Time Bomb (41 page)

“Who’d be breaking into houses and painting anti-Semitic slogans on the walls?”

“That sounds kind of adolescent,” she said. “Why? Are you getting a lot of that? If you are, we should know about it.”

“Just one incident. At the place Ike used to live and the apartment next door. His landlady was Jewish and the next-door neighbor’s a rabbi, so it probably has nothing to do with Ike.”

“Milo,” she said, “you don’t think he was killed because of his work here?”

“Nothing points to that, Judy.”

“But you’re not ruling it out. You’re here because you have at least some suspicion he might have been killed because of his race.”

“No, Judy,” he said, “I’m a long way from that.”

“Kennedy,” I said softly.

It was the first time I’d spoken since we entered the room. Both of them stared at me.

“Yeah,” said Milo. “There is something else. Along with the anti-Semitic stuff, they wrote,
Remember
John Kennedy!
That make any sense to you?”

“Could,” she said, “depending on which John Kennedy you’re talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they scrawled “John
F
. Kennedy that wouldn’t make much sense. But there was another John Kennedy. Confederate veteran. Lived in Pulaski, Tennessee, and started a social club for other Confederate veterans called the Ku Klux Klan.”

I said, “Punks who know history?”

Milo didn’t say anything.

We left, taking along the carton of books Ike Novato had checked out.

I said, “What do you think?”

Milo said, “Who the hell knows?”

“Seems to me it’s starting to smell more like politics than drugs. Both Novato and Gruenberg have a strong interest in Nazis. Both get killed. Someone breaks into their apartment and paints racist slogans.”

Milo frowned, rubbed his face. Then his beeper went off.

I said, “Want me to find a phone?”

“Nah, I’ll call from your place.”

He did and put down the phone. “Gotta go, fresh d.b. Don’t worry—nothing to do with Nazis. Paraplegic in a rest home on Palm—looks like natural causes.”

“How come the D-Three goes out on something like that?”

“One of the attendants pulled my guy aside and told him the paraplegic had been pretty healthy the day before—and this wasn’t the first funny death they’d had there. Place was full of health code violations, patients getting beaten, sitting in their own shit, not getting their medicine. Owner of the home is politically connected. My guy got nervous. Wanted to know
procedure
. Procedure is I go out there and play nursemaid.”

He walked to the door. “Got any plans for tonight?”

“Nothing.”

He pointed at the carton of books. “Got time for some reading?”

“Sure.”

“There’s a lot of stuff there. You might wanna check first for notes in margins, underlining, that kind of thing. Barring that, maybe a trend in the kind of books he chose—a subpattern, something more specific than just an interest in Nazis. Depending on how complicated it gets over in Palms, I’ll try to get back tonight, see if you’ve come up with anything.”

“Am I being graded?”

“Nah, it’s pass/fail. Just like real life.”

26

Mahlon Burden had left a message at four.

“He said to tell you,” the operator said, “that he’s free to pick up where the two of you left off. Any time.”

“Thanks.”

“He sounded kind of eager,” she said. “Burden. Why’s that name familiar?”

I told her I had no idea, hung up, finished a long-overdue report, then sat down with the carton of books at seven o’clock.

The first volume I picked up was an English translation of
Mein Kampf.
I flipped the pages, found no notes in the margins or underlining.

The second book was entitled
This Must Not Happen Again: The Black Book of Fascist Horror
by Clark Kinnaird. Large print, small press, publication date of 1945.

Flipping through these pages revealed a note in the margin of page 23. The adjoining text read:

“Unless it is understood that the Germans made their heinousities as well as their war profitable they are incomprehensible.”

What followed was a description of the financial benefits the Nazis had reaped from the racial laws that allowed them to confiscate Jewish property. Next to it, someone had neatly printed in pencil:

“Same old story: power and money, no matter what wing.”

I turned more pages, found no more notes. Just a clearly written chronology of World War II and lots of pictures, the same kinds I’d seen in the Exhibit Room. I got caught up in the horrors and was still reading at nine-fifteen, when Milo returned.

He said, “Anything?”

“Not yet. How was the rest home?”

“Nothing overly weird, homicide-wise. Despite what the attendant said, the patient did have a history of respiratory problems. Have to wait on the coroner for a definite cause of death.”

He gave a disgusted look. “Place was a real Disney land—all those empty eyes. Remind me to amend my will: First signs of infirmity, have me taken out to the desert and shot. You hungry?”

“Not really.” I held up the book.

“Hey,” he said, “if I only took nutrition when life was pretty, I’d goddam starve to death.”

We drove to a sushi bar on Wilshire near Yale. It had been a while since we’d been there and the place had undergone a redecoration: pine bar and shoji screens and samisen music thrown over for purple and black velvet walls, smoked mirrors, laser-art rock posters, and a sound system that would have done DeJon Jonson proud. Same chefs, but new costumes—black pajamas and headbands. They brandished their knives and shouted greetings over the disco beat.

Milo looked at them and said, “Reminds me of the fucking Cong.”

“Wanna try someplace else?”

He scanned the array of raw fish at the bar and shook his head. “Comestibles still look good. I’m too tired to go hunting.”

We took a table as far away from the noise as possible, ordered hot sake and ice water and lots of food. He finished quickly, called the waitress back, and ordered more shrimp and yellowtail. Just as it arrived, he said, “Oh, shit.”

“What.”

“Beeper just went off.”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“That’s ’cause it didn’t make a sound. I’ve got it on Silent/Vibrate—I can feel it buzzing in my pocket. Rick insisted on it—same one he’s got. So when we go to the
theater,
we won’t be offensive to the other
theater
goers. ’Course, the last time we went to the
theater
was back in ’85.”

I said, “Sounds like something out of Burden’s catalogue. Pretty high-tech for the Department.”

“What Department? Rick bought it. Promotion gift.” He wiped his mouth and got up. “Be back in a sec. Don’t touch my shrimp.”

But he was gone for a lot longer than a sec, and when he came back he looked very grim.

“What is it?”

“Two more d.b.’s. Double homicide.” He stuffed a piece of shrimp in his mouth, threw money on the table, and loped away fast.

I caught up with him. “What’s the rush? Thought you were off duty.”

“Not for these.” We were out on the sidewalk. He ran faster. Passers-by stared.

“What is it, Milo? More nursemaiding?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Nursemaiding like crazy. One of the d.b.’s used to be Samuel Massengil.”

The address was on Sherbourne just south of Olympic, a block from Beverly Hills. A maple-lined street of well-kept older two-story duplexes and newer apartments. Quiet neighborhood, solidly middle class. The blinking lights of police cars were visible a block away, a vulgar intrusion.

Milo’s ID got us through fast. A uniformed officer directed us to one of the duplexes on the west side of the street: white, Spanish style, wrought-iron grillwork, tasteful landscaping. A yellow Fiat Spider was parked in the driveway under an arched porte-cochere. It had reflector vanity plates that read
CHERI T
. Crime-scene tape had been stretched across the stucco arch that led to the duplex’s ground-level entry. Next to the arch was a large oleander, pruned to tree shape, in full pink bloom.

A young black cop with a long bony face came out of the house. When he saw Milo he touched his hat and said, “Burdette, sir. I’m the one you spoke to.”

Milo said, “What do we know, Burdette?”

Burdette looked at me. His eyes filled with questions but he kept them there. “Two bodies out in back, both male cauc, possible gunshot wounds to the head. Definitely d.b. but we called the ambulance anyway—quiet, no siren, just like you said. One’s the assemblyman; the other I don’t know—ID may be in the pockets but we haven’t touched them.”

“Probable gunshot wounds?”

“That’s what it looks like. The light’s not real great out there and we didn’t want to get too close, mess up the scene. There’s copious pooling blood near both heads and I didn’t see any slash marks or bludgeon wounds. Also, the witness . . . the party reporting heard gunshots.”

“You’re sure it’s
him
?”

“Yes, sir. I’d know that face anywhere, and the P.R. confirmed it.”

“Where is the P.R.?”

“Inside. Ground floor.”

“Name?”

Burdette pulled out a pad and shined a flashlight. “The name on her license is Cheryl Jane Nuveen. Female black, black and brown, five six, one fifteen, DOB four/eight/fifty-three. This address. No wants or warrants. But some or all of it might not be righteous.”

“Why’s that?”

“She’s a pro.”

“A hooker?”

Burdette nodded. “High-priced but it’s fairly obvious once you see the setup. She’s shook up but streetwise. After she answered the first few questions and confirmed that d.b. one was
him
, she refused to talk until she could call her lawyer.”

“She put in that call yet?”

“Not yet. I told her to wait. Wanted to keep things as quiet as possible—just like you said. We Mirandized her but didn’t pump her.”

“Good,” said Milo. “Before she clammed up, you get any story from her on what happened?”

“She called it in on nine-one-one. Said she thought there’d been shots fired in her backyard,
thought
she saw two guys down. The dispatcher gave it to us as a possible ADW, shots fired, Code Two high. We expected a prowler situation, but when we got here—”

“Who’s
we
?”

“Ziegler and me.” Burdette crooked a thumb at a stocky white officer standing guard at the curb.

“When’d the call come in?”

“Ten-oh-four. We were over at Patricia and Pico on a traffic stop, possible deuce, dropped that and got here at ten-twelve, did a careful search, saw who d.b. one was, the way both of them were dressed—it was obvious this was no prowler situation. Then when we went inside and saw her setup and her demeanor, we put two and two together. Also, the fact that the assemblyman’s car was parked back there and hers was in the driveway meant he was probably visiting her—I figure he wanted to keep his car off the street just in case someone recogoized it. When I laid that out for her she admitted he’d been up there, he was a john. That’s when she shut up and asked to change her clothes. We didn’t let her, wanted to preserve the scene.”

“Why’d she want to change?”

“All she had on was a robe over . . . probably nothing.”

“Why didn’t she change before you got here?”

“Good question, sir. Maybe she was shook up—she actually looked pretty shook up.”

“Despite being streetwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone else live with her?”

“No, sir. It’s her place—she owns the whole building. Upstairs is rented to an artist, but she says he’s in Europe.”

“Hooker as landlady,” said Milo. “The high-priced spread. Blood wouldn’t be routine for her the way it would for a street gal. Okay, I can see her shook up. What else?”

“We Mirandized her like I said, called you, then called in for assistance in order to be able to secure the crime scene like you instructed. We used a restricted band to keep it quiet, no mention of d.b. one’s identity. Eight-L Five-Code-Sixed us—that’s Martinez and Pelletier. Pelletier’s in there with her now—we figured a woman might keep her calmer, no allegations of sexual stuff, maybe even get something out of her information-wise. But we agreed no one would pump her until you got here. Eight-Oh-Twenty-three got here just a few minutes after—that’s who you saw blocking the street.”

“Any indication she was more than the P.R.?”

“No, sir, nothing obvious.”

“Any intuition on that?”

“Intuition?” Burdette chewed on the word. “Well, sir, she did call it in right away—bodies were still warm when we got here. So if she’s the shooter she’s not a very bright one. We didn’t see any gun in the house but we haven’t really searched. I guess anything’s possible.”

“What’s her demeanor?”

“I’d call it upset, sir. Pretty scared. Not shifty or . . . guilty, if that’s what you mean.”

“You did good,” said Milo. “Techs and coroners?”

“On their way.”

“Okay, let’s take a look back there.”

Burdette glanced at me again.

Milo said, “This is Dr. Delaware. He’s a psychologist consulting to the Department—the schoolyard sniping. We were having a meeting on that when your call came in—that’s his Caddy out in front. Have someone move it to a less conspicuous spot, okay?” To me: “Give him your keys, Doc. You come with me.”

I handed the keys to Burdette. He said, “Just straight past the car and through the driveway. We taped off a radius.”

“Gimme your flashlight,” said Milo.

Burdette gave it to him and left, swinging my key ring.

We walked under the porte-cochere and into the backyard, which was small and square and backed by a flat-roofed double garage with old-fashioned wooden hinge doors. Most of the ground area had been paved with concrete. A narrow strip of lawn on the north side sported a peach tree and a T-shaped metal pole designed to hold a clothesline. There was no outdoor lighting, but light from a shaded rear window and a floodlight on the roof of the duplex next door combined to pour a tallowy wash over the southern part of the property. Some of the light flowed onto a late-model Chrysler New Yorker.