Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

We’ve all of us benefited, the whole staff.

All of us. Not just me .

Patient and therapist? The bedrock of the community baring his psyche to Santa Claus?

Why not?

Psychotherapy under the guise of management seminars would be a nifty cover, legitimizing Dobbs’s presence in Massengil’s office and sparing Massengil the trip to the doctor’s office. Spiritual Growth in Service of the Soul… mind-probing disguised as “brainstorming.” The bills could be laundered among the office invoices…

Massengil’s thin voice snapped me back to the present. Making another speech. More gobbledygook about values…

I said, “Gentlemen, if that’s all, I’m on my way. And I expect to finish what I started without further interruption.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” said Massengil. “A damned big one.”

“No, you are,” I said, loud enough to surprise all three of us. “The latest in a series of mistakes. Like using the school- exploiting those youngsters - to further your own agenda. Obsessing on trivial nonsense when there are so many important issues to deal with. And if you are right about being the target, you did a lot worse than that- you drew a killer to that yard, put those kids in mortal danger.”

Massengil shot up and came around the desk. “You snotty fag bastard!” Froth had collected in the corners of his mouth. Flecks of it flew as he talked and one of them settled on his tie.

Dobbs looked pained. “Sam!” he said, struggling to his feet, trying to restrain the older man. But Massengil was strong for his age and fueled by rage. The two of them wrestled awkwardly for a moment. Then Dobbs said “Sam!” sharply, and Massengil stopped struggling.

He glowered at me from behind Dobbs’s sloping loden shoulder. “Loudmouthed snot.”

Dobbs turned and gave me a look-what-you’ve-done glare.

I said, “You have a very impolitic temper, Assemblyman.”

Massengil said, “Don’t worry, Lance. He’s out. You’re in. Got my word on it. Plain and simple.”

I said, “Assemblyman, here’s something plain and simple: The slightest attempt to interfere with my treatment and I’m going straight to the press. They don’t have many facts on the shooting itself, and you can bet they’ll be overjoyed to pick up a juicy side angle- political meddling.”

Massengil surged forward. “Now, you just-” Dobbs held him back but gave me a threatening look himself.

I walked to the door. “So juicy they’ll drool, Assemblyman. Doctors who aren’t doctors, a ‘crisis intervention’ program that hasn’t begun despite Dr. Dobbs’s inspired little TV speeches. A non-program that your office has already paid for. Sounds like poor fiscal policy at best, multiple fraud at worst. Someone’s going to want to know why- why the connection between you and Dr. Dobbs is so strong that you’re willing to stretch this far. At the very least there’ll be an ethics investigation. You know how those things get when they pick up momentum. So let’s see if those hungry newshounds think it’s picayune.”

The color drained from Massengil’s face. Dobbs’s face froze. He picked up his watch fob and began rubbing it hard.

I turned my back on them and left.

Beth Bramble was outside the office, smoking a long, pink, silver-tipped cigarette.

“Everything go okay?” she said, smiling. Squeezing the laugh back in.

“Peachy keen.” My jaws ached from tension and my voice was hoarse.

She stopped smiling, looked back at the office door.

“Don’t worry. He’s all right,” I said. “Still beloved.”

Good show of cool, but as I walked to the Seville the anger hit me. I found a pay phone near the yogurt place and put in a call to Milo. He was out and I left a message to phone. I went inside, bought a cup of coffee, drank it, and took a refill while standing at the counter. Lots of ambient conversation about pulse rates. Mine was racing.

I got out of there and drove to the school, traveling slowly, trying to settle down, arriving a little before eleven, still keyed up and not ready to face the kids.

I parked, did a little deep breathing, and got out of the car. Both the school cop and the crossbearer were gone. As I walked toward the gate a car came tooling slowly down the street. Silver-gray compact. Honda Accord in need of a wash, the body dimpled and scarred, the finish not much shinier than primer. But a single display of Kalifornia-kustom flair caught my eye: gleaming blackened windows that wrapped around the car like electrician’s tape, making the lackluster paintwork appear even more tarnished. Windows that would have seemed more in place on a stretch limo.

The little gray car stopped to let me cross, lingered, and continued cruising for a block before turning left. I walked onto the school grounds.

Linda was in her office, behind a pile of paperwork. When she saw me she swiveled, stood, and smiled. She was wearing a blue oxford button-down shirt and khaki skirt, brown boots with sensible low heels. The bit of leg that showed was smooth and white. Her hair was swept back and fastened at the temples with tortoise-shell barrettes, revealing small, close-set ears adorned with tiny gold studs.

“Hi. You’re early,” she said, pushing aside some papers.

“Got thrown off my schedule.”

Deep breathing or not, there was still ire in my voice.

She said, “What is it?”

I told her about the confrontation with Massengil and Dobbs, leaving out the part about Milo’s sexuality.

“The bastards,” she said and sat back down. “Trying to profit from tragedy.”

I took a chair opposite her.

“That’s what you get for being a nice guy,” she said.

“I wasn’t such a nice guy half an hour ago. When Massengil started leaning on me, things got hot. Hope I didn’t make things worse for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She sounded weary.

“How much damage can he do?”

“Nothing in the immediate, other than make more noise- which is unlikely after the shooting.” She thought for a moment. “I guess he could try to screw the school budget when it comes up next year in Sacramento. But it would be hard for him to target Hale specifically. So don’t worry about it. Just keep doing your thing.”

“He’s a strange one,” I said. “Really rough around the edges, not at all well-spoken.”

“What’d you expect? A statesman?”

“Some sophistication- polish. He’s been at it for twenty-eight years. On top of the crudeness, he’s got a nasty temper. Surprising he’s lasted this long.”

“He probably knows who to punch out and who to kiss up to- that’s the whole game, isn’t it? And over twenty-eight years he’s fixed plenty of potholes. Besides, being rough around the edges probably works well here- the whole cowboy thing.”

“He’s got to have something going,” I said. “Hasn’t had any opposition for the last two elections. I know, ’cause I’m a constituent. I keep leaving the space blank.”

“I’m a constituent too. I write in Alfred E. Newman.”

I smiled.

She said, “Might we be neighbors, sir?”

“I live up in Beverly Glen.”

“Beverly Glen and where?”

“North of Sunset, up toward Mulholland.”

“Mmm, real pretty up there,” she said. “Way out of my league. All I’ve got is a little hutch near Westwood and Pico.” Mischievous smile. “Guess neither of us loyal constituents has much chance of getting our potholes fixed.”

“Better learn to mix your own asphalt,” I said. “Or cozy up to Dr. Dobbs.”

“Speaking of which,” she said and took something off her desk and handed it to me.