Bouncer (16 page)

“Stop checking out the family treasures,” said Fox from the nook table.

“You must have eyes in the back of your head,” returned Nick, refusing to be embarrassed.

“No, just sensing an invasion of my privacy.”

“What’s fair is fair, sister. Besides, photos hanging upon walls are not private. And
one picture is worth a thousand words.”

“Fred Bernard was not talking about photographs, he was referring to ads.”

“Same difference. So, you own this house?” he asked, his stomach still churning from the witch’s brew, though it did appear his headache might be easing somewhat.

“Yes. I sold my father’s after he died and moved here.”

“Nice place, though there’s a few too many growing things.”

“My dad hated plants and preferred that heavy mahogany wood, which reeks of male dominance and needs every-other-day dusting. My brother, on the other hand, loved techno-mod furniture; all metal and glass and geometric shapes, with glaring lights and plastic cushions. I was comfortable in neither.”

Nick suddenly had an insight into the continually belligerent woman. Lea had never been allowed to be herself, and this little dream home was probably the best glimpse he’d ever get of the defensive woman. The golden pine kitchen exuded warmth and comfort, its country design practical and spacious with wide counters and the inviting nook. The furniture, though sparse, gave a pleasant effect. The beige and mauve couch fronted a small brick fireplace loaded with wood and waiting for the turn of season.

A broad oak entertainment center, equipped with stereo and CD player, a large TV and DVD player, as well as a glass cabinet revealing an eclectic mixture of movie classics, mysteries, and kids’ films, covered half the living room wall.
Shrek
sat next to
Murder by the Numbers
and
Gunga Din.
One of his favorite series,
Twin Peaks,
rested atop her DVD player. The top shelf held a wide variety of painted eggs.

“You collect eggs?”

“Sorta. My mother did, and I inherited them from her. That blue one is from Russia, the gold one with the silvery face from New Orleans, and the huge carved ostrich egg from Kenya. My father gave it to Mom as a honeymoon gift. Those rather garish orange and red ones are from a trip I took to Mexico. I’d like to get more—but right now, travel is out of the question.”

He wondered what the rest of the house would reveal about the prickly Lea Fox when a 5 by 7 photograph, positioned reverently inside the bookcase, arrested his attention. A young man with nondescript brown hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a prominent nose rested his arm around the Fox’s willing shoulders. Her relaxed head half-leaned against the man’s chest, lips curving in a wide smile as she responded to something he’d just uttered. Lea’s dress was feminine and actually pretty, glimmering in lilac flowers. Much longer hair cascaded over her shoulders, and a complimentary heart-shaped silver locket nestled around her small neck. He’d never before seen her happy or half-way pretty.

“This your boyfriend?” he asked impishly.

“Stop snooping, Thayne. You’re trespassing.”

“It’s what I’m paid for.” It had to be Bernard. Nick returned to the round table covered with a spotless white tablecloth. The phone shrilled, and Fox jerked it up.

“This is Fox. Really? Is he there now with the chief?” One hand clenched the functional black phone while the other rapidly typed into the F & H. She frowned. “And the other’s a dead end, then. Drat. Thanks so much. Keep me posted.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“That was Randy Phelps. I asked him to give me a buzz if anything unusual happened. Apparently, none of the eight commandeered wheelbarrows have anything other than dirt clinging to them. They’ll be returned to their owners early tomorrow.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Neither am I. The Christmas note lacks fingerprints and is typed in simple courier font, size 18. Anyone with a computer could have whipped it out. The paper is the local stationary store’s brand—nothing unusual, so, except for its unique content, the note’s origin is a dead end. But get this. Mr. Anthony Montanari of the Agrit-Empire has apparently been closeted with the chief for over an hour. He wants permission to survey the bodies before burial, supposedly to give a private farewell. He says he was good friends with both Thad Fisher and Connie Judson.”

Nick seemed puzzled. “Now, that’s an association I was unaware of,” he stated.

“It’s not surprising, though. Anyone who’d run for mayor in this town would have needed to obtain the financial support of the Montanari family if they hoped to earn any votes from the agricultural sector.”

“But why would he want to view the bodies?” asked Nick looping his hands over one knee.

“Let’s check him out.” Nick rose heavily and followed his petite partner into a small study. She powered up the state of the art computer.

“Nice technology,” he said, glancing at the small room. Several computer manuals lined the shelves and upon the opposite shelf stood a huge collection of baseball trophies.

“Your dad’s?” he asked, pointing.

“No, my brother’s. Didn’t have the heart to give ‘em away. The computer was my dad’s though. He said a properly programmed PC was almost as helpful as a good snitch. He kept this unit at home, and it contained the dossiers of most of the influential people in the area. I’m certain he did his homework on the Montanari's, if I know my Dad.

Within minutes, the lined, flawed face of Anthony Montanari filled the screen.

“Anthony Montanari Sr. was married in 1951 to someone called Ruth Peroni,” began Lea. She gave birth to their oldest son, Anthony Jr. in December 1952. He had—whoa, count them—six children with Ruth. That’s what you call a fertile Catholic family.  Anthony Sr. inherited his land and money from his Italian born dad, Fabio Montanari, who’d bought land in the northern part of the Big Valley when Anthony was about ten and started growing potatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers. This blossomed into the Agrit-Empire, which Anthony took over in the late-seventies. Fabio Montanari long since retired to Florida and died about eight years ago.

“Boy, our Tony’s life certainly wasn’t totally fortuitous,” said Thayne, leaning over the glimmering screen. “His two oldest boys were both killed in Vietnam, just before the US pullout, and he was left with three daughters and a small son. Not a great deal of information on them. I wonder what Anthony’s real connection to the deceased is.”

“We could do some nosing around,” Fox suggested, looking like a little girl who’s just been offered forbidden chocolate.

“Hmm. Guys like Montanari hire illegals to broaden their profit margin,” said Nick. “It’s almost a California tradition.”

“Just a minute,” spouted Lea. She leaped up as fast as her bad leg allowed and scurried into the front room, returning several minutes later with a beaten-up old briefcase. The tattered leather of the stained satchel seemed so unlike her that Nick lifted his eyes in enquiry.

“It was my dad’s as well. You might say I have a sentimental attachment to it.” She clicked open the flaking brass latches and removed the Peebles file.

“Let’s see. If I remember correctly, Ashley Peebles was discovered in the middle of a potato field just like Connie, and both are owned by the Agrit-Empire. That reminds me of something else.” She flipped open another thin file and smiled. “Here’s the last letter from Luke Cambridge my Dad received. Read me the second to last paragraph.”

Nick rubbed his blurry eyes and laboriously read aloud.

“I implore you, Mr. Fox, to reconsider my case. As I stated to Inspector Rollins, I swore that I saw Mr. Montanari’s Buick driving down the dirt road where Ashley’s body was found. He was speeding as if running away from something and didn’t see me standing under a large avocado tree. No one investigated this lead to my knowledge, and I’m hoping that if you reopen the case you might do so.”

Nick scanned the rest. “It just goes on to say he loved Ashley and didn’t kill her. It’s signed, Luke Cambridge, March 3, 2000. Sounds mighty articulate for a drifter and farm worker,” stated Nick, refolding the letter before passing it back to Fox.

“That’s exactly what my dad thought. Apparently, Luke educated himself, passing his high school equivalency exam while serving his sentence. He is also, from what I’ve heard, a first-rate mechanic who services many state vehicles at the prison.”

“So, your dad followed up on Luke’s assertion that he saw Montanari’s vehicle in the vicinity around the time of the murder?”

“He did. I remember him conferring extensively with my brother about it. I wasn’t working fulltime for my dad at that time, mostly just evenings and weekends because I already had a job at the District Attorney’s office. Unfortunately, I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have to their progress, and then they were murdered less than three weeks later. I know Dad collected extensive notes, and my brother boasted they were about to crack the case wide open. Dad spent long hours typing up his reflections on his office computer, but when I took over after my father’s death the computer’s hard drive had been damaged. 50 percent of the data was irretrievable.”

“Someone tampered with the computer?”

“I’ll never know. The technician stated the computer had suffered an electrical overload, similar to a lightning strike. I’ve managed to salvage many of his files, just not his notes on the Peebles case. To think I actually read some of his insights while retyping my Dad’s shorthand irks me to no end. Fool that I was, I didn’t read them thoroughly enough or have a strong enough point of reference to interpret them correctly at the time.”

“So that file you have there is just the copy of the original you obtained from the police department?”

“That’s right.”

“You know, Fox,” said Nick slowly, rubbing his narrow chin. “Potatoes fields, three bodies, and stray fingers. These two cases are connected, and the chief doesn’t want us to find out how or why. I need to speak with Luke Cambridge today.”

Chapter 15

Sunday Afternoon

Thayne decided to drive south to where Luke was incarcerated. Lea needed the time for research, so she cheerfully suggested to Thayne she would see him later that evening.

“Do you mind?” he asked of the coroner’s report. Nick needed to digest the results of the autopsies a little at a time since his head still pounded.

“Not at all,” said Lea, feeling quite generous, handing him the original after making a copy for her reference. It tickled her to see him looking so pale and out of sorts. Many men believed they could handle their liquor and work as competently as they would without it, but she knew that to be an illusion. Her brother had certainly proven that.

“Ah, Fox, you might, um, want to check the field just below the lot. I have a feeling the slipshod Monroe PD may have missed something. That is, if you’ve got some spare time. If not, we’ll check it out tomorrow morning together,” he said in a peculiar tone.

Fox glanced up, and he gave a tiny nod. “I’ll do that,” she promised.

As soon as Thayne had gone, Lea sat for the next two hours, searching every available source on the Internet. She printed out a few pages, distressed by what she’d read about Philemon Jenkins, almost hoping Thayne would find out something seedy about Connie’s military boyfriend. Her hopes were shattered less than thirty minutes later.

Her cell phone jangled and Nick’s breezy voice filled the airways. “Bad news, Fox. Our Presido boy has contacted Chief Rollins. Guess what? He’s no offshore boy toy for our deceased Connie. He’s her cousin of all things. Arriving tonight to set up burial proceedings. Name’s Lieutenant Mark Bales. I spoke to him briefly on the phone, and he’s making a statement to Officer Stevens at the station as we speak. Apparently, he wasn’t even in California last week, having traveled with some fellow officers to Florida to receive some training. Alibi looks airtight, and his distress regarding his cousin sounds genuine.”

“There goes one of our best leads,” sighed Lea.

“He might still have some insights,” remarked Thayne, trying to be positive.

“We can only hope since Philemon has six priors. One for grand-theft auto.”

“Good God.”

“Actually, God was good. Philemon’s wife was in labor and his engine blew a gasket. He hot-wired his neighbor’s Impala and drove her to the maternity ward. He was arrested ten minutes after the birth of his second son. Only served community service on that one. Neighbor was understanding but not amused.”

Nick laughed. “Anything more incriminating than that?”

“One DUI, one driving with a revoked license after the DUI, two trespassing, and one assault upon a neighbor’s barking dog.”

“Hmm. I bet the trespassing ones are the most interesting, and I
completely
understand the dog situation. Not surprised there’s nothing more concrete than that. Our Philemon was a professional and left no tracks. I’m just pulling into the prison’s parking lot now. I’ll let you know how the interview with Luke goes.”

He hung up abruptly. It seemed they were moving backwards instead of forwards. The wind blew briskly, and a chill had crept from the north, indicating fall was finally on its way. Since she wasn’t making any progress here, Lea decided to take Thayne’s advice and check out Chester Street and the fields nearby once again. Fox slipped into a pair of baggy jeans, her worn trainers, and a mud-brown sweatshirt with oil stains on it. She’d never figured out how to remove the spots after changing the Mazda’s oil filter. Before leaving her house, she picked up the red rubber ball retrieved from Philemon’s play with Bouncer and stuck it into her coat pocket, planning to ring the Collins doorbell one more time. Maybe she’d get lucky.

Lea drove slowly down Chester Street, sighing at the lovely neighborhood. Wide sidewalks lined the beautifully landscaped avenue, with huge mature elm and maple trees giving the neighborhood that high-class feel only old trees can bestow. The cul-de-sac had little traffic this Monday afternoon, and only a few shorts-clad girls jumped rope in the street, politely shifting to one side as she glided her silver Mazda towards the bowl-shaped end.

Lea strolled the wide sidewalks and studied the stately street again. The broad overhang of shady elms produced such a lovely image of peace and tranquility. Everyone’s lawns were expertly trimmed, and sparrows sang amongst the leafy branches. She noted several houses maintained both hybrid tea and floribunda rose bushes. It was conceivable Thad Fisher had been imprisoned in any of them, though she didn’t believe it likely.

She returned to the Simms house, analyzing the lovely exterior for several minutes. The Tudor house was tastefully designed with high white stucco walls covered in the typical dark criss- cross patterns distinctive to their unique style. Its left-hand side was covered in ivy, and across the top story, the beautiful slate lines dove in dramatic lines. One particular second floor room boasted a lovely, pale stained-glass window depicting the rays of the sun slanting off a vivid peacock strutting amongst slender orchids. Mrs. Simms sure had taste, alright.

Lea noted the rose bushes lining the pathway up to the house and adorning the wide front porch. Needing to take a closer look and hoping the elderly woman wouldn’t mind, she limped up the curling cobblestone to study the thorny plants lining the front porch. The orange-red
Mr. Lincoln
vied for space with its more dominant cousin, the crimson
Oklahoma
. Her nose puckered at the lavish scent of
Perfumed Delight
, while her senses appreciated the stately grace of
Duet
.

Lea’s sharp eyes analyzed the thorn-incrusted stalks, any one of which could have played havoc with a man’s feet. No plant looked damaged, all blooming in perfect, heavy-blossomed radiance; the rose connoisseur’s idea of heaven. Reluctantly, she left the beautiful Simms garden and headed towards the vacant field bordered by bright police tape.

Memory of Nick’s quiet voice reminded Lea of his request to recheck the lot and field. She awkwardly lifted her pants-clad leg over the restrictive, sticky barrier, finally succeeding in hobbling into the quiet field as she headed towards the majestic magnolia. Another smaller expanse of tape surrounded the actual murder site situated at the base of the elderly tree where Thad Fisher’s body had been discovered by Philemon Jenkins. The tree bloomed heavily, its thick white blooms stretching towards the afternoon sun.

Lea surveyed the turned soil under the magnolia’s heavy canopy where Thad had been unearthed, the white chalk outline insulting the earth. She lurched around the vacant lot, noting that the area saw a great deal of foot traffic since it was obviously a place people let their unleashed animals roam, if the fairly frequent piles of dog droppings were any indication. A little boy on a small bike waved at her from the sidewalk. She waved back.

She studied Mrs. Simms’ short wall, which barely topped five feet high. Anyone could have scrambled over the heavy block fence. Lea searched around, and finding an old cinderblock, dragged it to the fence and climbing atop, teetered clumsily. Now finally tall enough to gaze over the wall, she surveyed the lovely garden. The impressive greenhouse dominated the large backyard, and Lea noted how roses fought for space with camellias, azaleas, and hyacinths. Directly hugging the inside wall where she perched, a scarlet hibiscus attracted bees, which zoomed noisily past her ears. Roses lined the house’s façade, but no more than any of the other half a dozen homes on the block.

She hopped awkwardly off the broken block and headed towards the ten-foot high brick wall that surrounded the north side of the Collins residence. No trailing vines or disobedient shrubs dared cling to these walls. She crinkled her nose, the smell of dung still strong, but less pronounced than the previous day. A faint rustle sounded, and Lea swore she heard a faint snarling sound as if an animal protested against its boundaries.

“Hello,” she called tentatively. The frenzied snarling increased for a second before suddenly diminishing to a low, moaning growl. She fervently searched for something high enough to elevate her short statute enough to peer over the ten-foot wall, but found nothing to accommodate her. Anyone who wanted to peer into this protected yard would need a good-sized ladder.

Thoroughly agitated by her short height and inability to conquer her surroundings, Lea clumped back to the sidewalk and spent the next 90 minutes interviewing families from the eight houses further down the block. After accepting strong green tea from the Chun family, tasting Mrs. Borman’s apricot cake, and bouncing the Kurgan tot upon her knee, she was now even more convinced than ever that the homicide had not taken place at any of these residences, though several had
Mr. Lincoln
and other similar roses in their well-kept gardens. Her mind kept returning to the Collins’ fortress-like home at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Now at nearly 6:00 p.m., the impatient sun began to melt behind the tops of the aged trees. In frustration, Lea finally stood peering over the edge of the wedge shaped lot into the rocky ravine. A short rock wall standing less than three feet high separated the vacant field and its elite neighborhood from the tangle of brush that dotted the open land. She lifted up her heavy feet, and hoisting her bottom upon the low fence, swung her legs over the crumbling stone.

Lea half-slid, half-careened down the short incline, brambles and yellowish dry grass pulling at her walking shoes and trousers. A small sparrow the color of dust flew near her feet while a mockingbird’s endless chatter filled the afternoon air. The sky surrounded her like a ceramic Mexican bowl, not a cloud disrupting its perfect blue hue. Bees hummed near a snarled riot of wild roses, and a few wild dandelions thrust their bitter stalks towards the sinking sun.

Lea slowly and methodically searched the area, convinced Chief Rollins’ haphazard crew must have missed something. The field bordered a dry wash enthusiastically named the Monroe River, which only filled after the winter rains. Dust puffed up from the dry dirt, revealing little but irritating her allergies. Fox had nearly given up after thirty minutes of brushing the annoying flies away and flinching at the indignant crows who circled too closely above her. She paused under a scraggly scrub oak, barely tall enough to afford decent shade. A glimmer near the dirt road separating the tract from the start of the lettuce fields owned by Agrit-Empire had her moving as quickly as her damaged leg would allow.

Lea squatted by a pile of fresh, corrosion-free soda cans as a flock of five crows hopped in the distance cawing angrily at her disruption. Bees still hummed around the sticky sides of the empty containers, which had probably been dumped by teenagers who’d parked on the outskirts of the fields to smoke dope or make out. She was about to rise when a glob of gooey crimson caused her to start. Lea bent, and removing a long, dusty twig from the littered ground, shifted the can slightly.

The dislodgement revealed the stained bottom of a cream soda can tarnished a faded crimson. Something niggled at the edge of her brain. Lea moved the stick again and suddenly flinched as the can tilted slightly, allowing the contents within to slide partially out of the tab opening. No amount of experience could have stopped the involuntary recoil at the ghastly sight of the bloody end of a finger protruding out of the opening. The bitter bile rose in her throat as Connie’s slender finger, still adorned by a huge diamond, slid grotesquely towards her.

Lea stumbled backwards, her hands reaching for support as she slammed hard against an old river boulder. Dirt clods clung to its rocky side and dissolved under her trembling fingers. She leaned against it, her lungs fighting for breath and calm.

“Thought you might prefer cream soda,”
echoed Thayne’s melodious voice as she quickly punched in his number. He answered it on the second ring.

“Where are you, Thayne?” she croaked.

“Just pulling into Burger City. I finished my interview with Luke and visited Philemon again. He’s remembered something about the Collins house that might be a lead. I—”

“I need you to come to Chester Street right now,” she stammered, cutting him off. “I found the finger.”

“The what?” he asked.

“I think I found Connie’s finger. It’s in the can.”

“The . . . can?” he repeated.  

It was only then that she realized how ludicrous her statement sounded. “In a soda can near the lettuce fields not far from where Thad’s body was discovered.”

His voice altered, taking on a harsh edge. “I want you to stay put, Fox, and call 911 and Chief Rollins. Don’t touch the can!”

A wave of protest emitted from her. “No,” said Lea stubbornly. “I want you to examine it first without any interference from the police.” There was a long pause as Thayne contemplated her request.

“All right,” he agreed slowly. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

The phone went dead in her hand. A daring crow hopped closer, and Lea backed away, searching for rocks to ward off its approach. She hurdled a fist-sized stone as hard as she could, missing the bird completely, but dispersing the flock for a while. The next fifteen minutes were spent guarding the small pile of cream soda cans from the persistent birds and battling her nausea. A wave of relief washed over her when Thayne arrived in a cloud of dust, the chrome from the highly polished car nearly blinding her.