Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

“Anyway,” I said, “mix those elements and you’ve got something potentially explosive. It would explain why Massengil was so sure he was the intended target.”

Milo thought about it, said, “Guess it’s feasible, but good luck proving it.”

I said, “Don’t you think it’s worth talking to the boyfriend? Checking out known associates?”

“Sure. But it’s possible Frisk has already done it.”

“He didn’t mention it to Linda.”

“He wouldn’t. Guy would swear off orgasms if it gave him the upper hand.”

“He who dies with the most secrets wins?”

“You got it.”

“Must be a blast working with him.”

“Oh, yeah. Like a cattle prod to the prostate. Anyway, what’s this teacher’s name?”

“Esme Ferguson. She teaches fourth grade. She called in sick this morning. You can get her home number from Linda.”

He copied down the name. “She have anything else to say about the late Ms. Burden?”

“Lousy student, used to space out in class, not too social. Fits with what the neighbors told the papers about her hanging around the house all day.”

“How,” he said, “does she meet a black guy if she spends all her time just hanging around the house? In that neighborhood.”

“Good question.”

He closed his pad, put it back in his pocket. “Only good question, my friend, is one that can be answered.”

“Profound.”

“Yeah. Someone profound said it- Heidegger, Krishnamurti. Or maybe it was Harpo Marx. Squeak squeak.”

He finished the pear with two ferocious bites and emptied the milk carton.

“Sounds more like Zeppo,” I said. “Care for some dessert?”

After he left I listened to the white cassette. The contents were nothing that would have intrigued a grade-schooler: synthesized harp music that sounded as if it had been recorded underwater and Dobbs talking in the syrupy-sweet, patronizing tone people who don’t really like kids put on when they talk to them.

The gist of the message was Play Ostrich- clean your brain, blot out reality in order to make it go away. Pop psych in all its superficial glory; Freud would have turned over in his grave. B. F. Skinner wouldn’t have pushed the reward button.

I turned off the tape recorder, ejected the cassette, and lobbed a two-pointer into the nearest wastebasket, wondering how much Dobbs charged per tape. How many copies he’d peddled to the state, via Massengil’s expense account.

The phone rang. I took it in the kitchen.

“Hi, Alex, it’s me.”

A voice that had once soothed me, then cut me. First time I’d heard it in months.

“Hello, Robin.”

She said, “I’m working late, waiting for some lacquer to dry. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”

Let’s hear it for sparkling repartee.

She said, “I’m fine too.”

“Burning the midnight oil?”

“The Irish Spinners just got into town for a concert at McCabes. The airline damaged a bunch of their instruments and I’m doing the repairs.”

“Ouch,” I said, imagining my old Martin guitar in splinters. “Emergency surgery.”

“I feel like a surgeon. The poor guys were devastated and they’ve been hanging around the shop, looking over my shoulder. I finally shooed them away. So now they stay outside in the parking lot, pacing and wringing their hands like relatives waiting for a prognosis.”

“How is the prognosis?”

“Nothing a little hot glue and artful splicing shouldn’t be able to fix. How about you? What’ve you been up to?”

“Repair work also.” I told her about the sniping, my sessions with the children.

“Oh, that. Alex, those poor little kids. How are they doing?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“Not surprising. They’re in the best of hands. But wasn’t there another psychologist, talking about it on TV?”

“He’s limited himself to talk. Which is all for the best.”

“He didn’t impress me either. Too glib. Lucky for the kids they got you.”

“Actually,” I said, “the main reason they’re coping relatively well is they’ve grown up with violence, seen lots of hatred.”

“How sad… Well, I think it’s great you’re getting involved with them- using your talents.”

Silence.

“Alex, I still think about you a lot.”

“I think about you too.” As little as possible.

“I… I was wondering- do you think it’s reached a point where we could get together sometime, to talk? As friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“I realize I’m coming at you out of left field with this. It’s just that I was thinking about how rare friendship is- between men and women. Part of what we had was friendship. Best friendship. Why do we have to lose that? Why can’t that part of it be preserved?”

“Makes sense. Intellectually.”

“But not emotionally?”

“I don’t know.”

More silence.

“Alex, I won’t keep you. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too,” I said. Then: “Stay in touch.”

“You mean that?”

“Sure,” I said, not knowing what I meant.

She wished the kids at Hale well, and hung up.

I stayed up and watched bad movies until sleep overtook me, sometime after midnight.

The Santa Ana winds arrived in the darkness. I awoke on the sofa and heard them shrieking through the glen, sucking the moisture out of the night. My eyes felt gritty, and my clothes were twisted around me. Not bothering to remove them, I made it to the bedroom, crawled under the covers, and collapsed.

Sunrise brought a glorious Thursday morning, skies scoured and buffed a perfect Delft blue, trees and shrubs varnished a luminous Christmas green. But the view through the French doors had the jarring, cold perfection of a computer-fabricated Old Master. I felt sluggish, drugged by dream residue. Confusing hyperactive images had embedded themselves in my subconscious like fishhooks. Too much pain to tug them loose; time to play ostrich.

I dragged myself into the shower. As I was toweling off, Milo called.

“Ran the plates on the Honda. The car is an ’83, registered to a New Frontiers Technology, Limited. Post office box in Westwood. Ring any bells?”

“New Frontiers,” I said. “No. Sounds like some kind of high-tech outfit- which would make sense if the driver was one of the locals.”

“Whatever. Meanwhile, thought you might want to know I’ve got an appointment this Saturday with Mrs. Esme Ferguson. Her residence , at two. Tea and sympathy, pinkies extended.”

“I thought Frisk was doing all the interviewing.”

“He has first dibs but he never called her. He’s just about ready to close the case. Apparently, nothing political’s come up on Burden in anyone’s files- no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. No funny phone calls that can be traced from her home to anywhere else, no job at Massengil’s or Latch’s. So they’re considering it a nut job and are ready to file it as a solve. Isn’t it nice when things go smoothly?”

Back at Hale by ten. Several dozen children were out on the yard for morning recess, running, climbing, hiding, seeking. The asphalt sparkled like granite under an unencumbered sun.

I finished my group sessions by noon, reserving the rest of the day for individual evaluations of the children I’d tagged as high-risk. After a couple more hours of evaluation, I decided five of them would be okay; the rest could use one-on-one treatment.

After spending another couple of hours doing play therapy, supportive counseling, and relaxation training, I checked in Linda’s office. Carla was going through a pile of forms. Her punk-do was wrapped in a blue bandana and she looked around twelve years old.