Sneak Thief (A Dog Park Mystery) (17 page)

“
I
don't know
why I didn't think of this before,” Lia told Terry as they walked down 12th Street. “I led a public service project to paint their facade a few years ago. Seven high schools collaborated. You'll see in a minute.”

“If you've been here before, why do you need me along?”

“The clientele is unpredictable. You never know what you'll walk in on.”

“Ah, I am your armed escort.”

“Forget armed. Escort is plenty. I'm less likely to be hassled if I have someone with me. Whatever happens, do
not
pull your gun.”

They could see the colorful facade a block away. The storefront windows had been replaced with painted plywood panels featuring helping hands, military dog-tags, food, home, a woman bursting through barb-wire, and other symbols of security and empowerment. “These were all created by high school students. I coordinated with each school and led brainstorming sessions.”

“It's quite . . . cacophonous, don't you think?”

“The directer liked the idea of being impossible to ignore.”

“A noble effort ably achieved.”

As they neared the door, Lia could hear yelling from inside.

“Egad. Should we proceed?” Terry asked, hesitating in front of the door.

“I don't want to stand out here on the street. They're used to this. Come on. Just remember what I said, and let them handle it.”

“I hope you have one hand on your kubotan.”

Lia pushed the door open.

“. . . I am an American, a citizen of the U. S. of freaking A. You got no right to throw me out of here!” The man was tall, gangly and odiferous. He curled his long body over the high counter into the face of a round, bald man sporting a well-trimmed, white goatee. Lia remembered his name was Steve. She didn't understand how the man could stay calm while spittle flew in his face.

“Sure I do. You can't be in here when you're yelling like that. You know the rules.” The bald man had a voice that was high and gravelly. Lia marveled at the way he kept his composure.

“My right to say what I want is constitutionally protected! You can't do this to me. I got rights.” He stabbed the counter with a knobby finger graced with a ragged, grimy nail.

Terry stepped up to the counter. “Sir, free speech as protected by the Constitution only applies to public places. This is a private non-profit, and therefore exempt. You, my friend, have no rights here.”

“You got that right!” the gangly man yelled.

“Who the hell are you?” Steve asked Terry, raising his voice for the first time. “You're not helping, Buddy.” He turned back to his abuser. “Leave now, Leon, or I
will
call 911.” Steve had been joined by a co-worker who stood arms crossed, impassively eyeing Leon.

“Go ahead and call them, you can't make me go. You, neither, Gloria,” he hissed at the woman.

Steve picked up the phone and tapped out three digits. He rolled his eyes and began talking quietly into the phone. Leon stuck a hand in his pocket. He tensed and began to vibrate. Lia held her breath, wondering if he was going to pull a knife. She put her hand in her own pocket and gripped her kubotan, her thumb rubbing against the safety on the mace like a worry stone.

Leon continued screaming as Terry took a step back. Lia noticed his hand casually moving into a position that would make it easy for him to pull his gun. Lia caught his eye and shook her head vigorously. Terry ignored her and kept his hand in position, his eyes glued to Leon. He reminded Lia of a dog who has just spotted a cat and was tensed in anticipation of a chase.

“I don't have to stand for this! You'll see! You think you're gonna take care of me? I'm gonna take care of this situation right now!”

Leon whipped his hand out of his pocket. He was gripping something. Lia could not see what it was. He jammed the offensive index finger into the palm of his hand, into the mysterious object. Lia was confused when he put the object up to his mouth.

“911? My rights are being vi-o-la-ted. I am being illegally evicted from the Homeless Association. I need you to send someone to take care of this a-hole at the desk. You send them right now!” He ended his call and glared at Steve. “We'll just see what's what.” He turned to face the back of a little woman with apparent obsessive compulsive disorder who had been straightening the cheap stacking chairs lining the lobby and was now aligning the lid and tap on the coffee urn. “I got rights!” he screamed at her. “This is a public place! Just because I'm homeless, they gonna toss me out. It's unconstitutionable!” The little woman blinked, ducking her head and fumbling as she attempted to line up the wrinkled paper napkins with hands that were now shaking.

The young junkie nodding out in the corner whined, “Cut it out man, you're killing my high.”

A police siren gave a brief whoop. Steve nodded to Gloria and went outside, returning immediately with a pair of officers. Leon interrupted his tirade to address the new arrivals. “You tell him he can't throw me out of here,” he demanded, pointing at Steve. “You tell him this is a public place and I got rights! You got to help me! I'm an American citizen! I pay your salary!”

“Leon,” the taller of the two officers addressed him, “let's go outside and discuss this situation privately. Will you do that for me?”

Leon grumbled but went. Steve sighed and shook his head as his shoulders relaxed.

“Busy morning, Steve?”

“Lia! You know the floor show was just for you.”

“I feel so special. This is my friend, Terry Dunn. Terry, Steve Reams. What's going to happen to Leon?”

“He didn't threaten anyone, so I asked them not to put him in jail if they could help it. If they can, they'll just encourage him to move along. I imagine he'll be back tomorrow. What brings you downtown?”

“We're looking for a homeless man.”

“How many do you want? We're running a special this week.”

“Cute. I'm hoping you can give me some information.”

“Let's take a walk. Gloria, I'm going on break.” Steve grabbed a dapper straw hat from behind the counter and clapped it on his head. “My sister,” he explained. “She's concerned that I'll get skin cancer if I let the sun beat down on my head, now that there's no hair left to protect it.

Steve led them down an alley next to the building. “Let's head over to Coffee Emporium. We can talk there.”

They cut through the alley to Central Parkway and the former-machine-shop-turned-hipster-nexus. Once seated with drinks, Steve got back to business.

“I'm not supposed to talk about clients, and especially not in front of other clients. They can be so paranoid.”

“Oops, sorry.”

“You have the patience of Job, friend,” Terry said. “How do you manage it?”

Steve shrugged. “I had one foot off the curb at one time. It could be me babbling into my Wild Irish Rose. So what do you need this guy for?”

“Someone's been leaving little foil dolls for a friend of mine,” Lia said, leaving out the part where Desiree was deceased and Lia thought Foil Man killed her. “We're trying to figure out who it was. I tracked the dolls to a guy named Ernie who was homeless and hung with a guy—”

“Oh, you mean Watcher. Skinny guy, dreadlocks, beard down to here.” He indicated the middle of his chest.

“Watcher?”

“Sure, takes scraps of aluminum foil and twists them into little sculptures. We used to keep a roll of foil on hand for him. This was after you did the facade. He was amazing to watch. Haven't seen him for quite a while. We still have a few of his sculptures around the office. Did you see the one behind the counter?”

“I only had eyes for Leon. What can you tell me about Watcher? We're not sure what to think about the dolls, whether he was stable or not.”

“Well,” he scratched his chin. “There's basically three types of homeless that I see. First are your mentally ill, the folks who would be in mental institutions if Ronnie hadn't defunded those in the 80's. Mostly, they're too low-functioning to do much more than stumble through one day to the next, but there aren't adequate housing options for them. They usually don't have the capacity to cause any trouble that requires planning. It's just when they get agitated that you have to worry.

“Next you have your addicts and alcoholics, and all they think about is their next high. Watcher got high sometimes, but he was young and and he still had a few brain cells. For being homeless, he could be responsible, especially after he decided it was his job to take care of Ernie. I think it gave him a sense of purpose. I always thought Watcher was behind door number three.”

“Which is?”

“One paycheck away from the disaster and something happens. It occurs more often than you think, these days. These folks are focused on finding their way back off the street. I think he lost his job and his girlfriend tossed him out. If I remember, he was living in his car. He was obsessed about being dumped, otherwise I think he might have bounced back.”

“Do you think Watcher is stable?”

“Relatively speaking, yeah. He was a little twisted, but he knew which shoe went on which foot, and what time of day it was. He and Ernie'd recycle cans and Watcher would sell his little dolls. Since he was always clean, some of the guys would have him go into stores for them. Never said much. Haven't seen him since Ernie died.”

“How does a homeless person stay clean?” Terry asked.

“Mary Magdalene House has a bath house the homeless can use once a day, as long as they obey the rules and don't get tossed out. Leon, of course, has been banned for life. I never figured out where Watcher washed his clothes. I never had any problems with him.”

“You said ‘relatively.' What's relative about his stability?”

“Well,” Steve scratched his chin again. “He could be a little spooky. He just . . . watched everything and didn't say a word most of the time. It was kinda creepy.”

“Only
kinda
?” Lia asked.

“A voyeur, then,” Terry said. “How would we go about finding him now?”

Steve looked up at the ceiling while he considered this question. “He didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. Tell you what. I think he used to get mail sometimes. Can't get food stamps without a physical address,” he explained. “And he would have given them his real name. Would that help?”

“That would be great.”

“I'll ask around and check our files this afternoon, but I can't promise anything. We get mail for close to two thousand people. It's been so long, his name might not be on the list anymore. Even if it is, I might not recognize it if I see it.”

T
erry parked
his truck across the street from the cheerless brick cracker-box in Price Hill. The house was fronted by an anemic scruff of grass, reminding Lia of an unfortunate grunge musician's beard. She was sure rust was the only thing keeping an ancient Chevy station wagon atop the array of cinder blocks in the driveway. She imagined the next strong wind blowing defunct car parts all over the neighborhood. Sympathy bloomed for Desiree. If the place repelled her from the outside, what would it have been like, growing up in that house?

“Our target is this abominable abode?” Terry asked, mirroring her thoughts.

“This is the address I got from Amanda. Doesn't look like much, does it?”

“You sure you won't join me? I don't know how long I'll be.”

“From everything Desiree and Amanda said about Josiah Willis, he's not likely to open up around a woman. He might be able to relate to you since you're wearing camouflage,” Lia said, referring to Terry's concealed carry vest. “Just keep your vocabulary in check. Remember, he's a heavy-duty bible thumper.”

“Surely the man who sired the comely Desiree is not a total ignoramus, but I shall essay to to make my verbiage intelligible.” He pulled out his cell phone and tapped a couple buttons. Lia looked at him quizzically as her phone rang.

“Keep the line open so you don't miss anything.” He winked as he climbed out of the truck.

Lia rolled her eyes and slumped down in the passenger seat of Terry's truck, holding the phone in her lap and lifting her chin so she could see out the driver's side window while remaining concealed. She heard Terry knocking on the door through her phone and pressed it against her ear.

A black slit appeared above Terry's head as the door opened. Terry remained in front of the door, blocking her view of the occupant.

“Josiah Willis?” Terry asked.

“Who wants to know?” The voice was thin and contentious.

“My name is Terry Dunn. I want to express my condolences for you loss, sir, and let you know that there will be a memorial service for Desiree at The Comet next Monday . . . .”

“You friends with Desiree?” the unseen man interrupted.