"He'll be fine." Ellison fumbled with his notepad, then settled on putting the toddler on the floor while he opened the pad and pulled out his pen. "So how long have you worked here, Mr Chomski?"
"Twelve years -- I'm one of the founding partners of CJJ." Chomski sat behind his desk, shifting his laptop to one side. He watched warily as Baby began to wander the room.
"And how long have you known Andrew Stibbs?"
"About six years. He was considering buying the Emerald Theater, and I encouraged him to do so. There was a group of us in town who wanted a permanent venue for jazz concerts, and we felt the Emerald would be a suitable location."
"So you've known him for six years?"
"Yes. Give or take."
Since Stibbs had said he'd only known Chomski for a year or two, this was yet another detail that didn't add up. Ellison paged back through his notes, casually asking, "Did you know any of the women who were killed?"
"No, I didn't. It's a shame really."
"It's a shame that you didn't know them, or it's a shame that they're dead."
Chomski gave a short laugh. "Both, I guess. -- No, the latter. It's a crime that three women have died so young."
"You're right. It is a crime." Ellison looked down to where Baby had moved to stand in front of a display of magazine covers, all past issues of the Cascade Jazz Journal.
Baby stared at them solemnly, then slowly took the thumb out of his mouth. "Thingaling." As the child turned to look at Ellison, he spotted an emerald green electric guitar on a stand in the corner. Baby let out a chortling laugh and ran over to it, chubby hands slapping against its surface. "Gleen mach neen! Gleen mach neen!" The guitar stand wobbled, threatening to send the instrument toppling over.
The detective jumped up to rescue the guitar. "Sorry. Hey, Baby, don't touch that." Ellison scooped the toddler up and resettled him on his lap, startling him at the quick movement.
"No problem," Chomski laughed, straightening the guitar. "Funny he should say that, though. This is my old guitar; I used to be in a band called the 'Green Machine'."
Baby stood on Ellison's lap, then threw himself forward to rest against the detective's chest. Sentinel ears caught faint words whispered. "Bad gleen mach neen. No like."
Ellison stood, cradling the child against his shoulder. "Thank you, Mr Chomski. I'll be in touch. I better get this youngster home for his nap."
* * * * *
A creepy man around Blair's age ducked into the food tent and draped his arm around Naomi's shoulder, rather predatorily, his hand stroking up and down her arm. "Hey, Sugar."
At the other end of the tent, Blair stopped wiping the table and watched them.
Naomi leaned into the man. "What if they can't find him, Icy? What am I going to do?" she asked, dazed, clearly in shock.
"You don't worry, Sugar. They'll find him." The guy - Icy - handed her a pill of some kind. She stared at it longingly, pushed his hand away, then changed her mind and dug it out of his palm while he let her work for it, pulling his hand further and further out of her reach, until she was lying half across his lap to reach it. "You know you want it, Sugar."
"Should you be doing that, with your kid missing?" Blair asked.
Icy scowled over at him, while Naomi sat up and looked his way. "It'll keep me calm. The officer said to stay calm, right?" She popped the pill in her mouth. "It's hardly nothing, anyway." She batted her eyes at Icy, and Blair's breakfast again threatened to make an appearance.
Now that he'd eaten some food, Blair wanted to fulfill his part of the promise and help Harvey -- or Hand God or whatever his name was - with cleaning the food tent. He pushed himself carefully away from the table and got to his feet, still a little unsteady from his head injury.
He spent the rest of the morning clearing the tables and helping clean up. Hang Dog gave him lunch -- a bowl of vegetable soup from a huge pot at the back. It had taken Blair almost two hours to bring himself to look at what was in the pot, but it was just what it smelled like, a great mixture of fresh vegetables and noodles that Hang Dog kept tossing in, adding water and spices, and dishing out. The bun that went with it was getting stale, but this was the last full day of the weekend concert. Everyone would be heading home the next day at noon.
Naomi sat at a table, always with a few friends around her, so he didn't really have a chance to talk to her, but he watched her whenever he could. He didn't like Icy, who was obviously dealing drugs. The man gave him the creeps, and he wondered what Naomi saw in him. He'd been gone for a while, but he was over talking to her now, offering her a toke on his joint. Which she took. Ah, mom. Geez.
"Come on, Sugar," Icy said, sleazily. Everything about the guy was sleazy. His hair. His clothes. His big "A" attitude.
Blair glared at him, indignantly.
Icy continued, running his hand over Naomi WAY too familiarly. "I'm just doing a short gig today, and I want you there, Sugar. Maybe the kid will hear me and come out. Dinner's almost over -- he must be getting hungry. He eats like a horse usually. And he likes the music when I sing, right?"
"Right . . ." Naomi agreed reluctantly.
No way I ever would like anything about that guy, Naomi. Come on. Think about it. Even at age two, I would have better sense than that.
The officers had been by a few times, checking on them and trying to offer encouragement in an ever-worsening situation, and they came back now. Officer Dominguez sat down beside Naomi and spoke quietly with her, while Bridges looked coldly at Icy.
"Have any identification?"
"Maybe."
"Could I see it?" Bridges asked, his voice still level.
"Any particular reason why you've singled me out? I don't see you asking anyone else."
Because you're a creep, Blair thought, scowling at him.
"Because I'm also asking where you were at three-thirty this morning," Officer Bridges said.
"What? You think I had something to do with her brat disappearing? I was helping look for him."
Brat? Blair's scowl deepened. BRAT? That's Baby Blossom to you, buddy.
"Have you seen this woman before?" Officer Bridges showed Icy a Polaroid photo of someone.
Icy glanced at it, then shrugged. "Nope. What's wrong with her? She looks dead."
"She is dead. She was found this morning just before dawn."
"So? What does that have to do with me? I wasn't involved."
"Let's just see your identification." Bridges flipped open Icy's leather wallet and withdrew his driver's license, jotting it down. He flipped through to some picture ID. "This you?"
"Yeah."
"Hard to tell with the hair all over your face now."
"Beard's not a crime."
"No, it isn't. Strangling a woman is. And so is kidnaping, Mr. Chomski." Bridges jotted down something else and handed the wallet back.
Chomski?
Blair froze. He knew that name from somewhere.
Chomski. Chomski. Think.
The file on Jim's desk. The pictures. Chomski.
Chomski was the reporter from the Jazz magazine. The one who Jim talked to the other night and gave the alibi for the theater owner, Stibbs.
Chomski. Oh, shit. Blair's knees gave way and he sat down heavily on one of the picnic table style benches. Oh, shit. He bounced back up and slid behind the food counter, following around the corner of the tent and out the back way into the mid afternoon haze. Shit. Shit. Shit.
"Hey, Blair. Come back tonight at dinner." Hang Dog was sitting cross-legged on the ground outside the tent, grooving on the British band currently playing.
"Thanks, yeah." Blair stumbled through the crowd and collapsed on a relatively isolated piece of hillside. Chomski. Strangled woman. He'd done it before. Probably even kidnaped the kid. Wait a sec. I'm the kid. I don't remember being kidnaped. You think I'd remember that.
Maybe not. How much would he have actually remembered? He was only two. At least in this time period. Okay, well, at this moment he wasn't two. He
was twenty-nine. But somewhere he was two.
Wouldn't it be a hoot if the two-year-old him was staring at Jim right now? Blair laughed silently. He could just imagine how his partner would be coping with a baby. A giggle escaped, brought on by the stress level he was under, followed by another giggle. He hid his smile quickly before the partyers around him wanted some of whatever drugs they thought he was on.
As the afternoon progressed, he watched Chomski perform on the stage with the "Green Machine", grudgingly admitting the guy could play the guitar okay. When the band's three songs were up, Blair followed him through the crowd, watching as he openly sold little bags of pills to the young crowd. Chomski walked among them, smiling, touching their heads lightly and clasping hands. He looked like he thought he was Jesus walking through the five thousand he'd just miraculously fed loaves and fish to, and not a slimy, drug-dealing murderer.
Okay... So why am I here?
The $64,000 question. The "Who Wants to be a Millionaire", "Final Jeopardy", "Final Round" question.
Why am I here?
What bizarre, shamanistic weirdness brought me here?
Maybe Chomski wasn't a suspect, but they'd be checking him out eventually. He was there at the Emerald Theater for every concert, had the opportunity. Said he walked home.
Well, the only thing I know now that I didn't know before, was that previously Chomski had murdered someone at a rock festival. At least, I'm assuming he did.
Strangled them.
So, can I go home now?
Do I have to find a wrinkle in time? Go through some hidden spatial doorway? Wiggle my nose? Recite some obscure time-travel passage?
Chomski joined some of his band members on the hillside just above the food tent, so Blair sat ten feet above them on the slope. A new group was on stage, sounding more like the "Mamas and the Papas" than the "Mamas and the Papas" did. Chomski pulled out a joint and lit it, passing it, and several others, around the circle. Naomi came and sat next to Chomski, curling up beside him. She was drugged already, her movements too loose and fluid. Her eyes were all red and swollen, from crying, and Chomski kissed her forehead.
Yuck. Naomi....
Blair stared through the haze of smoke, past his mother, to where Officer Dominguez sat at the picnic table in the big brown food tent, tapping his pencil thoughtfully on his notepad, as he tried to figure it all out.
Join the club, man.
* * *
Part Five
Late in the afternoon, Jim returned to the loft juggling a squirming, overtired child in one arm and Chinese takeout in the other. "It's vegetarian," he said as Naomi took the bags from him, leaving him holding the child. "Except for the General Tao Fried Chicken."
Naomi opened one container, then looked up at Jim quizzically.
"Well, okay, the Shrimp in Black Bean Sauce isn't exactly vegetarian." He deposited Baby on the floor, the child's legs already in motion. "The rest is, though."
"What? The rice and vegetables?" Naomi retorted, smiling at the child's antics.
"There's that other vegetable thing with the white square stuff that Blair salivates over and always orders--" The loss hit him and he leaned wearily against the counter, his back to Naomi.
Damn it. I've been separated from you by distance before, and I hated it.
But to be separated from you by distance and . . . years . . . I've can't get my mind around it, Chief. You know I'm no good at this. 37 hours, Naomi said. You were gone for 37 hours. I've got almost a full day to go yet.
The toddler ran in hyper circles around the loft, pleased to be back. He circumnavigated the table, then the kitchen island, then over to the living room to slap the couch and the coffee table, then greeted each of the large plants by high-fiving their leaves. Pleased with himself, he then plunked his little seat in front of the television. "Fu-Fu," he demanded of the blank screen.
Without a word, Jim picked up the remote, aimed it at the television set, found the children's network, and gladly, without guilt, let mindless cartoons entertain while he sought refuge in the kitchen. He would never make snide comments about parents using television as a babysitter again.
Naomi said nothing to him as they opened the rest of the containers. He really wasn't hungry and had no desire to eat, but his stomach was clearly interested in the food, despite his brain's lethargy. With a full plate, he retreated to the dining table while the Roadrunner outwitted the Coyote in the living room.
He looked across at his partner's mother, noting the stress lines on her face. "How was your meditating time?" he asked, trying to find something to say.
"Interesting." Naomi poked at her rice and vegetables and the white square things. "I really can't remember much of what happened back then, just being terrified that my baby was missing and there was nothing I could do about it. People were so nice and helpful, trying to make me feel better, but nothing really made a difference."
"If this child is Blair," Jim began, then shook his head slowly at the absurd words he had just uttered, "then Blair -- my Blair -- was with you then."
"Your Blair?"
Jim colored slightly. "You know what I mean."
She smiled. "I'm not sure if I remember an older Blair or not. I was distraught, and my boyfriend at the time tried to console me. He was a performer in a band and --"
"Ivan Chomski, by any chance?" Jim asked, looking up.
Naomi shook her head. "I don't think so. Why? Who is he?"
"Lead guitarist for a group called 'Green Machine'."
"Well, that was the name of Icy's group. Most of them had nicknames they went by. His keyboardist was Dunker and his drummer had a rather weird name, Oedipus or something like that. I can't remember the other guitarist. He had an ordinary name -- Donald, maybe -- but he left after that weekend and became a radical."
"A radical?"
"Yes. Joined the army."
Jim let that one go. "Ivan Chomski's initials are I.C., so the nickname 'Icy' probably matches. I met with him today. Baby was with me and recognized his guitar."
Naomi smiled affectionately at the little boy, still engrossed by the cartoon on the television. "Blair didn't like Icy much personally, but loved his music. He was amazingly talented, at least I thought he was. He said he was going to go professional, especially after that festival, but I never saw much of him after…" Naomi stopped abruptly, turning back to glare at Jim as his comment registered. "You spoke with Icy?"
"Yes. He's one of the co-founders of a magazine called the 'Cascade Jazz Journal'."
"What on earth did you want with him?"
"Police business, Naomi. I can't say."
"Police business? And you took Blair with you? How dare you!"
"There was no indication of danger. I would never have taken a toddler into a dangerous situation." He stood to put more chicken on his plate, hoping she would drop the topic.
Naomi's voice rose instead. "Are you crazy? Have you no sense of decency?"
"I was careful. Do you think I would jeopardize his life?"
"I don't know, Detective. You tell me. You put my son in danger all the time -- why not a child?"
"Blair is doing what he wants to do--"
"Blair is doing what you want him to do. You've got some deadly hold on him--"
"He could walk away any time--"
She snorted. "That's a lie. You've tied him to your side with--"
"Beep beep."
They both jumped at the sudden noise by the table. Baby stood there, obviously upset by their escalating discussion.
Naomi looked down to Baby's upturned face. "Oh. Hi, Sweetie."
"Beep beep." The child stomped around to Jim's chair. "Beep beep." He held up his hands, waiting.
Jim lifted him onto his lap, then watched silently with Naomi as the table's contents were surveyed with great interest. Baby pointed to the fried chicken pieces and looked back at Jim hopefully. "Nana? Me?"
"I've got more bananas, if you want one."
"Nan
a?" That was considered for a moment, then a counter suggestion was made. "Fwie? Donnaland?"
When Naomi raised an eyebrow in Jim's direction, he scooped up the child and headed for the kitchen. "I'll get you a banana, okay, Sport?" Jim sat Baby on the island's counter as he cut up the requested banana, then carried the plate and toddler back into the living room. "I'm going to regret this, but at least try to keep the banana off the couch, okay?"
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