Time Bomb

35

He stepped forward, orange-lit by the fire, wearing a dark windbreaker and holding an assault rifle that looked too big for him. A complicated-looking scope had been mounted on the weapon. His thin hair was blowing. Embers fell all around him. There was a look of deep contentment on his face.

I said, “Mr. Burden-”

“Mahlon,” he said. “I’d say we’ve reached the appropriate degree of familiarity, wouldn’t you? Alex.”

Smile.

I saw Milo tense. I stood, rooted.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Burden. “I’m friend, not foe.”

He looked past me at the burning warehouse, gave the satisfied look of a Boy Scout who’d just rubbed two sticks together successfully. Over the roar and crackle I could still hear people screaming. Ashes fell onto my sweaty face, lacy, foul-smelling snowflakes.

Burden said, “You don’t look well, Detective Sturgis. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

Milo was working hard at taking in breath. In the shimmer of the firelight his bruises looked awful- congealed and livid as sloppy special effects.

Burden said, “Come on, Detective.”

Milo said, “Forget that.” Shaking his head and spreading his arms for balance. “Linda Overstreet. They’ve sent someone to her place. Gotta get to a phone, call it in.”

He took several lurching steps.

Burden said, “I’ll do you one better, Detective.” Snap of fingers. Another face out of the darkness. Early thirties, handsome, big walrus mustache over a clipped beard.

“Doctor, you’ve met Gregory Graff. Photographically. Here he is in the flesh. Gregory, help me with Detective Sturgis.”

Graff stepped forward, very big, very broad. A rifle similar to Burden’s was slung over his shoulder. He wore camouflage fatigues that looked as if they’d been French-laundered. His demeanor was pure concentration- a surgeon tying off a capillary.

He put one arm around Milo’s shoulder, the other on Milo’s elbow. Dwarfing Milo. Six five at least.

I took Milo’s other arm.

Milo tried to shake us off. “I’m okay, goddammit. Get me a phone!”

“This way,” said Burden. He turned his back on the inferno and began walking fast.

We followed him out of the parking lot, soot blowing in our eyes. Milo insisted on walking without assistance, but shakily, still breathing with effort. Graff and I stayed by his side. I kept looking at my friend. Finally his breathing regularized. For all the punishment Milo’d taken, he seemed in decent shape.

What shape was Linda in? I tried not to think of that, could think of nothing else.

Someone who knows how to bring out the best in a woman…

My own breathing grew clogged. I fought for composure. We made our way through the darkness. Then a hideous tidal wave of sound- monsters at feeding time- rose behind us, and the lot was engulfed in bloody light.

Still moving, I looked back. Flames had burst through the roof of the warehouse and were shooting into the sky, bloodying it.

A few people had made it out to the landing dock, engulfed in flames, arms flapping and throwing off sparks. One of them dropped to the ground and rolled.

More screams.

Burden turned nonchalantly, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and squeezed off a frog-burst.

Milo said, “Forget that, goddammit. Move!”

“Covering our tracks,” said Burden. “Always sound strategy in this type of mission.” But he lowered the rifle and sprinted ahead.

Milo cursed and tried to walk faster. His legs gave out. Graff lifted him, slung him over his shoulder as if he were a straw man, and kept going without breaking step.

Milo protested and cursed. Graff ignored him.

“And here we are,” said Burden.

The sheet-metal gate was propped open by a crowbar. Just beyond it, parked at the curb, was a van. Dark-gray, one blackened window on each side, the roof coiffured with antennas. Tongues of reflected fire from afar created the illusion of a low-rider mural along the slab sides. Dancing mural… hell on wheels…

I heard the shriek of sirens from somewhere in the distance. It reminded me of something… a crack alley… Dogs began howling.

Burden took something out of his pocket and pressed a button. Metallic click. The van’s rear doors swung open.

Milo looked up at the antennas. “You have a phone. Put me down and let me use the fucking thing!”

Burden said, “Gregory, see that the detective’s comfortable in the back.”

Graff lifted Milo, bride-over-the-threshold style, and slid him into the back of the van.

Milo disappeared from view, cursing. The doors slammed shut.

I grabbed Burden’s shoulder. “Stop playing games and let’s get to the phone!”

Burden smiled and peeled my fingers off. “Oh, this is no game, Doctor. I feel I’ve done a very fine job of saving your life. The least you could do would be to trust me.” He went around to the driver’s side and said, “Hop in.”

I opened the right-hand door. Two Recaro racing bucket seats in front; between them, a console bearing a mini computer and phone modem. I got in the passenger seat and lifted the phone. Dead.

Burden was behind the wheel.

I said, “Activate it, damn you!”

Burden was expressionless. He handed his rifle back to Graff and put a key in the ignition. I looked back; the rear of the vehicle was a carpeted shell. Milo lay on the floor, sharing space with several metal boxes and some electronic gear that I couldn’t identify. Graff knelt beside him, his big head brushing against the ceiling. A gun rack covered one wall of the shell. Semi-automatic handguns, rifles, something Uzi-like.

Milo forced himself up and grabbed the back of Burden’s seat. “You sadistic little asshole!”

Graff pulled him off and held his wrist.

Milo cursed.

Burden said, “Such gratitude,” and turned the key. The engine started and the dashboard became a light show: meters, dials, graphic displays, LED readouts. A row of circular dials on the front edge of the ceiling, parallel with the windshield. Still more dials on the console, on both sides of the computer, and surrounding the phone. Enough hardware to fill the cockpit of a 747.

Burden said, “Welcome to the official mobile testing lab of New Frontiers, Limited. Components come and go. I get free samples all the time, keep only the best.”

I thought of Linda. Now his narcissism was deadly. Fighting down the urge to strangle him, I said, “Please. It’s life and death.”

He touched dark space to the right of the steering wheel. A square yellow screen the size of a cocktail coaster appeared. Black numbers flashed: a two-digit combination followed by seven more numbers that kept changing. Below the screen a key pad. The light from the screen revealed two more phones, freehand, dash-mounted, their buttons banana-yellow.

“Police scanner,” said Burden, playing the pad with four fingers. “Programmable for any region of the world. Which in and of itself is nothing out of the ordinary. But this one has been modified- it can be used to interface with police dispatch systems and place calls.” Smile. Gorging himself on power. “Totally illegal. Please don’t tell on me, Detective Sturgis.”

I said, “For God’s sake, call it in!” and shouted Linda’s address.

“I know the address,” he said. “Would you like me to place the call or would you prefer to do it yourse-”

“Just do it!”

He clucked his tongue, punched another button that froze the numbers on the scanner, and picked up one of the dash phones.

“All West L.A. units,” he said in a voice not his own. “All West L.A. units and”- peering- “Eight A-twenty-nine. ADW in progress, possible attempt One-eighty-seven.” He rattled off street and number, specified Linda’s apartment. “Code Three. I repeat…”

The radio talked back via a speaker on the ceiling. A patrolman’s voice confirmed taking the call. Within seconds two more units had called in Code Six- assisting.

“There,” Burden said, pushing a button that darkened the dash, “that should take care of it.”

“Drive there, asshole,” said Milo.

“What about your injuries, Detective Sturgis?”

“Just get the fuck over there.”

Burden’s seat swiveled. He looked back.“Gregory?”

Graff lifted one of Milo’s arms, flexed it gently.

Milo said, “Get the fuck off me, Paul Bunyan. Drive, Burden, or I will bust you for something.”

Graff said, “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken, Mr. Burden.” A basso befitting his size. Good elocution. New England inflections.

The sirens grew louder.

Burden said, “The last thing I want is to be accused of medical negligence. Particularly with regard to an officer of the law.”

Milo said, “Get moving, you smug little fuck.”

Burden’s face turned stony in the dashlight. “I’ll put that down to shock, Detective.”

Milo cursed some more.

Burden’s face got harder.

I said, “Look, it’s been a long night for all of us. We appreciate what you’ve done- saving us. But let’s make it perfect by trying to save Linda too.”

He looked at me. “Perfect? No, I don’t think so.”

He sat with his hands on the steering wheel as the sirens grew deafening. Finally he fastened his seat belt, gave the van gas, and pulled away from the curb. Just as we turned out of the winding alley, the fire trucks came charging through.

I said, “Where are we?”

“Van Nuys,” Burden said. “That red light is Victory Boulevard.”

Milo said, “Shoot the light.”

Burden said, “Such a bad influence, Detective,” but he sped through the blackened intersection.

I said, “How about we turn the scanner on, hear what’s happening.”

He shook his head. “Not necessary. Have some faith, Doctor.”

At first I thought it just another power play, but a block later he said, “No doubt you’ll want to know how it was done. Your liberation.”

From the back, Milo said, “The fucking punch line.” He began to cough.

Graff said, “Here, drink some water.”

“Sure water is all it is, Paul?”

“That’s all it is,” rumbled Graff, babysitter-patient.

Burden said, “Detective Sturgis, you’re a hostile, ill-mannered man. Too many years of being on the outside?”

The therapist in me yearned to turn that back on him.

“Christ,” Milo said.

I heard him gulping, looked back, and saw Graff holding a canteen to his lips.

Burden said, “It’s water, all right. Pure spring water from Washington State. Artesian springs, water with a natural mineral composition miraculously matched to the body’s own electrochemical requirements. What page, Gregory?”

Slowing the van as he talked. The streets were desolate; clear sailing. I wanted to shove my foot down on the accelerator.

Graff said, “Seven, section two.”

“Beauty and Balance,” I said.

Burden said, “Very good, Alex.”

Another red light. Riverside. This time he stopped. “Let’s see, freeway or canyon- at this hour, I’d say freeway.”

He headed west.

I said, “Of course I want to know. How’d you do it?”

“Any hypotheses?”

“A few.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“For starts, you tapped my phone. The time you dropped in at my house.”

My very nice home. Asking to use the facilities so he could have time alone in the rear of the house. Crying and spilling his coffee in order to have time alone in the living room. Me adding to his worktime by waiting in the kitchen so that he could compose himself…

“Very good,” he said. “But actually it went far beyond the phones. I installed listening devices in several locations in and around your house- under furniture and beds. Near the front door. Today’s technology permits incredible ease of installation. I’ve got units no bigger than a grain of rice- though the ones I used for you were larger. Lentil-sized. Self-adhesive. Long-distance, super-high resolution, tunable-”

I said, “Section five. Life and Limb.” Stroking him while realizing all he’d heard. Phone conversations. Pillow talk. The violation…

He was my liberator but I didn’t like him any better for it.

Being saved by him was like finding out God existed but that He had a bad personality.

He said, “Actually, these particular components haven’t been featured in the catalogue yet. So you got a sneak preview. I’d be happy to leave them installed, show you how to use them for your own benefit.”

“No thanks.”

“No doubt you’re feeling intruded upon. But monitoring your input and output was necessary. You were my informational conduit. To the school, the police- all of them. No one would help me. Everyone treated me as if I were a pariah. I needed good data- that was my right. I knew I had to be thorough. I pretuned the units to receivers in my house. Identical receivers were also installed in this van. No one else could possibly receive the transmission, so you needn’t be concerned that anyone else was monitoring you. And the tapes will be destroyed very shortly.”

“I appreciate that.”

Unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. But he missed it or ignored it.

We were on the Sherman Oaks/North Hollywood border now, approaching Coldwater. A few cars on the street. Late diners heading home from the restaurants on Ventura. More lights, then the on-ramp to the 134 West.

He said, “The lentils are manufactured in Poland, of all places, though I suppose the actual research and development came out of the Soviet Union. Glasnost and perestroika have been a boon for those of us interested in the free exchange of advanced technology. The distributor in Hong Kong was more than happy to send me a boxful of the little devils at great discount in the hopes that I’d feature them in the next catalogue. It didn’t work out that way, did it, Gregory?”

“No, Mr. B. Too expensive for our target audience.”

“Very expensive- even at discount. But only the best for you, Dr. Delaware. Because I respect you. Your tenacity. I had high expectations of the quality of information you’d be able to shunt to me. And I was right, wasn’t I? So I’d say the lentils paid for themselves. As did the homing tracers I placed in your Seville and in Detective Sturgis’s Matador and Fiat. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite get to the Ford he traded for the Matador, but by that time I had enough data to be able to trace his abduction.”

“What a guy,” said Milo.

No longer hoarse now. Clear and quiet and enraged.

I knew what he was thinking: Burden had let him endure the interrogation. Waiting. Listening.

I said, “Howard was your conduit too. You dropped in on him and waited in his office so you could install your lentils.”

And hear every hateful word his son had spewed.

“Absolutely,” he said. A little too nonchalantly. “Holly’s behavior had been puzzling- distant, preoccupied. Due to her communication problems, I couldn’t draw it out of her. I knew she’d snuck over to Howard’s, both of them thinking I didn’t know about their little attempt at rapport-building. I thought Howard might be able to shed some light on the change in his sister, now that the two of them were communicating.”

“But you couldn’t simply ask Howard about it, because he also has communication problems.”

“Exactly.”

I remembered the loathing that had filled Howard’s office. How was a father able to deal with that- to defend against it?

I looked over at him. Placid. Blocking it out. Narcissism in service to the soul.

He made a left turn onto the freeway. All six lanes were as empty as Indy the day after the race.

“Howard’s a bright boy,” he said, “but he’s got many, many problems. Blind spots. You saw how obese and nervous he is. How he sweats. He gets eczema too. Gastric discomfort and insomnia. Clear signs of unhappiness. Constitutional weakness made worse by a poor attitude toward life. If he’d allowed me, I could have helped him with all of it. Perhaps one day he will. In the meantime, I couldn’t let his weakness get in the way.”

“That’s why you were so eager for me to meet with him. Hoping he might open up to me and you’d get it all on taper.”

He smiled. “More than hope. Data-based prediction. The conversation between the two of you ended up being a very useful transmission.”

“Wannsee Two,” I said. “Howard described how Holly had babbled about that the day her sister-in-law came over. I set out to learn what it meant. You listened and taped and followed along.”

“No, no,” he said, annoyed. “I didn’t need you for that. I was one step ahead of you. I know enough history to understand exactly what Wannsee was. Vahn-say is the correct pronunciation, of course. Gregory knows about Wannsee too, even though he’s from your generation. Because a good deal of Gregory’s family was eliminated by the Nazis. So when I called and told him we were dealing with Wannsee Two, he was more than eager to get involved in this project. Weren’t you, Gregory?”

“Absolutely, Mr. B.”

“Good ventriloquism,” said Milo. “Where’d you find a dummy this big?”

Graff gave a deep loose laugh.

“Hardly,” said Burden. “Gregory’s got training in electronics and biophysics under his belt, a year of medical school at an Ivy League university, a law degree from that same university, and graduate studies in business.”

Pride. Paternal pride.

His real son.

I said, “Sounds like a real renaissance man.” One part of my brain thinking about Linda and running at Methedrine pace. Another making small talk, trying to get information from the odd, scary man in the driver’s seat.

“Bet he has military training, too,” I said. “Former intelligence officer, same as you. That’s how you found him, isn’t it? Not some modeling agency. When it was time to recruit a partner, you know precisely where to go.”

“I’m not a partner,” said Graff. “Just a figurehead.” More laughter.

Burden laughed too. The exchange to the 405 appeared. He took it going south, and moved into the center lane, maintaining a steady seventy miles per.

I said, “How about going a little faster.”

He didn’t answer, but the speedometer climbed to seventy-five.

Wanting a hundred but knowing that was all I was going to get, I said, “Here’s another hypothesis: Between the two of you, New Frontiers has access to military computers. Ahlward had a military background. You checked him out.”

“Military background,” said Graff. Bear-growl laughter.

Burden didn’t join in. “He was the first one I researched. Before I approached you. The press was painting him as some kind of hero. I wanted to learn about the one who actually pulled the trigger. The hero who’d killed my daughter. What I found out smelled bad. He’d lied about being a military man.”

His tone said that was the ultimate felony.

“All he had was seven months in the Marine Corps. April of ’sixty-seven to November of ’sixty-eight. A good part of it in the brig before he was dishonorably discharged for moral turpitude. A closed file that I managed to open. Two separate incidents. Sexual harassment of a sixteen-year-old girl- a black girl- and attempts to organize a white-supremacist gang among other new recruits. It was the latter that made me research him further. After his discharge he enjoyed brief stints in local jails for theft and burglary and disorderly conduct. I decided he was scum, looked into his family history. His father had been a Bundist war criminal. Ran one of their summer camps. Schweiben. Ahlward Senior was imprisoned for sedition in 1944, released in 1947, only to die a year later of cirrhosis. Alcoholic scum. Multigenerational scum. Which led to another question: why would a supposedly liberal-minded city councilman hire someone like that? So I researched the city councilman too. Found nothing there but a piece of lint masquerading as a man. Good family, all the privileges, not a trace of hardship in his background. Not a trace of character either. Addiction to the path of least resistance. Needless to say, he found his way into the latrine we know as politics.”

Angry words but a conversational tone.

“I monitored Latch’s headquarters. Easy as pie, right, Gregory? But that didn’t teach me much. Latch’s people displayed a modicum of discipline- tended to be circumspect over the phone. But you were doing a fine job as my conduit, putting it all together: Novato, the old woman, that pathetic washout Crevolin. For a brief period I thought the vandalization of Ms.- Excuse me-Dr. Overstreet’s car was related to it, But Detective Sturgis proved me wrong. Congratulations, Detective.”

“Fuck off and drive.”

“Nevertheless, the rest of it proved what I’d known all along: that my daughter had been a victim herself. A dupe. I put it all together before either of you did. And in answer to the question you asked of Howard, Doctor, my political beliefs are antithetical to fascism. I believe in unrestrained free enterprise, minimal government control. Live and let live. On condition the other side behaves itself.”

“Die and let die,” said Graff. “Never again.”

“Gregory and I had no trouble believing in Wannsee Two. Because of our military background, our access to classified data. We knew what had gone on in various army bases during the late seventies. Racist cells that the armed forces broke up swiftly. But at the cost of discharging the fascists into the weak, civilian world, where irregularities couldn’t be dealt with as efficiently. That insight and experience gave me the edge. I knew from the careful way Latch’s people handled themselves over the phone that there had to be some other place they did their dirty work- a secret headquarters where the swine spoke freely. But they never let on, not through all the monitoring. Then I thought of Latch’s wife. Began tracing properties deeded to her. Burrowing through the layers of corporations she’d wrapped around herself. Piercing that kind of cocoon is absurdly easy if you know how, and I quickly came up with several possibilities- despite the fact that she’s a very well-landed lady. I was in the process of narrowing down the list when you made my job easy. Calling Detective Sturgis last night and leaving him the message about your being followed. That license plate. I have trace capacities better than most police departments- millions of licenses in my data bank. I matched your number to one of my possibilities, a company listed as a printing facility. Gregory and I were there just alter sundown. Saw Detective Sturgis being delivered there. Listening. Show him, Gregory.”

Graff lifted something from the floor of the van. Glass cone with a microphone in the center.

“This is a Stevens Twenty-five-X long-range parabolic microphone,” said Burden. “Good up to two miles.”

I said, “Another sample of Eastern Bloc creativity?”

“Perish the thought,” said Burden. “This one’s all-American.”

“Born in the U.S.A.,” said Graff.

Burden said, “When you arrived, trussed and shackled, Detective Sturgis, we were waiting. You held up nicely. Your own military background, no doubt- quite impressive. Rest assured that had you been in any serious danger, we would have saved you, but we knew from our previous monitoring that they planned to keep you alive, finish both you and the doctor off in a sexually suggestive manner. You, however, had no way of knowing that and you did very well.”

“Aw, shucks,” said Milo.

“I’d suggest,” said Burden, “that you conserve your anger for those who deserve it. For example, why do you think they came after you in the first place, masquerading as FBI?”

Silence from the back.

“Are you truly ignorant, Detective? Or just repressing?”

No answer.

Graff said, “Your own people sold you out. Extremely bad form.”

I said, “Frisk.”

Burden nodded. “Another piece of lint. When he came to interrogate me, the day of the shooting, he actually attempted to install a monitoring device in my living room. Primitive piece of junk. Needless to say, I left it in place. Talked to it, played the cello for it. Leading Frisk exactly where I wanted to lead him: in circles. Because he’s a moron, I could see right away there’d be no use working with him. The next time I saw him at his office, I returned the favor. So I have a very clear picture of what he’s been up to. And it’s nothing I would tolerate if I were you, Detective.”

“Polish lentils at Parker Center?” said Milo.

“Our vaunted Anti-Terrorist Division,” said Burden. “If it wasn’t so sad, it would be funny, the incompetence. You see, Latch and company have been under investigation for quite some time. But not for the right reasons. Frisk hasn’t the slightest inkling, no suspicions about Wannsee Two. He suspects Latch of being a communist subversive, an unrepentant left-winger- because Latch’s political enemies have been feeding him that.”

“Massengil?” I said.

“Among others. The late assemblyman was a prime source of disinformation on Latch, because he knew Latch had designs on his job. Dr. Dobbs helped him compose little false reports of Latch’s supposed subversive activities. Dr. Dobbs actually made direct phone calls to Frisk. Using a code name. Santa. Talking on pay phones. All of it very malicious and childish. Cinematic cloak-and-dagger nonsense. But our Lieutenant Frisk took it very seriously. Compiled a file on Latch- a classified file.”

Chuckles. Echoed by Graff.

I said, “Why didn’t he move against Latch?”

“He considered it,” said Burden. “I have recordings of him talking to his dictaphone, thinking out loud, considering his options. Playing every angle against the other, ruminating endlessly. But he was afraid to confront Latch without solid evidence, yet unable to get any evidence, because A, he didn’t know how, and B, the whole thing was a sham. The man really is incredibly stupid. That’s why he was so eager to take over the Massengil murder. He suspected Latch might be behind it- this would be his big chance. And he was right.”

“But for the wrong reasons.”

“The idiot,” said Burden. “He actually believed he had a chance to be promoted to deputy chief. You, Detective Sturgis, were considered a threat to that ambition. The possibility that you might solve the case yourself. You threaten him because down deep he knows you’re what he isn’t- a competent investigator. And also, of course, on another level. I believe ‘despicable fag bastard’ is the way he generally refers to you. If you’d like, I can play you the tapes.”

Milo was silent.

Burden got off the freeway at the Pico exit and headed east, toward Westwood.

“During the course of my brief surveillance,” he said, “I haven’t been mightily impressed by the Police Department. Too much time spent on what officers do in bed, whom they do it with, religious beliefs, other irrelevant issues. That’s not the way you win a war. It must be an awful strain on you, Detective Sturgis.”

Milo said, “Thanks for the sympathy, Mother Teresa.” But I could tell he was digesting what Burden had told him.

Burden drove smoothly and rapidly. “Like a true politician, Frisk used you. Called Latch. As a supposed confidant. Informed him that you were the one who was suspicious about him. Apologetic. Yon were an embarrassment to the Department. A rogue cop. Rogue fag cop, with a drinking problem. The Department only kept you on the payroll to avoid lawsuits and political hassles. It was only a matter of time before you’d be drummed out in disgrace. Frisk told latch you’d been asking questions about him, were unstable, prone to violence. Warning the good councilman. So Latch began having you- and Dr. Delaware- tailed. Meanwhile, Frisk tailed Latch. You were his decoy, Detective. Had you died tonight, he might have blundered into a solution, maybe even had glory and his promotion. Deputy Chief Frisk. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

Milo thought out loud: “He didn’t tail me tonight.”

“No, not tonight. Tell him why, Gregory.”

“He and his staff are having a retreat,” said Graff. “Lake Arrowhead.”

Burden said, “To share feelings. Outline management strategy. Frisk is a modern policeman. Reads his textbooks and knows his operations manuals.”

I said, “Sounds like something out of Dobbs’s book of tricks.”

“They’re all the same,” said Burden. “Pencil-pushers. In any event, don’t you think I’m a hundred percent correct, Detective? About focusing your anger properly?”

Two blocks of silence.

We approached Sepulveda.

Burden said, “Do you want to know what we used to demolish the building?”

On the edge of my seat. Linda, Linda… “Sure.”

“Selectively applied dabs of plastique. Not Semtex. Something better. Brand-new.”

“A little dab’ll do you,” said Graff.

“A very little dab, “said Burden. “Complete with a tiny little detonating cell stuck smack in the middle. They didn’t see us because the entire front wall of the warehouse was windowless. Their idea of security, but they ended up hoist on their own petard. Gregory dabbed, then retreated to the van, where we relaxed, ate sandwiches, and listened. You were very good, Doctor. Trying to play them off against each other. Holding onto your nerves. Then, when the time came, we pushed buttons.”

“Boom,” said Graff.

“I’d say it was poetic justice,” said. Burden. “Wouldn’t you? Too bad Mr. Latch wasn’t around to see it. What exactly happened to him? We heard some sort of commotion.”

I waited for Milo to reply. When he didn’t, I said, “He fell on Ahlward’s knife. It went through his neck.”

“Splendid.” Big smile. “Literally hoist on his own petard. What a pretty picture. My only regret was that I wasn’t there to see it. All in all, a very productive adventure, wouldn’t you say, Gregory?”

“A-one, Mr. B.”

“Lots of people died,” I said. “There’ll be questions.”

Burden took one hand off the steering wheel and made a whoop-de-doo spinning gesture. “The more questions the merrier. City and state commissions, senate subcommittees, our beloved press. Bring them all on. I love Washington, D.C., in the winter. A certain bleakness sets in on the Capitol Mall that matches the spirit of the petty bunch who work there. I especially love it when I go there with something to trade.”

“The unmasking of Ahlward’s other covert Nazis?”

“It should prove to be quite a revelation,” he said. “After I supply the names, I guarantee you I’ll be a hero. People magazine. Entertainment Tonight. A Current Affair. Popular enough to run for office and win, if I had the poor taste to harbor such ambitions. I, however, will choose to avoid the limelight and most of my fame will fade fairly quickly- that’s the age we live in. The public has no attention span, craves constant novelty. Meanwhile, Gregory and I will be mapping out a strategy for harnessing whatever good will we’ve garnered in Washington. For business purposes, I’ve been thinking about increasing my Weaponry division for a while, anyway.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Life and Limb. Buy your AK-forty-seven from the man who knows.”

“Very good, Alex. Have you ever thought of applying your psychological skills to marketing?”

“Not this year.”

Westwood Boulevard came into view, backed by the night-gloomed mass of the Pavilion. We turned right.

I said, “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“That’s my business. Anticipating. Understanding trends, mapping behavioral patterns.” Pause. “Not that I can ever be compensated for my loss.”

I looked over at him.

“They took what was mine,” he said. “Fatal error.”