Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

“Seen what?”

“The Massengil stuff hitting the fan- right now, the six o’clock news. Call me back when you’ve had your fill of it.”

The newscast was featuring the second assassination of the late assemblyman, this one not nearly as quick and clean as the ambush in Sheryl Jane Jackson’s backyard. A photo of Massengil that could have been a mug shot. An old one of Cheri T in a corkscrew hairdo and white eye shadow that was. The jail photographer had preserved her looking like the hollow-eyed, switchblade-in-purse streetwalker she’d once been.

The gloating anchorwoman went on in a sultry voice about sex for hire… the exact relationship between the two victims and Jackson still being unclear… sex scandal… sex sex sex… Massengil’s reputation as a law-and-order politician who’d campaigned against pornography… twenty-eight years in the state legislature advocating… sex… psychological adviser… sex…

She needn’t have bothered talking. Pictures were still worth millions of words: Massengil open-mouthed and snarling, Dobbs’s well-fed sanctimoniousness. Cheri’s eyes, full of corruption and defiance.

Now an action shot. Ocean Heights. The Widow Massengil walking out of her front door to a waiting car, black-garbed, face and snowy bouffant hidden by veil and hands. Hobbling, hunched, in the protective grip of all four sons. Flashbulbs popping, microphones thrusting. The bereaved family fleeing with all the dignity of war criminals hustled to the tribunal.

The station’s resident political commentator came on, wondering who was going to fill Massengil’s unexpired term. Apparently a political technicality was operative: Since Massengil’s death had occurred after the nominating period for his next term, there would be no special election and the remaining eight months of the term would go fallow. In accordance with tradition, the widow had been considered the most probable replacement, but today’s disclosures made her an unlikely contender. Faces of possible candidates flashed on the screen. A deputy mayor I’d never heard of. A former TV anchorman- with an obsession about separating paper trash from the rest of the garbage- who surfaced every few years to play small-time Harold Stassen and was regarded as a municipal joke.

Then Gordon Latch.

The resident commentator reported “inside rumors” that Latch was considering running for the vacated seat. Next came footage showing him at his desk, fending off questions and letting the viewing public know that “during difficult times such as these we’ve all got to pull together and not stoop to careerism. My heartfelt thoughts are with Hattie Massengil and the boys. I urge all of you to refrain from unnecessary cruelty.”

I turned off the set and called Linda back. “Had my fill.”

She said, “I was no fan of his, but I hate the way his poor family’s being dragged through the muck.”

“Yesterday’s hero, today’s wet spot.”

She said, “Why now? A day after? The police knew right away.”

I thought about that. “Frisk snatched the case away from Milo because of the glory potential. But maybe he had time to think about it, examine the facts, and realized it would be slow going. A glory case can be a double-edged sword: If he develops no suspects, he runs the risk of looking incompetent in the public eye. Shifting focus to a sex scandal buys him time- notice how there was no mention of the progress of the investigation.”

“True,” she said. “Just the S word.”

“Over and over and over. Also, if Massengil was scum, the urgency to learn who killed him dims a bit, doesn’t it? Maybe buys Frisk a little more public patience. Of course, another possibility is that it wasn’t Frisk who leaked.”

“Latch?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? I’ve seen at least two instances where he seems to have been in touch with Massengil’s itinerary, so maybe he’s even got a mole on Massengil’s staff and found out about Massengil’s extracurricular activities. Not that he’s the only candidate. Massengil had plenty of enemies up in Sacramento, no shortage of people who might have hated him enough to spit on his grave. Could be Latch just used the information- seized the opportunity and went from conciliator to contender. It fits his pattern: a talent for surviving and thriving on the misfortunes of others.”

“Sounds like a scavenger,” she said. “A vulture. Or a maggot.”

“Dung beetle came to my mind,” I said.

She laughed. “Well, now that we’re into such appetizing images, have you had dinner yet? I’m in a cooking mood.”

“Love to, but it’s not a good night.”

“Oh.” She sounded hurt.

I said, “I want to see you. But…”

“But what, Alex?”

I took a deep breath. “Listen, I don’t want to scare you but I’m pretty sure someone followed me this evening. And I don’t think it’s the first time.

“What are you talking about?”

“The night we had dinner on Melrose, I thought someone left the same time we did, followed us for a while. At the time I brushed it off, but now I don’t think so.”

“You’re serious.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that night? When you first suspected it?”

“I really thought I was letting my imagination get the better of me - there just didn’t seem to be any point. Then Milo told me he’d spotted a tail when we were driving together. He thinks it was Frisk. Or someone else in the Police Department. One arm of the LAPD hydra trying to find out what another was doing. Milo’s not the most popular guy in the Department.”

She said, “Cops love doing that, going after one another. Paramilitary thinking. Destroy the individual. Daddy had all sorts of stories about officers he’d caught with their pants down. His eyes used to light up when he told them.” Pause. “Why would they be following you?”

“Guilt by association. And don’t worry about it- I’ll have an answer soon. I got the license number of the car that followed me today. As soon as I reach Milo he’ll be able to trace it.”

“Don’t worry about it, huh? But you’re afraid to be with me tonight.”

“It’s… I just don’t want to put you in any… jeopardy.”

“From the police? Why would I be in jeopardy from them? All my parking tickets are paid up.”

I said nothing.

She said, “Alex?”

I sucked in my breath again, mentally phrased my words while letting it out, and told her about all of it. Novato, Gruenberg, Crevolin, Bear Lodge.

When I was through she said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The chill.

“I guess I was being… protective.”

“And what made you think I needed protecting?”

“It wasn’t that,” I said. “It had nothing to do with you. We were having good times together. I didn’t want to… pollute them.”

“So you kept me in the dark.”

“Not out of any base motives-”

“Okay. Have a good evening.”

“Linda-”

“No,” she said. “Don’t throw any more words at me. I’ve had enough of that. And don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. I don’t need protecting .”

She hung up. When I tried to call back, the line was busy. I checked with the operator and was informed that the phone was off the hook.

Alone, my thoughts drifted from misery to misery. Bomb factories. Cadres. Political conversions…

The common thread running through all of it:

Latch.

I thought of the sanitation process that had transformed him from Hanoi Harry to public servant. Those years of seclusion with Miranda somewhere in the Northwest.

Years of seclusion after Bear Lodge.

Time and money and an easy smile. What else did a politician need in the eighties? But what would happen to the smile if the money stopped flowing?