Bouncer (13 page)

Chapter 12

Nick watched the other officers headed by the energetic Randy Phelps scurry through the Collins’ house with photographic and dusting equipment. He felt tired, and the fare at the diner ordered nearly four hours ago had long ceased to stave off his hunger pangs. He could sure use a long, cold drink, preferably one that frothed and boasted a magnificent head.

“Let’s return to my office,” offered Lea generously. If the truth were to be known, her crippled leg was killing her as it always did whenever she’d stood on it for too long. She could use a break as well, and her stomach was beginning to rumble.

Nick remembered her too-neat office and shook his dark head. “No, I need a beer and distance from this block.” Fox followed his eyes to the Mustang’s trunk.

“Drop me off at my office, then,” she said suddenly.

“Why? Need to do some research?” he asked tersely.

“That, and I need to speak with someone.”

“And who would that be? Thought you worked
alone?”
he said sarcastically. He knew damn well what she was up too.

“I have a boyfriend, you know.”

“You do?” his eyes widened in shock.

“And some people say
I’m
rude,
Thayne.” A flicker of hurt briefly clouded her violet eyes.

“Guess that
was
insensitive,” he said non-contritely. “What I meant to say was I’m surprised he’d let you wander around on a Saturday, since that’s usually everyone’s day off. He’d probably want to go . . .
bowling
or something.”

Lea stared long and hard at his unrepentant face, and Nick wished irrelevantly he could give her some helpful tips on how to maximize her appearance. Fox wouldn’t look half bad if she just worked on it. Not half good, either, but anything could be improved; even her.

“Bernard understands my life’s demands and gives me space.”

“Oh, really? And just what does this
Bernard
do for a living?”

“None of your business.”

“Ooh,” scoffed Nick as he opened the door of his cherry-red Mustang. “A bit sensitive, aren’t we?”

“Not at all. It is just that my personal life is to remain my personal life, no matter how curious my partner might be about it.”

“So, we’re partners now. And I can totally understand feeling a
violation of privacy
.

Fox lifted her head. “I just reckon you have more to
offer
this partnership than I previously suspected.” Lea fiddled in her purse for sunglasses and finally hooked clip-ons over the atrocious black wire-rimmed spectacles. She sank down beside him and straightened the awful skirt over her bony knees. She now looked worse, if that was possible. He’d always thought only little old ladies who drove Thunderbirds and muscled their way through supermarket parking lots leaving nicks on other people’s cars wore those kinds of shades.

“You’re a good artist,” she said abruptly. “How do you pick your subjects?”

Lea thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally he uttered, “They pick me.”

After a long poignant silence she said shakily. “I see. One shouldn’t scoff at one’s gifts. You willing to let me look at more?”

“Maybe,” he said and started the car. They’d driven for a full five minutes before he added, “If they seem relevant.” And then, many minutes later, as if what had been said didn’t matter, he said, “So, what happened to your leg?”

She glanced over at him, her small hands clenched as if dealing with some strong emotion. “I mentioned my brother drank?”

“You did.”

“At the start of my ninth grade year, he had to pick me up after school. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, but didn’t have the guts to get out of the car and walk. It’s quite foggy here in autumn. Anyway, we ended up wrapped around a tree near the onion fields. My brother walked away with nary a scratch—I’ve heard that drunks often do because they’re so relaxed—and I spent the next five weeks in the hospital as they pieced together the bones in my left leg and hip. My dad and brother blamed the foggy conditions, of course. Dad could never see any sort of fault in Lane.”

“You’re bitter?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you be? Because of
everything
,
I don’t drink and I don’t lie, particularly to myself. I am what I am, and if someone doesn’t like it, they can stuff it.”

“Indeed,” he said. “I like your attitude. Here’s your office. I’ll pick up some food. Give me an hour, and then we’ll see what Dr. Koh’s come up with.”

Ninety minutes later, Thayne showed up. He carried two aluminum cans of soda in one hand and three fast food bags in the other with his sketchbook tucked under his arm. He’d clearly stopped by the boarding house to don worn blue jeans and a red-checked, short-sleeved cotton shirt. He politely offered her a vegetarian sub, and Fox hesitantly took the foot-long sandwich and diet soda, watching him wade through Steven’s report as they ate.

“The paint shards found inside Thad Fisher’s intestinal track are the kind found in cheap furniture bought across the border or in items that predates our current stiff regulations regarding lead content,” she said, squinting at her F & H.

“That’s right,” said Nick wolfing down three fries at a time and licking his fingers.

“We can assume one is still able to purchase items in Mexico, where the regulations are not as stringent.”

“You can get anything down in Mexico.”

“So therefore, Thad Fisher,” she continued, “ingested paint flakes from something purchased down south or made a trip to Mexico in recent weeks.”

“He hadn’t traveled,” said Nick taking a hefty bite of his meatball sub. “Maybe he consumed the paint particles without knowing it. I’ve heard pots imported from Mexico and used for cooking leak out lead and toxins into food without the victim even knowing it.”

“But it wasn’t leaked into his system,” said Lea picking up the report and pointing to one interesting sentence. “He had particles in his teeth, almost as if he’d been gnawing at something. And what about the two good-sized rose thorns embedded in his feet?”

“Interesting, but unfortunately there are lots of roses in Monroe County,” said Thayne. “The town hall alone must have fifty or more. And, of the yards I checked on Chester Street, 60 percent of them, including the Simms and Collins’ houses had roses.”

“True.”

“Are you going to finish that?” Nick pointed to her half-eaten sub. She ate like a bird.

“Go ahead. So Thad was seen last alive at Chester Street.” She gazed at the F & H and read from the possible scenario section she’d punched up. “Visualize this. Thad Fisher tried to escape and plunged through rose bushes in his haste. If you combine that with the fact that Thad lost his finger by the probable use of garden clippers, it would make sense to suspect he was killed at Chester Street. Every house should have their gardening equipment checked. I’d bet your Mustang one of them has the tool that was used to sever the mayor’s finger. Plus, the word on the tree—
Phile.
” She pressed a button on the F & H and cocked an unplucked eyebrow at him.

“You know who you’re implicating with this logic?”

“Yes,” said Lea squinting across at him through her too prominent glasses. She held up the tiny screen for him to see the name illuminated there.

“Philemon Jenkins,” read Nick.

“I personally believe Mr. Jenkins didn’t murder Thad Fisher. The fact that he led the police to the body plus the simplicity of his story reeks of the truth.”

“I’d have to agree,” said Nick. “But even a challenged individual like the chief will put two and two together. Unless we find something concrete to lead us away from a garden scenario for the murder, I have a feeling that our Mr. Jenkins is in for some real trouble.”

“May I see the sketch again?” asked Lea politely.

Nick sighed and wiped his mouth. “Here you go.”

The drawing pad was thin. Nick had obviously removed what he considered irrelevant. He tapped a well-manicured finger on the first. “I drew this on Wednesday morning—around 3 a.m. I’d been drinking—booze seems to ‘increase’ my artistic abilities.”

The magnolia tree trunk hung heavy with foliage under a full moon. A small, red ball, exactly like the one Lea had discovered earlier that day, lay on the unsettled ground near grossly upturned fingers. Fox squinted at him. “You ‘saw’ it just like this?”

“Exactly.  It’s an image I can’t hold onto unless I draw it. You can see there’s nothing place descriptive. No identifier or street sign anywhere. I have to ‘hope’ the crime will find its way to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nick leaned forward. “I have these ‘visions’ or whatever—usually propelled by the use of alcohol. I have no idea where they come from and what they relate to. I do know that, usually, there is some connection to my life or someone I know. I believe that my friendship with Roger was my connection—though I had no way to know he’d succumb to appendicitis and I’d be called in. But, that’s how it works. There’s a connection, but damned if I know what the connection is. Sometimes I can figure it out. Other times, I never do.”

“You’re clairvoyant!” said Lea, half marveling, half repelled.

“Whatever.”

“You got more of these?” she asked excitedly.

“Dozens. But many have nothing to do with this case—or so I think. I figure if weeks pass and I haven’t figured out the connection to a drawing . . . then I missed the boat. Here’s three of the most recent, so these most likely have some relevance to the case.” He shoved the drawing of the tree limb with the word
Phile
on it towards her.

Fox cleared her throat. “I’ve . . . ah . . . seen this.”

“Figured. You goddamned snoop. And this.”

It was a picture of a crib with a large balloon and fluffy clouds. Lea didn’t tell him she’d also glimpsed this one in his trunk. “It’s not the same room, but the crib is familiar.” She punched her F & H and turned the screen towards him. “See, yours has clouds. This room doesn’t. Crib is similar, but not an exact match. At least now we know the crib is important.”

“And here.”

“The putrid playground. Lucky we can’t smell it. Any more?”

“Not that I’m willing to share at the present time. You amaze me, Fox. I felt you were so grounded in reality, but you accepting these ‘drawings’. . Wow. I’m shocked, to say the least.”

“I’m a shocking woman,” was all she returned. “I’ll meet you here at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning,” stated Lea, rising from her father’s chair. The food was finished, and she had some research to do and needed to get away from Thayne’s claustrophobic presence.

Nick untangled his long frame from her brother’s chair. “Alright. Maybe I’ll show the rose thorns around to some local nurseries and get a possible ID on the type of bush. I’d also like to head back to Connie’s. Maybe someone caught a glimpse of our Presidio boy or his car. I’d sure like to know his name and where he is now. I’ll also check on the wheelbarrow angle. It’s probably too soon to learn whether the feces are human or not, though our Dr. Koh is like some sort of forensics Superman. If I hear anything earth shattering, I’ll give you a ring.”

“I’ll wait breathlessly,” purred Lea. “Also, I’d suggest you serve yourself up a salad for later. If you keep eating fast food, the cholesterol and salt will likely result in high blood pressure, hardening of the arteries, and possible heart disease, just to name a few. You must treat your body as a temple, and if you do, it will serve you well.”

“You’re full of shit,” returned Thayne, tossing his crumpled fast food bag into the bin in an effortless arch. For a moment, he’d almost forgotten what a pain in the ass she was. If
her
body was a temple, he’d sprint to KFC.

After several hours of work at home, Lea spoke to Bernard for a while before fixing a simple late supper of soup and sourdough bread. Her tabby cat jumped up on her lap and Lea scratched his ears absently. After all her research, she was more in a quandary than before. Until Connie Judson was located, even with Thayne’s ‘gift’, they were stumped. She’d researched Thayne’s days at the SFPD, but none of the articles came right out and stated he was a psychic; they only hinted at his ‘spooky’ methods. Could she accept his ‘gift’ and somehow allow it to steer their investigation? Lea couldn’t believe how readily she had accepted what he was. Maybe his peculiarity made him more similar to the outcast she was. Lea ladled her minestrone soup from the copper cookware she preferred and sprinkled some Parmesan cheese on the top. The cat jumped down in disdain.

She loved this house, and as she wandered into the cozy nook straddling the kitchen, she wondered how long she could afford to keep it. Her cash flow nearly non-existent, Lea knew if she didn’t come up with some real money soon, the house would be forfeited to the mortgage company. Lea was intensely private by nature and if not peculiar in her habits at least particular. Plodding and methodical, she disliked—if not dreaded—hectic big cities like Los Angeles and San Francisco. Unfortunately, that was where the work was, and she had no delusions that without widening her work sphere, bankruptcy was inevitable.