Arts and Crimes Read online

  "Nope," Jim replied as he studied the two neatly typed letters. "Printed on cheap paper by a computer printer. I don't see a fingerprint or even a stray mark."

  "All they say is that the festival has strayed from its original purpose of promoting local art and, unless all the outside exhibits are shut down, there will be trouble." Blair shook his head. "Doesn't even give us a hint of what to look for. Do you think the writer is serious?"

  Jim shrugged. "Hard to say. It might be a prank to simply upset the committee or it could be dead serious."

  "How can we tell?"

  "We can't, until the first 'accident' happens." Jim stood up. "Time to starting patrolling, Chief."

  * * *

  By the time they stepped out of the trailer, activity was picking up. Booths filled the street, leaving the street's center as well as the sidewalks on either side free for pedestrian traffic. A small crowd was already gathering in front of the tall outdoor stage where an emcee was providing information before introducing the first group. Jim focused on the feet of the dancers waiting for their performance. "Sandburg, are those clogs?"

  Blair turned, squinting at the stage. "Well, I can't see the footwear, but the outfits do suggest clogging."

  "Great," Jim groaned. "Let's get out of here before they start and give me a headache."

  Chuckling, Blair led the way down the fairway. They were at once immersed into the festivities. "Man, Jim, how are we suppose to find sabotage in all this?"

  "Just try to find what's out of place," Jim replied. Without a thought, each of Jim's sentinel senses went on alert. Jim swiftly noted two patrol officers, waist belts thick with radios, night sticks and other items, walking along the right sidewalk. To the left, a customer was trying to haggle the price of a painting with the artist. The young couple up ahead were more interested in each other than the festival, ignoring a glassblower setting up his delicate wares. Under the shade of an oak tree turning orange was an ice cream vendor. Dark hair carefully arranged in a mass of braids and beads, she was giggling as a young man in a red beret flirted with her. Jim's brow wrinkled slightly as he studied the man's light red and blue jacket. It looked like a uniform of sorts, but didn't match any of the gang symbols he knew.

  Blair followed Jim's gaze. "I think that's one of the People Defenders."

  "As long as they flirt with girls and stay out of my way, we won't have a problem." Jim muttered.

  Suddenly, a high female voice shrieked, "Oh MAN! You're PERFECT!" Jim jumped as a woman dashed over to him and started circling. Her dark brown hair was covered in a brightly colored scarf, its wild flower pattern matching the woman's long gypsy skirt. The turquoise blouse reflected in her blue green eyes, which were currently examining Jim like he was the last piece of chocolate pie on the counter. "Look at those biceps! That chest!" She moved her hands about as if measuring Jim's dimensions from a distance. "Muscles! Oh my, you've got muscles! I love muscles. And that sweet, tight..."

  "Ma'am!" Jim blurted out as he dodged out of touching range. "Excuse me, Ma'am?"

  "You're perfect," she sighed again. "You must model for me!"

  "Model?" Jim asked politely, trying not to panic. He took a glance at his partner, who had stepped closer to the booth the woman had dashed out of. The sudden widening of Blair's eyes plus the accompanying smirk did not bode well.

  "Oh yes, model. I need models for my drawings. Woman aren't too hard to convince to take off their clothes, but good looking, muscular men..."

  "Take off my clothes?" Jim practically squeaked. Blair stood by, hand curled around his mouth and nearly doubled over from his effort not to laugh at his partner's predicament.

  "Of course. The human body is the most interesting of subjects, don't you agree?"

  "Not mine!" Jim declared. He quickly took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I don't model."

  "But you're perfect!"

  "Thank you for the compliment, but I'm sure there's lots of other 'perfect' men out there for you." Jim hastily assured her as he backed down the street.

  "Not really," she called out after him. "Don't you want to be immortalized?"

  "No, thank you," Jim called back nervously, then muttered to himself, "I've already had that offer this year." He swiftly turned around and continued walking, his face beet red.

  "Come on, Jim," Blair teased once he caught up. "How bad could it be?"

  "I didn't see you volunteering, Sandburg," Jim growled.

  "Actually, I think it would be fun, but I'm not the one who's 'perfect'."

  "Drop it, Chief."

  "No, I think that's what she wants you to do with your boxers," Blair snickered. After another glance at his embarrassed partner, Blair decided he'd teased enough for now.

  Trying to regain his composure, Jim stopped at the closest booth. "Now, this is something I'd hang on my wall."

  Blair studied the photo of a curved desert rock, its red and textured surface seeming to swirl elegantly across the scene. "Rather calming."

  "With the work we do, I'll take calming." Jim leaned forward to read the tag, then whistled. "Though for that price, I could almost fly out to the desert and snap my own shot."

  "At least cover the air fare," Blair agreed. They stepped further into the booth. "Here's another nice one with the rocks curved around a small puddle of water."

  For the next hour, the two men looked through the booths on the south side of the river while keeping eyes and ears alert for trouble. However, once they reached a booth of intricate wooden sculptures, Jim paused to rub his temples. "Jim?" Blair questioned softly.

  "Sudden headache," Jim explained. His fingers extended the rubbing to around his eyes. "Feels like a migraine."

  Blair searched around them, noticing the booth nearby. "I bet it's the glues used on the sculptures. Who knows what kind of chemicals are in them? Can you dial it down?"

  "Huh?" Jim mumbled hazily, trying to think.

  "Turn down your sense of smell," Blair hissed barely under his breath, not wanting the crowd around them to hear him guide his sentinel.

  Just as Jim started, another smell caught his attention. "Wait."

  "What?"

  "There's something else." Jim replied, his soft voice full of pain and confusion.

  "Okay, big guy, can you ignore the glue? Identify it and filter it out."

  Struggling, Jim managed to filter out the acrid chemical odor, easing the headache. He then recognized the other scent instantly. "Chief, it's propane."

  "I think we're close to the side street with the food booths," Blair pointed out. "Maybe that's the source."

  "Probably, but it's too strong for just cooking," Jim replied as he swiftly walked in the direction of the odor. Turning the corner with Blair nearly jogging to keep up, Jim focused his sight onto the smell. A spare propane tank sat on the curb next to the 'Buddha's Mexican Grill' sign. Next to it, a small Asian man was about to strike a match. "STOP!!!!" Jim shouted, racing to the portable grill to grab the man's arm. "GAS!"

  Behind him, he could hear Blair telling the other vendors to turn off any open flames. Within seconds, Jim had dropped to one knee as he inspected the tank. Blair lightly touched his shoulder. "Jim?"

  "Right here," Jim pointed. "This line has been cut just enough to slowly leak gas."

  "Guess our letter writer isn't fooling around," Blair softly muttered as he took in the gathering crowd.

  Glancing around at the vendors and the stores behind them, Jim inwardly shuddered at the thought of the explosion and possible damage. "No, they aren't fooling around at all."

  "What's the trouble here?"

  Jim stood up to find himself staring into the face of a large black man wearing a People Defenders' jacket. "It's being taken care of."

  "Are you giving this man trouble?" the man questioned sternly, getting into Jim's face.

  Blair immediately identified the angry face as the same one he had studied the night before. It was Elijah Colburn, the leader of the People Defenders. However, th
e picture had not shown the huge chip on the man's shoulders. Blair could also see Jim's gaze growing steadily colder on his inquisitor. Deciding an argument on a busy festival street right after a near disaster wouldn't help anyone's nerves, Blair quickly announced, "Actually, we're the Cascade PD."

  The man gave Blair an examining, almost derogatory look, focusing on the short ringlets Blair now fought with on a daily basis. "With that mop? Give me a break."

  "Detective Ellison?" A shocked voice interrupted.

  Jim's glare quickly turned to surprise. "Marcus Watson?"

  The young man in a People Defenders jacket walked in between his leader and the detective. "Hey, man! How's it hanging?"

  * * *

  On the rooftop

  "Glue smells give you a headache, yet you found a tank before it exploded. Is this an example of you using your heightened senses? Or are you just overly sensitive?" A gloved hand reached for a prescription bottle nearby, popping the lid and shaking two pills into the other hand. After a quick sip from his canteen, the watcher again picked up the binoculars, training them on Ellison talking with the tiny Asian vendor. "How do you handle the enormous input streaming in from your senses? Do you have a way to filter it, or is it hit and miss? You are becoming even more of a puzzle, Ellison."

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Jim and Blair stood under an oak talking with Marcus. "I don't understand," Jim told the young man. "Why did you join the People Defenders?"

  Marcus sighed. "Hey, you know the neighborhood my old man lives in, right? While he and the other tenants have cleaned up our building and a good part of the street, there's still a lot of crime all around them. Plus I graduate from Rainier in another two years. I know after I get my first job I'll be finding my own place out of the neighborhood. You guys know my father - he'll never accept money from me to move someplace else and he's getting older. So I figure if I help get this chapter of the People D's started, then there'll be someone to keep an eye out for my old man and the other tenants when I'm not there."

  Jim nodded, understanding Marcus' concerns. "What do you think of Colburn?" Jim tried not to let his still simmering anger show on his face. He didn't like a civilian getting in the way of his police work.

  "He's okay. I think he's still trying to prove the People Defenders are on the up and up, so he tends to overdo things." A small smirk crept across Marcus' face. "He especially doesn't like big guys pushing around little guys."

  "Hey, man, Jim kept that man from toasting himself and the booths next to him," Blair pointed out.

  "Yeah, I know that," Marcus chuckled. "But Eli didn't see that. He doesn't know you're the good guys yet."

  "So, what are you studying at Rainier?" Jim asked, changing the subject.

  "Electrical engineering." Marcus then turned to Blair. "I saw your press conference." Blair looked down, not sure what to say. "Hey man, I know you're one of the good guys. I trust you did what you had to do, and it takes guts to stand up to the press like you did."

  "Thanks, Marcus."

  "No prob. And I'm not the only one on campus who thinks that way. Just thought you should know. "

  A grateful smile stretched across Blair's face. "Thanks, that means a lot."

  Jim spotted Simon weaving his way through the crowd. "Here's our captain. Take it easy, Marcus."

  "You too, man. I hope you keep finding those leaking tanks before they explode!"

  Sending a friendly wave after Marcus, Blair followed his partner to meet their Captain. A scowl was plastered across Simon's face as he again checked the booth's banner. "Buddha's Mexican Grill? Only in America." He then turned to his men, growling, "Tell me this was an accident."

  Jim and Blair both shook their heads. "The gas line was definitely cut," Jim reported.

  "Damn." Simon looked around at the vendors, who were slowly returning to their businesses. "Did anyone see anything?"

  "Nothing anyone's reporting," Blair answered. "They were all too busy getting their own booths set up."

  Simon studied the crowd swirling around them. "The owner of the one that nearly blew?"

  Jim shrugged. "He and his nephew didn't notice anyone out of place. The nephew said that Dennis from the main office was over to confirm their reservation. They had a few customers stop by to ask when they'd be open. One of the other vendors asked if they knew where the electrical outlets were. A couple of the People Defenders helped them move a few things."

  "Since Marcus Watson was one of them, we suspect they were just being helpful," Blair added.

  "Marcus Watson?" Simon asked, trying to place the name.

  "The kid who helped us with the armored car accident that wasn't an accident but a cover for counterfeit money," Blair reminded him.

  "Oh, right," Simon nodded. He turned his gaze to the glass windows near the Buddha's grill booth, picturing the destruction that was avoided. "Why is it I doubt we've seen the last of the sabotage?"

  "Because we probably haven't," Jim replied grimly.

  Simon sighed. "Well, there is no way you and Sandburg can cover this entire circus by yourselves. Rafe and Brown caught that convenience store robber last night, so I've ordered them to be here around noon."

  "Simon, we only have one Jim," Blair quietly reminded him.

  "Yes, but they are trained police officers. The more eyes we have, the better. Hell, if Connor and Taggart weren't already busy, I'd have their butts down here, too."

  Jim nodded. With this kind of crowd over this large of an area, they would need all the help they could get.

  * * *

  Back on patrol, Blair studied the people around them more intently. How could you pick out a person with a grudge from the rest of the crowd? Psychotic people looked as normal as everyone else. Blair's own experiences with Lash proved that. It could be anyone from the elderly man studying a sculpture on the right to the sweet-faced young woman explaining a black and white photo to several people on the left.

  Feeling the growing tension in his partner, Jim tapped his shoulder to gain his attention. "Hey Sandburg, how about some lunch?"

  Blair glanced back towards the crowd still gathered around the food booths. "I suspect it'll be a while before they're in business."

  "Yeah, but didn't you say there was another set on the other side?"

  Blair smiled at his partner. "Yeah, there is. "

  "Then let's go."

  Together they walked across the bridge. With all the booths anchored along the railing, it was hard to see the dam upstream. Blair made a mental note that they would have to look at the art there later. They had barely reached the other bank when Jim paused, tilting his head to the right. Blair placed his hand on Jim's shoulder, grounding his friend without upsetting Jim's delicate hearing.

  Jim's frown grew deeper; he could hear a crackling that was out of place. As he turned to the right and walked down the aisle of booths, he recognized the sound as a fire. Barely aware of Blair beside him, Jim stopped in the middle of the lane, trying to piggyback his vision to the crackling he heard. Just as his partner opened his mouth, a 'whoosh' drew his eyes to one of the booths. Flames were shooting out of a nearby trash receptacle to climb the white canvas wall.

  "FIRE!!!!!!!" Jim shouted. The crowd around him then spotted the flames and began to scatter, knocking down some of the exhibits. Franchot Pascalle rushed out of the endangered booth. Ignorant of the fire, he shook his fist in the air, swearing in French at the people rushing by.

  Jim and Blair had to fight their way through the crowd to reach the fire. Jim yanked off his jacket and hit the canvas with it, trying to beat out the flames.

  Blair's frantic eyes landed on the booth next door. It contained sculptured water fountains, advertised as a 'delight to the senses'. For once, Blair had other things on his mind besides sentinel tests when he noticed the water flowing through them. "Excuse me," Blair blurted out to the women who had stepped out of the booth as he raced to the nearest fountain. He yanked out the hose from behind the f
ountain and pointed it at the burning canvas next door. A thumb placed just so squirted the water in a steady stream. He managed to douse both the fire and his partner.

  "Sandburg," Jim muttered as he wiped the water from his eyes. The sound of clapping caught his attention. The women from the fountain booth and those who had stayed to watch were applauding Blair's efforts. Always the showman, Blair gave them a courtly bow.

  "Take your FOOT off my CREATION!"

  Jim turned his head to find Pascalle glaring at him. Glancing down, Jim realized his foot was on a corner of a painting knocked over by the crowd. As he gingerly lifted his boot, the artist snatched the painting off the ground. Pascalle held it out at arms-length, frantically searching the brown and red textured work. Jim's brow wrinkled as he scanned it. Heck, my niece's kindergarten class could have done a better job than that with their finger-paints.

  Apparently, that wasn't what Pascalle thought. "Look what you've done!" the artist cried out. "You have marked my work, you huge oaf!"

  "I was trying to save the rest of your booth," Jim defended himself. He took another look at the painting. "Besides, how can you tell? The mud is the same color as that brown shade."

  The artist's face turned red with anger. "You...You..." he spurted, then began ranting in French. Jim simply rolled his eyes as the artist continued his rampage.

  Struggling not to laugh, Blair turned to see two patrol officers wade their way through the spectators. Blair waved them over. "Hi, I'm Detective Sandburg," Blair introduced himself softly, presenting his badge. "We have a possible arson situation. I need you to keep the crowds back so we can preserve the crime scene and interview witnesses." As the two officers began their assignment, Blair yanked out his cell phone and called in the fire. Then he checked on his partner. The artist was beginning to run out of steam.

  "Mr. Pascalle," Jim finally inserted. "Your booth was on fire and we expect it may be arson. You will need to answer some questions."

  "WHAT! Why should I, Franchot Pascalle, answer any questions?"