Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella Read Online Free PDF Page B

reported, no one could even remember
setting eyes on Diane before Wednesday.
    "That's a big help," St. John said,
dissatisfied. "I need to know what happened after Friday night."
    The cops looked down at their notebooks but could add
nothing more. St. John understood the problem. The driveway was
shrouded by drooping eucalyptus trees that provided the ultimate in
privacy.
    At eleven-fifteen, St. John sealed the front door and
made certain that the officer guarding the entrance would let no one
inside without St. John's authorization.
    "I need to check back at work and then we'll
notify next of kin," St. John told Shue.
    "Sounds good to me," Shue said, tucking in
only half his shirt. "I'll follow you."
    The drive back to the windowless two-story bunker
that the West Los Angeles PD called home took fifteen minutes. St.
John found several messages in his box. He had put out a Crime Alert
bulletin to other homicide departments yesterday, describing the
corpse with its odd burn marks on the ankles, abdomen, and breasts.
He also described the negligee she had been wearing, and that her
eyes had been bound shut. He withheld only that duct tape had been
used. The first call he decided to return was to the major crimes
target team of the Rampart Division.
    "Investigations," a man's voice answered.
    "Yeah, I'm looking for Rosales."
    "You got him."
    "Mace St. John, West L.A. Homicide. You rang?"
    "Yeah, I got your twenty-four-hour Crime Alert
report today.
    You got a DB in a nightgown?" DB being cop speak
for Dead Body "Scorch marks on the torso?"
    "That's right. Sound familiar?"
    "We've got a case that might interest you. A
rape call, two months ago. White female dumped on the shoulder of the
freeway. Wearing only a 'baby doll' style nightgown. Vic's name was
Veronica Parker. She dances at a titty bar out by the airport under
the name Ginger Root. Place called Century Entertainment. That's
where the suspect, ah, abducted her."
    "Did your vic give you a description?"
    " No, the suspect taped her eyes shut."
    "Duct tape?"
    "You got it. The suspect provided the nightgown
and used a condom. Was your victim electrocuted?"
    "I don't have the post in yet. Why?"
    "Our guy used some kind of modified stun gun to
control his victim. He also told her he could do worse. Who's the
ME?"
    "Sugarman probably. "
    "Tell him to look for boiled blood."
    St. John made a note on his desk blotter. "What
else?"
    "He disguised his voice with an electrolarynx,
one of those speech aids that people who don't have vocal cords use.
We took a ride out to the club, but didn't get much help from the
other employees or management. Shit, the manager didn't even want to
give up his name. Had to damn near beat it out of him." St. John
didn't ask if the guy was speaking figuratively. "What was it?"
    "Joey Polk."
    " Joey Polk?"
    " Yeah, you know him?"
    "Yeah, he has a long pedigree around these
parts. I busted the father a few times." The realization that he
was on the second generation of yet another family of bad guys made
St. John feel old. He didn't need to count his years on the job.
Every cop he knew kept a running tally happy to boast on a moment's
notice the number of days until retirement.
    St. John didn't consider himself decrepit, but he
wasn't the same young buck who had left the army in '64 and gone
straight into the academy. Twenty years had gone by fast. Although he
still felt too young to have been doing the same job for two decades.
Perhaps the fact that he'd worked in different locations helped. He
sure didn't regret his most recent transfer from Parker Center's
Robbery/Homicide to the West Los Angeles Division. That long drive
downtown every day to Parker Center had added stress to an already
pressure-filled existence—what with the 3 A.M. calls to murder
scenes, and the twenty-three-minute code sevens that allowed only
enough time to choke down a Big Mac and fries before hitting the
streets again. Add to that the drinking that so often seemed
necessary