Is this why you're with me now, Chief? Because I held you when you were a toddler?
Had Sandburg somehow instinctively made the connection when first they met -- only because it wasn't the first time they had met? Was this the beginning of their bond, or merely the forerunner to it?
Will this time spent with me remain with you? This comfort you have in my arms?
Where you are now, I pray someone is offering you some measure of peace. I can't bear the thought that you are alone and in pain . . . and without me.
* * * * *
When Blair opened his eyes finally, daylight had broken on the trampled festival grounds that he could see through the partially open back entrance to the tent. He was lying on a cot in the back of the food tent, a tattered Indian blanket spread over him.
He slowly turned his head to the left, wincing at the domino effect of painful twinges that ran down his body. For a few minutes, he watched a blurry figure moving back and forth nearby. Gradually his vision cleared until he realized it was young Harvey dishing out bowls of oatmeal for half-stoned customers. One kid barely out of his teens was staring into his bowl as though it held the secrets of the universe. The starry-eyed female hanging on his arm alternated between beaming adoringly at him and looking like she was going to hurl into the porridge.
Geez, can life get better than this . . . ?
He grabbed hold of the edges of the cot. Well, both hands seemed to be working. As for the rest of him . . . Blair sat up slowly, feeling the universe waver around him. Oh, yes. No doubt about it. He felt like shit.
"Still here, I see," he whispered to himself, swinging his feet over the side of the cot. He wasn't quite up to standing yet. On second thought, he wasn't quite up to sitting yet. He eased himself back on the thin mattress, his stomach muscles protesting.
He turned his head at the rustle behind him to see Nash Bridges lift up the flap entranceway near him. It was strange to be the oldest one there. When he stopped to figure it, Blair realized he was probably ten years older than Harvey at this particular moment in time, and maybe six or seven years older than Nash or his partner Joe.
"You're looking better than the last time I saw you," Nash said, perching confidently on the edge of a table. "How are you feeling?"
"Been better, thanks. I guess I slept through the night."
"Do you remember much of it?"
"It?"
"Getting beaten up."
Blair stopped to think, and realized he remembered very little. "I'm pretty sure it was a guy named Icy who started it, but I think he got some help -- whether it was premeditated on their behalf or not, I don't know."
"Icy?"
"Ivan Chomski," Officer Dominguez said, coming in after Bridges. "We spoke to him before about the missing child."
"I know, Joe. I have a photographic memory, remember?"
"Huh? What are you talking about?" Dominguez grinned at him suddenly, a shared joke between them. He turned and smiled at Blair. "Hey, how you doing?"
"Been better, but I'll survive."
Nash scratched at his chin. "Just so you know, we have a statement by Chomski's girlfriend that he was with her at the time of the latest murder and the attack on this man. Which brings me to -- what's your name?"
"My name?" Blair asked, feeling the heavy thump of his heart.
"Yeah. Your name. You didn't have any identification when we checked."
"Oh. Right. My name. It's -- Jim Ellison."
"Where are you from, Mr Ellison?"
"Uh, Cascade."
"Cascade, Washington?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your occupation?"
Okay, that was a little trickier. It was one thing borrowing Jim's name, but he couldn't really say he was an elementary school student, could he?
Hey, I wonder what would happen if I called Jim up on the phone? That would be weird. Hi, you don't know me, but don't be afraid to use your senses. There's nothing wrong with you and don't let anyone convince you otherwise.
But that would probably mess up the time continuum or something. ''I'm unemployed. A student."
"Are you up to making a statement?"
"Sure." Concisely, Blair rattled off his vague memories from the night before, accepting a cup of coffee from Hang Dog in mid speech.
Nash finished writing and looked up at him, surprised. "You did that very well. Are you beaten up often?"
Actually, yes, Blair thought, wearily. "I've had some practice."
"You mentioned you thought Icy started this."
"That's right. I realize you have a statement otherwise, but that's what I remember."
"Any idea why he would want to hurt you?"
"As I said, I was helping his girlfriend look for her child, so I guess he felt threatened somehow."
"We already have a statement by Icy's girlfriend saying he couldn't have done it, and when we interviewed Hang Dog, he didn't mention Icy. He remembers someone else being there. Do you remember anyone else?"
Blair shook his head thoughtfully. "There were probably others, but I was just trying to stay upright at the time."
"I hear you," Nash said with a smile.
A thought occurred to Blair. "Did someone die last night? I seem to remember something about that."
"Yes, a young woman was found strangled behind the stage."
"Any idea who killed her?" Blair asked, carefully.
"It was pitch black there. No one really saw anything, or maybe they were too stoned to remember anything."
"Or else they just didn't trust the cops enough to tell them."
"Yes," Nash agreed, "there's always that."
* * * * *
Ellison woke with a kink in his neck, lying at a bad angle on his partner's futon. The child was gone and the door to the bedroom was closed.
Argh.
The clock's luminous readout declared it was 10:15, which actually was impossible, so he rolled from the bed and made his way into the other room.
Naomi was in the kitchen. Fu-Fu Bunny was in the living room mesmerizing a thumb-sucking Baby sunk back into the couch's cushions.
The kitchen clock also read 10:15. As did the VCR. Okay, he could live with that. "Good morning. I guess I--"
"Simon phoned," Naomi said, handing him a coffee. "Said to set your schedule yourself today."
Ellison nodded, sipping at the hot drink and trying to get his mind around the time. Maybe it did bother him. He never slept in. Ever.
Naomi stretched, reaching for the ceiling, then bending at the waist and touching the floor. She repeated it as he drank his coffee. "I got up a few hours ago and did my morning meditation."
"How long has he been up?"
"He came out here about ten minutes ago, so I put the television on for him. He never watched much when he was young, so I guess it wouldn't hurt him now."
"Have you fed him?"
"I just made some oatmeal, and I'm waiting for it to cool enough to give it to him."
Ellison nodded absently, not sure what else to do. Usually he made coffee when he was at loss for what to do next, and Naomi had taken that from him. So he went and had a shower.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, he was feeling much more human. He also didn't feel like talking to Naomi, so he took his bowl of oatmeal, and another cup of coffee and sat next to Baby on the couch. The child wasn't using his spoon, but seemed to be dipping his thumb in the oatmeal, stirring it around, then sucking it.
Great.
* * * * *
Blair pushed his oatmeal aside, only half eaten. He couldn't eat, his stomach churning at the thought.
"You should try, man," Hang Dog said, standing across from him.
"Thanks -- but no." Blair leaned forward, resting his forehead on his crossed arms on the table.
"Is your name Blair or Jim?"
Blair slowly raised his head and looked at his benefactor. "Pardon me?"
"You told me before that your name was Blair. You told the cop tha
t your name was Jim. Which is it?"
"Does it matter? Are you Harvey or Hang Dog?"
"My name is Harvey. Hang Dog is obviously a nickname. And no, I guess it doesn't matter. Call yourself whatever you want to. It doesn't matter to me."
I've lost his trust, Blair realized. "Listen, man, I really appreciate everything you've done for me."
Hand Dog studied the back of his hands for a moment, then looked up. "I saw a dead body last night."
"First time?"
"Yeah. I don't get this violence. We're supposed to be peace and love and yet murders are happening here, in this environment. I don't get it. Why did they beat you up last night?"
"Because they could. Because they were high and didn't like me. Take your pick."
"That's not right, though. It's not fair to you. Someone should have stopped them earlier."
"Life is rarely fair. You can't make people do the right thing, Harvey – at least not often. But thanks for trying. Don't stop trying to make things right, okay? Enough people doing that will make a difference."
Hang Dog smiled at him, nodding, then went outside to listen to the music.
Blair put his head back down. He had to think. There had been more than one murder. Did Chomski do them? Could he have?
Is that why I'm here? To figure that out?
What other reason would there be?
Blair sat up, rubbing his temples. Coffee. He needed coffee. Strong coffee.
* * * * *
Ellison finished dressing Baby, wiping the solemn face with a damp cloth. "Ready?" He accepted the non-answer as an answer. "Good. Let's go."
"Where are you taking him?" Naomi demanded, reappearing suddenly from the upper bedroom.
"To the station." He put his badge in his back pocket, and tucked his gun in a holster under his left arm.
"To a police station? I absolutely forbid it."
Ellison smiled tiredly at her, picked Baby up, and walked out of the loft. Yeah, right.
* * * * *
The air was heavy with smoke and flies, the heat rising as midday approached. The Sunday crowd was a real mixture. There were those who had been there for three days, unshowered, tired and sore, and for the most part, high or coming down from a high. A few beaded and barefoot children ran loose, unsupervised and wild. There were those in the crowd who had just arrived the day before or who had arrived that morning, and they were fresher, full of energy and enthusiasm for the bands, who were now recycling music like a tired old jukebox, churning out songs they knew by heart and could perform regardless of their mental competence at the time.
Blair wandered over to the main stage, listening to the up-beat British band playing. They weren't bad. Okay, they were awful, but unfortunately, he had heard worse that weekend. The sound system stank, but the crowd hooted and hollered politely as they finished their piece and began to pack up. Another band was already setting up, and the crowd members took the opportunity of the break to smoke yet another joint, passing little white cigarettes around.
This is getting old.
He saw Naomi sitting alone on a Navaho blanket on the trampled grass before the stage. He headed over toward her until he saw the alarmed look on her face and stopped. She looked from him to a man approaching on her left, laughing drunkenly with two other men as they weaved through the crowd. Icy and two of his band members. Sadly, Blair nodded at Naomi that he understood and kept walking.
On the far side of a long slanted fence was a gravel road, lined with four police cars. Blair could see Joe Dominguez perched on top of one of the fence posts, Nash Bridges standing before him in earnest conversation. He angled his route toward them, relieved when they looked his way with a smile as he approached them.
"You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you," Nash called out.
"Hi," Joe added. "How are ya?"
"Feeling better. Not great, but better," Blair responded, surprised yet again that he seemed more comfortable with the police officers than the music crowd. How life had changed for him.
"Remember anything else?" Nash asked.
"Sorry. Just trying to piece it all together myself," Blair said, feeling his split lip open again as he smiled back. "Do you know what happened?"
Nash studied him carefully as he stood before him. "We're still investigating. Did you want to press charges?"
"Against who? If I remember correctly, I thought it was Icy -- Ivan Chomski – who beat me up, but you said he has an alibi."
"Yeah, technically he has an alibi," Joe began, but Nash shut him up with a sharp glance.
"You still maintain it was Chomski?" Nash asked.
"I thought it was him. I also remember a tattoo of a dragon or something."
"A tattoo?" Joe appeared interested. "On what? Arm? Chest? Back?"
"Chest, I think. A slightly hairy chest."
"Then it wouldn't be Chomski," Joe said. "He was shirtless this morning and no tattoos."
"Maybe it wasn't him then," Blair admitted. "Or it was more than one person."
Nash had been studying Blair intently. "What are you doing here this weekend?"
Blair shrugged. "Just enjoying a holiday before school starts again. Not what I had in mind though."
"Us neither," Joe said, nodding. "Was supposed to be some easy money working here this weekend. They put a request into the San Francisco office asking for police officers to work the concert."
"But you got a murder instead."
"Three murders, a missing child, and you getting beaten up. Plus a lot of pending drug charges." Joe laughed, pointing to the crowd. "Don't know how to get them all in our squad car, though."
Blair smiled, looking out over the crowd. "Three murders?" he asked, looking back.
"Last night's was a young woman, strangled. No one knows her name."
"Where did they find her?"
"By the food tent. The night before last, the body was found over by the roadway, a quarter mile from here, on the other side of the hill."
Near where I first appeared, Blair thought. He talked briefly with Joe, then headed back to Hang Dog's tent, hoping he would once again let him help out in exchange for lunch.
Then, oddly enough, he planned to walk around and check out the male chests of the crowd.
* * * * *
Long before the elevator reached his floor, Ellison was shaking his head and smiling as he listened to what was going on in the bullpen. The detectives' work area was busy, a crowd hovering around Megan Connor's desk as she took the statement from a stunningly beautiful actress whose dog was stolen from her car when she stopped to get a manicure. Rafe and Brown were right in the thick of it, surrounded by eight other officers from neighboring departments. No one looked his way, so he went directly to his desk.
A quick glance revealed that Banks wasn't in his office. Ellison zeroed in on his appointment book and saw he was with the Chief of Police for the precinct's weekly meeting.
Ellison deposited Baby on the floor by his desk, but ended up picking him up again seconds later. Baby, it was clear, didn't want to be put down. He wanted to be held, resting his head on Ellison's shoulder. Not wanting a meltdown session in the bullpen, Ellison moved him to his left shoulder, adjusted his gun holster so they'd both be comfortable, then opened his computer one-handed and typed in his password.
"What's up, Jim? How come you still got the kid?" Brown asked, swinging by the desk when the actress moseyed out of the room a minute later.
"Sandburg's still away." Ellison shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. As if it didn't matter to him. As if it didn't tear at him every breathing moment. "He'll be back later today, and then this little guy will be going home."
Brown goofed around Baby, shifting from side to side, trying to get a smile by acting like a rangy ape, but Baby just turned his head away each time, closed his eyes and sucked harder on his thumb. "Hey, what's wrong with him, Jim? He was okay yesterday."
"He's just tired. Wants his mother."
&n
bsp; "Oh. His mother's with Hairboy?"
"Right." Ellison's email came up, and he looked over at Brown. "I've got work to do."
"Sure." Brown tried again to get Baby to laugh, but the child turned away again. "Later, man. Rafe and I are checking out some things on the Emerald Theater murders."
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