Chapter 5-3
2015 Words
Her eyes widened as he told her about the incident. Maybe he made it sound like he had been a little braver and more resourceful than he had.
“Wow! What do you think Whiteside—”
“Whiteshaw.”
“Whatever. What was he giving him money for?”
“I dunno. Nothing good.” Sean started to scratch his chin, remembered the mask, and took his hand away. “Drugs, maybe?”
Jaybee’s forehead wrinkled. “I can’t imagine him buying so much for personal use. Could he have been a dealer?”
“I doubt it. He owned a sporting goods store. That doesn’t sound like he was pushing heroin.”
“What about steroids? Body builder crap.”
Sean wished he had thought of that. “Could be.”
She jumped in her seat. “Hey! There’s a bigger question. How did the guy last night know you were involved?”
Damn. He really should have thought of that. “He must have heard it from the cops. Who else?”
should“That’s scary. So, what are you gonna do?”
“I dunno. I don’t think he’ll be back unless he hears I’m spending Whiteshaw’s money, and that won’t happen.”
“But you have to call the police!”
Sean frowned. “What? Why?”
“To tell them about the mugger, or whatever he was.”
“But we already figured out he musta heard about me from the cops.”
“All the more reason. They need to know he has a spy on the force.”
“A spy. You’re talking crazy.”
“Well, how else could he know?”
Sean’s nose itched like crazy. “Okay. I’ll call next break.”
“I wanna hear it.”
“Sure.”
Mr. Crocasta wouldn’t let them take their lunch together, so it had to wait until Sean’s day was done and Jaybee snagged a coffee break. Again, they met at the tables outside.
Sean pulled out his wallet. “Here’s the thing. Each of the detectives gave me their card. One was a complete clown, one was okay.”
“Good cop, bad cop.”
He snorted. “In this case I think it was jerk, not jerk.”
“Call the non-jerk.”
“That’s the problem.” He tapped the cards. “I don’t remember which was which.”
“So, take your best guess. I have to go in soon.”
“Okay.” He picked one card and called the number.
“Kanon.”
Damn. It was the jerk.
Damn. It was the jerk.“Uh, hi, Detective. This is Sean Palient. From the underpass?”
“Yeah, kid. What can I do for you?”
“Listen, when I got home last night there was a hood waiting for me. A big creep with a scar on his left eye. Dragged me upstairs and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t give him the money.”
“What? Your lunch money?”
“The five thousand bucks.”
“So, you took it.”
“No! I never saw any money. But this guy thought I did.”
“And why would he think that?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. The news must have leaked from somewhere.”
“Leaked? What do you think this is? The White House?”
Jaybee had been watching the conversation. Her blue eyes rolled with frustration.
“I thought you’d want to know about this guy, that’s all. Like, maybe he’s the killer.”
“If he was the killer he’d have the money, wouldn’t he?”
“I guess so. But what was Whiteshaw buying with the money?”
“Good question, kid. When we find out you’ll read it on Twitter. Meanwhile, stay out of this and watch who you play with.”
“But how am I—” Sean stared at Jaybee. “I don’t believe it. He hung up.”
“You’re right about one thing. He really is a jerk.”
They met again at Elizabeth Park that evening. Jaybee brought roast beef sandwiches. “When the lockdown started, I was baking sourdough every week, but it got to be too much trouble. This bread is from the co-op.”
“It’s good.”
“So, what now?”
His instinct was to stay the hell away from the situation. The cops didn’t want them there and One-Eye was nothing but trouble.
On the other side: this was the most time he had spent with Jaybee.
“What are we trying to do?” he asked. “Find a killer? Find the money? I don’t know how to do those things.”
Jaybee took a sip of beer. “Let’s start with the guy in your apartment.”
“What good it will do? He didn’t know who the killer was or where the money went.”
“Yeah. But he must know why Whiteshaw was going to pay him all that money. And that must have something to do with the killing, don’t you think? I mean, it’s too big of a coincidence.”
“I guess.” He frowned. “How do we go looking for him?”
“It sounds like people would know him from the description, but who do we ask? Is there anything else you remember about him? How was he dressed?”
“Dark jacket. Jeans. Boots, I think. Nothing that stands out.”
“And you didn’t see his car. Did you hear anything else, or smell anything?”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Sean put down the sandwich. “Yes! There was a funny smell. A kind of fruity thing…”
Jaybee nodded. “Like bananas maybe?”
“That’s it! But not real ones. The phony flavor they use in candy. How did you know?”
“That’s the soap they use in some of the homeless shelters in town.”
“Wow. How do you know that?”
“There used to be a homeless guy who came around the Lunchbox at closing time to see if there was leftover food. Mr. Crocasta chased him away when Covid started. He always smelled like that.”
“So, One-eye is homeless and sleeps in a shelter.” Sean nodded. “That makes sense. How do we find him? Go to the shelters?”
“They won’t tell us anything. But I know where to find Tintin.”
“Your homeless pal? Named after a cartoon?”
“He says it was a famous series of graphic novels before Spielberg made the movie. French. Or Belgian, maybe.”
“So, he’s a comic book fan.”
“He says he used to be an artist.” She shrugged. “Before whatever left him on the street.”
“Where will we find him?”
“Maritime Heritage Park.”
“That makes sense. Can we go there now?”
“Sure. Oh.” She frowned. “You don’t have a car.”
He felt himself coloring. “I can bike there pretty fast. It’s downhill.”
The park was downtown, between the old City Hall, now a museum—closed for Covid, of course—and the waterfront. Beside grass and trails there were cement pools where fish were raised, but they were empty now too.
Sean found Jaybee waiting in her car. He locked his bike, and they started up the hill, toward City Hall.
“I don’t wanna sound like a wuss,” he said, “but is this safe? Some of these homeless guys aren’t stable at the best of times, much less taking precautions for the virus.”
“You’re right. We’ll be careful and definitely get out of here before sunset.” Which gave them about an hour. This far north in Washington state it stayed light past nine p.m. in the summer.
They saw a couple of men lying on their backs in the grass. Jaybee didn’t have to get close before she shook her head. Not who she was looking for.
There were cement benches next to the creek that poured down the hill toward the bay. It startled Sean to realize that this was the same creek that flowed through the underpass, miles away.
“That’s him!”
Jaybee nodded at a skinny man with wild brown hair under a porkpie hat. He wore a Seahawks T-shirt and a torn red coat. Unlike most of the homeless types Sean had seen around, he had a mask on, a cheap blue paper one that had seen better days. He was staring down at the creek but jerked around when he heard them approach.
“Tintin? How you doing?”
He was on his feet now, backing toward the fence. “Stay away! I got a knife.”
“It’s Jaybee. From the luncheonette?” She pulled her mask down for a moment so he could see her smile.
Tintin’s shoulders dropped. “Jaybee? What’re you doing here? Who’s he?”
“This is my friend Sean. Look, we were having dinner and there’s a leftover sandwich. You hungry?”
His eyes went wide. “Maybe. Maybe. Whatcha got?”
“Roast beef.”
“Give it here.”
She put it down on the bench and backed off.
He unwrapped it and pulled down his mask.
“We’ve got a question, Tintin. Somebody broke into Sean’s place and threatened him. We’re trying to find the guy.”
“Why you wanna do that? Stay away from trouble. Don’t go lookin’ for more.”
“I think,” Sean said, “this guy’s gonna be trouble until we find out who he is and what he wants. Understand?”
Tintin nodded, his mouth full.
“So, we’re looking for this guy, he’s maybe six foot three. Has a scar around his left eye. He’s—”
“That’s Odin!” Tintin was on his feet. “He sacrificed an eye for wisdom.”
“We’re not talking about mythology,” Jaybee said. “This is a real guy.”
Tintin was walking down the hill, almost running. “Don’t mess with Odin. Don’t!”
He bit into the sandwich again and his next words were lost in a mass of roast beef.
Sean looked at Jaybee. “Any point in going after him?”
“I guess not. What now?”
“His name’s not Odin.”
The speaker was a woman standing near the education center. She had long gray hair and was dressed too warmly for the summer evening, in multiple layers. She was pushing a shopping cart, which seemed to be full of everything she owned. Her mask was a pale blue scarf.
“You know the man we’re talking about?” asked Jaybee.
“Sure do. I can tell you his name and where to find him.”
“That’s great. Who is he?”
The woman shook her head. “What’s in it for me, kiddo?”
Sean took out his wallet. “I can give you twenty bucks.”
“Make it forty.”
He grimaced. This was costing more than he took out of Whiteshaw’s wallet.
“I’ve got twenty,” Jaybee said. “So, tell.”
“It’s not Odin. His name is O.T. Or Odie.” She shrugged. “Never saw it written down. And Tintin’s right. He’s a dangerous M.F. If you’re smart, you’ll stay away from him.”
“Where should we stay away from?” asked Sean. “Where does O.T. hang around?”
“He’s got an RV, blue and white. Usually parks near Squalicum Beach.”
The next day was Monday, and the Lunchbox was closed. They met at ten a.m. at the northern end of the bay, where the beach was hidden from the main roads.
“Look,” Jaybee said, “the only way to do this is lock up your bike and get in the car with me.”
- Writer
