Time Bomb (51 page)

I turned off the set and called Linda back. “Had my fill.”

She said, “I was no fan of his, but I hate the way his poor family’s being dragged through the muck.”

“Yesterday’s hero, today’s wet spot.”

She said, “Why now? A day after? The police knew right away.”

I thought about that. “Frisk snatched the case away from Milo because of the glory potential. But maybe he had time to think about it, examine the facts, and realized it would be slow going. A glory case can be a double-edged sword: If he develops no suspects, he runs the risk of looking incompetent in the public eye. Shifting focus to a sex scandal buys him time—notice how there was no mention of the progress of the investigation.”

“True,” she said. “Just the S word.”

“Over and over and over. Also, if Massengil was scum, the urgency to learn who killed him dims a bit, doesn’t it? Maybe buys Frisk a little more public patience. Of course, another possibility is that it wasn’t Frisk who leaked.”

“Latch?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? I’ve seen at least two instances where he seems to have been in touch with Massengil’s itinerary, so maybe he’s even got a mole on Massengil’s staff and found out about Massengil’s extracurricular activities. Not that he’s the only candidate. Massengil had plenty of enemies up in Sacramento, no shortage of people who might have hated him enough to spit on his grave. Could be Latch just used the information—seized the opportunity and went from conciliator to contender. It fits his pattern: a talent for surviving and thriving on the misfortunes of others.”

“Sounds like a scavenger,” she said. “A vulture. Or a maggot.”

“Dung beetle came to my mind,” I said.

She laughed. “Well, now that we’re into such appetizing images, have you had dinner yet? I’m in a cooking mood.”

“Love to, but it’s not a good night.”

“Oh.” She sounded hurt.

I said, “I want to see you. But . . .”

“But what, Alex?”

I took a deep breath. “Listen, I don’t want to scare you but I’m pretty sure someone followed me this evening. And I don’t think it’s the first time.

“What are you talking about?”

“The night we had dinner on Melrose, I thought someone left the same time we did, followed us for a while. At the time I brushed it off, but now I don’t think so.”

“You’re serious.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that night? When you first suspected it?”

“I really thought I was letting my imagination get the better of me
—
there just didn’t seem to be any point. Then Milo told me he’d spotted a tail when we were driving together. He thinks it was Frisk. Or someone else in the Police Department. One arm of the LAPD hydra trying to find out what another was doing. Milo’s not the most popular guy in the Department.”

She said, “Cops love doing that, going after one another. Paramilitary thinking. Destroy the individual. Daddy had all sorts of stories about officers he’d caught with their pants down. His eyes used to light up when he told them.” Pause. “Why would they be following you?”

“Guilt by association. And don’t worry about it—I’ll have an answer soon. I got the license number of the car that followed me today. As soon as I reach Milo he’ll be able to trace it.”

“Don’t worry about it, huh? But you’re afraid to be with me tonight.”

“It’s . . . I just don’t want to put you in any . . . jeopardy.”

“From the police? Why would I be in jeopardy from them? All my parking tickets are paid up.”

I said nothing.

She said, “Alex?”

I sucked in my breath again, mentally phrased my words while letting it out, and told her about all of it. Novato, Gruenberg, Crevolin, Bear Lodge.

When I was through she said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The chill.

“I guess I was being . . . protective.”

“And what made you think I needed protecting?”

“It wasn’t that,” I said. “It had nothing to do with you. We were having good times together. I didn’t want to . . . pollute them.”

“So you kept me in the dark.”

“Not out of any base motives—”

“Okay. Have a good evening.”

“Linda—”

“No,” she said. “Don’t throw any more words at me. I’ve had enough of that. And don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. I don’t need
protecting
.”

She hung up. When I tried to call back, the line was busy. I checked with the operator and was informed that the phone was off the hook.

Alone, my thoughts drifted from misery to misery. Bomb factories. Cadres. Political conversions . . .

The common thread running through all of it:

Latch.

I thought of the sanitation process that had transformed him from Hanoi Harry to public servant. Those years of seclusion with Miranda somewhere in the Northwest.

Years of seclusion after Bear Lodge.

Time and money and an easy smile. What else did a politician need in the eighties? But what would happen to the smile if the money stopped flowing?

Remembering Miranda Latch’s demeanor at the concert, I wondered how long the spigot would stay open. Thought of someone who might be able to tell me.

Superior Court had been closed for hours, but I was pretty sure I had Steve Hupp’s home number in my Rolodex. I went into the library and found it. A Pasadena exchange. A very young, very breathy female voice with a Scandinavian accent answered.

“Judge Hupp’s residence.”

“I’d like to speak with the judge, please.”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Alex Delaware.”

“One moment.”

A heartbeat later Steve came on.

“Hey, Alex, change your mind about Switzerland?”

“Sorry, no,
Judge
Hupp. How’s the residence?”

“That’s Brigitta, our
au pair.
Just brought her over from Sweden. She’s not much on housework but she does like answering the phone—proud of her English. And her legs. Julie hates her guts. So, if you haven’t had a change of heart, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’d like a little favor—some information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Whether or not a certain party has filed for dissolution recently. Does that violate any canons of ethics?”

“No, it’s all public record, unless we seal the records on an individual—and we’re reluctant to seal. There’s really got to be a good reason for it. Not that we go around just giving out information. Why do you want to know?”

“It relates to a case I’m working on.”

“Meaning you can’t tell me.”

“Well . . .”

He laughed. “Alex, Alex. Haven’t you learned yet that one-way streets don’t usually go very far? Okay, for you I’ll do it. I remember all the nasty ones you helped me clear. What’s the party’s name?”

I told him.

“You’re involved with
them?
I didn’t know it had gotten that far. Didn’t even know they had kids.”

“What do you mean ‘that far’?”

“Her attorney did a preliminary filing a couple of weeks ago. They’ve got a long way to go before custody comes up. I don’t expect to see them in court for half a year. Think it’ll be a dirty one?”

“Could be. Lots of money involved.”

“All hers. But I don’t see him asking for alimony. Wouldn’t do much for the old public image, would it? Young man on the rise living off his wife’s dole.”

“He is on the rise.”

“Oh, yeah. The talk around City Hall is he’s
bored
with things there. Got his eye on the seat Massengil had the good manners to vacate, then onward to something congressional—as in D.C. Anyway, I’m glad you’re involved. Maybe we can keep the shrapnel to a minimum.”

“Hope so, Steve. Thanks.”

“Sure. Any time. See you in court.”

I felt edgy staying at home and decided to leave until I was able to reach Milo and find out who’d been in the tan car. Another drive up the coast seemed like a good idea. Just as I was out the door my service called.

“Dr. Delaware, tsk tsk,” said an operator whose voice I didn’t recognize. “You haven’t called in for your messages since noon and there’s a whole bunch of them.”

“Any emergencies?”

“Let me see . . . hmm . . . no, it doesn’t look that way. But Detective Spurgis—”

“Sturgis.”

“Oh. Is that a
t
? I’m new here. Flo took it—can’t read her handwriting. Okay, Detective
Sturgis
left a real long one. You want me to put it away or read it to you?”

“Read it, please.”

“Okay, let’s see . . . He said to tell you things have climbed higher dash capital F capital E capital D. I guess that spells FED—at least that’s the way Flo wrote it. Capital F, capital E, capital D. Or maybe it’s a T. Things have climbed higher. FED. Or TED. But your name’s not Ted, so I guess it’s FED. Anyway, things have climbed higher dash FED. You’ll be contacted. Sit tight. Got all that?”

“Got it. What time did he call?”

“Let’s see . . . it says here five-thirty on the slip.”

“Thanks.”

“You sure do get some good ones, Dr. Delaware. You must have an interesting life.”

32

I sat tight. The knock on the door came at 11:23. A double rap followed by a single punch of the doorbell.

“Who is it?”

“FBI, Dr. Delaware.”

“Could I see some identification, please?”

“Certainly, Doctor. I’ll hold it up to your peephole.”

I looked through the hole, couldn’t see much, even after switching on the landing light. “How about dropping it through the mail slot?”

Hesitation. Voices conferring in low tones.

“Sorry, Doctor, we can’t do that.”

Keeping the chain on, I opened the door a couple of inches.

“Here you go, Doctor.” A hand holding a small leather case came forward. Gold badge on one side, picture ID on the other. The picture was of a man in his late twenties. Light-brown hair cut short with a right-hand side part. Full face, sharp features. hoyt henry blanchard. special agent, federal bureau of investigation, u.s. dept. of justice.

I undid the chain and opened the door all the way. The life-sized version of the picture stood on the landing wearing a gray suit, white button-down shirt, and blue tie with a silver stripe. Six feet tall, narrow frame at odds with the heavy face. Square-lensed steel-framed glasses that made his eyes look indistinct. Behind him was a woman about his age. Dirty-blond pageboy, capuchin-monkey face, gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

Blanchard said, “This is Special Agent Crisp.”

He and I shook hands.

Crisp didn’t smile or extend her hand. She was short and long-waisted with chunky calves. Her outfit said
no
time
for small talk
: navy-blue two-piece suit with a high-necked white blouse, black leatherette purse big enough to hold a day’s worth of groceries. Behind her glasses she had a tax auditor’s eyes. Both she and Blanchard had the compulsive, suspicious look of accountants who’ve done time on the streets. Was the bureau still actively recruiting CPAs?

Blanchard said, “You’re careful, Doctor. That’s wise.”

I said, “With all that’s been going on . . .”

“Absolutely. Sorry for the hour.”

“I was up.”

He nodded. “So you got the message.”

“I did. What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to interview you.”

“About what?”

He permitted himself a brief smile. “Everything that’s been going on.”

I stood back. “Come on in.”

“Actually,” said Blanchard, “we’d prefer if you came with us.”

“Where to?”

Crisp bristled at the question. At the fact that I was questioning them. The two of them looked at each other.

Another bland smile from Blanchard. “Sorry, Doctor. We’re really not authorized to say
where
until you agree to come
with—
I know it’s kind of a Catch Twenty-two, but that’s the way it is.”

“Information transfer regulations, sir,” said Crisp. Her voice was husky. “In a security matter, we’re not authorized to discuss it outside of the approved locus.”

Blanchard glanced at her as if she’d talked out of turn. Gave me the kind of look common to good-natured parents of ill-behaved children. “We’re not talking summons or a warrant or anything like that, Doctor. Meaning you’re not obligated to accompany us. But it would be a big help to our Task Force.”

“We can get a summons easily enough,” said Crisp, as if to herself.

Good cop, bad cop? A reason for it, or just force of habit?

I said, “Is Detective Sturgis part of the Task Force?”

Blanchard cleared his throat. “Like Agent Crisp said, we’re really not authorized to give out any information outside the approved locus—meaning a certain specific site—which is where we want to take you. Then we can clear everything up. But let’s just say that your expectations vis-à-vis Detective Sturgis have a high probability of being met.”

Crisp shifted her giant purse to the other shoulder.

I hesitated.

Crisp looked at her watch and glared.

Blanchard said, “Not to worry, Doctor. We’re the good guys.”

“No offense,” I said. “But sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

His expression said he’d taken offense. But he stuck another smile on his face and said, “Guess it is.”

Crisp tapped her watch and said, “Let’s just come back tomorrow morning with paper, Hoyt.”

Blanchard ignored her and said, “Tell you what, Doctor—how about we give you a number to call? Verify the Task Force.”

“How about if I talk to Detective Sturgis myself?”

“That’s fine in principle, but the problem is he’s unavailable by phone—on radio alert, restricted band.” He put his finger to his mouth and thought. “Tell you what—I can probably get him on the unit in our car.” To Crisp: “Okay, Audrey?”

She gave a bored shrug.

Blanchard turned back to me. “Okay, we’ll try. But Headquarters may not okay the communication; the lines have got to be kept clear at all times.”

“High intrigue,” I said.

“You bet.” Smile.

Crisp was unamused.

“Okay, let’s go down to the car,” said Blanchard. “No. Even better, I’ll go to the car and bring the unit up.”

“Fine.”

He turned and took a step down.