“They were using crowbars or something like crowbars. What’s the chance of pulling any prints from the car?” she said.
“Slim,” he admitted. “Unless they slipped and touched the car. But without prints, we’ve got nothing- might as well forget the whole thing.”
“That’s what I want, Detective Sturgis. To forget it.”
Milo scratched his nose. “You’re saying you don’t want to file charges?”
I said, “Linda-”
She said, “That’s exactly what I’m saying. The children have been through enough. All of us have. The last thing we need is another fright, more attention.”
I said, “Linda, if there’s some danger, don’t you think the children and their parents should be aware of it?”
“There’s no danger- this is just more of the same garbage we’ve had since the beginning. The sniping put us back in the spotlight and another cockroach crawled out. And there’ll be others- phoning, mailing. Until they find someone else to pick on. So what would be the point of advertising this? No one would be caught and more kids would be scared into dropping out. That’s precisely what they want.”
Gutsy speech, but by the end of it she was talking in gulps, almost hyperventilating, and digging her nails into the arm of the couch so hard I heard fabric scrape.
I looked at Milo.
He said, “Did you keep any of the hate mail?”
“Why?”
“In the unlikely event we ever find the piece of shit who trashed your car, maybe we can match a print to one of the pieces of mail and add a federal charge to his grief. You’d be surprised how nasty those postal inspectors can get.”
She said, “I told you I don’t want to go public.”
Milo sighed. “I understand that, and I promise you there’ll be no official investigation. And that’s why I said ‘in the unlikely event’-‘near impossible’ would be more accurate. But let’s say the perp returns- emboldened by getting away with it. And let’s say someone catches him in the act. You’re not saying you’d want us to let him go, are you?”
She stared at him, threw open a desk drawer, and yanked out a stack of envelopes bound with string.
“Here,” she said, thrusting it at him. “My entire collection. I was going to donate it to the Smithsonian, but it’s all yours. Happy reading.”
“Who else touched the contents besides you and your secretary?”
“Just us. And Dr. Delaware.”
Milo smiled. “I suppose we can rule him out.”
She didn’t respond.
“Got something to put it in?” he said.
“Always happy to oblige, Detective.” She opened another drawer, found an interoffice mail envelope, and dropped the stack into it. Milo took it.
I said, “What about some kind of protection, Milo? In-creased patrol.”
Both of them turned to me, then exchanged knowing glances. Cop and cop’s kid. I felt like a new immigrant who didn’t know the language.
He said, “I can have a patrol car drive by once each shift, Alex, but it’s unlikely to make a difference.”
She told him, “Sorry for bringing you down here. If I’d thought it out rationally, I wouldn’t have bothered you.”
“No bother,” he said. “If you change your mind or need to file a report for insurance, let me know. I can push some paper for you, maybe speed things up. Meantime, let’s get your car towed.”
“If it still drives, I’ll take it home myself.”
I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Why not?” she said. “The damage is probably all to the body. If it rolls, home it goes. I’ll call my insurance company tomorrow and have it towed from there. The district will pay for a rental- one advantage of being a civil servant.”
“Linda, without a windshield you’ll freeze.”
“Fresh air. I’ll survive.”
She searched in her purse and pulled out her keys.
I looked at Milo. His shrug said, Nolo contendere.
The three of us left the office, Linda walking several paces ahead, no one talking.
Outside, the street was still silent and seemed more dank, a sump for the haze. The Escort looked like a piece of junk sculpture. Linda got in through the passenger door. When she closed it, it made an unhealthy, rattling sound, and a few pieces of glass fell onto the street and tinkled like wind chimes.
Milo and I stood by as she jammed the key into the ignition. The little car sputtered and belched and for a moment I thought there’d been mechanical damage. Then I remembered that it had sounded that way the first time I’d heard it.
She kept trying. Milo said, “Gutsy lady.”
I said, “You think this is the right way to handle it?”
“She’s the victim. It’s her choice, Alex.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He ran his hand over his face. “Matter of fact, she’s probably right. She knows the way things work, knows we’ll never catch the assholes. All she’d buy would be more cameras and print space.”
The Escort started, then stalled and died.
I said, “Okay. Sorry for calling you out for nothing.”
“Forget it. I was restless anyway.”
I recalled his grogginess over the phone but said nothing. He took out his keychain and began swinging it like a lasso. Looked at the swastika, then out at the row of darkened homes.
“Lovely times we’re living in, Alex. National Brotherhood Week.”
That reminded me of something. “How’d your meeting with Ferguson go?”
“Nothing dramatic. Call me tomorrow and I’ll run it by you. Meanwhile, go and do your civic duty.”
“What’s that?”
“Make sure Dr. Blondie gets home in one piece.”
He patted me on the shoulder and shambled to his car. Just as he drove away, the Escort’s engine caught and stuck. Linda fed it gas. I walked up to the shattered window.
“I’ll follow you home, Linda.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay, it’s really not necessary.” Her face was streaked with tears but she was forcing a tough look- almost comically grave. The hand on the steering wheel was taut and ghost-white. I touched it. She pumped the gas pedal several more times. The Escort made a noise like an old man clearing his throat.
I said, “You might have radiator damage, something that’s not obvious. The last thing we need is for you to get stranded somewhere.”
She looked up at me. Lots of fine pale hair had come loose. Her mascara had run, creating sad-clown streaks.
I touched her cheek. “Come on- what are friends for?”
She looked at me again, started to say something, closed her eyes, and nodded.
I followed her east on Sunset, then south, past the dark-ened movie marquees of a deserted, littered Westwood Village, all the way beyond Pico and the post-moderne excess of the Westside Pavilion. Not far from Overland Avenue, where I’d lived in a dingy flat during indigent student days.
The Escort clanged along- no taillights, one headlight- molting bits of glass and flecks of paint. The swastika made me think of a battered Nazi staff car. But despite its pathetic appearance, the wreck moved fast enough and I had to concentrate in order to stay with her as she made a series of abrupt turns down side streets. She came to a halt at an apartment complex at the end of a cul-de-sac.
The building was monolith-graceless, four stories of peach-colored texture-coat, with aqua-green tubular iron railing and just enough landscaping to satisfy the zoning laws. There was a low roar in the distance: Through the branches of a malnourished pepper tree, the San Diego Freeway was a frantic light show.
A steep drive led down to a subterranean parking garage blocked by an aqua-green gate. She put a card in a slot and the gate slid open. Leaving the card in place, she drove through. I pressed the card to keep the gate open, retrieved it, and followed her. The garage was half empty and I found a spot next to her.
“Home sweet home,” she said, getting out. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks rosy. She touched them. “Ah, the bracing vapors. There’s something to be said for open-air motoring.”