Cassiletti showed her the melted end. "Seal it
like this?"

She looked, learning in much closer than she needed
to, St. John thought. "Exactly" she said, giving her long
brown hair a flip and smiling with all her teeth for Cassiletti.

"
One more thing," he said.

"Sure."

"
Were you here last Saturday?"

"In the morning. I came in and fed the stock."

"How about later?"

"You mean Saturday night?" She looked at
him speculatively "I had a date, a very boring date, and I went
home early."

St. John waited for her to add "alone."
With Cassiletti, she'd be better served if she hit him over the head
and then lassoed him with one of her soft cotton ropes.

"
Thank you, Patty," Cassiletti said.
"You've been a big help."

"Do you want my number?" she asked. "In
case you have any more questions?"

"That would be great. Thank you very much."

Cassiletti wrote down her full name and phone number,
checked his watch, and made a notation of the time. All business.

Patty touched his hand. "And that's 'Miss.' "

Cassiletti nodded without looking up. His ears
darkened and he cleared his throat.

Fuck, St. John thought, this is truly painful to
watch. When they walked back to the car, St. John held his hands out
for the keys. Cassiletti relinquished them without protest.

St. John swung a U when there was a break in traffic.
"You going to call her?"

"About what?"

"
Have I taught you nothing?"

Cassiletti let out one of his trademark giggles and
rolled his eyes. "Oh," he said.

"Yeah," St. John said. "Oh." He
looked across the seat. "What did you do last Saturday night?"

"
I cooked dinner for my dad."

"
What about your mom?"

"What about her?"

"l don't know, you never talk about her."

"
She was a model from England. And very
beautiful."

That would explain Cassiletti's hazel eyes and long
lashes. St. John had met the father, a hefty but short Italian. His
son's looks hadn't come from him. "Is she still alive?"

"Probably." Cassiletti stared out his
window.

"
You don't know? When's the last time you saw
her?"

"I was eight when my dad kicked her out."

"
And he kept custody of you?" St. John
didn't mean to pry; but this was too surprising not to demand an
explanation.

Cassiletti looked at him, then at his knees as he
smoothed his impeccable slacks. "My dad kicked her out because
he came back from a business trip and the makeup she put on me rubbed
off on his hand. "

"She put makeup on you?"

"To cover up the bruises. My dad put it
together, realized the other things weren't accidents."

"The other things?"

"
The burns, the chipped teeth." Cassiletti
shrugged as if to say: "History."

St. John drove in silence.
Well, no wonder then, he thought. His dad used to say: "Everybody
has a story" Digger St. John was right about that.

* * *

Munch was not surprised to see St. John's Buick
swinging out from the spot where she'd witnessed the new fence being
installed. She didn't honk or wave and neither St. John nor
Cassiletti had seen her. She was driving a customer's big white Ford
Bronco, which had a whine in the rear end.

A cowgirl was leading a large gray horse out of one
of the stables. Munch pulled in beside her and put a big smile on her
face. "Hi, did I miss them?"

"
You mean those cops?"

"
Yeah." Munch shifted the truck into park
and rested her elbow on the windowsill. "They ask you if you saw
anything the other night?"

"You mean Saturday?" The woman walked the
horse over. "I wasn't here. I told them that. They were asking
me about some rope."

"What kind of rope?"

"
Just regular nylon, might have been
clothesline, I guess. Not the kind we use here." The horse
nudged her arm. "So you know those guys?"

"
Yeah, they're friends of mine."

"Do you know if he's married? I didn't see a
ring."

"Which one?"

"The cute one. The big guy"

"Oh, him. " Munch had to smile at the
relief she felt, as if it made any difference which cop this woman
had taken an interest in. "No, he's available, but he's shy
around women. Why do you think the rope was clothesline?"

"Because it was white, I guess. Why?"

"They're investigating the murder of a friend of
mine."

"The woman in the storm drain?" The horse
put his head into her back and pushed. She stumbled a few steps
forward, then pushed back and stroked the horse's face, admonishing
him to be patient.

"
That's the one."

"
I'm sorry."

"
Yeah, me too." Munch fished Thor's
photograph out of her pocket. "You ever see this guy before?"

"
No."

"How about without the beard?"

"
That would be hard to say Maybe. Who is he?"

"Nobody important."

"
Somebody who looked like that would really
stand out around here."

"Yeah, he always stood out."
 

Chapter 12

Munch got home that night, she found that a thick
letter with a Sacramento postmark had arrived. Roxanne's telephone
bill. Many long-distance phone numbers were circled. There were at
least thirty to Oregon, another ten to Los Angeles, and three to
Amsterdam.

Munch wondered what time it was in Amsterdam as she
put the call through. With Deborah, the boundaries between night and
day didn't matter. The last time Munch had spent time with Deb, it
had been "wine-thirty" pretty much all day

"
Yeah," a sleepy voice answered.

"What are you doing?" Munch asked without
bothering to identify herself.

"I was sleeping. How the hell are you?"

"Good. Are the tulips blooming?"

"Oh, yeah, it's fucking beautiful" A half a
world away Deb yawned loudly "What's up?"

"
Your son's staying with me. I thought you might
like to know."

"
Is he there right now?"

"No, he's still at work. He got himself a job
doing construction."

"
That's the man I raised."

Oh, shut up, Munch wanted to tell her. How dare you
take credit for his survival skills? "He sure did grow up nice."

"Yeah, I'm real proud of that boy He had some
rough spots, but he got through 'em."

"
You ever hear from his father?"

"I thought you knew. Walter died."

"
He did? No, I didn't know. Bummer. How?"

"Yeah, it was really sad. Just when he was going
to get to know his son."

Munch was quiet. In the years she had known Deb and
Boogie, from when he was six months old until he was a cute little
boy of seven, his father had made no attempt that she knew of to
spend time with his son—not that Munch was especially tuned in to
that kind of thing then.

"I've been going through all this bullshit with
Social Security to get Boogie survivor's benefits," Deb said.
"But it's a big hassle because, you know, we weren't married and
I didn't put Walter's name on the birth certificate."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't anyone's business. I tried to change
it, but that was a whole other hassle and I had the wrong year for
Walter's birthday "

"
Sounds like real work," Munch said, but
Deb missed the irony

"Tell me about it. That man worked three jobs at
a time when he was trying to get his band together. Shit, the
government took half his paycheck."

"Not half. "

"Damn near."

Munch chuckled, remembering her own shock at her
first legitimate paycheck and how much deductions had cut into it. It
wasn't easy to be young and single and following all the rules.