Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella by Barbara Seranella Read Free Book Online Page A

gauzy white gown. Her hair fanned up and out from her head
as if suspended in a weightless atmosphere. In addition to the cover
portrait, there were studio head shots, movie stills showing Robin in
various costumes, and cosmetics ads. Robin was beautiful in all of
them. An auburn brunette with green eyes. Eyes that once had been
capable of a mischievous glint but now darted side to side, making
Munch think of a dog who had been beaten and expected more of the
same.
    "Is there anything I can do for you?" Munch
asked.
    Robin looked at the pictures. She didn't speak for a
long time. Munch glanced back at her and saw that the ash had grown
long on her cigarette.
    Munch prayed for guidance before she spoke. "What
happened?" she asked softly.
    She saw D.W.'s reflection in the glass of one of the
picture frames. He stood very still, a light sheen of sweat on his
forehead. Robin took quick breaths; soon her shoulders were heaving.
A high whimper escaped her throat. Three times she made attempts to
speak before she finally said, "I was . . . he . . . a man . .
." She stopped, swallowed, seemed to dig deeply for a last
reserve of strength. "I was raped. Raped and tortured. Sometimes
I think I was killed."
    Tears of empathy filled Munch's eyes and closed her
throat. Robin dropped her voice to a whisper.
    "You'll have to go now," she said. "I
still get tired so easily."
    D.W. picked up the bags of trash. "I'll see you
next week."
    Munch didn't want to leave her. She seemed so damaged
and alone. Surely there was something more she could offer this
woman, some way she could intervene with the tragedy playing out. No
doubt Robin had been made aware of all the counseling services
available to her.
    Munch flashed back to her own experiences in the
Emergency Room all those years ago. They'd all been very nice to her,
even though they surely knew who and what she was then. The cop who
had driven her there had waited in the hallway. The nurse had held
her hand while the doctor did that whole rape kit number. And later,
there had been a kind-faced woman who had offered her card and her
ear if Munch needed to talk. But Munch had just walked away on her
own two feet, wanting to put the whole ordeal behind her. At the
time, the only counseling she turned to came in the form of liquid or
powder. She had even managed to turn the incident into a joke with a
few select drinking buddies, laughing and saying, "Next,"
as if it were no big deal, as if nothing could touch her.
    "I'm going to give you my home phone number,"
she told Robin now, finding a pad of paper in the kitchen.
    D.W. headed for the door. Munch scribbled a note
beside her phone number. Call me, please. We can talk or we can do
more than talk. Whatever it is you need.
    When D.W. and Munch were back in the van and heading
for the gas station, D.W. spoke. "She'll never be the same."
    "Probably not," Munch said.
    "Fucking guy," he said with vehemence.
    Munch couldn't help but wonder if D.W.'s emotion was
a little put on. Maybe he pegged her as some sort of raging feminist
and thought this attitude would appeal to her. "He promised her
he would come back."
    "The cops didn't catch the guy?"
    He looked back at the house. "They didn't have
enough to go on."
 
    Chapter 7
     
L ou was
standing outside by the gas pumps when Munch and D.W. returned.
"Radiator shop called," he said, looking annoyed. "They
said you're looking at a recore."
    "You get a price?" she asked.
    "Yeah, the numbers are on the desk."
    "I'm going to take off," D.W. said.
    Lou nodded as if he thought that was a good idea,
then went back to the office.
    "See ya later," Munch said, her mind
already turning to the next hurdle, the Ford owner's reaction to the
cost of a new radiator.
    The detail guy Pauley was bent over a red Ferrari
using a soft chamois on one of the front wheels. Pauley ran his
detail business out of the station. The tip of a bluish tattoo peeked
out the sleeve of the black T-shirt as he worked the chrome. He
always