Unpaid Dues (2 page)

"Oh, jeez," Shue said, eyeing the ladder
and rubbing an open hand across his mouth.

"I'd like to transport the body as is." St.
John heard the crack in his own voice and cleared his throat.

"You got it," Shue said. He returned five
minutes later with a four-by-ten-foot opaque sheet of plastic and a
roll of twine. He joined St. John, wading through the muck in a pair
of weathered high-top tennis shoes. The men put on latex gloves and
laid the plastic on the paved floor of the storm channel.

St. John used a sharp pocketknife to sever the rope
where it threaded through the cinder block, thus preserving the
noose-like knots. He grunted slightly as he climbed halfway up the
ladder and handed the wet block to Cassiletti. The second, younger
detective took the evidence in one of his big hands and lifted it
easily as if it were made of Styrofoam.

"You should be down here," St. John said.

Cassiletti said, "Oh, I'm sorry" in that
high, nervous voice of his and set down the cinder block on a sheet
of white butcher paper he'd spread on the ground. St. John sighed as
the big man climbed almost daintily down the side of the bank, taking
his time as if worried that he might break a nail.

Shue secured paper bags over the woman's hands to
preserve possible evidence under her fingernails, and then searched
her pockets. He found no identification.

Overhead, a helicopter beat back ocean breezes. St.
John caught himself listening for distant mortar fire.

"
Let's get her out of here," he said,
collecting his breath and feeling the ever-present weight in his
chest, a reminder of the heart attack he'd suffered four months ago
at the age of forty-two. His hand strayed for a moment to his pocket
as he assured himself that he had his nitroglycerin tablets. It was a
gesture he repeated at least twenty times a day

The body flopped a bit as Cassiletti and Shue rolled
it onto the plastic. The woman was now on her back, her bagged hand
fallen to her side. Rigor mortis had come and gone, there would be no
point in taking liver temperature readings to determine loss of live
body temperature. She had been dead for over twenty-four hours,
probably closer to thirty St. John placed the woman's bag-encased
hand over the doll's body then Shue folded the tarp around the
cadaver, burrito-like, and bound the macabre package with lengths of
rope at the corpse's waist, ankles, and neck.

"Good thing she wasn't in the water that long,"
Shue said, "or you'd want to be real careful about tugging on
any limbs."

St. John was also grateful the body hadn't been in
salt water, where crabs and shrimp would nibble off the smaller
extremities.

"See if you can plump up those fingers and get
me some prints," he said, blinking into the sun. Her own mother
wouldn't recognize the woman's face, not with that much damage.

At St. John's signal, the fire engine's boom swung
over the canal, lowering a litter attached to a heavy steel winch
hook. The shrouded body was loaded onto the litter, lifted over the
embankment, and then laid on a gurney for transportation to the
coroner's office. The detectives and the coroner met up top for a
brief huddle. Shue said he'd let St. John know as soon as he had any
information on the deceased's identity.

St. John removed his latex gloves, clamped a hand on
Cassiletti's big shoulder, leaving an imprint of the white powder
from the gloves, and pointed at the cinder block. "Find out
everything you can about this. I want to know where it's made, sold,
and used. And I want to know it today"

Cassiletti, ever anxious to please, said, "I'll
become the world's leading authority "

Leaving the scene, St. John drove the tree-lined,
curving canyon roads north of Sunset Boulevard. Large convex mirrors
warned of oncoming traffic. Many beautiful homes were nestled in the
rustic hillsides, some were under construction—signs of Reagan
prosperity—many had stables. He drove slowly attempting to trace
the route of the storm drains, but after Sunset Boulevard the
channels weren't visible from the street. Riviera Ranch Road ended at
a house that reminded him of the entrance to Disneyland's
Frontierland, complete with a two-story outer wall made of logs and a
wrought iron chandelier-sized porch light.

Back on Sunset Boulevard, where the channel split, he
parked his car in a space between a wooden guardrail studded with
orange reflectors and a six-foot-high redwood fence. The easement
road here was no wider than a footpath but easily accessible. The
chopper pilot had noticed a disturbance in the silt lining the bottom
of the channel just before it turned under Sunset Boulevard.

The gate to the wooden fence was open, so St. John
peeked inside. He saw six horse stalls, all occupied. A bay mare in
the first stall stuck her head over her railing to greet him. He took
a moment to stroke her soft muzzle and look into one of her big brown
eyes.

"See anybody suspicious lately?"

She twitched her ears and snorted softly. Too bad he
didn't have a carrot.

Beyond the mare's swishing
tail, St. John noticed that someone had stacked several bales of hay
on the narrow easement next to the fence flanking the canal. A
strange place for hay He pushed the top bale aside. The chain link
had been cut. The severed ends of steel were still shiny showing no
hint of oxidation. He saw the bend marks where a triangular flap of
chain link had been bent outward and then straight again. Using his
car radio, he requested a Scientific Investigation Division unit. He
told them what he wanted and how badly he wanted it.

* * *

Jane Doe 85-00248 was transported to the Los Angeles
coroner 's office downtown, where workers unwrapped the shroud and
carefully delivered the plastic doll from the dead woman's
unresisting arms. She was photographed again, X-rayed, weighed,
washed, fingerprinted, and prepared for autopsy Samplings of
vegetation, fibers, and soil clinging to the body were also collected
and cataloged; pubic hair was combed; debris under the fingernails
was scraped into sterile white envelopes labeled with Jane's case
number. The life-size baby doll was put in a plain cardboard box,
face up.

Results from the fingerprints came in within an hour
due to the lucky break that the decedent had a police record. Her
name was Jane Ferrar. She had been arrested for prostitution, petty
theft, and DUI. Most of her offenses were in neighboring Venice
Beach, but one charge was listed in West Los Angeles—St. John's
division.

He returned to the station and pulled the hard copy
of her arrest report. He had to hunt a bit in the station's archives
to find it. The arrest date was ten years earlier, on June 10, 1975.
The charge was driving under the influence. He brought the folder
back to his desk and opened it. A black-and-white mug shot was
paper-clipped to the 5.10 form.

"
Oh God." His chest constricted. He picked
up his telephone, but couldn't remember the number; digits kept
transposing in his head. Still not breathing, he flipped through his
Rolodex and stopped at M.

M for Mancini, for Munch, for mechanic, for mother of
an eight-year-old daughter.

He punched in the telephone number of the Texaco
station where she worked, her photograph gripped between his thumb
and index finger. The telephone rang in his ear. Munch looked
disheveled in the mug shot. Her light brown hair uncombed, a
rebellious sneer on her face, not yet the smiling, sober young woman
he'd come to know and—

"Bel Air Texaco," a man's voice answered.

St. John fought to calm his thoughts, trying not to
superimpose Munch's face on the battered corpse.

"Lou?"

"
Yeah."

"It's Mace St. John."

"
How's it going? Just a sec." Lou put down
the phone and called out, "Munch, line one."

St. John exhaled, and by the time Munch picked up,
his heart rate was almost back to normal.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

"
Sure, what's up?"

"Not on the phone"

"
This can't be good," she said.

"It could be worse. Trust me."
 

Chapter 2

Munch held an air gun in her hand, poised to tighten
the lug nuts on the wheel she'd just hung, when the silver Seville
pulled into the Texaco station with smoke pouring out from the wheel
wells.

"Overheat," Lou said, pushing back his
sleeves over his wiry arms.

She paused and followed her boss's gaze. "Even
worse," she said as the molten tar smell reached her.

"Hear that?" she asked, referring to the
knocking of the overworked and now probably ruined pistons. So many
people didn't understand that when the red temperature "idiot"
light came on it didn't mean "keep driving to the nearest repair
facility." It meant "urgent trouble now." The best
action would be to pull over, shut off the engine, call a tow truck,
and not drive until the car died, thereby turning a twenty-dollar
thermostat job into an eight-hundred-dollar cracked block. Better to
suffer the price and inconvenience of a tow.

The customer, a man of about sixty jumped out of the
car. His name came to her instantly as did the last repair she had
done on his car. Mr. Hale, rear brakes, and that was a month ago. And
brakes, she was as quick to realize, had nothing to do with the
cooling system. The engine continued to rattle and ping.

"Shut it off," she yelled.

Mr. Hale flapped his hands once and then did as he
was told. The tortured engine gave a last gasping death rattle and
then went quiet. Lou was there instantly and pulled the hood release.
Munch stood at the front of the car with a rag wrapped around her
hand to protect it from the steam. She had already released the
second latch when she saw the circle of paint bubbling on the hood.

"We've got a fire here," she said.

Mace St. John's sedan pulled into a spot right in
front of the office. She waved to him but then her attention was
diverted back to the Seville as flames leaped up to greet the influx
of oxygen from the now-open hood. The paint job and the engine were
history.

The shop's other two mechanics drew closer. Carlos, a
known prankster, grabbed a bucket that Stephano had been using to
prime a fuel pump. The fluid in it sloshed as he passed it to Lou
with a barely contained smirk. Lou grabbed it from his hands and
threw it on the flames before Munch had a chance to stop him or warn
him that the bucket was full of gasoline. The engine fire roared to a
new height with a bang and a flash. Everybody stepped back, shielding
their faces from the heat. A moment of stunned silence followed as
they all looked at each other.

"There goes the carburetor," Munch
deadpanned. Lou readily agreed, sneaking a brief glare at Carlos.

She grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and
doused the flames.

"Is this a bad time?" St. John asked,
waving away the smoke in front of his face.

"
Oh no. Business as usual." Munch grabbed
the bucket and threw it to the back of the shop. An open container of
gasoline was a violation of air quality regulations and punishable by
a huge fine. Rightly so. Gasoline was dangerous, but how else were
they expected to prime a fuel pump?

Lou walked over to the soda machine. Munch saw his
hands shake a little as he dropped quarters into the coin slot. Mr.
Hale collapsed on one of the plastic chairs in front of the office,
his right palm pressed tight to the top of his head, his mouth opened
wide.

Lou handed him a Coca-Cola. Carlos staggered over to
the bathrooms before he doubled over, gripping his sides, shoulders
heaving silently She couldn't help but crack a smile as she turned to
St. John.

"And how's your day so far?"

St. John didn't return her smile. In fact, he looked
grim. The bags under his eyes were a little more pronounced than
usual, his lips pursed. He clutched the manila folder under his arm
as if it held government secrets. He tilted his head toward Lou's
office, turned his back to her, and went inside. Munch, her dread
mounting, followed him. She knew Asia was okay She'd called her
daughter's school as soon as she hung up with St. John and made
Sister Francis personally go to Asia's third-grade classroom, see the
eight-year-old with her own two eyes, and then report back. Asia was
fine.

"Is it Caroline?" Munch asked St. John's
back. Not that that would make any sense. If something bad had
happened to the detective's wife, Munch's former probation officer
and Asia's godmother, St. John would be with her, not here. Munch
knew full well where his priorities lay She was high on his list, but
would always come second to his wife, probably third overall, right
after Asia and tied with his dogs.

"No," St. John said as he entered the
office, "it's not Caroline. Close the door. I need to ask you
about something"

He opened the file folder and pulled out a
familiar-looking document. It was an arrest report. She spotted her
picture clipped to the top and winced. There she was, attitude and
all, her mouth set in a fuck-the-world expression, her eyes hard and
staring out with what she used to think was a fearsome glare. She
sometimes wondered if she had ever fooled anyone besides herself.