Time Bomb Read online

  “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.”

  “I thought Frisk was doing all the interviewing.”

  “He has first dibs but he never called her. He’s just about ready to close the case. Apparently, nothing political’s come up on Burden in anyone’s files—no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. No funny phone calls that can be traced from her home to anywhere else, no job at Massengil’s or Latch’s. So they’re considering it a nut job and are ready to file it as a solve. Isn’t it nice when things go smoothly?”

  Back at Hale by ten. Several dozen children were out on the yard for morning recess, running, climbing, hiding, seeking. The asphalt sparkled like granite under an unencumbered sun.

  I finished my group sessions by noon, reserving the rest of the day for individual evaluations of the children I’d tagged as high-risk. After a couple more hours of evaluation, I decided five of them would be okay; the rest could use one-on-one treatment.

  After spending another couple of hours doing play therapy, supportive counseling, and relaxation training, I checked in Linda’s office. Carla was going through a pile of forms. Her punk-do was wrapped in a blue bandana and she looked around twelve years old. />
  “Dr. Overstreet’s downtown,” she said. “At a meeting.”

  “Poor Dr. Overstreet.”

  Her smile seemed less carefree than usual.

  “Any of Dr. Dobbs’s people been by?” I said.

  “No, but someone else has.” She put her finger in her mouth and made a gag-me gesture.

  “Who?”

  She told me.

  “Where?”

  “Probably one of the classrooms—your guess is as good as mine.”

  I didn’t have to guess. I heard the music as I walked down the hall. Awkward attempts at blues riffs tooted on a harmonica with warped reeds.

  I pushed open the classroom door and found a dozen or so fifth-graders looking quieter than I’d ever seen them.

  Gordon Latch was sitting on the desk, legs folded yogi-style, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his wrists. A chromatic mouth organ was in one hand; the other caressed his gray-brown mop of hair. Behind him stood Bud Ahlward, wearing a charcoal-colored sack suit, back to the chalkboard, arms across his bulky chest, expressionless.

  He was the first to notice me. Then Latch turned, smiled, and said, “Dr. Delaware! Come on in and join the party.”

  The teacher was sitting at the back of the room, pretending to grade papers. One of the younger ones, just out of training, quiet, with a tendency to be under assertive. She looked up at me and shrugged. The room had gone silent. The kids were staring at me.

  Latch said, “Hey, guys,” put the harmonica to his lips, and blew a few bars of “Oh, Susanna.” Ahlward tapped one wing-tipped foot, concentrating. As if keeping rhythm required great effort. Latch closed his eyes and blew harder. Then he stopped, gave the kids a wide smile. A few of them squirmed.

  I walked toward the desk.

  Latch lowered the harmonica and said, “Bud and I thought it would be useful to drop by. Give these guys a chance to ask questions.” Half-wink, lowered voice:“Vis-à-vis our prior discussion.”

  “I see.”

  “Brought L.D. too,” he said, hefting the harmonica. Turning back to the kids, he gave a cheerleader flourish with the harmonica hand. “What’s L.D. stand for, guys?”

  Rustling from the seats. Childish mumbles.

  “Right,” said Latch. “Little Dylan.” Toot, inhale, toot. “Old L.D. here, had him since Berkeley—that’s a college up north, near San Francisco, guys. Any of you know where San Francisco is?”

  Nothing.

  Latch said, “They had a giant earthquake there a long time ago. Big fire too. They’ve got a great big Chinatown there and the Golden Gate Bridge. Any of you hear of the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  No volunteers.

  “Anyway, old L.D. here is my little trusted musical buddy. He helped me get through some long days—days with lots of homework. You know about homework, don’t you?”

  A few nods.

  Ahlward lifted one foot and inspected the bottom of his shoe.

  Latch said, “So. Anything you guys want to hear?”

  Silence.

  Ahlward uncrossed his arms and let them dangle.

  Latch said, “Nothing at all?”

  A boy in the back said, “Bon Jovi. ‘Living on a Prayer.’”

  Latch clicked his tongue a couple of times, tried a few notes on the harmonica, and moved it away from his lips, shaking his head. “Sorry, amigo, that’s not in my repertoire.”

  I said, “Councilman, could I talk to you for a moment? Privately.”

  “Privately, huh?” Mugging for the kids, he lowered his voice to a stage whisper: “Sounds pretty mysterious, huh?”

  A few children responded with shaky smiles; most remained stolid. Up at the chalkboard, Ahlward had crossed his arms again and was alternating his gaze between the view out the window and a spot on the rear wall, over the heads of the children. Bored and watchful at the same time.

  I cleared my throat.

  Latch checked his wristwatch and slipped the harmonica into his shirt pocket. “Sure, Dr. Delaware, let’s talk.” Full wink. “Hang in there, guys.”

  He got off the desk, flipped his jacket over one shoulder, and came my way. I held the door open for him and we stepped out into the hall. Ahlward followed us, silently, but remained in the doorway of the classroom. Latch gave him a short nod and the redheaded man closed the door, resumed the folded-arms, Secret Service stance, and looked up and down the corridor, a reflexive watchdog.

  Latch pressed his back flush against the wall and bent one leg. The harmonica sagged in his pocket. The lenses of his welfare glasses were crystal-clear, the eyes behind them restless. “Good group of kids,” he said.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “They seem to be handling things pretty well.”

  “That’s true too.”

  “Though it seems to me,” he said, “that they’re a bit under stimulated—not to know where San Francisco is, the Golden Gate Bridge. The system’s failing them, has a long way to go before it does right by them.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “So. What’s on your mind, Alex?”

  I said, “With all due respect to your intentions, Councilman, it would be best to let me know the next time you’re planning to drop in.”

  He seemed puzzled. “Why’s that important to you?”

  “Not me. Them. To keep things predictable.”

  “How so?”

  “They need consistency. Need to feel a stronger sense of control over their environment, not have any more surprises thrown at them.”

  He lifted his glasses with one hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the other. I noticed that the skin behind the freckles was ruddy, tinged with bronze; since the sniping he’d taken some sun.

  When the spectacles were back in place he said, “Maybe we got our signals crossed, Alex, but I thought this was exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you said you wanted that first time we met. Accurate information—firsthand information. Bypassing the red tape. Bud and I have been cleared by the cops in terms of informational flow, so I figured why not?”

  “What I had in mind was something a little more organized,” I said.

  He smiled. “Going through channels?”

  “That’s not always a bad idea.”

  “No, of course not. The thing is, Alex, this wasn’t really planned. Believe it or not, we public servants do get spontaneous once in a while.”

  Grinning. He waited until I smiled back, then said, “What happened was, Bud and I were literally in the neighborhood. Driving down Sunset on our way from a meeting in the Palisades—keeping the developers in check. Give those boys a free rein and the whole coastline will be a strip mall inside of a month. It was a hellacious couple of hours, but we came out of it better than when we went in and I was feeling pretty good about my job—that’s not always the case. So when Bud mentioned that we were coming up on Ocean Heights, I said to myself, why not? It had been on my mind to get back here soon as the police cleared us but I’d been too caught up with backlog—dealing with the investigation set me back a couple of days. Things really piled up. But I felt badly about not keeping my word. So I told him to turn off, use the time we did have profitably.”

  “I understand, Councilman—”

  “Gordon.”

  “I appreciate what you wanted to do, Gordon, but with all these kids have been through, it’s best to coordinate things.”

  “Coordinate, huh?” His blue eyes stopped moving and got hard. “Why do I feel all of a sudden as if I’m back in school myself? Being called into the principal’s office?”

  “That’s not what I intend—”

  “Coordinate,” he said, looking away from me and giving a short, hard laugh that percussed in his chest and died before it got to his throat. “Go through channels. That’s exactly the kind of thing we tell taxpayers when they come up to the mike in Council chambers and ask us for something we don’t intend to give them.”

  I said, “What exactly is your plan, Gordon?”

  He
turned back to me. “My plan? I just told you there was none.”

  “Your intention, then, in terms of the kids.”

  “My intention,” he said, “was to break the ice with a little help from L.D., then field their questions. Give them a chance to throw stuff at me—anything they want. Give them a chance to find out the system can work for them, once in a while. Give them the opportunity to learn from Bud what it feels like to be a hero. My intention was to listen to their feelings and share mine —what it felt like to be under fire. The fact that we’re all in this together—we’d better pull together or the planet’s in trouble. I was just about to get into that when you came in.”