Time Bomb

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 Disneyland- 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 theatergoers. ’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 recogoized 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.”