Time Bomb (59 page)

“But for the wrong reasons.”

“The idiot,” said Burden. “He actually believed he had a chance to be promoted to deputy chief. You, Detective Sturgis, were considered a threat to that ambition. The possibility that you might solve the case yourself. You threaten him because down deep he knows you’re what he isn’t—a competent investigator. And also, of course, on another level. I believe ‘despicable fag bastard’ is the way he generally refers to you. If you’d like, I can play you the tapes.”

Milo was silent.

Burden got off the freeway at the Pico exit and headed east, toward Westwood.

“During the course of my brief surveillance,” he said, “I haven’t been mightily impressed by the Police Department. Too much time spent on what officers do in bed, whom they do it with, religious beliefs, other irrelevant issues. That’s not the way you win a war. It must be an awful strain on you, Detective Sturgis.”

Milo said, “Thanks for the sympathy, Mother Teresa.” But I could tell he was digesting what Burden had told him.

Burden drove smoothly and rapidly. “Like a true politician, Frisk used you. Called Latch. As a supposed confidant. Informed him that
you
were the one who was suspicious about him.
Apologetic.
Yon were an embarrassment to the Department. A rogue cop. Rogue fag cop, with a drinking problem. The Department only kept you on the payroll to avoid lawsuits and political hassles. It was only a matter of time before you’d be drummed out in disgrace. Frisk told latch you’d been asking questions about him, were unstable, prone to violence. Warning the good councilman. So Latch began having you—and Dr. Delaware—tailed. Meanwhile, Frisk tailed Latch. You were his decoy, Detective. Had you died tonight, he might have blundered into a solution, maybe even had glory and his promotion. Deputy Chief Frisk. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

Milo thought out loud: “He didn’t tail me tonight.”

“No, not tonight. Tell him why, Gregory.”

“He and his staff are having a retreat,” said Graff. “Lake Arrowhead.”

Burden said, “To share feelings. Outline management strategy. Frisk is a modern policeman. Reads his textbooks and knows his operations manuals.”

I said, “Sounds like something out of Dobbs’s book of tricks.”

“They’re all the same,” said Burden. “Pencil-pushers. In any event, don’t you think I’m a hundred percent correct, Detective? About focusing your anger properly?”

Two blocks of silence.

We approached Sepulveda.

Burden said, “Do you want to know what we used to demolish the building?”

On the edge of my seat. Linda, Linda . . . “Sure.”

“Selectively applied dabs of plastique. Not Semtex. Something better. Brand-new.”

“A little dab’ll do you,” said Graff.

“
A
very
little dab, “said Burden. “Complete with a tiny little detonating cell stuck smack in the middle. They didn’t see us because the entire front wall of the warehouse was windowless. Their idea of security, but they ended up hoist on their own petard. Gregory dabbed, then retreated to the van, where we relaxed, ate sandwiches, and listened. You were very good, Doctor. Trying to play them off against each other. Holding onto your nerves. Then, when the time came, we pushed buttons.”

“Boom,” said Graff.

“I’d say it was poetic justice,” said. Burden. “Wouldn’t you? Too bad Mr. Latch wasn’t around to see it. What exactly happened to him? We heard some sort of commotion.”

I waited for Milo to reply. When he didn’t, I said, “He fell on Ahlward’s knife. It went through his neck.”

“Splendid.” Big smile.
“Literally
hoist on his own petard. What a pretty picture. My only regret was that I wasn’t there to see it. All in all, a very productive adventure, wouldn’t you say, Gregory?”

“A-one, Mr. B.”

“Lots of people died,” I said. “There’ll be questions.”

Burden took one hand off the steering wheel and made a whoop-de-doo spinning gesture. “The more questions the merrier. City and state commissions, senate subcommittees, our beloved press. Bring them all on. I love Washington, D.C., in the winter. A certain bleakness sets in on the Capitol Mall that matches the spirit of the petty bunch who work there. I especially love it when I go there with something to trade.”

“The unmasking of Ahlward’s other covert Nazis?”

“It should prove to be quite a revelation,” he said. “After I supply the names, I guarantee you I’ll be a hero.
People
magazine.
Entertainment Tonight. A Current Affair.
Popular enough to run for office and win, if I had the poor taste to harbor such ambitions. I, however, will choose to avoid the limelight and most of my fame will fade fairly quickly—that’s the age we live in. The public has no attention span, craves constant novelty. Meanwhile, Gregory and I will be mapping out a strategy for harnessing whatever good will we’ve garnered in Washington. For business purposes, I’ve been thinking about increasing my Weaponry division for a while, anyway.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Life and Limb. Buy your AK-forty-seven from the man who knows.”

“Very good, Alex. Have you ever thought of applying your psychological skills to marketing?”

“Not this year.”

Westwood Boulevard came into view, backed by the night-gloomed mass of the Pavilion. We turned right.

I said, “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“That’s my business. Anticipating. Understanding trends, mapping behavioral patterns.” Pause. “Not that I can ever be compensated for my loss.”

I looked over at him.

“They took what was mine,” he said. “Fatal error.”

36

Ambulances. Crime-scene van. Another domino spill of squad cars, roof-flashers pulsing in counterpoint to my heartbeat.

All the old mechanical vultures, familiar as pets . . . A street without them would look naked.

Burden pulled the van behind one of the black-and-whites. A very young-looking cop came over to the driver’s window and said, “If you people don’t live around here, you’ll have to move.”

Milo said, “It’s okay, Sitz.” Propping himself up on his elbows, his face just visible over the driver’s bucket seat.

The officer tensed and peered in.

“It’s me, Sitz.”

“Detective Sturgis? You okay, sir?”

“Big trouble out in Van Nuys. Fire, multiple deaths. I was lucky—all I lost was my shirt and ID. These good citizens helped get me over here. Possibly related to one of my cases. What’s the situation?”

“Attempt One-eighty-seven. Detective Hardy’s up there. We haven’t heard much—”

As Milo reached over and opened the door, Sitz backed away from it. I was out of the van like a bandit, running, hearing Milo’s voice behind me: “It’s okay, let him go.”

Racing up the walkway to the apartment, past a pair of technicians carrying crime-scene kits, a handful of gawkers in nightclothes lounging behind a tape line.

Ducking under the tape. Someone said, “Whoa,
he’s
stressed out.”

Another cop came forward, one hand on his gun. Tall, thin, beach tan over pimples. Heavy underbite. God, they were hiring them young.

I said, “I need to get up there.”

He held me back with one arm. “Are you a resident of the building, sir?”

“Yes.”

He raised the clipboard. “Name and apartment number?”

My heart threatened to burst out of my chest. I contemplated violence.

Underbite sensed it and touched his gun.

A voice at my back. “It’s okay, Stoppard.”

Milo was trying to look dignified with his wounds and his tattered undershirt.

Underbite stared at him and said, “Sir?”

“I said it’s
okay
, Stoppard.”

Underbite stepped aside.

I raced forward, legs churning. Into the green-foil lobby. Another uniform holding the closet/elevator open. When he saw me, he touched his pistol too. A second later, when he saw Milo, he gave a B-movie double take.

Milo said, “Out of the elevator, Buell. Stay in the lobby.”

A silent, maddening ride up three flights. So slow. Endless. Me punching the walls of the elevator. Milo just standing there, close to me. I knew he could smell my fear, but he made no effort to distance himself.

When the elevator finally bumped to a stop, I squeezed myself through the door before it was completely open. More green foil. Racing to the far end.

Cop at the door. Always cops. Suspicious eyes. Milo giving the okay.

“Yes, sir.”

Through her door, now tagged with an LAPD crime-scene label. Into her living room. Bright lights. Perfume smell. Oyster walls. Fresh vacuum tracks in gold carpeting—what an organized young lady. Stretched out on the carpet, something human-sized in a black zipped bag.

I broke down, sank to my knees.

A gray-haired, bearded man in a bottle-green blazer and gray flannels sat at the butcher-block table holding a mini-recorder. Black Gladstone bag at his feet. Stethoscope around his neck. Different kind of house call.

He looked up at me. Diagnostic appraisal. But no sympathy—just curiosity.

Sounds from the bedroom.

I got up, staggered in.

More perfume. Cloying.

A slender balding black man in a navy-blue suit stood by the brass bed, holding a note pad and gold pen. The covers were in disarray.

Linda sat on the bottom sheet, shoulders hunched, knees drawn to her chest, wearing a pink quilted robe. Staring off into space.

I ran to her. Held marble.

The man in the navy suit turned. Such a nice suit. He’d always had a thing for clothes. Dapper half of the “odd couple” when he’d partnered with Milo. Tonight no exception . . . sky-blue broadcloth shirt with white pin collar, red-and-blue paisley tie . . .

Rust-red. Just a shade lighter than the muddy spots on the mirror above the dresser.

Rust on the plaster too. Three holes, radiating spider-leg cracks, left of the mirror, tight formation. The top surface of the dresser a wasteland of tipped perfume bottles, free-form blood blotches, shattered mirror-tray. Blood looped down the front of a drawer. The carpet was a collage of glass shards, more mud, something metallic. A snub-nosed revolver with a walnut grip. To my unpracticed eye, identical to the one Milo carried when he carried.

Delano Hardy looked at me with surprise and said, “Doc. She talked about you. Was worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“She’s gonna be fine too.” The power of wishful thinking.

I held her tighter, stroked her back. Still frozen.

“. . . and she did a good job,” Del was saying. “Protected herself, which is what it’s all about, right?”

He pointed to the revolver.

I’m a crack shot. . . .

Very softly, he said, “Tough lady. She’s got my vote for sheriff. Gave her statement really coherently. Then, when we were through, she got real quiet, sank into the way she is now—the shock’s settling in, according to the coroner. Not physical shock, psychological—
your
neck of the woods. Physically she’s okay, the vital signs and everything. Coroner checked her out, said she was tough, gave her something to take the edge off, make her sleepy. Said she looks fine physically, but should go in for a couple days observation. Ambulance from UCLA is on its way.”

Talking faster than I’d ever heard Del Hardy talk. Despite all the years, all the bodies, still able to be affected. I remembered why I liked him. Apart from the fact that he’d saved my life. Once upon a time . . .

I said, “It’s down there already, Del.”

“What’s that?”

“The ambulance. It’s here.”

“Oh.” Del looked at me diagnostically too.

I held Linda closer, tried to engulf her, be everything for her. Finally she molded to me, but remained cold and inert as modeling clay.

Milo came into the room.

Del’s eyes widened. “Must have been some kind of party, guy.”

Milo said, “Hot time in the old town, Del. Shoulda been there.” Battered, but oddly authoritative. His gaze rested on Linda. He and Del traded cop-to-cop eye signals. As in the past, I felt like an outsider. Didn’t mind.

Hardy repeated the few facts he’d just told me, seemed to be talking even faster. Pushing comfort.

Linda began to tremble violently. I held on to her but it wasn’t enough to make her stop.

Milo’s big face drooped with pain and empathy. He said, “Let’s talk outside, Del.”

Del nodded, put away his pen and pad and said, “Keep her warm, Doc. Pull the covers over her. She’s supposed to be resting.”

They left.

I lowered her down on the bed and gathered the comforter around her. Stroked her face, her hair. She was still shaking. Gradually it slowed, then ceased. She began breathing rhythmically. I touched her cheek. Kissed it. Kissed her eyes. Waited until I was certain she was deeply asleep before returning to the living room.

Del and Milo were walking the green-jacketed coroner to the door. His trousers had a sharp crease. Everyone had dressed for tonight.

Milo had on a couple of handages.

After the coroner was gone, Del pointed to the body bag.

“Intruder got in by picking the lock.” he said. “B-and-E tools, professional set. But he made too much noise doing it and woke up the victim—Dr. Overstreet. Not that it was a particularly sloppy job—pretty good, actually.”

Pointing to the doorjamb. I couldn’t see any scratch marks.

Milo examined it and said, “Spick-and-span, no print dust. No dust in the bedroom either. I saw the print boys down there. What’s the delay?”

“My orders,” said Del. “Haven’t authorized them yet. The uniforms who got here don’t think they touched the jamb but they did touch the knob and they trampled the bedroom pretty darned good charging it—it was a Code Three. They were after prevention, not preservation.”

Milo said, “Yeah.”

Del said, “Let me ask you. Any reason to go through the whole shebang, trash her place? Most of it’s light surfaces—that means the black dust. You know what a godawful mess that makes. Seems like a clear-cut self-defense situation. Coroner says height of the spatters backs up everything she said.”

Milo thought and rubbed his face and said, “No reason.”