Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

Keeping his distance, Milo swept the flashlight over the yard, focused it on the faces.

“Him, all right. Puffy from hemorrhaging- bullet probably danced around in there. Looks like an entry back here, top of the neck. Straight to the medulla oblongata. It was probably fast. Same shot on number two, a little higher, also clean. Someone came from there, back of the car, side of the garage, caught ’em by surprise and bang bang. Close range, looks very pro. Hey, Alex, look at this. This who I think it is?”

His beam had rested on the face of the tan-suited body. Corpulent, white bearded, suety cheeks compressed against the cement. Santa Claus with glassy, sightless eyes under swollen lids.

“Dobbs,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “you figured they had some kind of extraprofessional relationship. Now we have an idea what it was.”

He retracted the flashlight, shook his head. “Talk about your house calls.”

Maintaining his distance, Milo diagrammed, took notes, measured, searched for footprints and thought he saw some on the other side of the Chrysler, near the northern corner of the garage.

“Wet grass there,” he said. “And dirt. Low fence to the neighbor’s yard. Easy escape route. We might be able to get a cast.”

“Good hiding spot, too,” I said.

He nodded. “Like a goddam duck blind. The light from next door doesn’t carry this far. They walk out to the car, feeling nice and mellow. Pop pop.”

He continued examining the yard. The coroner, ambulance, and crime-scene van showed up within seconds of one another, and the area was engulfed in frantic activity. I retreated to the porte-cochere and waited as Milo gave orders, asked questions, pointed, and scribbled.

When he finally walked away from the action, I stepped out.

He looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there.

“Getting plainclothes out to both their offices, make sure this isn’t related to some kind of Watergate situation. I’ve gotta talk to Ms. Nuveen. Why don’t you go home? I’ll catch a ride to your place.”

I said, “The press will be showing up soon. Don’t you think I’d be less obtrusive if I stayed with you?”

“If you leave right now you’ll be real unobtrusive.”

I said, “Promise to behave good, Mr. Policeman.”

He hesitated. “All right, come with me. And as long as you’re there, keep your eyes open and make yourself useful.”

The living room had maroon-lacquered walls and cream-colored marbleized molding, a dark-beamed vaulted ceiling, and a thermostat set at eighty. The decor was African safari transposed upon someone’s idea of a Paris salon: zebra and tiger skins layered over high-gloss herringbone hardwood, elephant-leg occasional table, lots of cut crystal, porcelain, and cloisonné, overstuffed chairs upholstered in a black-and-maroon floral chintz, a pair of carved ivory tusks sharing space on the quasi-quatorze coffee table with a stack of art books, art nouveau lamps with beaded shades, heavy brocade drapes with gold hems tied back from black wooden shutters, a green marble mantel bearing a collection of millefleurs and linenfold paperweights, and everywhere the smell of musk.

She sat in one of the chairs, looking younger than indicated by her driver’s license birthdate- late twenties would have been my guess. Her skin was the color of mocha ice cream, her eye shadow iridescent peacock-blue. The eyes below them were wide-set and active. She had long slim brown legs, narrow feet ending in pearly-pink toenails, full lips glossed a soft pink, a tight jaw, and straightened hair the color of red clay that hung past her shoulder blades. Her kimono was royal-purple Thai silk patterned with jade-green dragons, buttonless and very short, held together with a green sash. No matter how many times she tightened the sash, the robe kept coming loose and revealing a healthy mocha chest. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a lot, smoked an ultra-king-size Sherman tinted to match the robe, and fought to keep from trembling.

“Okay, Cheri,” said Milo, handing her a faux malachite phone. “Go ahead, call your lawyer. Tell him to meet you downtown, at Central Booking.”

She bit her lip, smoked, looked at the floor.

“Downtown.” Her voice was soft, slightly nasal. “Haven’t seen that place in a long time.”

“Bet you haven’t, Cheri. Come a long way since Imperial Highway. Or was it Sunset and Western?”

She didn’t answer.

He said, “Got to hand it to you- this is some place. Self-made woman.” He put the phone down and picked up a Lladro figurine. Victorian lady with a parasol.

He spun the parasol and said, “Spain, right?”

For the first time she looked at him. With fear. Wondering how long something that delicate could survive between those thick fingers.

He put down the figurine. “Who’s your decorator?”

“Me. I did it myself.” Defiance and pride made her sit up a bit straighter.

“Creative, Cheri.”

She pointed to the art books. “I read lots of stuff. Architectural Digest.”

He lifted the phone again and held it out to her. She made no effort to take it.

“Call him, Cheri. Then we’ll take you down. Hey, your hands are shaking, babe. Tell you what, give me the number and I’ll dial it for you. How’s that for personal service?”

She took a deep drag on the purple cigarette. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’re you leaning on me, talking about downtown?”

“It’s not just talk, Cheri. It’s real.”

“Real.” She dragged again, coughed, touched her bosom, tugged the sash. “Real. This is what I get for doing my civic duty. Moment I saw it I called.”

He said, “ I appreciate that, except now instead of acting civic you’re clamming up and demanding your lawyer, which is more like perp behavior. So now I’m wondering what you have to hide, and now I have to take you downtown to be extra careful to cover my butt.”

She hugged herself, rocked, smoked, crossed her legs. “They treated me like a perp right off, read me Miranda.”

“That’s for your sake, Cheri.”

“Yeah, everyone’s out to do me a favor.” She waved the cigarette, created sinuous smoke streams.

Milo cut through the smoke with his finger. “Sherms. Usually when we see those they’re in evidence bags. Spiked with Dust.”

“Not my thing,” she said. “I live healthy.”

“’Course you do,” he said. “But let me ask you, what’s the chance once we start going over this place- and we are going to go over it- that we don’t find something ? Roach under the bed, little speck of hash, maybe some ’ludes or poppers to make a party go smoother. Something one of your guests accidentally dropped and the cleaning woman just happened to miss- you do have a cleaning woman.”

“Twice a week,” she said.

“Twice a week, huh? Things do have a way of accumulating between cleanings.”

“Listen,” she said, “all there is, is pills. Valium. Legal. Prescription- fact, I could use one right now.”

“Not now, Cheri. We need you lucid- clear.”

“I know what lucid means. Don’t think I’m no woodhead.”

“Perish the thought. Woodheads don’t usually end up owning the building.” He jiggled the phone. The clapper hit the bell and gave off a dull ring.

She said, “You find anything funny in there, I don’t know a single thing about it.”

“It’s your responsibility, Cheri. You own the whole building.”

She muttered something.

Milo said, “What’s that?”

No answer.

“Go on, make the call, or give me the number so I can call.”

She was silent.