“Ever meet the father?” said Milo.
“Just in passing. He walked by me once or twice. Pretending I didn’t exist. Whether it was racism or just the way he was, I didn’t know. Until Ted told me.”
He looked at Dinwiddie and our eyes followed.
The grocer looked uncomfortable. “What I told him is that Burden was strange, to be careful. The whole family was strange.”
“And the other stuff,” Ike said softly.
“Rumors,” said Dinwiddie. “About Burden having been some kind of government spy- rumors that were going around back when I was in high school. We used to ask Howard about it. He always said he didn’t know, but no one believed him- why wouldn’t he know about his own father? We figured he was hedging. This was the sixties- it was uncool to be military. Not that I really believed it. But I just wanted Ike to know that he was dealing with a possible risk factor. So as not to get into trouble.”
“You wanted to make sure I didn’t sleep with her,” said Ike, smiling. Without malice. “Which is cool- that would have been stupid. But there was never any chance of that. It wasn’t… She wasn’t like that- wasn’t feminine. More like a kid. Gullible. It would have been like sleeping with a kid. Perverted.”
Milo nodded again and said, “How much detail did you give her? About Wannsee?”
“More than I realized, I guess. When I’d come over there, she’d be so happy to see me- set out food, start to make a big deal about it. I was the only one who gave her any attention. So I guess I just kind of went on. Talking my head off.”
“You mention Latch’s name?”
He looked down. Muttered something that passed for “Uh-huh.”
“And Massengil’s?”
“All of it.” Still downcast and muttering. He looked up suddenly, wet-eyed again. “I had no idea she was really listening! Half the time she was so spaced-out I felt like I was talking to a wall! Talking to myself! Almost a stream of consciousness thing, just letting it all out. I don’t even remember what I told her, how much I told her. If I’da known…” He broke off, shook his head. Wept. Dinwiddie went over to him and patted his shoulder.
Milo waited a long time before saying, “It wasn’t your fault.”
The thin brown face shot up like a jack-in-the-box. “No. Nothing like that. Whose fault was it?”
“You want to torture yourself with guilt, son, wait until you’re a bit older. After you’ve given yourself some good reason.”
Ike stared at him. Dried his eyes. “You’re weird, man. For a cop. What is it you want from me?”
“That’s up to you,” said Milo. “Latch and Ahlward and a bunch of the others are dead. Mrs. Latch is being looked into. But quite a few of them- too many of them- survived. We’ve got very little to hold them on- nothing that’ll do serious damage in terms of jail time. And maybe that’s no big deal. They’re all a bunch of sheep- with the leaders gone they’ll forget politics, go into real estate or growing dope or writing screenplays, whatever. But maybe not.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you were an eyewitness to a homicide. Maybe you saw enough of the asshole in the coat to be able to match him up to a face. Match that pig nose. If you don’t want to bother, I understand. You can’t buy beer legally and you’ve been through ten lifetimes’ worth of shit. You still don’t trust anyone, know who’s right, who’s wrong. But if you can ID him, there’s a chance we can put the Nazi flick away, get some of the others for conspiracy, Get them really seared. And talking.”
“That’s it?” said the boy. “Match a face?”
“’Course not,” said Milo. “If you do get a match, there’ll be depositions, subpoenas, the whole legal ball of twine. If it gets that far the Police Department will offer you protection, but the truth is, that can be kind of half-assed. So I’ll protect you myself. Make sure it’s done right. I’ll also make sure your grandma gets protection. And good medical help. I’ve got close medical connections.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why go to all the bother?”
Milo shrugged. “Part of it’s personal. I’m still plenty pissed at them- what they did to me.” He ran his hand over his face. Removed his baseball cap and scratched his head. Sweat and pressure had turned his hair into something black and oily and sodden. “Also, maybe I’m curious. The way Ted was. How I’d react. Being asked to shock someone.”
He yawned, stretched, put his hat back on. “Anyway, I’m not going to pressure you, son. Tell me to forget it and I drive back to L.A., you go on to your next hidey-hole, sayonara.”
The boy thought for a while. Bit his nails, gnawed his knuckles.
“Match a face? It was a long time ago, pretty dark. What if I can’t?”
“Then it’s bye-bye and good luck.”
“Do I have to see them… him… in person? Or can I just look at some photos?”
“Photos for a start. If you come up with an ID, we’ll do a lineup. With full security. Behind a one-way mirror.”
The boy got up, paced, punched his palm with his other hand. I couldn’t help thinking how much he reminded me of Milo. Wrestling. Always wrestling.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll look at your photos. When?”
“Right now,” said Milo. “If you’re ready. I’ve got stuff in the car.”
39
It ended the way it started.
“Turn on your TV, Alex.”
I’d been sitting at the dining room window, watching the sun set over the Glen. Reading Twain. Then poetry- Whitman, Robert Penn Warren, Dylan Thomas. Stuff I’d neglected for too long. Stuff with body to it. Music and lust and despair and religion.
“Is it important, Milo?”
“Quick, or you’ll miss it.”
I got up and switched on the tube.
Six o’clock news.
Tape of Lieutenant Frisk at a podium; below him, a microphone audience. Fawn-colored suit. Cream shirt, green tie.
Grinning and blathering about long-term investigations, interdepartmental task forces, multiple indictments the result of careful coordination with federal and state agencies.
Using the word hero. Looking as if he had to force his lips around it. Holding out a hand.
Milo stepped up to the podium.
Frisk shook his hand, handed Milo a piece of paper.
Milo took it, looked at it, gave the camera a Hi, mom! smile. Pocketed the commendation.
Frisk stood away from him. Stood back, waiting for him to leave the stage.
Milo stayed there, still smiling. Frisk looked puzzled.
Milo mugged for the camera again, turned and faced Frisk. Drew back his arm and hit Frisk, hard, in the face.
Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world's most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a child psychologist to numerous bestselling tales of suspense (which have been translated into two dozen languages), including thirteen previous Alex Delaware novels; The Butcher's Theater, a story of serial killing in Jerusalem; and Billy Straight, featuring Hollywood homicide detective Petra Connor. His new novel, Flesh and Blood, will be published in hardcover in fall 2001. He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, and scientific articles, two children's books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children.
