now. One thing for certain, she
wouldn't be forgiving and forgetting. No, she'd be damned pissed.
The loudspeaker above her head crackled and then
Lou's voice called her name, announcing she had a call on line two.
She took the call on the extension at the service desk. It was Robin.
"What did you mean by we would do more than
talk?" she asked.
Munch pictured Robin hunched over her phone in her
dark house. "I was thinking it would be good for you to get out
of the house." She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk
blotter.
"But on the ride home, D.W. said you believe
this guy is going to come after you again."
"He is." Her voice was dull, flat. "I
know he is. He called me."
"Who?" Munch asked.
"The guy. The rapist."
"What did he say?"
"That the next time would be better. "
"Did you call the cops?"
"The detective assigned to my case was out. I
left a message." She paused. "Yesterday. I'm still waiting
for a callback."
"Change your number," Munch said.
"I have. More than once."
"Then call the cops back. Demand that they do
something."
"They said there was nothing more they could do.
They suggested I move."
"That's it?" Munch asked. "You're just
supposed to give up your life? What a bunch of shit." If Robin
was expecting a soft shoulder, she'd rung the wrong person. Besides,
Munch figured, this woman needed to fight back or risk being lost
forever.
"What choice do I have?"
Munch drew a V for Victory and circled it. "I've
got a friend who's a cop."
"But I've already gone to the cops. You've seen
the results."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. But, believe me,
they're not all assholes. I'll talk to my friend and see if he can
put some heat on for you."
"Thank you. I've been feeling so alone."
"What about your family?"
"I didn't want them to . . . be upset."
"You haven't told them?" Munch asked.
"My mother would have a stroke or worse. She'd
want to come out here and move in with me. I had a hard enough time
getting away from her the first time."
"Still, a little moral support might help you
right now."
"I just can't," Robin said.
" What's the name of the cop who's handling the
investigation?" Munch asked.
"Peter Owen. That's not your friend, is it?"
"No, I've never heard of him. What division is
he out of?"
"West L.A. That's what it said on his card."
"I was planning on seeing my friend after work
today" Munch said. "I'll tell him what's going on and call
you."
"No," Robin said. "It would be easier
if I called you."
"Oh, right,"
Munch said, remembering all those unretrieved messages on Robin's
answering machine. "Of course."
* * *
The faces of the women look down on him from his
trophy wall. He figures any woman who gets these kinds of pictures
taken knows what guys are going to do with them. Actually, he's just
as interested—even more so—in what goes on with his women above
the neck as below. Besides, what they choose to reveal below leaves
little to the imagination.
He feels as if he's been on an extended leave but
soon must return to duty. It's Nam all over again. When he first
returned stateside, he went up to the Bay Area. It was all hippies
then. Hippies and liberals. Seemed like everywhere he went the
returning vets were accused of killing babies and massacring helpless
civilians. As if any of those people had any idea what it all meant.
What it had been like. He learned to keep quiet about what he'd been,
what he'd done.
The result was a loneliness so deep he is only now
beginning to touch it. It's been unbearable for so long. He's still
not sure where he found the strength to live.
Now he feels as if he's in the eye of a hurricane. It
is quiet. But for how long? He is incredibly exhausted. So much is at
risk. At the very least, his freedom. Jail. Prison. A trial. His
balls shrink from the fear of it. Forget the business. His
customers—his hard-won clientèle—would desert him. He would be
penniless—alone—reviled. Those few who call themselves his
friends would never
wouldn't be forgiving and forgetting. No, she'd be damned pissed.
The loudspeaker above her head crackled and then
Lou's voice called her name, announcing she had a call on line two.
She took the call on the extension at the service desk. It was Robin.
"What did you mean by we would do more than
talk?" she asked.
Munch pictured Robin hunched over her phone in her
dark house. "I was thinking it would be good for you to get out
of the house." She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk
blotter.
"But on the ride home, D.W. said you believe
this guy is going to come after you again."
"He is." Her voice was dull, flat. "I
know he is. He called me."
"Who?" Munch asked.
"The guy. The rapist."
"What did he say?"
"That the next time would be better. "
"Did you call the cops?"
"The detective assigned to my case was out. I
left a message." She paused. "Yesterday. I'm still waiting
for a callback."
"Change your number," Munch said.
"I have. More than once."
"Then call the cops back. Demand that they do
something."
"They said there was nothing more they could do.
They suggested I move."
"That's it?" Munch asked. "You're just
supposed to give up your life? What a bunch of shit." If Robin
was expecting a soft shoulder, she'd rung the wrong person. Besides,
Munch figured, this woman needed to fight back or risk being lost
forever.
"What choice do I have?"
Munch drew a V for Victory and circled it. "I've
got a friend who's a cop."
"But I've already gone to the cops. You've seen
the results."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. But, believe me,
they're not all assholes. I'll talk to my friend and see if he can
put some heat on for you."
"Thank you. I've been feeling so alone."
"What about your family?"
"I didn't want them to . . . be upset."
"You haven't told them?" Munch asked.
"My mother would have a stroke or worse. She'd
want to come out here and move in with me. I had a hard enough time
getting away from her the first time."
"Still, a little moral support might help you
right now."
"I just can't," Robin said.
" What's the name of the cop who's handling the
investigation?" Munch asked.
"Peter Owen. That's not your friend, is it?"
"No, I've never heard of him. What division is
he out of?"
"West L.A. That's what it said on his card."
"I was planning on seeing my friend after work
today" Munch said. "I'll tell him what's going on and call
you."
"No," Robin said. "It would be easier
if I called you."
"Oh, right,"
Munch said, remembering all those unretrieved messages on Robin's
answering machine. "Of course."
* * *
The faces of the women look down on him from his
trophy wall. He figures any woman who gets these kinds of pictures
taken knows what guys are going to do with them. Actually, he's just
as interested—even more so—in what goes on with his women above
the neck as below. Besides, what they choose to reveal below leaves
little to the imagination.
He feels as if he's been on an extended leave but
soon must return to duty. It's Nam all over again. When he first
returned stateside, he went up to the Bay Area. It was all hippies
then. Hippies and liberals. Seemed like everywhere he went the
returning vets were accused of killing babies and massacring helpless
civilians. As if any of those people had any idea what it all meant.
What it had been like. He learned to keep quiet about what he'd been,
what he'd done.
The result was a loneliness so deep he is only now
beginning to touch it. It's been unbearable for so long. He's still
not sure where he found the strength to live.
Now he feels as if he's in the eye of a hurricane. It
is quiet. But for how long? He is incredibly exhausted. So much is at
risk. At the very least, his freedom. Jail. Prison. A trial. His
balls shrink from the fear of it. Forget the business. His
customers—his hard-won clientèle—would desert him. He would be
penniless—alone—reviled. Those few who call themselves his
friends would never
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