Besides, Harvey - his Harvey - well, his Harvey from his time who was hanging out in this time but as his older self - hadn't seemed too freaked by it all. Said it had something to do with his being a shaman, and that Blair would just have to figure out why he was there.
He looked up with interest as a uniformed police officer ushered a distraught young woman into the food tent and over to the other end of the picnic table where Blair was sitting.
"Please calm yourself down, ma'am," the officer said. "We need you to calm down, so I can take a proper statement."
The woman, nothing more than a teenager herself, closed her eyes and took a couple of breaths. "Sorry. I'm just so freaked." Her brown hair was loose and flowing, rippled from being braided. She was wearing a ankle-length skirt, most of the women were, and a rather see-through gauze blouse with no bra.
There was something to be said for the hippy movement.
Blair looked away, concentrating on his cereal. He poured some milk into his coffee and blew on it, trying to cool it down enough to have a sip.
"That's perfectly understandable, ma'am. Now let's start with names. My name is Officer Dominguez."
"Naomi. Naomi Sandburg."
Blair spit his coffee across the table, choking. The officer leaned over and gave him a good swat on the back, which stopped the cough, but threatened to send his rather delicate head off his shoulders. Blair grimaced, his eyes clenched shut, the cereal he had just eaten debating on whether or not to make a return trip.
"Oh, sorry, man. I probably shouldn't have done that, with your head injury and all. I was just trying to help." Officer Dominguez rubbed his back gently.
"S'all right," Blair gasped, wiping his face with a few napkins the woman -- oh, shit, his mother -- handed him. "I'm okay."
"I wouldn't say that," the officer said with a smile. "But I'm sure you're going to be fine." That problem dealt with, he turned back to young Naomi. "Your son is missing? Can you tell me about him?"
He's not missing. He's sitting two fucking feet away from you.
"His name is Blair Blossom Sandburg. I call him Baby most of the time," she added, hiccuping softly and wiping her nose with one of the napkins on the table.
Blair peered out from behind his own napkins, eyes wide. Hello? Blossom? BLOSSOM? Say what?
"He was sleeping in our tent," Naomi continued, hands fluttering as she spoke, "and I was sitting with some friends just outside it. I guess he woke up and wandered away. He's quite... independent. Curious."
BLOSSOM? Where the hell did that come from? Or is this some weird alternate universe where things are almost the same but not quite. Like someone sat on a butterfly in 1313 A.D. and now everything's just slightly off.
"How old is he?" Officer Dominguez asked, still writing in his little notebook.
"Almost two."
"And his father?"
Blair froze, his eyes staring at the vibrating cup of coffee in his hands.
"There's just me," Naomi said, rather defiantly, and Blair could see her resemblance now to the woman he knew. He didn't have many pictures of her at this age. His mother was usually the one taking the pictures of him, and there were few of both of them together. Looking at how she was dressed now, he figured there hadn't been a lot of money around for things like cameras or film. Or getting them developed. Or photo albums.
"We've got several of our officers looking around for him. Do you have a picture of him?"
Naomi shook her head. "Not here."
"That's understandable," the officer said gently. "What was he wearing?"
"He fell asleep during one of the groups -- Country Jug or Head, Hands and Feat, I don't remember which. I just put him down on the blankets. He was in his shorts, nothing else. He's not in diapers any more," she added proudly, then her face crumpled and she leaned over the table and cried.
I'm right over here, Mom. Blair could feel the tears welling up in his own eyes. He started to get up to go sit beside her, when the cop moved over next to her.
"Why don't you stay around this tent, and we'll take another look around for him?"
"I've looked everywhere!" she cried.
"He probably just wandered away, curled up somewhere and went to sleep. He'll come back when he's hungry enough."
Another uniformed officer came in. "Hey, Joe. I'm going to take a walk around the crowd."
Officer Dominguez nodded. "I'll come with you. I've got the details." He turned to Naomi. "This is my partner, Officer Bridges. We're going take a look around, so you stay here, okay? Don't go wandering off." The two men left.
Blair sat across from her at the table, his head in his hands as she sniffed quietly. He wanted to go comfort her, but he wasn't sure how to go about doing it. When you considered it, here he was twenty-eight years old, and he was way older than his own mother.
Wait a second. Officer Bridges? Nash Bridges?
Blair lifted his head a little too quickly, but the two officers had left. What is this? - Class reunion time? Who's next? Simon? Joel? Frank Black? Bugs Bunny?
Jim? I'm so ready to come home, okay?
* * *
Part Four
"What are you doing?" Simon Banks asked, looking up from his desk as Ellison entered his office and immediately began to close the blinds to the bullpen. Then he caught sight of a two-year-old sound asleep against Ellison's shoulder. "Why the hell did you bring him here, Jim? I thought Naomi was at your place. Why isn't she looking after him?"
"She's otherwise occupied." Ellison perched wearily on the edge of the briefing table, his left arm and shoulder already growing stiff from holding the sleeping toddler. "I'm afraid if I put him down he'll wake up."
Simon came out from behind his desk. "Here, let me. You obviously don't have a clue." With a minimum of fuss, the captain thoroughly amazed his chief detective by settling Baby on the couch, covering him in a blanket, then placing a chair up against the couch to keep him from rolling off -- all without waking him. "Cute little guy."
"I'm impressed, sir."
"Well, you should be. It's a learned skill, one I spent years developing." Banks knew he looked smug, and Ellison was wise enough not about to rob him of it. "So," the captain said, sitting back at his desk," no word on who this child is or where Blair is?" When Ellison seemed to have a difficult time answering, Banks looked away from the sleeping toddler to study his chief detective. "Jim?"
"Don't ask, Simon. You won't like the answer. I don't like the answer I was given, and I'm not convinced it is the answer. And if it is the answer -- and I'm not saying I believe it -- I'm still not ready to accept it."
Banks stared at Ellison, then gave himself a little shake. "Okay. I'm not going to even try to claim I understand what you just said."
"You called me in, Simon. Is there a problem? If not, I'd like to get back to looking for Sandburg."
"Do you have any leads at all?"
Ellison shook his head reluctantly.
Banks catalogued the man's weariness, the exhausted slump to his shoulders. The captain picked up a file. "Our number one suspect in the Emerald Theater murders is the owner/manager, Andrew Stibbs. He knew one of the women who were murdered, and he was seen speaking with at least one of the others the night she was strangled. After the first two murders, Stibbs' employees made statements that he came out of his office at midnight and locked the front door as they left the building. The third evening, the murder was discovered within a half hour after the end of the performance. Stibbs claims to have an alibi for that time -- and that reporter, Ivan Chomski, had made a statement to you saying they were together. I was hoping you could meet with them, sort of give them a 'sentinel' listen."
"Simon, my mind's not really on the case--"
"Jim, if you had any ideas what to do about Sandburg, I'd be there with you. But you don't, and we have another concert tomorrow night, and a murderer on the loose. I've set up an interview in half an hour with Stibbs, and I would like you to be there."
"Sure, Simon." Ell
ison stood slowly. "I'll handle it. Where to?"
"Kascade Koffee, on Third Street. -- Wait, Jim -- Where are you going? What about the kid?"
"You're the expert, sir. I'm sure he'll be fine," Ellison added as he quickly shut the door behind him.
* * * * *
Kascade Koffee was one of the new trendy "retro" coffee shops that had sprung up in the older part of Cascade, pulling in customers from the office towers a few blocks to the north. The lunch crowd had already left, but even at midday, the café was smoky and crowded.
Ellison sat in his truck across the street. Stibbs was easy to pick out, a broad-shouldered, bald man sitting at a window table. An unknown man took the seat opposite him. The sentinel focused his hearing on them.
"What do you want?"
"You still supplying?"
"Now's not a good time, Brigman."
"A kilo should do it. It isn't a big buy."
"Were you listening to what I just said? Not now." Stibbs looked around nervously. "Now get lost. I've got to talk to a cop in a few minutes."
"You closing shop already?"
"Just being careful. I can get what you need. Last time though."
"Well, when can I come by?"
"Tonight. 6:30. Come to the front entrance and bring a flat of bottled water."
"What?"
"Say they're for the performers. I ordered them. Have your company write out an invoice -- I need back-up for everything now. I'll have the door people watch for you, and they'll let you in to see me so I can pay the bill. Have your money ready. All of it."
"Less the water."
"All of it. The water's free."
"Fuck, man. So how much do you want?"
"A kilo? Same cost as before."
"Why the cloak and dagger?"
"Police are watching me. Couple girls got themselves murdered."
"Oh, right. That your place?"
"Yeah. Fuck."
"Okay, 6:30."
"Now get the fuck out of here."
Ellison watched Brigman exit the restaurant. He'd had a good look at him, and someone would follow him at 6:30 after he left the Emerald Theater. They'd deal with the drug bust once the murder investigation was over.
He picked up his cellphone and hit the speed dial for Major Crimes. "Henri, it's Ellison. Find out what you can about a man named Brigman. Owns or works at a bottled water company here in Cascade."
"Got it, Jim. Brigman. Hey, who was the little tyke you brought in earlier?"
"Friend of Sandburg's. The captain is babysitting for me."
"Say what?"
"I gotta go. The reporter just showed." Ellison snapped shut his cellphone and watched as Brigman passed Chomski on the corner, but there was no recognition between the two.
Chomski entered the restaurant and quickly found Stibbs. "Andy. The cop here yet?"
"Nah. Late."
"I can't stay long. I've got some work to do before the concert tomorrow night."
"Thanks for the reviews. Except for the Brighton Trio. You massacred us on that one."
"They stunk."
"Yeah. Fuckin' did." The two men broke off their conversation to order espressos and donuts. When the waitress left, Stibbs cleared his throat nervously. "Thanks. For the alibi."
"No problem."
The topic switched to the next evening's performance and the merits of the various groups performing at the Jazz Festival. Ellison got out of his truck and slowly made his way inside. He ordered a plain black coffee from the front till and headed over to the two men, still in deep conversation.
Stibbs looked up. "Oh, hello, Officer--?"
"Detective Ellison."
"Right. Sit down. This is Ivan Chomski, a reporter with the CJJ."
Ellison straddled the chair and took out his small notebook. "We met the other night. I'm on a tight schedule. Let's start with you, Mr Stibbs. Your first name is Andrew?"
"Right."
"How long have you owned the Emerald Theater?"
"Five, maybe six years."
"Exactly."
"Five years this October."
"And this is the third annual Jazz Festival held there?"
"Yes, Detective."
"Any problems in the past?"
"None. Went smooth as a charm."
Chomski broke in with a laugh. "I wouldn't call the Twitmere Twins smooth as a charm last year."
Stibbs bristled. "Fucking idiots. Couldn't sing their way out of a paper bag."
Ellison looked up. "Problem with them?"
Chomski lit a cigarette. "They got booed off the stage and tried to burn down the theater."
Stibbs still looked pissed off. "We got it out before there was any damage. Just one wastepaper basket got charred."
Ellison jotted down their names. "Any problems with them since?"
"None." Stibbs gave a strange laugh. "Their Cessna crashed shortly afterwards on route to a fairground somewhere, so I'd say their being dead has eliminated them as suspects, wouldn't you?"
"Why'd the plane crash?"
"Idiots were flying in fog."
"I'll check into the FAA investigation." Ellison wrote down the information, then paged back to his notes of their initial interview. "You said before that you were still inside the theater at the time of the last murder."
"Yes, sir."
"Any witnesses to collaborate that?"
"Just me," the reporter said.
Ellison glanced up at Chomski, calming taking a drag of his cigarette. Even his heartbeat remained level, despite Ellison knowing the man had lied about the alibi. "You were at the theater that night?"
Chomski tucked away his lighter. "I'm there for every performance. Once a year, the Emerald Theater has a jazz series, six concerts over two weeks. As the lead reporter for the Cascade Jazz Journal, I more or less have to be there."
"And what kept you there after the performance the night before last, Mr Chomski?"
"Just talking to Andy about the concert. Confirming some background information on the performers, if they're expected to return for next year's concert. That kind of stuff."
Ellison nodded, still writing. "Thank you. I may have some more questions for you." He looked up at Chomski. "Where can I find you later?"
"At my office. I'll be there until 4:30 at least. Here," Chomski said, passing over a business card for the Cascade Jazz Journal. Chomski stood, glanced to Stibbs, and offered his hand. "I'll see you tomorrow night."
Ellison tucked the card in his shirt pocket. Once Chomski had left, Stibbs' heart rate climbed slowly. "I'd like to ask you about the young women in these photos." He handed the 4x6 pictures to the theater owner. "Do you recognize any of these women?"
Stibbs held the stack stiffly, but made no move to look at them. "Are these the same as I was shown the other day?"
"Yes, plus the ones taken the night before last."
"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. I didn't recognize them."
"Are you sure?"
"The theater seats 450. We've had sellout performances. I don't peruse every patron as they pass through my doors."
"I realize that." Ellison took the photos back. Stibbs' heart rate remained high, and it was becoming difficult to shift his hearing back and forth from the man's heartbeat to their conversation. At times like this, Sandburg's presence was a reliable anchor for him to depend on. "However, we have eye witnesses saying you were seen speaking to these two women the night they were killed." He laid their photos on the table, then added the third. "And you took Marie Smythe out for dinner as recently as last month. Are you sure you've never seen these women?"
Stibbs took a closer look at the photo. "Marie? Yeah, Marie I knew a while back. Didn't realize it was her that was killed. Bad luck -- she was a nice kid. But I didn't see her that night. And the other two -- maybe I did say hello to them, but like I said, there were 450 people there and I probably said hello to most of them. That's my job."
Ellison nodded. "The nigh
t before last, you say that you were still at the theater an hour after the last performance?"
"Yes. The security firm was scheduled to come by at 12:15 a.m. to collect the evening's take and deliver it to the bank. My sales crew brings the receipts to me to sign before preparing the deposit bags."
A Step Backwards Page 7