Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

“Up to you.” He stood.

She said, “When can I sell this place? Get my equity out?”

“If it turns out you’re not involved in the shooting I can clear it for you pretty soon- a month or so. If you’re fucking with me, I’ll tie it up for years. Not that it’ll matter, where you’d end up.”

She crossed her heart again. “I’m not fucking with you. God’s truth. All I want is my equity.”

She started to get up.

He said, “Sit there. Don’t move. I’m gonna call Officer Pelletier back and she’s gonna watch you while you get dressed. We’ll want that kimono to analyze. She’ll also put bags on your hands until one of the techs comes in and does a paraffin test. That’ll tell us if you’ve fired a gun lately- or worked with industrial-strength fertilizer.”

“Been working with plenty of shit,” she said. “But not that kind. And no gun. Bet on it.”

“You’ll also be printed so we can run you through NCIC. Any outstanding wants or warrants, better to tell me now.”

“Nothing. Bet on that too.”

“One thing I will bet on,” he said. “You’ve got half a dozen monikers.”

“Not that many. And I haven’t used them in a long time.”

“Give ’em to me anyway.”

She ticked off her fingers. “Sherry Nuveen, with an S, like the wine. Sherry Jackson. Cherry Jackson, with a C. Cherry Burgundy. Cherry Gomez- that’s when I had a spic on my back. He made me take his name, like we were married.”

“Nuveen your given name?”

She shook her head. “Mom’s second husband’s name. I took it when I was seven. Then he left.”

“What’s the name on your birth certificate?”

“Jackson. Sheryl Jane Jackson. With an S. DOB four/ eight/fifty-three, just like the license says. I look younger, don’t you think?”

“You look great,” he said.

She beamed. “Clean living.”

He said, “What’s the license plate stand for? On the Fiat. Cheri T.”

She smiled again. Batted her lashes and laid down a few more mascara tracks. Vamping in order to maintain composure.

“T is for Tart ,” she said. “Cherry Tart . ’Cause that’s what I am. Sweet and juicy and filling.”

When we were just outside the front door I said, “Think she’s innocent?”

“Innocent?” He smiled. “You should see the way she’s got the guest bedroom set up. It’s a bondage museum- Marquis de Sade would feel right comfy. But of the shooting itself, probably. She’s right- why would she set them up on her home territory, then phone it in? That’s in terms of setting it up. In terms of her being the shooter herself, what’s the motive? Sometimes, in a whore situation, passions do get out of hand and someone gets hurt. But it’s usually the whore who’s the victim and it’s usually messy. This was neat. Planned. Very cold. Also, I had the tech look alongside the garage and he says it does look like fresh footprints. His educated guess is a man’s running shoe, medium size. None of which will mean shit if she flunks the paraffin test and we find the gun in her undie drawer. I’ll be putting her through her paces all night and most of the morning, see if I can get anything more out of her.”

“Dark clothes,” I said. “It’s also the way Holly was dressed when she camped out in the storage shed.”

“So what’re you saying? Back to the cabal? Roving bands of teenage ninja assassins?”

I said, “Anything’s possible.”

He didn’t argue.

He got my keys back from Burdette and found out where the Seville was parked. Then he told Pelletier- a five-foot blonde with a pixie chin- to bag Sheryl Jackson’s hands and take her back to the station. As we left the duplex, a couple of other West L.A. detectives showed up. He told me to stay put, went over to them and filled them in, giving them instructions about searching Jackson’s apartment and ordering them not to talk to the press until he’d finished reinterviewing her.

A few spectators had come out on the sidewalk. Uniforms kept them at a distance. Several vans with TV station logos had pulled up to the barricade. Reporters and camera crews were milling around, setting up lights.

Milo said, “After me, the deluge.”

We began walking to the Seville. A sports-car rumble sounded down the block and a peacock-blue Pontiac Fiero with three antennas sprouting from the roof sped to the barricade, backed up at a noisy twenty miles per, and parked at the curb.

Lieutenant Frisk got out, took in the scene, spotted us, then came forward in a smooth, loose stride. He was wearing a shawl-collar black tuxedo with a pleat-fronted, wing-collared shirt, scarlet tie, and matching handkerchief. As he came toward us, I saw a woman get out of the Fiero- young, tall, fashion-model figure, cover-girl face, long dark frizzed hair. Her black taffeta cocktail dress showed off gleaming shoulders. She looked around, glanced in the little blue car’s side mirror, and glossed her lips. One of the uniforms waved to her. She didn’t see it or else ignored it, primped some more, and got back in the car.

“Sergeant,” said Frisk.

“Evening on the town, Ken?” said Milo.

Frisk frowned. “Is the victim’s identity verified, Detective?”

“Yeah, it’s him. The other one’s Dobbs, the psychologist who looks like Santa.”

Frisk turned his attention to me. “What’s he doing here, Detective?”

“He was with me when the call came in. No time to drop him off.”

Frisk looked as if he were struggling to bring up gas. “C’mere, Sergeant.”

The two of them walked a few yards away. The beam of a streetlamp allowed me to see them clearly. Frisk pointed at Milo and said something. Milo answered. Frisk pulled out a pad and pen and began writing. Milo said something else. Frisk kept writing. Milo ran his hand over his face and spoke again. Frisk looked irritated but continued writing. Milo talked, rubbed his face, bounced on the balls of his feet.

Frisk put the pad away and said something that made Milo’s face darken. He kept talking, wagged a finger. Milo wagged back.

Their body language grew progressively combative- hands fisted, faces thrust forward, chins extended like bayonets. It reminded me of my boxing print. Milo used his size to advantage, looming over Frisk. Frisk defended by rising on the balls of his feet, doing lots of tight, jabbing things with his hands. They began talking simultaneously- talking over each other, competing for air space. Other policemen were starting to notice, shifting their attention from the crime scene to what was happening under the lamppost. I could see Frisk’s neck muscles straining; Milo’s arms were down now, stiff at his side, his hands still rolled into fists.

Frisk made a conscious effort to relax, smiled, and gave a dismissive wave. Milo shouted something. He must have sprayed Frisk with spit, because the younger man stepped back several paces, yanked his red handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face. Frisk smiled again and spoke. Milo flinched as if he’d been slapped. His fingers opened, curled, and tightened. Frisks turn to rock on the balls of his feet. Subtly, but eagerly, like a hungry welterweight. For a moment I was certain they were going to come to blows. Then Frisk turned heel and stomped away.

Milo watched him go, knuckling his chin. Frisk called a uniformed cop over, talked rapidly, began pointing at the murder duplex. The cop nodded and crossed the street to the building. The dark-haired young woman stepped out of the Fiero again. Frisk whipped his head in her direction and gave her a hard look. She got back in the car.

I looked over at Milo. He was staring at the growing hubbub near the barricade, a frightful look on his face. I stayed in place, catching curious glances from cops. Finally Milo saw me and waved me over.