Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella by Barbara Seranella Page B
Authors: Barbara Seranella
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Davis.
Mace had called ahead. If he hadn't, the flashing of
his detective's shield would not have been enough to get him inside
the ultra secret fortress. He only knew of its existence through his
friendship with Steve Brown. Detectives working under the auspices of
the OCID not only never made the news, but also never made arrests.
Their duties were only to gather intelligence. They weren't choosy
about their methods—a fact that never held up well in a court of
law. If the odd crime was observed, OCID investigators passed the
information along. Sometimes they used the anonymous WETIP line. But
Steve fed his intelligence directly- to Mace.
He greeted Mace at the doorway. A lean, handsome man,
Steve stood a shade under six feet and had a touch of gray at his
temples. He looked more like a TV anchorman than the spy Mace knew
him to be.
"Let's take a walk," he said to Mace.
" So what did Tommy Lasorda have for lunch
today?" Mace asked.
" The usual," Steve answered, not rising to
the bait. The duties of the OCID, despite its name, had little to do
with investigating organized crime. OCID investigators were divided
into teams that covered politicians, entertainers, athletes, team
owners—anybody who was anybody. Information was gathered and stored
in private facilities throughout Los Angeles, giving the chief of
police Hoover-like power over the Who's Who of the city.
"You've got a name for me?" Steve asked.
" Raleigh Ward." Mace slipped his friend a
piece of paper.
"Here's his address and everything else we could
find out, which was damn little. I can't even get a photograph out of
the DMV.
Steve slipped the paper into his pocket. "You
think this guy is a spook?"
" He's something."
" Preparing for the Olympics has brought all
kinds of shit to town. I've worked double shifts for a month. Fucking
spooks think they can do anything they want, like the rules don't
apply to them."
Mace coughed into his hand. If that wasn't the pot
calling the kettle . . .
"I've got an unusual signature on the D.B.'s,"
Mace said. He described the washing of the bodies, the placement of
the victims' hands, and the white crosses of tape covering the
wounds. He knew that OCID shared information with organizations
similar to their own in other countries. He also appreciated the lack
of bureaucracy involved. So much time was saved when cops didn't have
to mess around with rules of conduct, protocol, and giving rights to
those who deserved none.
"It's a big world," Steve said. "Anywhere
in particular you think this guy might have operated?"
"I filed a report with Interpol six months ago,
after the December homicide, just in case the suspect was a tourist."
He'd been grasping at straws, but there were no other
leads to follow. All the victim's family and acquaintances had
checked out. He could find no motive. The victim's jewelry had not
been stolen. She had no enemies, according to everyone he
interviewed. It was the worst kind of murder to try to solve: murder
by stranger. "But that doesn't mean the Eastern Bloc countries
are cooperating. I also need you to keep an ear out to Mexico. I have
information that my guy might be there."
" I'll see what I can find out," Steve said.
" One other thing," Mace said. "My
homicide victims"—he wrote down the women's names and
address—"had their rent paid by Southern Air Transport I
didn't find any record of either one of the women's employment
there."
" I know the company," Steve said.
"You do?" Mace asked. '
" Government op. They
fly DC-3s and DC-4s in and out of Central America. Good cargo planes,
I understand, and able to operate on short runways."
* * *
Ellen woke up cold, vaguely aware of the sound of
rushing water. Rocks and branches poked her back. She sat up. Her
pants were pulled down to her knees; her shirt was on inside out and
full of foxtails. A quick check confirmed that she'd recently had
sex. She had a vague recollection of getting friendly with one of the
American sailors at
Mace had called ahead. If he hadn't, the flashing of
his detective's shield would not have been enough to get him inside
the ultra secret fortress. He only knew of its existence through his
friendship with Steve Brown. Detectives working under the auspices of
the OCID not only never made the news, but also never made arrests.
Their duties were only to gather intelligence. They weren't choosy
about their methods—a fact that never held up well in a court of
law. If the odd crime was observed, OCID investigators passed the
information along. Sometimes they used the anonymous WETIP line. But
Steve fed his intelligence directly- to Mace.
He greeted Mace at the doorway. A lean, handsome man,
Steve stood a shade under six feet and had a touch of gray at his
temples. He looked more like a TV anchorman than the spy Mace knew
him to be.
"Let's take a walk," he said to Mace.
" So what did Tommy Lasorda have for lunch
today?" Mace asked.
" The usual," Steve answered, not rising to
the bait. The duties of the OCID, despite its name, had little to do
with investigating organized crime. OCID investigators were divided
into teams that covered politicians, entertainers, athletes, team
owners—anybody who was anybody. Information was gathered and stored
in private facilities throughout Los Angeles, giving the chief of
police Hoover-like power over the Who's Who of the city.
"You've got a name for me?" Steve asked.
" Raleigh Ward." Mace slipped his friend a
piece of paper.
"Here's his address and everything else we could
find out, which was damn little. I can't even get a photograph out of
the DMV.
Steve slipped the paper into his pocket. "You
think this guy is a spook?"
" He's something."
" Preparing for the Olympics has brought all
kinds of shit to town. I've worked double shifts for a month. Fucking
spooks think they can do anything they want, like the rules don't
apply to them."
Mace coughed into his hand. If that wasn't the pot
calling the kettle . . .
"I've got an unusual signature on the D.B.'s,"
Mace said. He described the washing of the bodies, the placement of
the victims' hands, and the white crosses of tape covering the
wounds. He knew that OCID shared information with organizations
similar to their own in other countries. He also appreciated the lack
of bureaucracy involved. So much time was saved when cops didn't have
to mess around with rules of conduct, protocol, and giving rights to
those who deserved none.
"It's a big world," Steve said. "Anywhere
in particular you think this guy might have operated?"
"I filed a report with Interpol six months ago,
after the December homicide, just in case the suspect was a tourist."
He'd been grasping at straws, but there were no other
leads to follow. All the victim's family and acquaintances had
checked out. He could find no motive. The victim's jewelry had not
been stolen. She had no enemies, according to everyone he
interviewed. It was the worst kind of murder to try to solve: murder
by stranger. "But that doesn't mean the Eastern Bloc countries
are cooperating. I also need you to keep an ear out to Mexico. I have
information that my guy might be there."
" I'll see what I can find out," Steve said.
" One other thing," Mace said. "My
homicide victims"—he wrote down the women's names and
address—"had their rent paid by Southern Air Transport I
didn't find any record of either one of the women's employment
there."
" I know the company," Steve said.
"You do?" Mace asked. '
" Government op. They
fly DC-3s and DC-4s in and out of Central America. Good cargo planes,
I understand, and able to operate on short runways."
* * *
Ellen woke up cold, vaguely aware of the sound of
rushing water. Rocks and branches poked her back. She sat up. Her
pants were pulled down to her knees; her shirt was on inside out and
full of foxtails. A quick check confirmed that she'd recently had
sex. She had a vague recollection of getting friendly with one of the
American sailors at
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