"And you spoke with Mr Chomski between 11:30 p.m. and 12:15 a.m.?"
"He dropped by after the performance and stayed until a few minutes before the sales crew came in."
"How long have you known Mr Chomski?"
"A year or two. He covers the concerts."
"I see. You mentioned your sales crew. Did any of them see Chomski with you?"
"No, I believe he left just before they came to my office."
"Anything else to add?" Ellison met Stibbs' uncomfortable gaze. The man was hiding something, besides his drug sales and fake alibi, but Ellison couldn't pin it. Sandburg would have been able to get under the man's skin and--
He groaned silently. He really wanted his guide back.
Ellison stood, drained the last of his coffee, and tucked the notepad back into his pocket. "I'll be in touch."
* * * * *
"Where Dim?"
Simon Banks looked up from his files into the bright eyes of the little boy standing precariously at the edge of the couch, his thumb in his mouth. "Pardon me?"
The child stared at him somberly, the corners of his mouth turning down, ever-so-slightly. "Dim?" he asked, without removing the thumb.
"Dim?" Simon chuckled. He was going to have fun with that one. "Ellison's out of the office at the moment. And whom may I say wants to know?" he asked, coming around his desk to crouch near the child.
Again, a long hard stare met his eyes, the toddler sucking his thumb while weighing him and obviously finding him wanting.
"Can I get you anything?" Simon asked. "Water? Cof-- well, I guess water's all I have that you can drink."
This sparked some interest, enough that the thumb was removed. "Ba-ba?"
"Pardon me?"
"Ba-ba?" At his puzzled look, the child added, hopefully, "Nana?"
"What's nana? Grandmother?"
"Nana."
"Sorry. I'm not sure what you want."
"Where Mama?"
"I was hoping you would tell me." Simon's only answer was a protruding bottom lip and blue eyes filled with tears, and the thumb sucking resumed. "Listen, I don't know where she is. Believe me, if I knew I'd take you to her."
"Where Dim?"
"I suspect he's on his way back here."
"Where Dim?"
"He's coming. He'll be here soon."
Again tears threatened to spill from watery eyes. "Want Dim. Want ug."
"Ug?" There was no response. "Sorry, little guy, I can't help you. Can you tell me what your name is? Huh?" Simon sat on the edge of his desk and smiled down at the boy. He couldn't be more than two years old, it was hard to judge ages, and Daryl had long since left this stage. Simon smiled fondly, remember the joys of being "Daddy" to a toddler who looked up at you with big eyes, as though you were the world to him, and said,
"Me peepee."
Okay, that he knew.
* * * * *
Back in his truck, Ellison stared at the crime scene photographs. The first victim, Marsha Martin, was twenty-five years old, a music major at Rainier finishing her Master's degree. While opera was her specialty, her friends who were interviewed by police spoke of a secret passion for jazz piano that had lured her to the Emerald that night. No one in her usual group had been able to attend the concert with her, but that hadn't kept her from going on her own. She had made one call on her cell phone after the concert, to her roommate at the dorm, wondering if she needed anything from the grocery. Marsha said she was going to stop on the way back to the university. She had never made it to her car, though, parked a block from the Emerald Theater.
The photos showed a dark-haired young woman, leaning back against a tree, her purse resting on her lap. A take-out espresso from the coffee shop next to the theater lay spilled on the ground next to her. Her cellphone and wallet were still in the small handbag, so robbery had been ruled out. A closer look at the photograph revealed the glimpse of a scarlet line around her neck, her face distorted from the trauma of strangulation.
The second victim, two nights later following the next concert, was Dana Porter, a twenty-eight-year-old librarian who lived with her boyfriend in a condo by the marina. The boyfriend, a veterinarian, was working the night shift at a 24-hour pet emergency clinic, and had been unable to attend the concert with her. Instead she had gone with two friends who met her at the concert, then waved good-bye to her afterwards as they went their own ways. They had reported she had told them she was planning on driving straight home and going to bed.
Dana was a youthful-looking brunette, easily the prettiest of the three victims, casually clad in jeans and a comfortable pullover. She had a black leather fanny pack around her waist, and, like the previous murder, it didn't appear to be robbery related, as her wallet was still in the pack. She was draped forward, balanced over the front of her car, as though she had passed out. Several passersby had called over to see if she was okay, then when there was no response, they had investigated, discovering her dead body. Her car keys and a bottle of water lay on the ground by her feet.
The third murder victim was Marie Smythe, a twenty-seven-year-old, with short-cropped, chestnut hair. Marie had gone out with Andrew Stibbs a few months previously. It was difficult finding any close friends, as she appeared to be a loner who worked for a local credit union as a teller. Her co-workers said she had been dating a man named Andy, and as far as they knew, she was still seeing him. Only one of the co-workers came forward with the information that Marie had said she had broken up with Andy several months ago, claiming things were getting a little too intense for her. Marie too had her purse with her and a bottle of water, although Ellison couldn't make out the brand name.
He pulled out his cellphone and called Forensics. "Serena, it's Jim Ellison."
"Hey, Jim. What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking into the Emerald Theater cases. Do you have a list of personal effects on the women? I'm interested in the brand names of their water bottles."
"It's right here. Marie Smythe had a bottle of Cascade Prime Water. Dana Porter had a half empty bottle of Alaska Clear. That help at all?"
"I'm not sure. Serena, I was at the scene for the Smythe murder, but not the first two. Any differences between them that might indicate we're looking at more than one perp?"
"Same m.o., Jim. I'm willing to bet it's the same guy. Strong, probably six feet or so in height. Looks like he slipped the wire over their throats from the back -- They may never have seen him coming. There are no marks on the body other than that. The wire used was metallic, multi-stranded, and strong. A guitar or violin string maybe. Death was fairly quick."
"Thanks, Serena. I'll come by later and have a look at what you have."
"No problem, Jim."
Ellison put his cellphone away. Andrew Stibbs was still in the coffee shop, nursing a now-cold cup of coffee. The waitress came by to top it up, but he shook his head and continued sitting in the restaurant, staring ahead at the empty seat in front of him.
Ellison made another call, this time to Henri Brown. "Anything on Brigman?"
"Not much, man. No priors. He's a salesman for that water company, Alaska Clear."
"Alaska Clear. One of the victims had a bottle of Alaska Clear."
"Yeah, her and half the city. It's one of the best selling bottled waters around."
"Thanks, H. Thought I might be onto something there."
"Yeah. I'll keep looking."
When Stibbs had still not moved fifteen minutes later, Ellison put the truck in gear and left.
* * * * *
He returned to the station to find Baby lying sprawled back on his desk, with Henri Brown in the process of blowing raspberries into the shrieking child's neck. The surrounding men and women were wiping their eyes in laughter as the toddler screamed in what sounded like pain.
"What the hell is going on here?" Ellison boomed. "Get the hell away from him."
"Dim!" Baby squealed on seeing who had made the racket, arms already raising toward him, appearing no
ne the worse for wear.
Okay, maybe he had over-reacted.
Ellison scooped the child into his arms, a feeling of overwhelming relief spreading over him. Strange how quickly he had become attached to the little guy. Then again, if it really was Sandburg, it was probably just the relief of being reunited with his guide.
Baby lightly clapped Ellison's face. "Dim!" he gurgled.
"Jim. Jjjjjj-im," Ellison said, stressing the consonant.
"Dim have nana?"
"No, Jim doesn't have nana. Are you hungry?"
"Baba?"
"Well, I seriously doubt there's any milk around here, so let's get something at Starbucks. How does that sound?"
Banks cleared his throat behind them. "You seem to have connected with him quite well."
Ellison shifted the child to one hip as he rummaged through the papers on his desk. "No choice, really, sir. But I will be relieved when Sandburg returns."
"How did it go with Stibbs?"
"He's hiding something. Chomski lied about the alibi -- I got that at least."
"So Stibbs is a valid suspect. We'll set up a shadow on him."
Henri Brown spoke up. "We're on it, sir. And there's a report on Brigman on your desk, Jim."
Banks perched on one corner of Ellison's desk. "So why would Chomski cover for Stibbs?"
"Stibbs is dealing coke. Could be supplying Chomski. We've run Stibbs through the database, but I'm going to see what comes up with Chomski's name." Ellison sat at his computer, and, one-handed, brought up his email. His phone rang, and he reached for it. "Ellison?"
"Jim, it's Harvey."
Ellison blinked. "Harvey Leek? How's San Francisco? Funny you should call."
"Thought so. I had a weird dream about Blair last night and was wondering..."
Ellison made him work for it. "Wondering what?"
"Oh, I dunno. Just wondering how he was. There's no answer on his cell phone."
"He's missing."
"Missing?"
"Disappeared in the middle of the night." When there was no response to his comment, Ellison sat up, alert now, shifting Baby to his other shoulder. "Harvey? What do you know?"
"Well, let's just say in my dream that Blair was fine, had a bad headache from hitting his head, but he was alive."
"Did you happen to notice where he was?"
"Yeah . . . "
"Harv?"
"Okay, you asked for it. In my dream, Blair was at a musical festival in 1971."
Ellison groaned and closed his eyes.
Baby twisted slightly at the sound, and gently patted Ellison's cheek. "Dim?"
"Jim?"
"Yeah, Harv. I heard. Listen, give me a call if you come up with anything. We've got a missing person's out on Sandburg now."
"If he's where I think he is, you're almost thirty years too late. Let me know when he shows up again. -- And I think he will, Jim."
"I hope you're right."
* * * * *
Ellison pulled up outside the Emerald Theater and parked the truck. "Finished yet?"
"Fwie." A french fry was waved haphazardly in his direction.
"Yeah. Just eat it."
"Fwie." Baby crammed the golden treat in his mouth, then stuffed his little fist into the cardboard box and pulled out another one. "Fwie." He studied it carefully, then mushed it into his mouth, part of it falling to the car seat cushion beneath the baby seat, already littered with other fries, a chewed up straw, and more than a few drops of liquid that had escaped the milk carton. Baby held the fries box upside down. "All gone."
Ellison extracted the empty box and stuffed it into the McDonald's paper bag along with the mangled remains of the fries. A paper napkin cleaned up most of the damage to Baby's hands and face. "Come on. Let's take a look around outside." He unsnapped the child from the baby seat. "Ready?"
"Weady."
Freed from his safety restraints, the toddler was in full flight the moment his bare feet hit the sidewalk, running straight for the glass windows of the theater, slightly greasy fingers quickly making tiny hand prints on the tinted glass doors. The swirling marbled tiles outside the ticket window captured Baby's attention next and kept him occupied, tracing the varied colors of green in the mosaic pattern, chattering to himself in some unknown infant dialect.
Ellison looked carefully around the area, making sure there was no glass or sharp particles on the otherwise clean sidewalk that would potentially harm his young companion. He still hadn't stopped to get shoes for the child. He allowed his sight to slide several notches higher than he was normally comfortable doing without Sandburg's presence.
Crime scene tape still fluttered a block away, and the detective snared Baby and walked him down the street, stopping a few times to examine something that caught his eye. When Ellison crouched down and carefully picked up the plastic pull tie of a water bottle, Baby mimicked his movements and crouched beside him, wanting to see what he was looking at. The sentinel showed it to him, amused by the serious concentration given the object by the toddler.
Within a few minutes, the child had collected about ten similar pull ties -- apparently the area was littered with them and it was easier to see them if you were only a few feet tall. By the time they had walked to the crime scene, Baby's overall pockets were filled with them. Ellison circled the area where Marie Smythe had been found, sitting on the doorstep of a travel agency. The bus stop was around the corner on the busy main street, while the travel agency faced a quieter tree-lined road with grassy strips along the boulevards. The area had been swept clean of any garbage, probably by the travel agency although the crime scene had not yet been released.
"Shit."
Where had the kid gone?
Ellison spun left and looked out at the road, then ran to the corner and frantically scanned the busy street. "Shit. Hey, kid! Baby!"
Closing his eyes, he listened, sending his hearing out, separating the traffic noises and eliminating them, until he found the excited chattering he had heard before. He couldn't piggyback his sight to it, though, and ended up allowing his body to direct him back to the side street, past the travel agency, to the alley. There Baby was, crouched down, staring at a paper laying half in a puddle behind the building.
Ellison took a deep breath and tried to bring his blood pressure down before approaching the child. "What do you have?"
Baby pointed to a program from the Emerald Theater, dated from the last performance. The signature swirl of the green mosaic tiles flowed along the edge of the program, probably what caught Baby's attention. Ellison pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag and carefully placed the program within it.
"Good work, Chief."
Baby stood when Ellison did, clapping his hands.
"Ready to check up on our reporter and see what he can tell us about Stibbs?"
"Go twuk? Fwies? More fwies? Donnaland?"
"No, I think you've had enough fries for now." Ellison swung him up in his arms and elected to walk the few blocks to the Cascade Jazz Journal.
The toddler seemed interested in where they were going, intrigued eyes taking in the sights as Ellison headed into the building. A young receptionist sat behind the counter, staring forlornly at an accounting sheet. Several small offices opened off the magazine company's main lobby. The Cascade Jazz Journal was a glossy magazine catering to the Pacific Northwest, with a respectable readership. The faint tinkling sounds of a jazz piano piece wafted through the room.
The receptionist looked up, a smile brightening her face when she saw Baby. "Yes, can I help you?"
"I'd like to speak with Ivan Chomski." Ellison handed her his card.
"Detective Ellison. Sure." She touched a button on her phone. "Ivan, Detective Ellison is here to see you." She seemed to understand the garbled noise of the reply and disconnected the call. "Hey, want me to watch your son while you talk with Ivan?"
"I'll take him with me, thank you." Ellison hefted the child higher on his hip, then followed her down the hall an
d into one of the larger offices.
"Detective Ellison, please sit down-- Oh, I see you brought your son." Ivan Chomski seemed thrown off base by Baby's presence, which suited Ellison just fine.
"Yes. Babysitters are hard to find, I've found. Do you mind?"
"No, not at all. He seems pretty quiet."
Baby was watching Chomski while silently sucking on his thumb, his head resting on Ellison's shoulder.
A Step Backwards Page 8