Read Online Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella by Barbara Seranella - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Seranella
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attorney's name?"
"Logan Sarnoff. He's also the executor. "
Alfred spun around to his desk and found a business card.
St. John started to copy the information on the card
into his notebook, but Alfred stopped him with an exaggerated wave of
his hand. "Keep it," he said. "I have others."
"Did Mrs. Bergman ever tell you that she was
being threatened by anyone?"
" No, nothing like that."
"Did she have any enemies that you knew of?"
"God, no. She lived in Brentwood."
"I might have some more questions later,"
St. John said.
"Whatever I can do to help," Alfred said.
"God, this is just too unbelievable."
On the way out to the car, Shue hiked up his trousers
and scratched his nose. St. John noticed he'd missed a belt loop.
"So, sounds like you got yourself a real
whodunit," Shue said. St. John tried not to betray his
excitement. The Bergman murder was his first hot case since
transferring to West L.A., and he'd been here for months. "Let's
get on that autopsy as soon as possible."
Shue ran a hand through his hair, which up to that
point had threatened to look kempt. "I'll do what I can to clear
a space."
"Good, I can't wait."
He knew to the uninitiated, those words would seem odd. But years ago
the population of the world had divided for him into the "they"
and the "we." The "we" being all those select
individuals who dealt in death.
* * *
At four-fifteen, Munch went into the bathroom and
changed out of her uniform into some cleaner, and coincidentally more
flattering, Levi's jeans and a T-shirt. She also kicked off her
greasy work shoes and put on white tennis shoes. The bathroom was
small, with only one stall. She was tying her laces when she noticed
there was a half-inch-round hole in the tile just above the toilet
paper holder. She put her eye to it, wondering if the hole went clear
through to the men's bathroom that shared this wall. She couldn't see
anything, but just to be safe, she stuffed it shut with a wad of
toilet paper.
Lou was going to love this. Last month, the phone
bill had been through the roof. Ninety three-dollar-a-minutes had
been racked up to one of those sex lines. Between gas pumpers,
mechanics, and the car wash guys, it was hard to say who was
responsible. Lou solved the problem by putting a lockout on 9oo
numbers.
Her GTO was parked in front of the office, glowing
from a fresh wax job. Pauley had left her keys on the floor. She saw
that his van was gone, so she would have to wait until tomorrow to
thank him. She loaded her trunk with what equipment and supplies she
needed for Mace St. John's air-conditioning, and then left to pick up
her kid from school.
Asia attended a Catholic school on the corner of
Bundy and San Vicente. St. Teresa's was close to Munch's work, had a
great after-school care program, and owned a fleet of vans. Like the
wax jobs on Munch's limo and car, most of Asia's tuition was paid for
in trade. Another plus about the private school was that all the kids
wore uniforms. That meant there was one less decision to make during
the morning scramble.
When Munch was a kid, before her mother died but when
she was still old enough to go to school and have overnights at her
classmates' houses, she learned that other people lived differently.
Her friends didn't have their morning cereal poured by strangers or
wonder if their mom would remember to do laundry. They took a lot of
things for granted. Which is how it should be. How it would always be
for Asia.
She turned now into the alley that bordered the
playground. The school was surrounded on all sides by businesses: two
restaurants, three banks, a stationery store, and a dress shop.
Across the street there was a gas station and a Westward Ho market.
Shoppers and every sort of delivery truck used the alley as a
shortcut in between the hours of kids being dropped off and picked up
from school.
The attendant on duty a middle-aged woman, waved and
called for Asia. Asia came running. Her tight brown curls—her
"curlies"—bouncing
"Logan Sarnoff. He's also the executor. "
Alfred spun around to his desk and found a business card.
St. John started to copy the information on the card
into his notebook, but Alfred stopped him with an exaggerated wave of
his hand. "Keep it," he said. "I have others."
"Did Mrs. Bergman ever tell you that she was
being threatened by anyone?"
" No, nothing like that."
"Did she have any enemies that you knew of?"
"God, no. She lived in Brentwood."
"I might have some more questions later,"
St. John said.
"Whatever I can do to help," Alfred said.
"God, this is just too unbelievable."
On the way out to the car, Shue hiked up his trousers
and scratched his nose. St. John noticed he'd missed a belt loop.
"So, sounds like you got yourself a real
whodunit," Shue said. St. John tried not to betray his
excitement. The Bergman murder was his first hot case since
transferring to West L.A., and he'd been here for months. "Let's
get on that autopsy as soon as possible."
Shue ran a hand through his hair, which up to that
point had threatened to look kempt. "I'll do what I can to clear
a space."
"Good, I can't wait."
He knew to the uninitiated, those words would seem odd. But years ago
the population of the world had divided for him into the "they"
and the "we." The "we" being all those select
individuals who dealt in death.
* * *
At four-fifteen, Munch went into the bathroom and
changed out of her uniform into some cleaner, and coincidentally more
flattering, Levi's jeans and a T-shirt. She also kicked off her
greasy work shoes and put on white tennis shoes. The bathroom was
small, with only one stall. She was tying her laces when she noticed
there was a half-inch-round hole in the tile just above the toilet
paper holder. She put her eye to it, wondering if the hole went clear
through to the men's bathroom that shared this wall. She couldn't see
anything, but just to be safe, she stuffed it shut with a wad of
toilet paper.
Lou was going to love this. Last month, the phone
bill had been through the roof. Ninety three-dollar-a-minutes had
been racked up to one of those sex lines. Between gas pumpers,
mechanics, and the car wash guys, it was hard to say who was
responsible. Lou solved the problem by putting a lockout on 9oo
numbers.
Her GTO was parked in front of the office, glowing
from a fresh wax job. Pauley had left her keys on the floor. She saw
that his van was gone, so she would have to wait until tomorrow to
thank him. She loaded her trunk with what equipment and supplies she
needed for Mace St. John's air-conditioning, and then left to pick up
her kid from school.
Asia attended a Catholic school on the corner of
Bundy and San Vicente. St. Teresa's was close to Munch's work, had a
great after-school care program, and owned a fleet of vans. Like the
wax jobs on Munch's limo and car, most of Asia's tuition was paid for
in trade. Another plus about the private school was that all the kids
wore uniforms. That meant there was one less decision to make during
the morning scramble.
When Munch was a kid, before her mother died but when
she was still old enough to go to school and have overnights at her
classmates' houses, she learned that other people lived differently.
Her friends didn't have their morning cereal poured by strangers or
wonder if their mom would remember to do laundry. They took a lot of
things for granted. Which is how it should be. How it would always be
for Asia.
She turned now into the alley that bordered the
playground. The school was surrounded on all sides by businesses: two
restaurants, three banks, a stationery store, and a dress shop.
Across the street there was a gas station and a Westward Ho market.
Shoppers and every sort of delivery truck used the alley as a
shortcut in between the hours of kids being dropped off and picked up
from school.
The attendant on duty a middle-aged woman, waved and
called for Asia. Asia came running. Her tight brown curls—her
"curlies"—bouncing
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