Bouncer (15 page)

“You’re right,” admitted Nick tiredly. “How could one know Philemon was not who or what he said he was.” It was a lie. An image of Philemon standing over a dead corpse muscled its way into his brain.

Lea wasn’t so quick to acquiesce. “Don’t you think you’re adding up the numbers a little bit wrong, Chief Rollins?” said Lea as sweetly as her slightly gruff voice would allow.

The pea green linen suit would have looked out of fashion in her mother’s day and was already horribly wrinkled. Where on earth did she get her clothes? Goodwill?

“Just because Philemon had mob connections in Detroit doesn’t mean he isn’t retired from all that now.”

“Oh, really,” mocked the Chief. “Then perhaps I should share an interesting tidbit of information with you. Did you know that one of the telltale characteristics of the Marcelli Gang was to hack off body parts, as mementos of their hits, and bury them beside their next victim as a warning to others not to mess with the mob?”

Nick suddenly visualized that all-so-important check dissipating under Chief Rollins’ cold eyes.

“As I recall,” said Lea evenly, “the Marcelli Gang preferred ears and male genitalia, not fingers.”

Nick marveled as to how Lea got her information, but as usual the chief ignored her.

“One pair of hand clippers hanging in Mrs. Simms’ tool shed shows traces of human blood. We’re waiting for the final results now. If it’s a match to Thad Fisher, this case is shut tighter than a virgin’s door.”

“You’re not certain the blood is Thad Fisher’s? You jailed Philemon Jenkins just because you
think
Thad Fisher’s blood
might
be on the clippers?” accused Lea.

Chief Rollins pointed to the door. “That and the ‘word’ your spooky partner found engraved in that blasted magnolia just happen to be the first five letters of Mr. Jenkins’ name.
Phile!
Why don’t you go powder your nose, Ms. Fox? I’ll wrap things up with your
partner
here. And don’t you worry your pretty little head; both of you will get a check for three full days’ work. I’m feeling generous.”

“Right. If I were the murderer, then by all means, I’d carve my name into the tree right at the site. Like freeway tagging, you know. Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Lea, refusing to budge from her chair. It was dangerous to call her pretty when she never deluded herself.

“Like what?” snorted the Chief

“Like a motive.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If Philemon is the murderer, a paid assassin as you have suggested, then who employed him?” She tossed the morning
Times
on the table and pointed to the highlighted sentence speculating Mrs. Fisher had hired a hit man to rub out her adulterous husband.

“This is entirely ludicrous!” snorted Richard Rollins, who’d obviously not had time to scan the morning papers.

“It seems, if you’ve done your math correctly, and two plus two
really
does equal five, you should arrest her as well.”

Chief Rollins swore long and loudly. “Trish Fisher is no more guilty than my dog. I’ve known her for years. This accusation from our flawed local paper is absolutely ridiculous. I’ll be demanding a retraction as soon as you two vacate the premises.”

“I’m sure that’s precisely what Philemon Jenkins’s wife thought as they dragged her innocent husband away, and besides,” said Lea. “While I don’t agree with
any
of your logic, I have to concede that poison is a women’s choice, after all, and Connie was forced to swallow formaldehyde, of all things. Pretty lethal and cruel, if I do say so myself, and cruelty like that reeks of a wronged woman. The
only
wronged woman I’m aware of in this whole tawdry mess is Trish Fisher.”

“I oughta toss the both of you out on your misguided asses.”

“You’re just upset because you know Fox
is
right,” said Nick. “I’d suggest you research your facts better before you brand a local black man as the killer,” said Nick, inciting Chief Rollins to swear again, this time even more loudly and foully.

“You’d better watch your step, Thayne. I’m not releasing Philemon. The law states I can hold him for twenty-four hours, and by that time the blood samples will prove his clippers were used to take off Thad’s finger.”

Thayne straightened his shoulders. “If you fire us, no one will be around to prove that Trish Fisher
didn’t
hire Mr. Jenkins. And I refuse to condone his arrest or bail you out simply because you knew my father. If the papers interview me, I’ll tell them I believe this office has a racist mandate.”

“Why you . . .” growled the chief.

Nick glanced out the office’s window into the active main room. “I sure don’t see any African-Americans on the staff here. I wonder why?” Nick lifted himself from the cheap office chair. “Come on, Fox. Let’s go find the reporters.” Lea obediently rose, enjoying Nick’s laconic tone, which only hinted at the wrath he so obviously felt.

Chief Rollin’s watery blue eyes held Nick’s for a full minute. His florid face flushed even redder before he lowered his eyes under Nick’s forceful gaze.

“Now, hold on, hold on. Don’t be hasty. Sit down.” His eyes stabbed at Lea as she sank down as gracefully as her wrinkled green suit and unresponsive foot would let her. Nick remained standing, towering over the portly police chief.

“Goddamn it! Sit down, man. My neck ain’t like no flamingo’s. You have to agree the gardener’s arrest was justified. He was a Mafia hit man, for God’s sake!”

“You’re probably right,” said Lea mildly. “Philemon is such a good assassin that he stabbed the mayor with a screwdriver in one hand while clipping off his finger with the other, just to save time, you know. I know his type. Black and bad. Synonyms really, aren’t they?”

“You know what you are, lady?”

“A Capricorn?”

“An unemployed bitch as soon as the lab report comes back. You believe someone else did it, then find out who
really
hired Jenkins. You have 24 hours. And you, Thayne, keep a leash on her!”

Lea grinned, totally unfazed as Nick followed the awful green suit out the door. She paused by the water cooler and smoothed her skirt, looking quite amused for one so verbally abused.

Nick didn’t share her humor. “Not only a racist bastard, but a sexist one as well. How does Roger put up with him?”

“What I want to know is what’s his connection to Trish Fisher?”

“You got your antenna up, Fox?” He leaned against the wall.

“Yup, and I’d say he’s mighty sensitive about the woman; his ears were burning red when I suggested that she too should be picked up for hiring Philemon Jenkins as a hit man. It’s time I spoke to this Mr. Jenkins myself. Since Chief Rollins has placed the personal stamp of disapproval on him, I’m sure I’ll like him.”

Chapter 14

Sunday, 11:30 am

Philemon looked like the life had been punched out of him, but rose politely when Nick and Lea were led into his cramped cell.

“How you do, ma’am,” he said genteelly. His grizzled head dipped as he extended a calloused hand first to her and then to Nick. His glasses were spotted and a nasty stain marked his green t-shirt.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Jenkins. I’m Lea Fox and I’m working with Inspector Thayne here. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

The dignified gardener dropped heavily upon the county-issued mattress and ran a weary hand through his wiry hair. He lifted dark eyes to the petite woman and studied her with a face neither filled with recriminations nor excuses. The slightly blurred walnut eyes, red-rimmed from fatigue, were sharp with subdued intelligence. This man had played second fiddle all his life, but not anymore. He had learned, just like most women, to hide his sharp mind behind what appeared like submissiveness. Lea suspected it wasn’t racism that caused this pretended intellectual indifference. He had once worked for men of few scruples and twisted intellect and managed to walk away from Detroit still intact in body and soul. Lea instantly admired Philemon. He was the type of man she’d befriend if his circumstances weren’t so desperate.

“Not at all. I ain’t going anywhere. How are you, Mr. Thayne?”

“Not very good since I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“You and me both. They say I’m in here for killing the mayor and that mistress of his. I don’t even know her name. This morning passed like a blur when they slapped the cuffs on me and dragged me away, my woman weeping and clinging to me like her heart would break. Please, can you look after my Darcy? Her heart won’t take the strain. I’m nothing without my Darcy.”

“We’ll stop by and see her right after lunch, Mr. Jenkins,” Nick promised.

“Please, call me Philemon. Less formal than Mr. Jenkins. So, what did you want to ask me, Ms. Fox?”

“Are you a born-again Christian?”

Both Nick and Philemon jerked. This was not the question either had been expecting.

“Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

“And when did this conversion take place?”

“It’s been over five years since I pledged my soul to the Lord.”

“And were you a hit man in Detroit, as Chief Rollins states?”

Philemon gripped the gray-striped mattress with taut fingers. “I enjoy being a gardener, Ms. Fox. I never imagined a job more fulfilling than the cultivation of plants. Every day, I notice something in Mrs. Simms’ garden that fills me with awe. Sometimes it’s a rosebud that’s just opened, or a piece of ivy that’s finally reached the eaves of the house. The bees are alive and on a quest. Bumblebees, honeybees, and little black striped bees I don’t even know the name of. And then there are the birds. The pyracantha found in her garden is full of orange-red berries, and the leaves are so shiny and smooth that the robins, with their fat round bellies, love ‘em. God bless the beasts and the children. You know no sparrow drops without God’s knowledge?”

Lea nodded. This man’s faith gave him joy.

“Mrs. Simms desires color and harmony and respects my opinion. She said to me once, ‘Philemon, you sure have such a way with living things.’ So I spend my days nurturing the perfect and thoughtless—the plants and flowers and wild birds—just like I did when I was a boy in Georgia. And when I do that, it nourishes my soul and replenishes it. My poor,
tarnished
soul. I’ve done many things in my life I regret, Ms. Fox. Just what those things were are now only between God and me. I answer to no man, or woman for that matter, only to our sweet merciful Jesus.
He
knows who the real killer is and will reveal it when the time is right. The guilty are always punished unless they repent.”

Lea sighed and pulled out her mini-computer, her fingers rapidly entering his response.

“Unfortunately, you may have to answer to a jury, Mr. Jenkins, whether you wish to or not,” she stated. Philemon’s ample Adam’s apple twitched, but he remained silent. “You didn’t kill Thad Fisher, did you, Philemon?” she added more gently.

“I swear on the sweet baby Jesus that saved me I never killed him or that woman,” he drawled, the accent from his childhood days never having left him even though he’d lived elsewhere for 45 years.

“Any notion who did?” asked Lea not missing a beat.

Philemon looked up in surprise. “You asking
me
?”

“Of course. You’ve been sitting here for a good three hours and have probably been thinking about nothing else. What does your gut tell you?”

Philemon glanced at Nick and then slowly smiled. “Well, girl, since you asked. I’ve been pondering little else as I set here in the fine accommodations afforded me by our local authorities. It ain’t an accident that I found the body, you know. God demands justice and has used me as a vehicle to make sure it’s obtained. He didn’t leave me helpless, you know. He gave me a clue. You need to ask that child, Bouncer. He’s the key. I’d bet my life on it.”

Lea studied him for a long moment before shutting down her F & H. “What’s your favorite Christmas tune, Mr. Jenkins?”

He stared blankly at her. “Christmas tune?” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his lean chin. “I’m partial to two, really.
Jingle Bells
and
White Christmas
. I must admit, I do miss Detroit’s white Christmases. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, really. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Jenkins, and when this is all over and you’re released, give me a call. I have a garden that needs tending as well.” She flipped a card at him, which he caught in one graceful swoop.

“I’ll be eager to survey your garden, ma’am, or give you insights in other areas. You seem to lack one thing in this business, miss.”

“And what’s that?”

“An excess of sin. Your partner knows what I’m talking about. I could certainly help you understand the components of sin if you’d like me to.”

Lea peered at the older man for a long quiet moment. “I’ll keep that in mind . . .
when
you’re released.

“We’ll stay in contact,” promised Nick, as he followed his stiff shouldered partner out of the county jail.

“We’re heading to my house,” stated Lea. “If you’ll just follow me.”

“Your house?” said Nick amazed. He imagined a sterile, box-like house painted in a ghastly lime green to match her nauseating suit, its dust-free environment equipped with large computer screens dominating every chilly room.

“I need to be somewhere clean and organized to sort all this out. Are you coming?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“None in the least.” She paused before finally adding, “And Philemon isn’t totally correct, Thayne. Sin follows me around and mocks me for my naiveté.”

Nick was amazed to find himself sitting upon a circular pine bench in a well-designed breakfast nook sipping a monstrous combination of something that tasted like a cross between tomato juice and motor oil. Good God, what was it?

“What’s in this?” he sputtered after a particularly revolting gag.

“My father’s secret cure.”

“Which is?”

“It wouldn’t be his secret cure if I told you. So, you had fun with Trixie last night?”

“Her name
is
Chastity. And it was great fun until your phone call. I’ll have to remember to turn off the beeper on my cell phone. If I’m working with you, I have the noxious feeling you’re going to be calling at all sorts of ungodly hours.”

“It is hardly unlikely you’d turn off your mobile phone, because your natural curiosity would never allow you to totally disconnect with the world, no matter what the circumstance. You’re too afraid you might miss something. While assuredly uncomfortable in the middle of bath or during an intimate moment, it’s what makes us good detectives. And I bet her name is highly inappropriate now, if it wasn’t already.”

“Oh, really,” scoffed Nick. “So, you’re an expert on male/female relations are you? And what you’re saying is that I’m a good detective because I can’t keep my goddamned nose out of other people’s business?” Why did she have to be so fricking annoying?

“Admit it, Thayne. As a kid, you rummaged through your father’s desk, didn’t you?”

A horribly vivid memory sprang to the forefront of his mind—a memory he’d struggled to keep quarantined back in the furthermost recesses of his mind. He swallowed as she continued her relentless analysis, oblivious to his regret.

“You won’t stop until you know the whole truth. That’s why you instinctively recognized

Chief Rollins’ premise about Philemon as a big load of crap.”

Nick took another ghastly swallow and managed to sputter out, “Did your father ever appreciate you, Fox?”

“What?”

“Did he appreciate your instincts, your intellect, and perpetually revolting mind?”

“No, he only denigrated those faults, though he did seem to enjoy my cooking.” Lea removed the rose thorns from the baggie Thayne had given her and set them upon the table, squinting fiercely. Removing her F & H, she booted it up and nodded to herself over the slight hum.

“Well?” asked Nick, shivering as the last of the dreadful concoction slid down his protesting throat.

“It’s clear Thad Fisher sought to escape his captor. I believe a reasonable conclusion is to surmise that he tried to escape by leaping through a window, and landed in a rose garden below. He was found shoeless, which would explain the embedded
Mr. Lincoln
thorns in his feet. You have any ‘premonitions’ about roses?”

Nick leaned back and rubbed his forehead, hoping to encourage his throbbing headache to disappear. “Nary a one,” he said thickly. “But both Mrs. Simms and the Collins’ properties have gardens brimming with roses.”

“True, but we mustn’t forget there are also wild bushes in the areas located between Chester Street and the Agrit-Empire’s fields, plus several other houses on the block favor the flower.”

“How could you know that?” asked Nick

“I woke up early this morning and drove around. There are some wild patches of
Belinda
and
Belendar
roses growing in huge clumps throughout the field about three hundred meters from the vacant lot. However, their thorns are smaller, and since they’re patchy, they’re less likely to be the culprits. Since it was probably dark when the mayor bolted, there’s a slim chance he ran through the field from the other side, climbed the short wall, and was murdered near the magnolia tree. That’s only vague speculation, though. He could just as well have been a prisoner in either the Collins or the Simms' houses, or perhaps even another on the block. The only thing we know for certain is that he and Connie visited the Collins’ house last Tuesday and haven’t been seen alive since.”

“And the note?”

“Oh that’s easy. It’s from
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

“I got
that.
I was hoping you might know what it refers to.”

“Not a clue.
Yet.
”

“Where’s the toilet?” interrupted Nick abruptly.

“You mean the bathroom.”

“Whatever.”

“Civilized men do not say toilet; they say bathroom or men’s room or restroom.”

“Whatever, Guinevere. I need to
rest
badly and now!”

“It’s down the hall and to the left,” stated Lea disdainfully. “Put the seat down when you’re finished and make sure you flush.”

“Yes, Mom.”

The bathroom, of course, was spotlessly clean and painted in fresh shades of cream and the palest yellow. He fingered a tiny ceramic rose bowl crammed with sweet smelling soaps. While he preferred masculine colors, he had to admit her place had a homey feel. He
did
flush and remembered at the last minute to replace the toilet seat.

He paused in the hall, after observing Fox with her head bent over her mini-computer, to examine the cluster of photographs on the wall. A happy-looking family posed casually in the first, and an easily identifiable young Lea, not more than seven or eight, smiled eagerly back at him. A frilly dress of pink and white ruffles smothered her small frame, but her pleasant-looking mother wore a sky-blue dress with a low bodice. Mother Fox was handsome, but not beautiful. Father and son looked amazingly alike with homely, intelligent faces.

Lane, at six to eight years older than his sister, was already a lanky teenager with a bad case of acne. The next photo, however, set an amazingly different tone. Lea appeared remote and dull. Her father’s worn face glowered aggressively, and her brother’s reflected an insolent or even abusive nature. Mother Fox must have been dead for quite some time, and Lea appeared no more than thirteen or fourteen, her eyes hidden behind large spectacles. No trace of a smile softened her face, and her mouth looked pinched and unhappy.