Time Bomb

and Mom was in no position to run it, so I stepped in. One semester short of my B.A. It was supposed to be temporary. I never got out.”

His brow creased and his eyes drooped lower. I remembered his comment about Howard Burden, the wistful look: He actually stuck with what he loved…

“Anyway,” he said, “that’s about all I can tell you about the Burdens. What happened over at Hale was a real tragedy. Lord only knows Mr. Burden didn’t need any more. But hopefully time will heal.” He looked to me for confirmation.

I said, “Hopefully.”

“Maybe,” he said, “people will even learn something from all of this. I don’t know.”

He picked up his calculator, tapped the buttons.

“One more thing, Mr. Dinwiddie,” said Milo. “There’s a young man who works or used to work for you, making deliveries. Isaac or Jacob?”

Dinwiddie’s thick shoulders tightened and his breath caught. He let it out a moment later, slowly, deliberately. “Isaac. Ike Novato. What about him?”

“Novato,” said Milo. “He’s a Hispanic? We were told he was black.”

“Black. A light-complected black. What’s that… what’s he got to do with any of this?”

“We were told he was friendly with Holly Burden.”

“Friendly?” The shoulders hunched higher and shrugged.

Milo said, “He still work for you?”

The grocer glared at us. “Hardly.”

“Know where we can find him?”

“It would be difficult to find him anywhere, Detective. He’s dead, cremated. I scattered the ashes myself. Off the pier at Malibu.”

Dinwiddie’s gaze was angry, unyielding. Finally he looked away, down at his desk, picked up an order blank, gave it an uncomprehending look and put it aside.

“Funny you shouldn’t know,” he said. “That I should be telling you. Though I guess not, considering the size of this city, all the homicides you get. Well, he was one of them, gentlemen. Last September. Shot to death, supposedly in a drug burn, somewhere down in South Central.”

“Supposedly?” said Milo. “You have doubts?”

Dinwiddie hesitated before answering. “I guess anything’s possible, but I seriously doubt it.”

“Why’s that?”

“He was a straight arrow- just wasn’t the dope type. I know cops think all civilians are naive, but I did enough volunteer work with juvenile offenders to be a pretty good judge. I tried to tell that to the police but they never bothered to come down here and talk to me about him face to face. I only found out about the murder because when he hadn’t showed up for work for two days running, I called his landlady and she told me what had happened, said the police had been by, told her it was a dope thing. I got the name of the detective on the case from her. I called him, told him I was Ike’s employer, volunteered to come down to the station and give information. His attitude wasn’t exactly enthusiastic. A couple of weeks later he called me back, asked me if I wanted to come down and identify the body. ‘A formality’- his words- so that he could clear it. It was obvious that to him this was just a routine ghetto shooting- another case number. What really surprised me when I got there was that the detective himself was black. He hadn’t sounded black over the phone. Smith. Maurice Smith. Southeast Division. Know him?”

Milo nodded.

“Classical self-hatred,” said the grocer. “Turning all that rage against the self. All oppressed groups are at risk for it. Minorities in official capacities are really vulnerable. But in Smith’s case it may be getting in the way of his doing his job.”

“Why’d he need you to identify the body?”

“Ike had no family anyone could locate.”

“What about the landlady?”

Dinwiddie shrugged again and stroked his mustache. “She’s pretty old. Maybe she couldn’t handle the stress. Why don’t you ask Smith?”

“What else can you tell us about Novato?”

“Top-notch kid. Bright, charming, learned fast, not a lick of trouble. Always willing to do above and beyond the call of duty, and believe me, nowadays that’s rare.”

“How’d you hire him?”

“He answered an ad I put up on the bulletin board at the Santa Monica College job center. He was taking courses there, part time. Needed to work to support himself. The all-American work ethic, exactly the kind of thing Dad used to extol.” The gray eyes narrowed. “Course, Dad never would have hired Ike.”

I said, “Did you run into any problems having him work here? Given the attitudes you described.”

“Not really. People will accept blacks in relatively menial positions.”

Milo said, “Do you still have his job application on file?”

“No.”

“Remember his address?”

“Venice. One of the numbered streets, Fourth Avenue or Fifth, I think. The landlady’s name was Gruenberg.”

Milo wrote it down. “What about a picture?”

Dinwiddie hesitated, opened a drawer, took out a color snapshot, and handed it to Milo. I craned and got a look at it. Group photo. Dinwiddie, the two cashiers out front, and a tall, lanky, mocha-colored young man, posed in front of the market, waving. Everyone wearing green aprons.

Ike Novato had light-brown kinky hair cut short, full lips, almond eyes, and a Roman nose. The stooped posture of one who’d reached full height early. Big, awkward-looking hands, shy smile.

“This was taken last Fourth of July,” said Dinwiddie. “We always throw a big party for the local kids. Safe and Sane Celebration. Free candy and soda instead of fireworks. One of the parents brought a camera and took it.”

Milo said, “Can I borrow this?”

Dinwiddie said, “Guess so. Are you saying there’s some connection between Ike and what happened at the school?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Milo said.

“I can’t see that,” Dinwiddie said.

I said, “Were there any problems with his doing deliveries? Having him come into people’s houses?”

Dinwiddie’s right hand curled into a fist. Mounds of muscle and sinew appeared along the massive forearm. “In the beginning there were a few comments. I ignored them and eventually they stopped. Even a stone racist could see what a decent kid he was.” He tightened his other hand. “Chalk up one puny point for truth and justice, huh? But at the time I thought I was doing something important- making a stand. Then he goes down to Watts and gets shot. I’m sorry, hut it still makes me angry. The whole thing was depressing.”

“Any other reason for him to be down in Watts?” said Milo.

“That was Detective Smith’s point. The street where he was shot was a notorious crack alley- why else would he be there except to make a deal? But I still have my doubts. Ike told me more than once how much he hated drugs, how drugs had destroyed his people. Maybe he was down there to catch a pusher.”

“His people,” said Milo. “Thought he had no family.”

“I’m speaking generically, Detective. The black nation. And your Smith’s the one who told me there was no family. He said they ran Ike’s fingerprints through all the police files- missing kids, whatever- and nothing turned up. Said Ike had applied for his Social Security card only a few months before working for me. They had no record of any previous address. He told me it would be a Potter’s Field situation if no one came forth and claimed the body.” Wince. “So I took him home.”

“What did the boy tell you about his background?”

“Not much. We didn’t have extended discussions- it was a work situation. I got the impression he’d had a good