Time Bomb (42 page)

Next to the car were two bodies lying belly down, limbs splayed, heads twisted to the side. A tape line had been run around them. They’d fallen close together on the concrete—perhaps two feet separated them. Their legs overlapped, creating a human V, and had the loose but contorted posture unique to pre-rigor corpses and rag dolls. Both were dressed in suits—one gray, one that appeared tan in the night light. The left trouser-leg of the one in tan had ridden up, revealing a thick white slab of hairless calf that shone like polished ivory. Rorschach splotches ex-tended from both heads.

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 ser-vice?”

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.

“Anyway,” he said, “the dope we’re gonna find might keep you in lockup for a while, but it’s the least of your problems. Let’s not forget those two gentlemen out back.”

She shook her head. “Nuh-uh. I don’t know a thing about them—about what happened.”

“You knew
them.
”

“Professionally, that’s all.”

“Professionally,” said Milo. He lifted a satinized purple business card from a cloisonné holder. “Cheryl Jane Nuveen. Recreational
Counselor
. Recreation, huh? Sounds like shuffleboard on deck.”

The cigarette dangled from her fingers, dripping ashes onto the zebra skin.

Milo said, “Enough small talk. What’s the lawyer’s number? Got to be a five-five exchange, right? Beverly Hills. Or Century City. Two hundred, two-fifty an hour. I figure the initial tab’s gonna run you three, maybe four thousand, minimum. And that’s only filing the papers. Once we book you, the meter really starts running—”

“Book me on what? Calling nine-one-one?”

“—and those guys like retainers, don’t they? Got payments on the Mercedes, keep the account going at Morton’s. Meanwhile you’ve got no
recreation
to counsel and your own payments keep coming. What’s the mortgage on this building you own, couple of thou a month? Meanwhile, you’re in storage with girls from the old neighborhood—they’re gonna be real happy to see someone made good, owns the whole building. They’re gonna relate very friendly to that.”

She raised her voice: “Book me on
what
?”

“My turn to ask questions. Your turn to shut up or answer.”

She stabbed a crystal ashtray with her cigarette. Kept stabbing after the glow had died. “Nothing to answer about.”

“Two bodies in your backyard and nothing to answer about?”

She rolled her eyes. “I told you I don’t know about that.”

“You knew
them
.”

“Professionally.”

“Who else besides you knew they were coming here tonight to play?”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“That’s right. I’m discreet—my business is based on it.”

“No one,” said Milo, “except the guy you called tonight in order to set ’em up.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, no—oh, no—no way you’re gonna-”

“Cute deal, Cheri. You give him time to get away, then call nine-one-one and play good citizen: you
think
there’s been a shooting. You
think
there’s maybe two guys—prowlers—lying out dead in your backyard.”

“That’s the truth! I mean, about not knowing they were dead. How’m I gonna know they were dead or not? You think I’m gonna go out there to feel a pulse!”

“Making it sound as if they were strangers.”

“What’s the diff? I called, didn’t I?”

“Who else knew they were here, Cheri?”

“No one. I told you—”

“Too bad,” he said. “Officers Burdette and Pelletier told me you weren’t gonna be helpful, but I decided to keep an open mind. Looks like—”

“Burdette? That the house nigger with the attitude? That boy was
rude
to me, gave me that look—that . . . that . . .”

“Patronizing look?”

“Yes,” she said, “
Patronizing.
He was
extremely
patronizing. To the
nth.
Had an attitude. Like he was some King Hoohah and I’m some little sister who’s stepped out of line, it’s his job to knock me down. And the other one, she’s nothing but a diesel dyke-staring at my attributes whenever she got the chance. You guys shouldn’t be hiring perverts.”

“Attributes?” said Milo.

“Yeah.” She bent low in illustration, threw back her shoulders, suddenly confident again. She smiled at Milo, received a blank stare in return, and switched her attention to me.

Her smile was inviting and though I knew it was artifice, I had to look away to keep from reciprocating. When I did, she cursed under her breath.

Milo said, “Okay, we’ll take you downtown. You make the call from there. Get ready for a little nostalgia, Cheri. Sucking in AIDS breath in a holding cage full of five-dollar strawberries while getting your
attributes
checked out.”

She looked at me again, spread her legs slightly while keeping them crossed at the ankles. Confirming Burdette’s assessment of what was—or wasn’t—under the kimono.

I looked away again.

She said, “Okay. Fuck the lawyer. I didn’t do a thing wrong—don’t need to buy him another Mercedes. Give me one of those polygraphs. Crank it up—I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Milo said, “Polygraphs can’t stand up to smooth criminals. Anyone comfortable with lying can pass.”

Anger mottled her face like a rash. “So what the fuck do you
want
?”

“Just straight talk, Cheri. How you hooked up with Massengil and Dobbs in the first place. How long it’s been going on—
everything
that’s been going on. And everything connected to what happened tonight.”

She smiled through the anger. “Everything, huh? Sure your little policeman’s heart can take it?”

He hooked a finger at me. “Case it can’t, he knows CPR.”

“Okay,” she said, crossing her legs again. “You pitch, I’ll catch.”

Milo said, “Let me make sure I’m getting this clear. You’re saying you want to talk about the events of this evening—December 6, 1988? Give a statement of your own free will, no attorney present?”

“Uh-huh.” She gave a wide smile full of big, perfect, milk-white teeth. Ran her tongue between them, sat up straight, touched her bosom.

“Yeah. Yes. Sure I’ll talk. To
you
. Cause you
are
the King Hoohah. You’re the real thing, chief, that’s for sure. And Cheri doesn’t go for
facsimiles
.”

27

She said, “Sacramento—that’s the beginning.”

She put another cigarette in her mouth. Milo lit it for her.

She smoked for a while.

Milo said, “Sacramento.”

“Yeah. That’s where I met him. I had a place there. My own place, smaller and not as quality as this one, but my own, also.”