Jonathon Redding

Chapter 2

"Would you care for a coffee, dear?"

She awoke to the wonderful smells of freshly ground coffee, perfume, pine and Patrick Jane.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, to find the perfume. An older woman with a long, grey braid and kind eyes holding out a cup, full to brimming with coffee. It set her mouth watering immediately.

"Yes," she smiled, reaching for it. "Thank you so much." And while she sipped, she glanced around, trying to orient herself to her surroundings.

She was sitting in a large, over-stuffed chair in the middle of the lobby in the Ragged Branch motel in Los Padres National Forest. It was dawning and sunlight was streaming in through large windows of stained glass. They had talked well into the night and she had obviously fallen asleep at some point, for Jane's jacket was draped over her like a blanket. It smelled like him, clean like soap and pine needles and big water. It made her feel strangely warm yet vulnerable at the same time, so carefully, she plucked the jacket, laid it across the arm of the chair and moved to sit up.

"You poor things," the woman was saying. "What a job you have. You could have taken a room, you know…"

The rest of her team were sound asleep.

Cho, in a chair like her, but by the stone fireplace, still in his dark suit and looking for all the world like he had just nodded off. Rigsby, on the other hand, was sprawled, face-down, on the room's only couch, snoring softly, his phone still clutched in one hand. And Jane…

She sat forward, looking for him.

The older woman nudged her arm, pointed to a far corner and smiled.

He sat at a pine desk under the windows, sleeves rolled up, waist-coat open, head down in his arms. There was a pile of coffee cups on the desk beside him, almost rivaling the crunched up balls of paper at his feet.

"He was up all night, that one was. Working on some puzzle. Something to do with letters or words, I suspect. I just kept bringing him coffee and he just kept drinking it. He's a chatty one, he is. A real charmer…"

Teresa Lisbon smiled too and rose to her feet. She suppressed a yawn, looked around the lobby, which, other than her team, was empty. She turned back to the woman. "Is there a restaurant nearby? We'll need to get some breakfast…"

"Kitchen here opens at 7:00, but I'll make an exception for you and your men."

Your men.

"Thanks."

Still smiling, the woman turned to leave. Lisbon downed the last of her coffee before strolling quietly to where Jane was sleeping. She wondered how long he had been up, and knelt to retrieve one of the paper balls, uncrumpling it slowly as to make little sound.

Chapman Aniston.

Aniston Chapman.

Ani stan chap man

c h a a a p m n n n i s t o

A stan man

I am stan

At non champions

In a camp at shonn

And on and on it went. In English, Spanish, German and something she assumed was Latin. She studied the floor, all the crumpled balls of paper. She studied the desk, all the cups of coffee. Something about the name, he had said. She shook her head. He was relentless.

Her phone buzzed, and in the stillness of the morning, it was loud. Jane woke up rather abruptly. He glanced around, rubbed his face with his hands, and smiled up at her, sleepily. He looked like a little boy. She smiled back and put the phone to her ear.

"Hey, good morning, Grace. Yeah, yeah, that's right…" Her green eyes flashed at him, and he sat up a little straighter. "Where? When?"

Cho began to stir.

"Alright. Send me the details. Contact the Alameda PD. Let them know we're coming. Good work, Grace."

From the couch, Rigsby yawned.

She folded her phone, slipped it back into her pocket. Jane was watching her, head cocked, hair in complete disarray. She resisted the urge to pat it down.

"Well?" he asked, blinking. "Well?"

"Well," she answered. "You may be right."

"Naturally."

She grit her teeth.

"Ten days ago, a trucker was found outside Alameda. Throat slashed twice, severe abdominal mutilation."

"His name? His name? What was his name, woman."

"Nick Polley. Lives in Sutterville. Drives for EMP Trucking."

"Nick Polley." Jane sat back, running the name over his tongue. "Nick Polley, Nick Polley…"

She knew it was pointless. She turned back to the others. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. Time to head to the Bay."

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The drive to Alameda was a good three hours, and this time, she let Cho drive. Rigsby took shotgun, and she sat behind him, as she was tired. Jane, naturally, was stretched out on his back in the rear seat, knees up, scribbling.

She didn't have to ask. It was 'Nick Polley', in as many combinations and variations as he could find.

Yes, relentless.

"I mean, I think you'd be great at yoga." Rigsby was saying as he munched on one of the Ragged Branch's organic cranberry flax cookies. "You look like you're flexible. That's probably what you need, right? Flexibility?"

Cho gripped the steering wheel. "I wouldn't know."

"Grace does yoga. She's really flexible. It was amazing the positions she could get into! Oh boy, just amazing," and he snorted with laughter, which he abruptly stopped when a crumpled up piece of paper struck him in the side of the head. Cleared his throat. "In the gym, I mean. The positions she could get into…in the gym."

"You should shut up now," said Cho.

"Yeah," said Rigsby. "I'll shut up now."

Jane sighed and finally rolled up to sitting. He shoved the pencil behind his ear.

Lisbon threw him a glance. "No luck?"

"Meh. It'll come. I just hate the waiting." And he grinned at her.

She shrugged. "It may have nothing to do with the names at all."

"Oh no. It does. It truly does. But maybe not in this way. There are many, many ways you can play with a name." He sighed again and glanced at the paper balls rolling about on the floor of the SUV. "What did you think of the student?"

"Berkeley guy?"

"Yeh. Him."

She pouted. "Normal, I guess. People are usually shook up when they find something like that. Why?"

"He was off."

"He was shook up."

"He was off." And he seemed about to leave it at that, but changed his mind. "No, no. He was stupid. He was a stupid student."

She smirked. "Not everyone is as smart as you are, Jane."

"No one is as smart as I am, Lisbon. But that's not the point. The point is that in order to pursue your Ph.D. in Psychology, you have to be a little more on the ball. You don't read Hawking's "A Brief History of Time" and talk like a stoner. At least not without a great soundtrack. That's an oxymoron."

"I tried to read that once," muttered Cho as he steered their way into the heart of the urban sprawl that was San Francisco, Oakland and Alameda. "It was too long."

Rigsby grinned. "Not Brief enough."

"Exactly."

Jane went on. "And you don't read Stoker's 'Dracula' to figure out 'chicks'."

"You don't?" asked Rigsby, crestfallen. He looked at Cho.

Cho shrugged. "Sorry."

Jane sat back, shaking his head. "We were being played."

"He checked out, Jane. Douglas Rayer is working on his PhD in Psych at Berkeley. Miller made the call himself."

He folded his arms across his chest, puzzling.

Lisbon ground her teeth. When he analyzed things like that, they sounded reasonable. And when he grew quiet like this, he was usually right. "I'll call Grace. Get her to dig a little deeper."

Jane snatched his pencil and laid back down on the seat. "How do you spell that again? Rayer? R. A. Y. E. R.? Douglas Rayer. A loud year… glad years…" and he began to mumble and mutter all over again.

She sighed and grabbed her phone.

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The Alameda Department of Violent Crimes was just over the Park Street Bridge. Alameda was an island city, once a former navy base, now boasting a thriving economy and active sporting life, including the training camp for the Oakland Raiders as well as a yachting community that is world-renowned. The station itself was old, almost Victorian in appearance, but then again, that was nothing new. 'Victorian' was the key word in Alameda, with many hundred year old homes dating back before the Quake of 1906.

It was foggy when they rolled in, but then again, there was nothing new in that either. Alameda was on the Bay of San Francisco and fog came with the territory. In fact, it all conspired to make the afternoon look like something out of 19th century London, the fog, the Victorian styles, and murder.

They found the officer in charge at his desk, coffee on one side, donut on the other.

"Det. Sergeant Nelson?"

Nelson didn't look up from his desk. "Yeah."

Lisbon glanced at the others waiting patiently, Jane strolling some distance behind. She sighed.

"Agent Teresa Lisbon, CBI."

Now he did look up. He was a stocky man with dark moustache and darker circles under his eyes. He studied her for a moment, then the others before rising to his feet. "CBI, huh? You here about the Polley case?"

"Yes. We'd just like to look into it briefly. It might be connected to another case we got yesterday morning."

He grunted, but seemed to be thinking. "Sure. You want hard copy?"

"Oh yes please," sang Jane as he ambled up toward them, hands in pockets. "Hard copy is very good. Makes me feel authentic. Solid. You know. Real. I struggle sometimes. E-this. E-that. What ever happened to good old fashioned pen and ink?" And he smiled.

The detective scowled. "Take Interrogation Room 2, over there. I'll have what we got brought up."

"Oh and by the way," added Jane, still smiling. "Do you remember the name of the man or woman who found the body, assuming it was a man or a woman?"

Nelson stared at him. "No," he said. "I don't."

"But it will be in the file, yeh?"

"Yeah. It'll be in the file…"

"The real, solid paper file? On paper? That file?"

"Uh, yeah." And he gave Lisbon a look that spoke volumes before turning and stomping off, shaking his head and muttering.

Lisbon spun on her heel and swatted Jane with her palm.

"You are not being helpful!" she growled.

He held up his hands in protest. "Just keepin' it real."

Cho and Rigsby grinned, but their boss did not, and together the team headed into the quiet, well-lit chamber that was Interrogation Room 2.

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Coffee and stale donuts were brought as well as 'real, solid paperwork', and all three were snatched in anticipation and spread across the metal table. Jane promptly shuffled past all the crime scene photos, and Lisbon knew what he was looking for. He grabbed one sheet in particular, let the rest of the papers drop to the floor. They scattered like rice at a wedding. He studied the sheet, frowned, picked up all the papers that had fallen on the floor. Rifled through them like a deck of cards. Pulled a second sheet from the pile, dropped the rest to the floor once again. He grabbed a metal chair, pulled his pencil from behind his ear and began to scribble.

"What the hell you think you're doing, pal?" growled Nelson. "Those are official police documents."

"Jane," she sighed. "You can't do that. It's not a Sudoku."

"Sorry." He wasn't. "Rodger Saulay. 29 year old assistant manager at the Alameda Super MegaMart."

"Yes?"

"The man who found Nick Polley's body. Rodger Saulay. Rodger. Who spells Roger R O D G E R?"

Nelson stared at him. "His mamma, that's who."

"You're right," Cho looked up now, frowning. "It's not normally spelled that way."

"Not for first names. It's a variant, granted, but an uncommon one."

"And your last name's a girl's name," grunted Nelson.

"But a correctly spelled girl's name." Jane held up two files. "This incident report says Roger. R O G E R. But this one…this one says Rodger. R O D G E R."

Nelson looked at Lisbon. "So?"

"Really?" asked Jane. "On official police documents? Isn't it important to make sure you get the right information, the correct information? And who's the warrant for, Rodger Saulay or Roger Saulay? I mean, people get off on technicalities all the time. Wouldn't this be considered a technicality?"

"This guy is a nut case. We got a dead man and he's playing scrabble."

Lisbon turned to the detective. "And Saulay checked out? He is who he says he is?"

"Yes. Rodger Saulay is Rodger Saulay. This ain't rocket science."

The consultant was anything if not insistent. "And you talked to Mr. Rodger Saulay of the Alameda Super MegaMart, yeh?"

"Yeah."

"You personally?"

"Yeah. Me personally. The guy was pretty shook up."

Shook up. Jane sat up. Lisbon's heart sank.

"Young, short, fit? Surfer dude type?" pressed Jane.

"Yeah. A regular guy."

"What does he read?"

Nelson looked about to explode. "How the hell should I know? I never asked."

"Oh you should. You really should." And he glanced at Lisbon. He could fill a book with his eyes. She stepped forward.

"Det. Sergeant Nelson, we might need to talk to Mr. Saulay. Would you arrange that?"

Nelson rolled his eyes but shrugged. "Sure. Anything to keep Elmo here from scribbling on official police records."

Jane rose to his feet. "Perhaps Ernie and Bert can take a drive up to the Berkeley Campus on Sesame Street to talk to the other young, short, fit surfer dude type who reads Hawking and Stoker whilst taking his PhD in Psychology and lying to police officers." He turned to Lisbon, expression flat. "Zoe, I think I'll wait in the car."

And he strode out of the interrogation room, taking most of the air with him.

Lisbon sighed once again before reaching for the sheet on Rodger Saulay. He had circled the name, rearranged the letters.

"D O U G L A S R A Y E R."

She shook her head and followed him out.

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It was late afternoon when Cho and Rigsby knocked on the door of Douglas Rayer, the 28 yr old PhD in Psychology student at Berkeley University. It was a small apartment above a convenience store, and Rigsby rang the bell several times. A buzzer buzzed them up.

"So," he said as they began the set of stairs to the apartment. "I still don't get it. Why do you get to be Ernie?"

"We've been through this before," sighed Cho. "Ernie is short, stocky, smart and Asian. Bert is tall, pointy-headed, likes pigeons and turtlenecks. It's a no-brainer."

"Oh, yeah…"

They rapped at the door. Rigsby turned to him.

"Ernie is Asian?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Cool."

The door opened a crack, and a head peeked out. "Yes, officers? Can I help?"

Rigsby held up his badge. "We'd like to speak to Douglas Rayer, please."

"Yes, what's this about, officers?"

"Mr. Rayer? " asked Cho, now. "Mr. Douglas Rayer?"

"Yes, that's me."

They exchanged glances.

Douglas Rayer was in his fifties, balding with a long grey ponytail, hippie glasses and a goatee.

But in his hands was a copy of Stephen Hawkings' "A Brief History of Time."

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It was late afternoon when they knocked on the door of Rodger Saulay, the 29 yr old assistant manager of the Alameda Super MegaMart. It was a neat row house in a quiet low income district of the city, and Det. Sergeant Nelson rang the bell several times before the door opened. A small plump woman in sweatpants stood on the other side.

She peered at them from the doorway. "Yes?" It sounded like two syllables. Yeh-ess?

Nelson held out his badge. "Alameda PD, ma'am. Is Mr. Saulay available?"

"Yes?" She hugged the door a little tighter.

"It seems we need just a little more information. Nothing serious."

Her dark eyes glanced from the badge, to the man, to the CBI agent at his side, and Lisbon found herself tensing. Her Glock was at her hip. Always.

"More information? What you talkin' about, more information?"

Nelson shifted. "Uh, just about the murder, ma'am. What he saw, where he—"

"Murder? Murder? Roger don't know nothin' 'bout no murder!" She turned her head into the room behind her. "Roger! Roger, police!"

The Glock was in her hand before she knew it, and she caught the glint of dark metal in Nelson's. Wide-eyed, Jane had begun to back down the steps.

"What's this about?" Another head popped into the doorway. "What? Guns?" And both Roger Saulay and the plump little woman raised their hands in terror.

There was silence for a moment as the realization set in.

"Mr. Saulay," began Lisbon. "Mr. Roger Saulay?"

"Y-yes ma'am, that's me."

"And you're an assistant manager at the Alameda Super MegaMart?"

"Y-yes, ma'am. One of them, ma'am." Hands still in the air.

She slid her eyes to Nelson. He was shaking his head.

"I don't understand. This is not the man I interviewed. This is not the man…"

For this Roger Saulay was in his forties, tall, slim, dark and balding. Not a trace of Berkeley or surf on him, not one bit.

"Excuse me, Roger…" It was Jane, smiling up from the street. "But how do you spell your first name?"

"Uh, Uh…Is that what you come here for? To ask me that?" Hands still in the air.

"No," said Lisbon.

"Yes," said Jane. "How do you spell it?"

"Um, R O G E R. Like usual, I expect."

Jane beamed. "One more question, if I may?"

"Uh, sure. I guess…"

"Have you ever read Bram Stoker's 'Dracula' or 'A Brief History of Time' by Stephen Hawking?"

"Bram Who's Draca-What?"

"Never mind. Thank you, Roger. Have a lovely night."

And he began to backpeddle to the SUV. Nelson turned to Lisbon. "That was not the man I interviewed. I swear, that is not the man."

Lisbon shook her head and headed down the steps, a very puzzled detective in her wake.

"So…" sang Jane.

Lisbon sighed. "Okay. You were right."

"It's funny how I never tire of hearing that."

Nelson was shaking his head. "I don't get it. I just don't get it."

"Obviously," said Jane. "Maybe what you should get is one of those real official police thingies, oh, what are they called Lisbon? ABPs…BPA's…"

She grit her teeth. He was so smug sometimes. "APBs."

"Ah yes." His eyes were dancing. "Those."

"I'll get right on it," growled Nelson.

"And I'd like to see the pier."

"Where the guy died?"

"Is there another? Perhaps one with a silent D?"

Lisbon leaned into him. "Get in the car or I'll kick you in the shin."

"We don't talk that way on Sesame Street."

She yanked open the door and shoved him inside, the smile never leaving his face. She and Nelson climbed into the front and slowly, the sedan drove away from Roger Saulay and into the Alameda fog.

End of Chapter 2