Time Bomb (12 page)

Milo returned with a comice pear in his mouth, one of a dozen sent me each year as a gift by a grateful patient now living in Oregon.

He chomped. “Nice to see you’re buying good healthy food again.”

“All for you,” I said. “Nutrition for a growing boy.”

He patted his belly and sat down, scowling.

The camera drew back from Dobbs’s rubber face. The psychologist was stroking his beard, had put on a sad, sanctimonious expression—part mourner, part huckster.

Milo snorted and began humming “Jingle Bells.”

I said, “Yeah, the resemblance is striking, but this guy’s no saint.”

“Better be careful. He knows if you’re naughty or nice.”

Dobbs’s pronouncements on spirituality dissolved into a commercial.

Milo stretched his feet out and said, “Okay, you promised me strange. Time to deliver.”

I started with my encounter with Massengil and Dobbs.

He said, “I don’t know that I’d classify any of that as
strange,
Alex. Seems like good old politics as usual: the asshole feels the school is his turf, wants his boy in on anything that goes on there. You have to think like these guys do—power’s their dope. You’ve
infringed.
Of course he’s gonna get offended.”

“So what should I do about it?”

“Not a goddam thing. What can he do to you?”

“Not much,” I said, “but he might be able to do something to
you
. He talked about how your promotion had caused resentment.”

“I’m quaking,” Milo said, and wiggled his hand. “But he’s right in one regard. The troops are
not
happy with my ascension up the administrative ladder. One thing to tolerate a faggot; whole other ball of wax to take
orders
from one. Make things worse, the other D-Threes are getting antsy with my ‘approach to the job.’ Most of them are your basic desk jockeys, marking off time. My wanting to work the streets makes them look like the comatose slugs they are. The only other guy who stays active is the Homicide D-Three out in West Valley. But he’s a born-again, doesn’t like deviates, so there’s no bonding potential there. Still, no sense pissing and moaning, right? Don’t do the crime if you can’t hack the slime. Besides, getting rid of me would be more trouble than it’s worth—Department’s like one of those dinosaurs with the pea-sized brains. Impossible to budge, real easy to get around if you watch your step. So don’t worry about me, do your job, and forget it.”

“That’s exactly what Linda said.”

He grinned.
“Linda?
We’re on first-name basis, hoo-hoo.”

“Down, Rover.”

“
Linda
. All that fluffy blond hair, the southern accent. But
feisty
—gives her an appealing edge. Not a bad choice at all, pal. Time for you to be getting back into the social swing, anyway.”

“No one’s made any
choice.”

“Uh-huh.” He made rude sounds.
“Leenda. Muy
leenda.”

“How’s Rick?”

“Fine. Don’t change the subject.”

I said, “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” I told him about the silver Honda. He looked unimpressed.

“What did it do other than stop for a few minutes?”

“Nothing. But the timing was weird. It was there when I arrived, driving by when I left.”

“Maybe someone thinks you’re cute, Alex. Or could be it’s just one of the locals, playing paranoid posse, checking out the neighborhood for strangers, thinking
you’re
the weirdo.”

“Could be.”

“If it would make you feel better,” he said, “give me the license number.”

I did and he copied it down.

“Service with a smile,” he said. “Anything else I can do for you?”

I said, “Massengil seemed sure he was the target. You hear anything backing that up?”

“Nothing—not that Frisk has opened his files to me. Maybe the old coot knows something, but what’s more likely is that he’s got an inflated sense of self-worth, thinks he’s actually worth shooting. Or maybe
he’s
the paranoid one and that’s what Santa’s treating him for.”

He ate more pear, said, “Some milk would go well with this,” and went to get some. He returned, drinking out of the carton.

“Something else you should know about,” I said, and told him about the hate mail.

“Your basic bedbugs,” he said. “Too bad she has to go through it.”

“She said Frisk didn’t take it too seriously.”

“To tell the truth, Alex, there’s not much you can do with that kind of garbage. Now if it turns out the Burden girl was affiliated with some racist group, that’ll be different.”

“Would Frisk tell you if she was?”

“Not until after he put on his Giorgio suit, smiled into the camera, and told the greater metropolitan area first. But chances are, if she was highly political he’d know already. ATD’s got everything computerized, would have moved on her known associates and I would have heard it through the old interoffice rumor transport system.”

“Is there anything now you can tell me about
her
, Milo? The kids are asking.”

“I’ve learned a few things by way of my source at the coroner’s but I doubt it’s the kind of info that’ll help you. She was wearing black—jeans, sweater, shoes, everything down to the undies.”

“Sounds like a commando getup.”

“Or ninja nutcase. Or her taste in couture ran to basic black and a string of bullets. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be seen in the dark—who the hell knows? What else—yeah, she was clean, drug-wiso and booze-wise, an intact virgin, in excellent physical health prior to being perfo-rated. Stomach contents showed she’d eaten around six the previous evening. There was a paper cup with urine in it in the shed. The chemical composition of the pee implied she’d been camped out there some time during the night, sipping and waiting. Sound like something you want to tell the kids?”

I shook my head. “I learned something too. She had a black boyfriend.”

He put down the milk carton. “Oh, yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

“One of the teachers at Hale lives in the neighborhood, taught her years ago. She told Linda about the boyfriend and Linda told me. Linda told Frisk but he wasn’t any more interested than he’d been in the hate mail.”

He ran his hand over his face. “Boyfriend, huh? Active or ex?”

“That’s what I wanted to know. If he was recent, he might know something, right? But the teacher never said.”

“Not that active, anyway,” he said. “The intact virgin part. Got a name?”

“No. Just what I told you.”

“Well,” he said, “interracial dating’s no crime. Officially.”

I thought back to the hate mail.
Racemixer biches.
“Even casual interracial dating would be considered a
felony
in Ocean Heights, Milo. Meaning she might have gotten a lot of social punishment for it—nasty comments, ostracization, or worse. And it also implies she was anything but a racist—wouldn’t have been likely to be shooting at those kids.”

“Unless she and the boyfriend had a nasty breakup and she started resenting all minorities.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Here’s a more likely scenario: What if coming face to face with local racism radicalized her and turned her against someone she viewed as racist. A racist authority figure.”

“Massengil?”

“Maybe she and Massengil even had some kind of confrontation before the shooting. Something he’d never admit to. You should have seen how he reacted when I accused him of drawing a killer to the school, Milo. It definitely struck a nerve. With his temper, even a minor confrontation with her could have gotten ugly. Combine that with her history of psychological problems. . . . By the way, where did Frisk come up with that?”

He shook his head in disgust. I resolved to stop evoking feelings of impotence.

“Anyway,” I said, “mix those elements and you’ve got something potentially explosive. It would explain why Massengil was so sure he was the intended target.”

Milo thought about it, said, “Guess it’s feasible, but good luck proving it.”

I said, “Don’t you think it’s worth talking to the boyfriend? Checking out known associates?”

“Sure. But it’s possible Frisk has already done it.”

“He didn’t mention it to Linda.”

“He wouldn’t. Guy would swear off orgasms if it gave him the upper hand.”

“He who dies with the most secrets wins?”

“You got it.”

“Must be a blast working with him.”

“Oh, yeah. Like a cattle prod to the prostate. Anyway, what’s this teacher’s name?”

“Esme Ferguson. She teaches fourth grade. She called in sick this morning. You can get her home number from Linda.”

He copied down the name. “She have anything else to say about the late Ms. Burden?”

“Lousy student, used to space out in class, not too social. Fits with what the neighbors told the papers about her hanging around the house all day.”

“How,” he said, “does she meet a black guy if she spends all her time just hanging around the house? In that neighborhood.”

“Good question.”

He closed his pad, put it back in his pocket. “Only
good
question, my friend, is one that can be answered.”

“Profound.”

“Yeah. Someone profound said it—Heidegger, Krish-namurti. Or maybe it was Harpo Marx. Squeak squeak.”

He finished the pear with two ferocious bites and emptied the milk carton.

“Sounds more like Zeppo,” I said. “Care for some dessert?”

10

After he left I listened to the white cassette. The contents were nothing that would have intrigued a grade-schooler: synthesized harp music that sounded as if it had been recorded underwater and Dobbs talking in the syrupy-sweet, patronizing tone people who don’t really like kids put on when they talk to them.

The gist of the message was Play Ostrich—clean your brain, blot out reality in order to make it go away. Pop psych in all its superficial glory; Freud would have turned over in his grave. B. F. Skinner wouldn’t have pushed the reward button.

I turned off the tape recorder, ejected the cassette, and lobbed a two-pointer into the nearest wastebasket, wondering how much Dobbs charged per tape. How many copies he’d peddled to the state, via Massengil’s expense account.

The phone rang. I took it in the kitchen.

“Hi, Alex, it’s me.”

A voice that had once soothed me, then cut me. First time I’d heard it in months.

“Hello, Robin.”

She said, “I’m working late, waiting for some lacquer to dry. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”

Let’s hear it for sparkling repartee.

She said, “I’m fine too.”

“Burning the midnight oil?”

“The Irish Spinners just got into town for a concert at McCabes. The airline damaged a bunch of their instruments and I’m doing the repairs.”

“Ouch,” I said, imagining my old Martin guitar in splinters. “Emergency surgery.”

“I
feel
like a surgeon. The poor guys were devastated and they’ve been hanging around the shop, looking over my shoulder. I finally shooed them away. So now they stay outside in the parking lot, pacing and wringing their hands like relatives waiting for a prognosis.”

“How is the prognosis?”

“Nothing a little hot glue and artful splicing shouldn’t be able to fix. How about you? What’ve you been up to?”

“Repair work also.” I told her about the sniping, my sessions with the children.

“Oh, that. Alex, those poor little kids. How are they doing?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“Not surprising. They’re in the best of hands. But wasn’t there another psychologist, talking about it on TV?”

“He’s limited himself to talk. Which is all for the best.”

“He didn’t impress me either. Too glib. Lucky for the kids they got you.”

“Actually,” I said, “the main reason they’re coping relatively well is they’ve grown up with violence, seen lots of hatred.”

“How sad . . . Well, I think it’s great you’re getting involved with them—using your talents.”

Silence.

“Alex, I still think about you a lot.”

“I think about you too.” As little as possible.

“I . . . I was wondering—do you think it’s reached a point where we could get together sometime, to talk? As friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“I realize I’m coming at you out of left field with this. It’s just that I was thinking about how rare friendship is—between men and women. Part of what we had
was
friendship.
Best
friendship. Why do we have to lose that? Why can’t that part of it be preserved?”

“Makes sense. Intellectually.”

“But not emotionally?”

“I don’t know.”

More silence.

“Alex, I won’t keep you. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too,” I said. Then: “Stay in touch.”

“You mean that?”

“Sure,” I said, not knowing what I meant.

She wished the kids at Hale well, and hung up.

I stayed up and watched bad movies until sleep overtook me, sometime after midnight.

The Santa Ana winds arrived in the darkness. I awoke on the sofa and heard them shrieking through the glen, sucking the moisture out of the night. My eyes felt gritty, and my clothes were twisted around me. Not bothering to remove them, I made it to the bedroom, crawled under the covers, and collapsed.

Sunrise brought a glorious Thursday morning, skies scoured and buffed a perfect Delft blue, trees and shrubs varnished a luminous Christmas green. But the view through the French doors had the jarring, cold perfection of a computer-fabricated Old Master. I felt sluggish, drugged by dream residue. Confusing hyperactive images had embedded themselves in my subconscious like fishhooks. Too much pain to tug them loose; time to play ostrich.

I dragged myself into the shower. As I was toweling off, Milo called.

“Ran the plates on the Honda. The car is an ’83, registered to a New Frontiers Technology, Limited. Post office box in Westwood. Ring any bells?”

“New Frontiers,” I said. “No. Sounds like some kind of high-tech outfit—which would make sense if the driver was one of the locals.”

“Whatever. Meanwhile, thought you might want to know I’ve got an appointment this Saturday with Mrs. Esme Ferguson. Her
residence
, at two. Tea and sympathy, pinkies extended.”