“You just heard- he’ll let me know.”
We walked across the schoolyard.
“So,” he said, “how’d it really go?”
“Not bad, really. I managed to meet briefly with all the classes. Most of the kids seem to be reacting normally.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning lots of anxiety, some anger. It’s the anger I tried to harness- get them to feel more in control. I told the teachers to contact the parents and prepare them for possible appetite loss, sloop problems, psychosomatic stuff, clinginess, some school phobia. Some of the kids may need individual treatment, but a group approach should work for most of them. The important thing was getting to them quickly- you done good.”
He said, “What’d you think of Ms. Principal?”
“Feisty lady.”
“Texas lady,” he said. “Cop’s kid- daddy was a Ranger, brought his work home. She knows this scene by heart.”
“She didn’t mention any of that to me.”
“Why should she? With you she probably talked
He frowned. “Yeah. First I’d heard of it. The School Board reported it directly to downtown- it never went any further.”
“Bad P.R.?” I said.
“Perish the thought.”
“Sounds like the school’s been embroiled in politics since they brought the kids in. Think the sniping was political?”
“At this point, who knows?”
“Latch or Massengil have any theories? About being targets themselves?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Kenny Frisk and the ATD boys did all the interrogation. Hush-hush behind closed doors. Afterwards Kenny comes out and informs the rest of us peons that official policy is tight lips. All press re- leases to emanate from ATD.
I searched his face for signs of anger. All I saw was a big, white mask.
A few steps later he said, “Though with politicos, good luck keeping their lips from flapping.”
“So far Latch seems to be complying,” I said. “I ran into him in the hall as he was leaving. Tried to get some information from him and received zip.”
He turned his head and looked at me. “What kind of information?”
“Some sort of basic description of the sniper. Who he was. Anything tangible. The kids need to form an image of their enemy.” I repeated the rationale I’d given Linda and Gordon Latch. “They’re already asking questions, Milo. It would increase my effectiveness to be able to answer some of them.”
He said, “Just basics, huh? Who he
I nodded. “Of course, any details you can tell me would be useful. Short of an ‘informational infraction.’ ”
He didn’t smile. “Details. Well, first thing I can tell you is that you’re operating on a false premise.”
“What’s that?”
“It wasn’t a
4
The restaurant was dim and mock-English: collections of tankards and heraldic shields displayed on rough- textured dun walls, dartboards in “Ye Olde Pub Room,” lots of distressed crossbeams, the tallowy, sweet smell of seared meat. A catacomb jumble of small dining rooms. A respectful maitre d’ had seen to it that ours was empty.
Milo looked up from his T-bone, put down his knife, and took something out of his coat pocket that he slid across the table.
A piece of white paper, folded double. In the center was a photocopy of a driver’s license.
The photo was dark and blurred. A young female face, oval, unsmiling. A little weak-chinned. Thin neck. White blouse. Dark straight hair, cropped short. Straight-edge bangs hovering above arched eyebrows.
I searched the features for something- some harbinger of violence. The eyes looked a little dull. Sullen. Heavy- lidded, shallow as rain puddles. But that could have been the poor quality of the copy or weariness at waiting in line at the DMV. Other than that, nothing. Average. A face you’d never notice.
I read the ID data.
HOLLY LYNN BURDEN
1723 JUBILO DR
OCEAN HEIGHTS CA 90070
SEX: F HAIR: BRN EYES: BLUE
HT: 5-05 WT: 117 DOB: 12-12-68
RSTR: CORR LENS
“Local girl,” I said.
“Very local. That address is five blocks from the school.”
“Jubilo Drive. Spanish for ‘joy.’ And I think
“A-plus, Sherlock. You caught the pattern. The street next to Jubilo’s Belleza Court. ‘Beauty.’ Some optimistic urban planner.”
“Hispanophile urban planner,” I said. “Guess the locals don’t share the spirit.”
“Hey,” he said, “street names are one thing; letting them marry your sister’s another.”
I examined the picture again, reread the information. “What do you know about her?”
“Just what you see in front of you. Frisk says ATD will be checking out known associates- going through their subversive files to see if her name comes up. When he left us he was on his way to her house.”
“Nineteen years old,” I said and gave him the paper. He folded it back up and put it away.
“Now forget you saw it, Alex.
“Why not?”
“Official ATD document.”
“How’d you get it?”
He shrugged and began sawing his steak. “After the print boys finished, Frisk designated one of the offices as a ‘data collection center.’ Had all the evidence hoarded in there, I just happened to saunter in when he just happened to take a leak. There just happened to be this Xerox ma-chine that kept whispering, ‘Turn me on, big boy.’ You know how I’ve always been a sucker for the soft touch.”
“Why all the obsession with secrecy, Milo? Once Frisk gave you her name, you could have gotten the license yourself. Hell, I could get it
“That’s the way ATD works- comes from spending too much of their time hanging around Washington. The Department sends them there- and to FBI heaven at Quantico. Seminars. Hobnobbing with the cloak-and-dagger freaks. Makes ’ em insufferable. But them’s the rules- no sense bucking without any payoff. Besides, it shouldn’t take long for things to ease up. Only a matter of time before the whole case goes public.”
“How long?”
“Unless something interesting turns up about the late Ms. Burden in somebody’s files, Frisk plans on releasing her name to the press around noon tomorrow. Soon as that happens, you can tell your kids the bogeyman looks like their friendly neighborhood babysitter.”
“How’s he going to stall the press in the meantime?”
