Bouncer (4 page)

“I’ll do that,” said Nick, gallantly raising her hand to his lips and kissing it. He wasn’t certain that women still swooned (his mother had always said that it was simply a symptom of too-tight corsets) but Miss Smith looked damned close. It was good to know he hadn’t lost his touch after his last fiasco.

Nick recognized he should tell Chief Rollins the Peebles’ files were missing, but the urge to consume a good meal and check on his old friend Roger trumped everything else. Chief Rollins would just have to wait.

Roger was resting comfortably when Nick arrived nearly an hour later. Nick had read Philemon Jenkins' statement and listened to Roger’s meticulous oral notes over a greasy burger and an enormous plate of French fries. Later, he’d flirted with the pretty blonde waitress with the gorgeous implants and the outrageous name of Chastity. He’d tucked her number in his pocket and was pleased to note this otherwise sleepy town might have some possible diversions.

Roger, hooked up to the ominously dripping IV pouch as Susan sat nearby holding his hand, stirred at the sight of his friend. She rose when Nick arrived and gave him a warm hug. She smelled of lilacs and fresh oriental rain.

“It’s nice seeing you again, Nick. Are you behaving yourself?” she purred.

Nick had the uncomfortable feeling that Roger may have shared a few too many of his escapades with his curious wife, and grinned sheepishly.

“Of course not, but at least I’d not horizontal and hooked up to one of these.”

Roger smiled. “You’ll have your day. Just make sure you have someone sweet to hold your hand.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You sure they didn’t take out the wrong thing, Susan? I feel kinda funny.”

“Of course not, Roger, they just removed your appendix. Nothing else.” Susan smiled at Nick. “He’s absolutely paranoid about doctors.”

“Can’t trust ‘em,” growled Roger. “I wonder what extra charges they’ve added to our bill. You file the papers correctly, Susan?”

“Yes, love. Everything’s taken care of.”

“I read just last week about some guy who had cancer. His insurance company dumped him, and he later had to declare bankruptcy.”

“Your children’s college funds are safe, Roger.” She smiled prettily at Nick.

Nick remembered what a worrywart Roger was. It felt like old times.

“So, did you get to the site?” said Roger.

“I did. And a fine mess they’ve made of it. Footprints and disturbed soil and the usual lookie-loos on the sidewalk. Whatever possible clues were there are history now. The body’s at the coroner with a Dr. Koh. He seems competent enough.”

“I glad you feel that way,” said Susan smoothly, “since he’s my brother.”

Nick’s already good-sized feet seemed to expand a couple of inches and inch closer to his mouth. “I’m, er . . . waiting on his report. Dr. Koh says the mayor was probably stabbed with something like a screwdriver. We had to leave before he could get down to real business—the chief was suffering from a little
indigestion
.”

“Doesn’t have the stomach for it,” stated Roger. Obviously, this wasn’t a new revelation for him.

“I jotted down a few notes and will leave a copy of Philemon Jenkins’ statement as well as both Officers Phelps’ and Stevens’ interviews of the neighbors for you to read when you’re up to it. I did learn something interesting, but was unable to follow up on it. Thad Fisher’s ring finger was hacked off. Chief Rollins stated a similar thing happened to a young woman murdered 25 years ago. An Ashley Peebles.”

Roger’s blurry eyes sharpened. “That had to be the most sensational crime to hit the area until the Fox murders. I believe two drifters were convicted and put away. There was something about a missing ring. That’s right. She had a silver rope ring that her father said was missing from the body, and Thad had a ring like that on his pinkie. Did you check the files?”

“Couldn’t. They were missing as well, and my new girlfriend Priscilla and I searched for over thirty minutes for them in the Records’ Room.”

“Priscilla? The records clerk? You’ve got to be kidding. She’s an insufferable old prude.”

“Oh, really? I thought she was quite fetching. Wanted to have my children, she did.”

“So, you’re already bestowing your undeniable charm upon the women of this otherwise staid town? Watch yourself, Nick. You saw what happened to the mayor when he fooled around.”

“Ha, Ha, you
must
be feeling better. Anyway, my gut instinct says this is too much of a coincidence, and unfortunately, I can’t speak to the man who headed the case before our time—the ex-chief of the police department.”

A burly nurse pushed her way past Nick. “It’s time to send your visitors home Mr. Chung. And here’s your medicine. Open wide.”

Roger obediently swallowed the two blue tablets and almost immediately his black eyes lost their focus.

“Great timing,” murmured Nick annoyed.

“You can still get the records,” slurred Roger. Susan had risen and caressed her husband’s hand. “Lee Fox still runs the P.I. Agency and . . .”

“Roger, I don’t think . . .” soothed Susan.

“And . . .” prompted Nick as Roger’s eyes momentarily closed. “Roger?”

“Yeah. Lee is a handful, but I’m sure the files are there. Lee is . . .” Roger’s eyes closed and didn’t open again.

“Oh well,” said Nick. “I guess I have to give this guy a call. Thought Jeremy Fox’s son was murdered along with him.”

“He had another child.” Susan smiled strangely. She tucked her husband’s unresponsive hand under the covers and placed the file Nick had brought for Roger’s review on the side table.

“I suggest you tread lightly, Nick. Lee Fox doesn’t share information or anything else without a price. There’s a few things you should know before . . .”

“Leave it to me. There isn’t a guy I can’t persuade.”

“Right,” said Susan and forced a smile. Nick had the annoying feeling she was mocking him, and he was loathe to know why.

Dr. Koh called before Nick made it to the parking lot and asked him to stop back by.

“I haven’t finished my complete examination, but so far, some very interesting tidbits have surfaced. Do you see this here?”

“What is it?”

“They must be at least ten or so half dissolved barbiturate tables.”

The white flakes floated in the jar of vomit-colored material. Nick could only hope that Thad had been nearly unconscious when he’d been murdered, since the weapon had been the lethal end of a Philips screwdriver. Dr. Koh illustrated how it had been shoved upwards through the throat embedding itself in the nasal passages behind the nostrils before jutting out the rear of the mayor’s skull. Thad Fisher had bled to death, but mercifully had probably felt little pain because of a brain numbing dose of barbiturates.

“And look at this.” The coroner pulled back the linen sheet from the bloated feet of Thad Fisher. 15 or so cuts were evident upon his hairy feet and ankles.

“What caused those?”

“The mayor was found without his shoes. I speculate he tried to escape his murderer and ran through some rough terrain. I pulled two of these out.” He thrust what appeared like a rose thorn in a pair of tweezers towards Nick.

“Anyway to tell what kind of rose bush this came from?”

“Only that the size indicates they were hybrid teas. I’ll call you when I learn more.”

Voices sounded in the reception area. “Take the back entrance. I’m sure this is Thad Fisher’s wife and the chief. Might not be a pretty scene to witness.”

“Got it,” voiced Nick gratefully. He hated hysterical scenes involving women. Tears made him feel helpless, and they were so goddamn useless anyway. The stoic Dr. Koh seemed used to weepy women and plastered a sympathetic smile upon his pleasant face as Nick scooted towards the back alley.

He settled into the front seat and closed his eyes before reaching for his pencils. Twenty minutes later, he recognized how imperative the Peebles’ records were. It was time to call Lee Fox. Nick just wished he had something to bargain with in case the man proved to be difficult, which made him reflect on a far less important mystery. Why had he been called in when the city had its own private investigator?

Within the hour, he had checked into Louise’s Boarding House. Nick had actually stayed here nine months before during a missing person’s case. He lugged in his suitcase and the large portfolio containing his drawings and pencils and placed them on the business-sized desk provided by the red-cheeked Louise.

“It’s
so
nice to have you here again, Mr. Thayne. I’ll make sure I make more of my special rhubarb and cherry pie you enjoyed so much last time,” gushed Louise.

Louise Martin was a poster ad for Dexatrim. She was, however, the cheeriest and most generous of hostesses. He smiled back, examining her bottle-blonde hair. Marilyn Monroe
was
alive.

“I’ll certainly look forward to that, Louise.”

“You’ll want breakfast and dinner each day?”

“Most likely. Let’s start tomorrow. Tonight I’ll be busy.”

She smiled prettily, lipstick staining her upper teeth. “I’ll make some Eggs Benedict.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Ohhh! You draw?” Her chubby fingers reached for his packed portfolio.

“A little.”

“Can I see?” She actually clapped her hands in anticipation.

“No!” he responded more gruffly than he’d meant. “That is, I’m shy about my drawings, being such an amateur, and all. Maybe some other time?”

Louise didn’t take offense. “Well, I’ll be
waiting
for that. Hope you enjoy the room. It’s the best in the house.” She toddled off, and he grinned at her outfit, which consisted of a short, flowered dress pulled too tightly over her heavy breasts and exposed masses of cellulite. She wore bright, matching pink sandals with spiky heels. Louise had style, all right, and seemed to have no trouble with body image.

The room was indeed spacious, offering Internet access as well as a cable TV with a large screen. It possessed a small sitting area as well as a tiny kitchen equipped with two burners, a microwave, internet access, and best yet, a huge coffee pot. The king-sized bed fit comfortably into the beige wallpapered room. This would do just fine. He put some coffee on before settling himself down to call Lee Fox.

After the second ring, the clear, strong voice of an efficient secretary resounded even though it was well after normal business hours.

“Fox Investigative Services.”

“Hello,” said Nick without preamble. “My name is Nick Thayne from Thayne Investigations in Girard, and I’d like to make an appointment with Lee Fox. This evening, if possible. I know it’s late, but I’ve heard his father spearheaded a case regarding one Ashley Peebles—a seventeen-year-old runaway who was murdered about 25 years ago. It’s come to my attention that certain specific details from that case are similar to one I’m working here, and I thought maybe your agency could help me out, since the original casebook seems to be missing.”

After a long pause on the other end of the line, the efficient voice returned. “At what time would you like to stop by?”

“9:30 p.m.? I know it’s late but would that work for Mr. Fox?”

“That would be fine. And you are, again?”

Nick ground his teeth exasperatedly. “Nick
Thayne
of
Thayne
Private Investigations in Girard,” he repeated. “I’m on special assignment with the Monroe Police Department. Tell your boss I’ll see him promptly at 9:30.”

Lea Fox hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair, her thin hands clasped before her. Nick Thayne wasn’t the first man to have mistaken her gender and wouldn’t be the last. She recognized the case he’d inquired about and sat for a full five minutes thinking furiously before removing the file from the top drawer of father’s old wooden filing cabinet and settling herself down to read. Her eyes widened, and she nodded. After a few minutes, she tossed the well-read file upon the too-clean desk and fired up her computer, her short fingers punching in the noted P.I.’s name. When the facts and surrounding speculations came up, the information caused her to grin broadly.
Well, well, Mr. Thayne.

On the bright sunflower pattern of the breakfast tablecloth, the cluster of drawings would have put anyone off their lunch. The first depicted a red brick fence bordering an abandoned field shaded by an immense magnolia tree. The small red ball rested not two feet from the upturned claw of a hand. The second, as riveting as the first, could have served as an advertisement for never drinking and driving. The good-looking man horribly ravaged by a large oak tree trunk and a close encounter with the front windshield leaned against the still form of a teenaged girl appearing merely asleep by him. The final drawing showed an abandoned crib, its only occupant a chewed-up teddy bear floating in a huge twist-top jar. The artist flung down the garishly colored drawings and scooped up his keys, but not before swigging down three extra-strength aspirin. It was going to be a long evening.

Nick paused before the modest yellow stucco house, standing for a moment on the pleasantly wide front porch and admiring the early evening neighborhood. His ring was answered by a lovely African-American woman, who, although clearly aging, boasted fine bones in a gentle face.

“I’m Inspector Nick Thayne,” he said extending his hand.

“And I’m Darcy Jenkins. Philemon is waiting for you inside. Do come in.”

The beige furniture, though inexpensive, was comfortable, and Philemon rose from his favorite recliner, sticking out a calloused hand to Nick Thayne.

“How are you doing?” asked Nick kindly.

“Fine
now
. Please, won’t you sit down?” Philemon gestured to the plaid couch across from him. “Darcy, bring Mr. Thayne some of your award-winning lemonade. My wife captured the title in the Monroe County Fair’s lemonade contest three years in a row. She’s an expert at achieving just the right mixture of sugar, water, and lemons.”

“That would be lovely,” said Nick sinking upon the worn but comfortable couch. He studied the African-American man. For a man nearing sixty, Philemon was in excellent condition. Only the faint lines engraved upon his dark face and the gray wiry hair cut very short around an increasing bald spot indicated his age. His glasses emphasized an intelligent if wary face. Darcy returned presently, bearing a tray with two glasses and a pitcher whose ice cubes clanked freely. She poured two tall glasses of lemonade and discreetly left the room. Nick opened his briefcase and took out Roger’s notepad.

“Thank you for being so detailed about your rather gruesome discovery, Mr. Jenkins. How long have you worked for Mrs. Simms?”

“Well, it’s been going on to three years now,” said Philemon. “I enjoy the work, and Mrs. Simms is a first-class employer. I have my retirement, and Darcy her Social Security, but the extra money helps us afford trips to visit our grown children.”

“Had you ever seen the ex-mayor in the neighborhood before?”

Philemon had hung around long enough to see the unearthed body of Thad Fisher and shuddered as he remembered the bloated, stinking corpse. “No, I can’t say I have, but I may not have recognized him—his features were . . . ah . . . distorted.”

Nick nodded. “He’d been dead a few days.”

Philemon continued. “Chester Street is very quiet, you know, and because I work only mornings on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, most folks aren’t around. And Mrs. Simms, she’s retired, and all. I remember, I did see him a couple years ago at the Country Fair, delivering some speech. I don’t pay much mind to politics.”

“Do you ever work in the field next to Mrs. Simms’ house?” asked Nick.

“Sometimes. She often has me take the weed whacker and trim the edge of the fence, but it isn’t her land, after all. I spend most of my time in her garden.”

“And the neighbors across the street? You reported that someone mentioned the word ‘magnolia’ to you?”

“Why, yes,” said Philemon clearing his throat. The whole topic of Bouncer made him strangely uncomfortable. After all, he might have been mistaken about the lisped words coming from the unknown child, but decided to confess everything to the broad-shouldered detective. The Lord demanded it. “I’ve been playing ball with someone behind the fence during my breaks. I think it’s a little boy. Mrs. Simms said someone named Collins owns the property, so it’s probably some relative of theirs.”

Nick glanced at the plot numbers and nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Simms was interviewed by one of the officers and reported she is inclined to believe the house is vacant. She rarely, if ever sees or hears anyone in the house. I guess this murder was quite a shock to her.”

“Mrs. Simms is frail, and the heat has been intense lately. May the Lord give her strength. She’s so often told me how the peace and quiet of the street keeps her from moving into one of those fancy retirement homes. This must have been a blow; a blow, indeed.”

Nick nodded. “So, about this neighbor? You’ve been playing ball with someone inside the fence?”

“I know it’s highly unusual. A child’s been tossing over a red rubber ball, and I’ve been bouncing it back.

“You said a red rubber ball?” A peculiar look flitted across Nick’s face.

“Yeah, a bit bigger than a softball. The child doesn’t say much, usually just chuckling and giggling sometimes, and well, when I asked their name the only response I got was Bouncer. So that’s what I call him.”

“How long have you played ball with this faceless child?”

“Not even two weeks. We played for about fifteen minutes today, and towards the end of our game, the boy said the word
magnolia
. I got to thinking that maybe the kid had a hideout or fort in the magnolia tree located in the vacant lot, so I decided after my work to just saunter over there and maybe meet my little friend in person. Instead, well, you know what I found.”

“I do indeed,” said Nick. “I’ll check the records on the Collins’ house.”

Philemon took a long swig of the tart lemonade, gulping as if it was the finest Kentucky bourbon. Nick joined him and smiled in appreciation. This really
was
good.

“Just one other thing, Mr. Jenkins. Deputy Steele asked you to come into the Station to make a statement, and you refused. Why?”

Philemon gazed at his work-worn hands a long time before answering. “I just don’t like police much. My cousin was killed a couple of years prior to my moving here, and the police weren’t very helpful. Just said it was gang related and dropped the case flat. He was only forty and left a wife and three children. His lady never did get over it”

“That was where?”

Philemon cleared his throat and glanced up. Darcy hung in the doorway, looking fretful.

“Detroit. We used to live in Detroit.”

Nick smiled soothingly. “I’ve not always had the best of luck with the police myself, Mr. Jenkins. I’m actually just contracted out on this case and am a freelance P.I.” He flipped open his black leather wallet and handed Philemon his card. “Only call me on my cell. I’m usually located in Girard, but I’m camping out at Louise’s Boarding House during my stay here. You can reach me anytime, day or night.”