Time Bomb

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “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 heinous ties 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 recognized 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.

  Next to the car were two bodies lying belly down, limbs splayed, heads twisted to the side. A tape line had been run around them. They’d fallen close together on the concrete—perhaps two feet separated them. Their legs overlapped, creating a human V, and had the loose but contorted posture unique to pre-rigor corpses and rag dolls. Both were dressed in suits—one gray, one that appeared tan in the night light. The left trouser-leg of the one in tan had ridden up, revealing a thick white slab of hairless calf that shone like polished ivory. Rorschach splotches ex-tended from both heads.

  Keeping his distance, Milo swept the flashlight over the yard, focused it on the faces.

  “Him, all right. Puffy from hemorrhaging—bullet probably danced around in there. Looks like an entry back here, top of the neck. Straight to the medulla oblongata. It was probably fast. Same shot on number two, a little higher, also clean. Someone came from there, back of the car, side of the garage, caught ’em by surprise and bang bang. Close range, looks very pro. Hey, Alex, look at this. This who I think it is?”

  His beam had rested on the face of the tan-suited body. Corpulent, white bearded, suety cheeks compressed against the cement. Santa Claus with glassy, sightless eyes under swollen lids.

  “Dobbs,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “you figured they had some kind of extraprofessional relationship. Now we have an idea what it was.”

  He retracted the flashlight, shook his head. “Talk about your house calls.”

  Maintaining his distance, Milo diagrammed, took notes, measured, searched for footprints and thought he saw some on the other side of the Chrysler, near the northern corner of the garage.

  “Wet grass there,” he said. “And dirt. Low fence to the neighbor’s yard. Easy escape route. We might be able to get a cast.”

  “Good hiding spot, too,” I said.

  He nodded. “Like a goddam duck blind. The light from next door doesn’t carry this far. They walk out to the car, feeling nice and mellow. Pop pop.”

  He continued examining the yard. The coroner, ambulance, and crime-scene van showed up within seconds of one another, and the area was engulfed in frantic activity. I retreated to the porte-cochere and waited as Milo gave orders, asked questions, pointed, and scribbled.

  When he finally walked away from the action, I stepped out.

  He looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there.

  “Getting plainclothes out to both their offices, make sure this isn’t related to some kind of Watergate situation. I’ve gotta talk to Ms. Nuveen. Why don’t you go home? I’ll catch a ride to your place.”

  I said, “The press will be showing up soon. Don’t you think I’d be less obtrusive if I stayed with you?”

  “If you leave right now you’ll be real unobtrusive.”

  I said, “Promise to behave good, Mr. Policeman.”

  He hesitated. “All right, come with me. And as long as you’re there, keep your eyes open and make yourself useful.”

  The living room had maroon-lacquered walls and cream-colored marbleized molding, a dark-beamed vaulted ceiling, and a thermostat set at eighty. The decor was African safari transposed upon someone’s idea of a Paris salon: zebra and tiger skins layered over high-gloss herringbone hardwood, elephant-leg occasional table, lots of cut crystal, porcelain, and cloisonné, overstuffed chairs upholstered in a black-and-maroon floral chintz, a pair of carved ivory tusks sharing space on the quasi-quatorze coffee table with a stack of art books, art nouveau lamps with beaded shades, heavy brocade drapes with gold hems tied back from black wooden shutters, a green marble mantel bearing a collection of millefleurs and linenfold paperweights, and everywhere the smell of musk.

  She sat in one of the chairs, looking younger than indicated by her driver’s license birth date—late twenties would have been my guess. Her skin was the color of mocha ice cream, her eye shadow iridescent peacock-blue. The eyes below them were wide-set and active. She had long slim brown legs, narrow feet ending in pearly-pink toenails, full lips glossed a soft pink, a tight jaw, and straightened hair the color of red clay that hung past her shoulder blades. Her kimono was royal-purple Thai silk patterned with jade-green dragons, buttonless and very short, held together with a green sash. No matter how many times she tightened the sash, the robe kept coming loose and revealing a healthy mocha chest. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a lot, smoked an ultra-king-size Sherman tinted to match the robe, and fought to keep from trembling.

  “Okay, Cheri,” said Milo, handing her a faux malachite phone. “Go ahead, call your lawyer. Tell him to meet you downtown, at Central Booking.”

  She bit her lip, smoked, looked at the floor.

  “Downtown.” Her voice was soft, slightly nasal. “Haven’t seen that place in a long time.”

  “Bet you haven’t, Cheri. Come a long way
since Imperial Highway. Or was it Sunset and Western?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He said, “Got to hand it to you—this is some place. Self-made woman.” He put the phone down and picked up a Lladro figurine. Victorian lady with a parasol.

  He spun the parasol and said, “Spain, right?”

  For the first time she looked at him. With fear. Wondering how long something that delicate could survive between those thick fingers.

  He put down the figurine. “Who’s your decorator?”

  “Me. I did it myself.” Defiance and pride made her sit up a bit straighter.