Time Bomb (60 page)

“I mean, if we’re going to get into a giant hassle, let’s do it, Milo. But I just don’t see the point.”

“No point,” said Milo. “I’ll handle any procedural hassles.” Glance at the body bag. “Tell me a bedtime story, Del.”

Del said, “Okay, so she hears the door opening, wakes up. She’s normally a good sleeper but tonight she was jumpy because of the doc’s call.” He looked at me. “Something about your being followed, some weird Nazi stuff that I couldn’t really make out. What I did get was that ’cause
you
sounded worried, that worried her.”

“Goddam good reason to be worried,” said Milo.

Del stared at Milo’s wounds and said, “Your hot party’s related to this?”

Milo let out a long sigh; suddenly he looked weak and wasted. “It’s a long story, Del. You wouldn’t believe it if I tried to give it to you for free.”

“I’m open-minded,” said Del.

Milo smiled. “It’s a
four
-drink story, Delano. You buy; I tell.”

“After the paperwork?”

“Fuck the paperwork.”

Hardy shrugged. “You’re the D-Three. Someone gets on my case, I blame it all on you. You sure you don’t want a blanket?”

“I’m fine,” said Milo. “Tell the story.”

“Where was I,” said Del. “Yeah, she was jumpy—so jumpy she took her gun out of storage. S and W Police Special. Apparently it used to belong to someone named Mondo back in Texas where she’s originally from—she didn’t want to talk about that. I couldn’t get that part real clear. If the reg isn’t kosher, I imagine we can work that out, too, right? No Bernie Goetz illegal weapons bullshit. Anyway, she had a box of bullets for it, loaded it up, put it on her night stand, and had it ready to grab when she heard the intruder out in the living room. Intruder came tippy-toeing in. There was light from the window above the bed. She could see the intruder swinging something—we found it over in the corner. Louisville Slugger with nails sticking out of it, real pretty. She yelled at the intruder to stop. Intruder kept coming. She yelled again, kept yelling. Intruder didn’t pay any mind. So she emptied the gun. Three slugs in the intruder, three near-misses in the wall. She’s a damn good shot, considering the situation. Hope she doesn’t waste too much time on guilt.”

He knelt beside the bag. “Now for the interesting part.” Tugging down and parting a foot of zipper. It sounded like something ripping.

A face stared up at us.

Female. Capuchin-monkey face under dirty-blond hair. Mussed hair. Eyes closed, the left one puffy and plum-colored. Skin tinted gray—the greenish-gray reserved for Death’s palette. A quarter-sized, black-edged ruby hole in the left cheek. Dry lips, parted. Between them a sliver of corn-niblet tooth.

“A woman,” said Hardy. “Can you top that? No ID, nothing on her. One thing we
should
have them dust is the bat. Hopefully we’ll pull something off of that.”

“She calls herself Crisp,” I said. “Audrey Crisp. That may or may not be her real name.”

“Yeah?” said Del. “Well, Crisp got herself crisped.” Shaking his head. Tugging the zipper another inch lower. “Want to see more?”

“Anything to see?” said Milo.

“Just two more holes down below.”

Milo shook his head.

Del zipped up the bag. “Lady with a baseball bat—all those spikes, like one of those medieval things. Mace, or something. Gotta be one for the books, right? Ever see that before, Milo?”

I walked back into the bedroom. Sat on the bed. Linda opened her eyes, muttered something that could have been my name.

With no evidence to the contrary, I decided it had been my name.

The power of wishful thinking . . .

I brushed hair away from her brow and kissed it.

She whimpered and turned on her side, facing me, looking up at me.

I lay down beside her and closed my eyes. When the ambulance attendants came for her, they had to wake me. Had to pry my arm from around her waist, and hers from mine.

37

Her father flew in the next morning from Texas. I’d expected Gary Cooper and got Lyndon Johnson out of a trash compactor: short, stout, big ears with banjo lobes, whiskey nose, crinkle chin. The only genetic link to Linda I could discern, a pair of small, delicate hands that he kept plastered to his sides. Nothing Texas Rangerish about his clothes either. Powder-blue sport coat, yellow golf shirt, white seersucker slacks, brown patent-leather loafers.

He called me
sir
a lot, not sure who I was. Not sure who his daughter was. When he walked into the hospital room, she gave a weary smile and I left the two of them alone.

She left with him the following day, promising to call when she got to San Antonio. Following through that evening, but sounding tentative herself, as if someone was listening in and she was unable to talk freely.

I told her to take her time healing. That I’d check to make sure the kids at Hale were okay. That I was there for her whenever she needed me. Working at making it sound convincing—putting a little therapist in my voice.

She said, “That means a lot to me, Alex. I know the kids are going to be okay. The person they’re using for substitute principal is really good. I went to school with him—he’ll do a good job.”

“I’m glad.”

“Can he call you? For advice?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. You’re so terrific.”

“My head is swelling swelling swelling.”

“I mean it—you are. By the way, Carla has your gift—we got a gift for you. Last week. It’s a set of Mark Twain. The complete works. I know you like books. I hope you like Twain.”

“I love Twain.”

“It’s an old leather set, really pretty. I found it for you myself, in an antiques store. Wish I could be there to give it to you. But Carla will send it to you. Unless you’re at the school. Then you can pick it up. In my office. On the desk.”

“I’ll go by. Thanks.”

Pause.

“Alex, I know this is nervy, but do you think you could possibly come on out here, spend some time with me? Not just yet, but maybe a little later?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great! I’ll take you around. Show you a good time. I promise. You can have grits for the second time. As soon as things settle down.”

“Look forward to it. Remember the Alamo.”

“Remember me.”

Later that day Robin came by, with deli sandwiches and jug wine, a beautiful smile and a soft quick kiss on the lips.

We sat facing each other at the ash burl trestle table she’d hand-carved years ago.

First time in a long time we’d been in the same room. If we’d scheduled it, I’d have spent hours dreading it. But it ended up nice. Nothing physical, nothing covert or calculated or stiff. No excavation of old wounds, debridement of damaged flesh. It wasn’t denial. There just didn’t seem to be any scars either of us could see or feel. Or maybe it was the wine.

We sat talking and eating and drinking, discussing the piss-poor state of the world, occupational hazards, occupational joys. Trading bad jokes. The space between us smooth, soft. Baby-smooth. As if we’d birthed something healthy.

I started to believe friendship was possible.

When she left, my loneliness was tempered by the pleasant confusion of hope. And when Milo came by to pick me up, I was in an amazingly good mood.

38

Surveillance. Numb butts.

But nice to be on the other side.

The first couple of days yielded no results. I learned about cop boredom, about self-doubt. About how even the best of friendships get strained by too much of nothing. But I refused Milo’s repeated offers to drop out.

“What? Your year for masochism?”

“My year for closure.”

“If your guess is right,” he said.

“If.”

“Lots of ifs.”

I said, “If you don’t want to bother, I’ll do it myself.”

He smiled. “Joe Detective?”

“Joe Curious. You think I’m reaching? It was just a look.”

He turned to me. The swelling down, his wounds greening, but one eye was still puffy and wet and his gait was stiff.

“No, Alex,” he said softly. “I think you’re worth listening to. I’ve always thought so. Besides, what do we have to lose except sanity, and not much of that left, right? It’s only been forty-eight hours. Let’s give it at least another couple of days.”

So we sat in the rented car until our butts turned downright frozen. Ate stale fast food, did crossword puzzles, engaged in inane chatter that neither of us would have tolerated under different circumstances.

The second day it happened. The maroon Volvo rolled away from suburbia, the way it always did. But this time it abandoned home territory and headed for the 405 Freeway.

Milo hung back until it had climbed a northbound on-ramp, then followed, hanging back several car lengths.

“You see,” he said, turning the steering wheel with one finger. “This is the way it’s done. Subtly. No way short of psychic powers he’s going to see us.”

Bravado in his voice but he kept checking the rearview mirror.

I said, “How’re
your
psychic powers?”

“Finely honed.” A moment later. “I knew the Department would buy my story, didn’t I?”

His story. Post-traumatic stress reaction. A need for seclusion.

Escape from L.A.

He’d been thorough. Buying an airplane ticket for Indianapolis. Showing up at LAX only to duck out of line just before boarding. Picking up a rental Cadillac and driving into the Valley. Checking into a motel out in Agoura under the name S. L. Euth.

Then surveillance. The other side.

Picking me up at a preassigned place that changed each day.

Watching. Making sure
we
weren’t being watched.

Today he had on a brown polo shirt, tan cords, white sneakers, and an old felt Dodgers cap on his head.

“Umm, nice leather,” he said, fondling the mocha-colored armrest that bisected the sedan De Ville’s bench seat. “Nice, even if it does drive mushy. I can see why you hold on to yours.”

“Not too obtrusive for a tail?”

“L.A. Chevy, pal. Your pricier neighborhoods, this is what the
help
drives.” He smiled. “Besides, it’s brown. Like my fashion statement. Blends in with all the bullshit.”

We followed the Volvo onto the 101 toward Ventura, stayed with it all the way through the west Valley. When it switched to the 23 North just past Westlake Village, Milo sat up straighter and smiled.

I said, “Let’s hear it for educated guesses.”

We sped past an industrial park with high-tech leanings. Vaguely ominous limestone and mirror-glass buildings with nondescript logos, security-gated parking lots, and streets with names like Science Drive and Progress Circle. The Volvo kept going.

When traffic thinned out at Moorpark, Milo pulled over to the shoulder and stopped.

I said, “What is it?”

“Now we
are
too conspicuous. Gonna give him a mile, then get back on.”

“Not worried about losing him?”

He shook his head. “We know where he’s going, don’t we?”

“If our information’s up to date.”

He said, “The
Colonel
’s information.” Frowned and checked his watch and got back on the highway. The highway became Grimes Canyon and evolved into a narrow, serpentine mountain pass. No other cars going our way; a few huge tankers coming from the opposite direction. The curves challenged the Cadillac and Milo put two hands on the wheel. Shifting his weight, he said, “Now the mushiness isn’t fun.”

I said, “You could have borrowed the Colonel’s Honda.”

“Right. God knows what kind of crap and gizmos he’s packed it with. Would you feel comfortable talking in something he owned?”

“Nope.”

“Him and his
data
banks. Guy’s got more info than the IRS. You see how fast he came up with what we wanted? But try to get something on
him,
and other data banks dry up real fast. I had a very reliable source on it, Alex. Same guy in Washington who helped me trace Kaltenblud. All his computer had to say about the
Colonel
was name, rank, date of discharge. Ditto with Major Bunyan.”

I said, “New Age warrior becomes New Age entrepreneur. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a colonel.”

“What then? Some clerk? He’s
exactly
what a colonel is. A general, even. Forget the George C. Scott stuff. Go high enough in any organization, and what you get is assholes exactly
like
him.”

Suddenly angry again.

I said, “He thinks he saved our lives.”

Milo grunted.

I said, “Maybe he did. But I think we had a pretty good chance without him. That sleeping-beauty act you pulled took
me
by surprise.”

He grunted again. The road straightened and we were in agricultural country: mountain-rimmed, ruler-edged plots of flat dry lowlands, ready for harvest. Cows grazing side by side with bobbing-grasshopper oil wells. Pig and egg farms; horse breeders, where gorgeous Arabians pranced arrogantly around roadside corrals; acres of citrus being cultivated for Sunkist.

The end point of the view from Howard Burden’s office window.

The maroon Volvo was nowhere in sight.

“Nice,” I said, looking up through the windshield at clean blue sky. “If you have to run, do it in style.”

We crossed a green-hooded bridge over a dry bed of the Santa Clara River and kept going to the 126 junction at Fillmore. Past a business district consisting of well-preserved two-story brick buildings on spotless, empty shopping streets striped with meterless diagonal parking spaces, full-service gas stations staffed by attendants in hats and uniforms, and a Frosty Mug root beer stand that could have been part of the set for
American Graffiti.
Then a continuation of the highway and more citrus groves, working ranches, and produce stands advertising nuts, olives, tomatoes, corn, and “all natural” beef jerky.

Just a few more miles to the base of the mountains and Piru. The outskirts of town was abandoned railyards and citrus warehouses, derelict auto bodies and lots of dust. A hundred yards in were clumps of small, poor houses. One-and two-room structures set in chockablock randomness on fenced dirt lots. Untrimmed trees lined the road—date palms, plums, beeches, and stocky-limbed carobs that emitted a spermy perfume which insinuated itself into the car’s air-conditioning system and lingered. Chickens in the front yard. Toddlers in hand-me-downs making toys out of found materials. Inflatable wading pools. The few adult faces we saw were sun-beaten and solemn, tending toward elderly and Hispanic.