Time Bomb

31

I pulled out of the network lot. This time someone followed me.

At first I wasn’t sure, wondered if the time spent immersed in Crevolin’s fugitive memories had made me paranoid.

The first hint of suspicion came at Olympic and La Cienega, just east of Beverly Hills, as I squinted into a platinum sunset glare that ate through my shades. A tan car two lengths behind me changed lanes the moment my eyes hit the mirror for the twentieth time.

I slowed. The tan car slowed. I looked back, trying to make out the driver, saw only a vague outline. Two outlines.

I slowed some more, received an angry honk for my efforts. I picked up speed. The tan car held back, stretching the distance between us. We cruised that way for a while, then hit a red light at La Peer. When things got moving again, I eased into the fast lane and put on as much speed as the crush would allow. The tan car continued to hold back, retreated into vehicular anonymity. By Doheny Drive, I couldn’t see it anymore.

So much for high intrigue.

I tried to relax but kept drifting back to exploding warehouses. My imagination gorged itself on conspiracy theories until my head started to hurt. Then I noticed it again. Center lane, two lengths behind…

I managed to get into the center lane. The tan car moved out of it, into the fast lane, coming up on my left. Wanting a better view?

Making sure not to move my head, I snuck a peek in the mirror. Still there.

Traffic in the right lane was dragging a bit now. I squeezed into it, settled into the slower pace. Hoping for a view of my own. The vehicles that had been in back of me whizzed by. I kept an eye to the left, waiting for the tan car to pass. Nothing.

Rearview peek: gone.

Another light at Beverly. Behind me, again. Two lengths.

It took until Roxbury for me to get back into the fast lane. The tan car stayed with me, all the way to Century City.

The sun was nearly down. Headlights came on. The tan car became a pair of yellow spots, indistinguishable from hundreds of others.

The loss of visibility made me feel violated, though I knew I was also less easy to spot. Anger took the place of fear. Felt a whole lot better than fear.

Practice-what-you-preach time, Doc.

Best-defense-is-a-good-offense time, Doc.

Just before Overland, I made a sudden move into the center lane, then the right, drove a block and made a quick turn onto a side street, just past a Ralph’s market. Speeding a hundred yards, I doused my lights, pulled over to the side, and waited, the engine still running.

Residential street. Small nicely kept houses. Tall trees. No foot traffic. Lots of parked cars on both sides; my turn to blend in.

The first set of headlights from Olympic belonged to a gray Porsche 944 that zipped by at fifty per and pulled into a driveway at the end of the block. I made out the shape of a man with a briefcase. He disappeared into one of the bungalows.

Soon after came a Dodge Ram van with the logo of a plumbing company on the side, driving at moderate speed. It stopped at the next corner and turned right.

Then nothing for several minutes. I waited, almost ready to concede the afternoon to paranoia, when I heard an automotive hum coming from Olympic.

Heard but didn’t see.

The side mirror revealed a faintly resolving image, just a hint of chrome under streetlight: a car with its headlights off, making its way slowly toward me.

The hum grew louder.

I slumped low.

The tan car cruised by at ten per. Plymouth sedan. Not unlike the unmarked Milo used. Not unlike the car he’d thought had been following us on our way to the Holocaust Center.

Ten miles per. Slow cruise. The way cops cruise when they’re looking for trouble.

My engine suddenly sounded deafening. They had to hear. I should have turned it off…

But the tan car kept going, turned right, and disappeared. I pulled out, keeping my lights off, and went after it. Caught up just as it made another right turn. Tried to read the license plate, couldn’t, got closer.

Not close enough to make out any details of the two people inside.

I nudged the accelerator, came just short of tailgating.

Switched on my lights.

Nonreflector plates, a number, two letters, four more numbers. I shot a mental snapshot, developed it just as the passenger swiveled sharply and looked back.

The tan sedan came to a sudden stop. I jammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending it. For a moment I thought there’d be a confrontation, was prepared to back away. But the tan car peeled rubber and took off.

I let it go, preserving letters and numbers in my head until I got home.

Still no luck reaching Milo; where the hell was he? I called his house and got the machine again. Phoned the Cedars-Sinai emergency room and asked for Dr. Silverman. Kick was in the middle of surgery, unable to come to the phone. I called the machine again and recited the tan car’s license number, explained why it was important to trace it as quickly as possible, and gave a summary of what I’d learned from Terry Crevolin. Talking to the damned thing as if it were corporeal, an old pal. Mahlon Burden would have been proud of me.

When I was through I phoned Linda at home.

“Hi,” she said. “Have you seen it yet?”

“Seen what?”

“The Massengil stuff hitting the fan- right now, the six o’clock news. Call me back when you’ve had your fill of it.”

The newscast was featuring the second assassination of the late assemblyman, this one not nearly as quick and clean as the ambush in Sheryl Jane Jackson’s backyard. A photo of Massengil that could have been a mug shot. An old one of Cheri T in a corkscrew hairdo and white eye shadow that was. The jail photographer had preserved her looking like the hollow-eyed, switchblade-in-purse streetwalker she’d once been.

The gloating anchorwoman went on in a sultry voice about sex for hire… the exact relationship between the two victims and Jackson still being unclear… sex scandal… sex sex sex… Massengil’s reputation as a law-and-order politician who’d campaigned against pornography… twenty-eight years in the state legislature advocating… sex… psychological adviser… sex…

She needn’t have bothered talking. Pictures were still worth millions of words: Massengil open-mouthed and snarling, Dobbs’s well-fed sanctimoniousness. Cheri’s eyes, full of corruption and defiance.

Now an action shot. Ocean Heights. The Widow Massengil walking out of her front door to a waiting car, black-garbed, face and snowy bouffant hidden by veil and hands. Hobbling, hunched, in the protective grip of all four sons. Flashbulbs popping, microphones thrusting. The bereaved family fleeing with all the dignity of war criminals hustled to the tribunal.

The station’s resident political commentator came on, wondering who was going to fill Massengil’s unexpired term. Apparently a political technicality was operative: Since Massengil’s death had occurred after the nominating period for his next term, there would be no special election and the remaining eight months of the term would go fallow. In accordance with tradition, the widow had been considered the most probable replacement, but today’s disclosures made her an unlikely contender. Faces of possible candidates flashed on the screen. A deputy mayor I’d never heard of. A former TV anchorman- with an obsession about separating paper trash from the rest of the garbage- who surfaced every few years to play small-time Harold Stassen and was regarded as a municipal joke.

Then Gordon Latch.

The resident commentator reported “inside rumors” that Latch was considering running for the vacated seat. Next came footage showing him at his desk, fending off questions and letting the viewing public know that “during difficult times such as these we’ve all got to pull together and not stoop to careerism. My heartfelt thoughts are with Hattie Massengil and the boys. I urge all of you to refrain from unnecessary cruelty.”

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.”