Pride. Paternal pride.
His real son.
I said, “Sounds like a real renaissance man.” One part of my brain thinking about Linda and running at Methedrine pace. Another making small talk, trying to get information from the odd, scary man in the driver’s seat.
“Bet he has military training, too,” I said. “Former intelligence officer, same as you. That’s how you found him, isn’t it? Not some modeling agency. When it was time to recruit a partner, you know precisely where to go.”
“I’m not a partner,” said Graff. “Just a figurehead.” More laughter.
Burden laughed too. The exchange to the 405 appeared. He took it going south, and moved into the center lane, maintaining a steady seventy miles per.
I said, “How about going a little faster.”
He didn’t answer, but the speedometer climbed to seventy-five.
Wanting a hundred but knowing that was all I was going to get, I said, “Here’s another hypothesis: Between the two of you, New Frontiers has access to military computers. Ahlward had a military background. You checked him out.”
“Military background,” said Graff. Bear-growl laughter.
Burden didn’t join in. “He was the first one I researched. Before I approached you. The press was painting him as some kind of hero. I wanted to learn about the one who actually pulled the trigger. The hero who’d killed my daughter. What I found out smelled bad. He’d lied about being a military man.”
His tone said that was the ultimate felony.
“All he had was seven months in the Marine Corps. April of ’sixty-seven to November of ’sixty-eight. A good part of it in the brig before he was dishonorably discharged for moral turpitude. A closed file that I managed to open. Two separate incidents. Sexual harassment of a sixteen-year-old girl—a black girl—and attempts to organize a white-supremacist gang among other new recruits. It was the latter that made me research him further. After his discharge he enjoyed brief stints in local jails for theft and burglary and disorderly conduct. I decided he was scum, looked into his family history. His father had been a Bundist war criminal. Ran one of their summer camps. Schweiben. Ahlward Senior was imprisoned for sedition in 1944, released in 1947, only to die a year later of cirrhosis. Alcoholic scum. Multigenerational scum. Which led to another question: why would a supposedly liberal-minded city councilman hire someone like that? So I researched the city councilman too. Found nothing there but a piece of lint masquerading as a man. Good family, all the privileges, not a trace of hardship in his background. Not a trace of character either. Addiction to the path of least resistance. Needless to say, he found his way into the latrine we know as politics.”
Angry words but a conversational tone.
“I monitored Latch’s headquarters. Easy as pie, right, Gregory? But that didn’t teach me much. Latch’s people displayed a modicum of discipline—tended to be circumspect over the phone. But you were doing a fine job as my conduit, putting it all together: Novato, the old woman, that pathetic washout Crevolin. For a brief period I thought the vandalization of Ms.—Excuse me—Dr. Overstreet’s car was related to it, But Detective Sturgis proved me wrong. Congratulations, Detective.”
“Fuck off and drive.”
“Nevertheless, the rest of it proved what I’d known all along: that my daughter had been a victim herself. A dupe. I put it all together before either of you did. And in answer to the question you asked of Howard, Doctor, my political beliefs are antithetical to fascism. I believe in unrestrained free enterprise, minimal government control. Live and let live. On condition the other side behaves itself.”
“Die and let die,” said Graff. “Never again.”
“Gregory and I had no trouble believing in Wannsee Two. Because of our military background, our access to classified data. We knew what had gone on in various army bases during the late seventies. Racist cells that the armed forces broke up swiftly. But at the cost of discharging the fascists into the weak, civilian world, where irregularities couldn’t be dealt with as efficiently. That insight and experience gave me the edge. I knew from the careful way Latch’s people handled themselves over the phone that there had to be some other place they did their dirty work—a secret headquarters where the swine spoke freely. But they never let on, not through all the monitoring. Then I thought of Latch’s wife. Began tracing properties deeded to her. Burrowing through the layers of corporations she’d wrapped around herself. Piercing that kind of cocoon is absurdly easy if you know how, and I quickly came up with several possibilities—despite the fact that she’s a very well-landed lady. I was in the process of narrowing down the list when you made my job easy. Calling Detective Sturgis last night and leaving him the message about your being followed. That license plate. I have trace capacities better than most police departments—millions of licenses in my data bank. I matched your number to one of my possibilities, a company listed as a printing facility. Gregory and I were there just alter sundown. Saw Detective Sturgis being delivered there. Listening. Show him, Gregory.”
Graff lifted something from the floor of the van. Glass cone with a microphone in the center.
“This is a Stevens Twenty-five-X long-range parabolic microphone,” said Burden. “Good up to two miles.”
I said, “Another sample of Eastern Bloc creativity?”
“Perish the thought,” said Burden. “This one’s all-American.”
“Born in the U.S.A.,” said Graff.
Burden said, “When you arrived, trussed and shackled, Detective Sturgis, we were waiting. You held up nicely. Your own military background, no doubt—quite impressive. Rest assured that had you been in any serious danger, we would have saved you, but we knew from our previous monitoring that they planned to keep you alive, finish both you and the doctor off in a sexually suggestive manner. You, however, had no way of knowing that and you did very well.”
“Aw, shucks,” said Milo.
“I’d suggest,” said Burden, “that you conserve your anger for those who deserve it. For example, why do you think they came after you in the first place, masquerading as FBI?”
Silence from the back.
“Are you truly ignorant, Detective? Or just repressing?”
No answer.
Graff said, “Your own people sold you out. Extremely bad form.”
I said, “Frisk.”
Burden nodded. “Another piece of lint. When he came to interrogate me, the day of the shooting, he actually attempted to install a monitoring device in my living room. Primitive piece of junk. Needless to say, I left it in place. Talked to it, played the cello for it. Leading Frisk exactly where I wanted to lead him: in circles. Because he’s a moron, I could see right away there’d be no use working with him. The next time I saw him at his office, I returned the favor. So I have a very clear picture of what he’s been up to. And it’s nothing I would tolerate if I were you, Detective.”
“Polish lentils at Parker Center?” said Milo.
“Our vaunted Anti-Terrorist Division,” said Burden. “If it wasn’t so sad, it would be funny, the incompetence. You see, Latch and company have been under investigation for quite some time. But not for the right reasons. Frisk hasn’t the slightest inkling, no suspicions about Wannsee Two. He suspects Latch of being a communist subversive, an unrepentant left-winger—because Latch’s political enemies have been feeding him that.”
“Massengil?” I said.
“Among others. The late assemblyman was a prime source of disinformation on Latch, because he knew Latch had designs on his job. Dr. Dobbs helped him compose little false reports of Latch’s supposed subversive activities. Dr. Dobbs actually made direct phone calls to Frisk. Using a code name. Santa. Talking on pay phones. All of it very malicious and childish. Cinematic cloak-and-dagger nonsense. But our Lieutenant Frisk took it very seriously. Compiled a file on Latch—a classified file.”
Chuckles. Echoed by Graff.
I said, “Why didn’t he move against Latch?”
/> “He considered it,” said Burden. “I have recordings of him talking to his dictaphone, thinking out loud, considering his options. Playing every angle against the other, ruminating endlessly. But he was afraid to confront Latch without solid evidence, yet unable to get any evidence, because A, he didn’t know how, and B, the whole thing was a sham. The man really is incredibly stupid. That’s why he was so eager to take over the Massengil murder. He suspected Latch might be behind it—this would be his big chance. And he was right.”
“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.
Time Bomb Page 51