Sandburg Squared

by Cindy Combs

  Blair sent a frustrated glare at his uncle's back. "No one talked me into it. I'm old enough to make my own decisions based on my own reasons. I'm thirty, not thirteen, you know."

  "Oh, all of thirty." Obie shot him a measuring glance before checking the oven. "Blair, I'm not judging, I'm just saying, this is all rather... different... for you." Catching Blair's glare, he responded defensively, "What, I'm not allowed to be curious?"

  Rolling his eyes, Blair was about to respond when he spotted Jim casually walking down the stairs. His roommate's face was a controlled mask as he carefully tugged the sleeves of his sweatshirt into place. Damn. No way Jim missed hearing this conversation. "Hey, Jim. Ribs feeling better after the shower?"

  "Yeah." Jim carefully kept his face neutral, forcing back his anger at Obie's snooping. Reminding himself that the man was justifiably worried about his nephew's new career, he decided to pretend that he hadn't heard the conversation. Walking towards the two Sandburgs, Jim's nose twitched, categorizing the cooking smells floating out of the kitchen. He shot Blair a worried look. The younger man could only guess at the different spices and ingredients his uncle had probably tossed in that the sentinel was distinguishing, so he answered the non-verbal question with a shrug.

  "Hey detective, I hope you're hungry," Obie greeted heartily, silently noting the exchange between the two men. "I was just about to put dinner on the table."

  "More tired than hungry, I'm afraid." Hearing a quiet growl, Jim glanced under the table to spot the dog glaring at him.

  "That's Brody," Blair replied, hoping Jim didn't get too upset with having a dog in his loft.

  Fortunately for Blair and Brody, Jim felt too tired and achy to waste the energy arguing. He silently sat down and ignored the dog.

  It wasn't long before Jim wished he had simply gone to bed. The ostrich patties were seasoned heavily with a variety of spices, overwhelming Jim's sensitive mouth and nose. There were bits of this and that in the rice, some of which Jim couldn't identify and wasn't sure he wanted to. Even the biscuits had tarragon in them, a combination Jim thought highly strange, but at least edible compared to the ostrich. Even Blair's stranger recipes smelled better than this meal.

  At least the conversation was interesting. It was soon obvious that his friend was close to his uncle in more than looks. The two talked about Naomi's latest exploits, the situation in Chechnya, the National Monuments recently created, and the women they'd dated. Blair even told Obie about Desiree the witch. "Yeah, Jim and half of the tough guys in Major Crimes were actually scared of her."

  "She was scary, Chief," Jim softly inserted. "She's a black witch, if she's Wiccan at all. I'm still betting on Satan worshipper."

  "I dated a black witch once," Obie replied reminiscently. "She had my head going every which way."

  "Wasn't that the one Mom dumped the tea on 'accidentally', and she claimed Naomi was trying to poison her?" Blair asked, his eyes gleaming.

  Obie laughed, a sound that reminded Jim of Blair. "That's the one!"

  "Was she the one who gave you the limp?" Blair asked, then remembered, "No, wait. You got the limp slipping into the wrong hut in Africa." Blair turned to his roommate, chuckling. "See, someone else has worse luck with women than I."

  Jim lifted an eyebrow. "So your uncle has dated women who forced him at gunpoint to drive a getaway car, whose father is a gun smuggler, or has attempted to burn off his eyebrows because he overbooked?"

  "Recently?" Obie exclaimed. "What woman was that?"

  "Well, actually," Blair replied with a chuckle, "those were three different women..."

  As Blair and Obie continued their trip down memory lane, Jim attempted to slip some of the meat to the dog lying under the table. Brody sniffed the offering, turned up his nose, and crawled further under the table. At least the dog agrees with me. I hope the poor thing has some plain old dog chow somewhere. Actually, even dog chow sounds better than this.

  After eating a biscuit, managing to swallow some rice while trying not to think of what was in it, and poking at the patties a few times, Jim finally gave up and picked up the tea Obie had poured.

  "Feeling okay, Jim?" Blair asked, noting how little his roommate had eaten. After the first bite, he had feared the patties would be too strong for the sentinel.

  "Just sore," Jim replied, not wanting to offend Blair's uncle and prove he was an uptight former soldier. "In fact, if you don't mind, I think I'll just turn in."

  Concern deepened in Blair's face. "Let me know if you need anything."

  "I'll be fine, Chief. Just enjoy your uncle's visit, and remember we have work tomorrow."

  "We'll try to keep it down, but you might want to put in your earplugs," Blair suggested. He didn't want to have to explain to his uncle why whispering in his room would still be too loud for his roommate above.

  After Jim had climbed the stairs, Obie picked up a plate. "Let's get the table cleared off, and I'll show you your present."

  Blair grinned widely. While it had been months since his birthday, it was normal for Uncle Obie to present gifts long after the fact. However, the gifts always made an impression. Other relatives may give toys, candy or clothing. Uncle Obie gave him neat stuff, like the tribal mask he had on the wall, or the walking stick from Africa, or the spinning top from Istanbul. It had been the various gifts and stories Obie would bring back from his travels that first piqued a young boy's interest in other cultures.

  Once the table was cleared and the dishes in the sink, Obie picked up something near the door and followed Blair into his room. With a flourish, he placed it on the desk. There sat a wooden oval on a metal stand, approximately a foot high. Blair's eyes grew wide as he studied the carvings along the side. "Did you do this?" he asked as he ran his hands over the polished wood.

  "Yep, this is my new business," Obie explained with a proud smile. "Go ahead and open it."

  Releasing the latch at the top, five sections pulled down like slices of an orange. Each slice provided a holder for a candle and a container for burning incense. But what drew Blair's eye was the black stone at the center, resting on a wooden holder. "Is this Tourmaline?" he asked, running a finger lightly down the striated side.

  "Yes," Obie confirmed. "I thought your meditations might benefit from removing the negative energy in your surroundings."

  "Yeah, there's plenty of negative vibes dealing with the perps," Blair replied, purposely ignoring Obie's implied source. His finger touched another latch, springing open a small compartment on one of the slices. "Is this a tape player?" He focused back on his uncle, eyes shining. "This is like a mini meditation set up."

  "Exactly," Obie smiled proudly. "By using various stones, incense, and music, it can be customized to whatever each individual needs."

  "Cool. Though I bet I know the real reason." A smug smile stretched across Blair's face. "That gives you a chance to talk with the customers and hear all their troubles."

  Obie laughed softly in deference to the dark figure sleeping upstairs. "That's right. You know me too well, boy."

  Blair chuckled. "Should by now."

  "So, when are you going to tell me what happened in your life?"

  Suddenly on guard, Blair turned back to the gift. "I discovered I liked police work. I like helping people. I like the thrill of chasing after the bad guys. It made the university look dull and gray in comparison." In more ways than one.

  "So you decided to chuck nearly twelve years of hard work for excitement?" Obie prodded. While nothing sounded false in this confession, the older man knew Blair was holding back.

  "Yep, traded the merry-go-around for the roller coaster," Blair quipped, not wanting to go deeper. He turned and grabbed an armful of bedding. "Why don't you sleep in my bed tonight? I'll go sleep on the couch."

  Obie watched his nephew's retreating back. Nice try, lad. But I know you too well, too.

  * * *

  Next morning, Major Crimes

  As Ellison and Sandburg stepped out of the elevator
, Jim growled, "Why MY bed, Sandburg?"

  Blair threw up his hands. "Hey, Jim, I didn't tell him to sleep in your bed."

  "Not only my bed, but the CENTER of my bed."

  "You could have kicked him out."

  "I did. TWICE." Jim suddenly stopped.

  In front of him was Rafe, sitting at his desk, with Brown and Taggart standing next to him. Instead of studying the folders in their hands, they were all staring at Jim. "Ah, Jim," Taggart ventured hesitantly. "Exactly WHO was in the center of your bed?"

  "Brody was," Blair answered helpfully, though only adding to the confusing.

  Brown's eyebrow lifted. "And who is Brody?"

  "Blair's uncle's mangy mutt," Jim grumbled, still upset.

  "He's not mangy," Blair refuted.

  "Blair's who?" asked Rafe.

  "My uncle Obie's visiting..." Blair began.

  "Uncle Obi?" Brown exclaimed. "I didn't know you were related to a Jedi!"

  Blair rolled his eyes and continued his explanation. "Short for Obediah, not Obi Wan. Anyway, his dog Brody decided he liked Jim's bed best."

  "And exactly how big was this dog that commandeered your bed, Jim?" Taggart asked, trying not to laugh.

  Jim rolled his eyes and stomped to his desk. Trying desperately to hide his smirk, Blair indicated Brody's size to their co-workers using his hands.

  "Man, Jim, I'm surprised you didn't drop kick something that tiny!" Brown roared, no longer able to hold back his laughter.

  "Don't think I wasn't tempted," Jim growled under his breath.

  "Wasn't there enough room for both of you?" Rafe suggested.

  "Not when the mutt insists on the center of the bed," Jim retorted, only serving to increase his colleagues laughter.

  Captain Simon Banks poked his head outside his door. "Ellison. My office. Matters' file. Now." Then he glanced at his laughing detectives. "Why aren't you working?"

  As everyone else scurried to look busy, Jim dropped his head into his hands. "This just isn't going to be my day."

  Blair kept his smirk to himself until his partner was safely inside their captain's den. Then he smiled widely as he opened a folder from his own in box.

  A few minutes later, two men dressed in dark suits stepped into the bullpen. After a brief word with Rhonda, they walked over to Blair's desk. Looking up, the word 'Fed' shouted in the rookie detective's mind. The leaner of the two appeared to be part Japanese and wore his black hair cropped para-military style, with a suitably grim expression to match. The second man, thirty- ish, Blair would guess, had distinctly Chinese features, and smiled a broad, if phony, grin.

  "Detective Sandburg?" The latter Fed approached, displaying his badge. "Good morning. I'm Agent Keane from the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Okuma," he indicated the unsmiling older man. "Your uncle is one 'Obediah Emerson Sandburg'?"

  At Blair's nod, Keane leaned to sit on the edge of the desk, smiling a broad, if pathetically fake, grin. Okuma remained standing, fixing Blair with an unyielding stare, presenting an imposing front. Good Fed, Bad Fed, Blair sized them up immediately, Oh boy oh boy. Jim was right, it was going to be one of those days. "We need to ask you a few questions concerning your uncle," Keane was saying. "This won't take long."

  "What's this about?" Blair asked suspiciously.

  "When was the last time you spoke to your uncle?" Keane asked.

  "This morning."

  Keane exchanged an unreadable look with Okuma. "Do you know where he is now?"

  "What's this about?" Blair repeated.

  It was Okuma who answered, "He's a potential witness to a murder last evening."

  "What?!" The shocked exclamation from Blair drew the attention of the other detectives.

  "What's going on here?" Simon's voice suddenly growled behind them. Turning, the agents found the tall forms of Jim Ellison and Simon Banks glaring at them.

  "And you would be?" Okuma asked.

  "I 'would be' Captain Simon Banks, Sandburg's commanding officer. And this 'would be' Detective James Ellison, Sandburg's partner. I would like to see some ID." After studying the badges the two grudgingly displayed, Banks frowned at the agents. "I don't know what this is about, but you are distracting my other detectives. If you wish to question one of my men, I suggest you do so in my office--under my supervision." His tone brooked no argument.

  Blair raised thankful eyes to his boss as he stood to follow the agents into the office.

  Once inside, Blair sat as the two agents faced him. "Who was murdered?" Blair asked.

  "WE are doing the questioning here," Agent Okuma replied.

  Simon interrupted, "I think Detective Sandburg's question deserves an answer."

  "This is a Federal investigation, Captain. I'm not at liberty to divulge details," Okuma argued.

  Jim was leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed, matching Okuma glare for glare. "I don't want to step on any toes, here, but a murder on the wharf sounds like a matter for us locals. What's your interest in this?"

  Keane answered, "All we can tell you, Detective, Captain, is that the victim was in this country illegally. The rest is strictly 'need-to-know'."

  "If there's been a murder in my jurisdiction, I 'need to know'," Simon warned.

  "As we said, Captain, this is a federal matter." Okuma leaned into Blair's personal space. "You saw him this morning. Do you know what your uncle did last night?"

  "Yeah, he fixed dinner for Jim and me, cleaned up, and slept in my bed while I took the couch. What time last night was the murder?"

  "Jim?" Agent Keane asked.

  "That's me," Ellison replied. "We're roommates."

  The Fed raised an eyebrow, but then turned back to Sandburg. "What time did he arrive?"

  Blair glanced at Jim as he answered, "A little after eight." Jim nodded in agreement.

  "Do you know what your uncle has been doing lately, Detective Sandburg?"

  Blair shrugged. "Obie's into lots of stuff, but lately he's been making meditation boxes to sell at New Age fairs and online."

  "Did you know that at these fairs, your uncle claims to be a doctor?" Agent Keane questioned.

  Blair rolled his eyes. "My uncle is a doctor. He just retired from active practice because he hated the demands from the HMOs." Jim raised an eyebrow. Obie hadn't struck him as a doctor.

  "There is a huge sum of money in his savings account," Okuma pointed out.

  "That's part of his settlement money from Wholesome Pharmaceuticals."

  "He seems to travel a lot," Okuma commented, trying to make it sound suspicious.

  Blair resented the insinuation. Trying not to lose his temper, the young detective replied, "He traveled with the Peace Corps after he got his medical license. Plus he's done a lot of volunteer work with Doctors Without Borders for the past fifteen, twenty years." Both Jim and Simon looked surprised at that information. "All facts easily verifiable if you'd bother to do a simple background check."

  "Why, you..." Agent Okuma began.

  "Curt, lay off," Agent Keane interrupted. Okuma backed off, still glowering. Keane turned to Blair. "I apologize for my partner's manners, Detective. It's been a long morning. We're familiar with your uncle's admirable humanitarian work." The compliment was nearly as phony as the Fed's smile. "Where can we find your uncle now?"

  "I imagine he's at the fair down on the wharf right now near his booth," Blair pointed out.

  "All right, we will locate him there for questioning. In the meantime, stay where we can reach you."

  "Is my detective under suspicion?" Simon queried.

  "No, not at this time."

  "Then he doesn't need to answer to you," Banks pointed out in his most authoritative voice. With one last scowl, Okuma followed Keane out of the office.

  Once the door shut, Simon turned to Blair. "Do you have any idea what that was about?"

  Blair shook his head. "Uncle Obie mentioned he bought some wood down at the docks from where his old friend Gene is working. He didn't say anything about s
eeing a murder."

  Jim shrugged. "He may have been in the area and not seen anything."

  "Let me guess," Simon commented with a sigh. "Finding trouble is a genetic trait of the Sandburg family?"

  At Jim's questioning look, Blair slowly nodded. "Yeah, he and Naomi are both pretty good at it, too."

  Simon rubbed the side of his nose. "Then I suggest you go find your uncle Obi Wan before the Feds do. Murder in Cascade is our jurisdiction, not theirs."

  "That's Obediah, sir, not Obi Wan," Jim felt obliged to point out.

  "I don't care if he's Darth Vader. I want to know why we weren't informed of a murder, who was murdered, and what bug climbed up our federal friends' collective butts. Go find him!"

  * * *

  The New Age Fair

  The first rays of dawn were brightening the skies when Obie and Brody set out for the convention center and the "New Millennium, New You" Alternative Medicine Fair. The wharves, despite the colorful banners adorning the street lamps, weren't much more hospitable looking in the light of morning. It reminded Obie of the summer he'd spent selling magnetic bracelets at San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf. Tourists, vendors, street musicians, and panhandlers were beginning to wander along the piers of Cascade's water front, the former going about the business of sight-seeing and shopping, the latter three hoping for a small share of the tourists' money. Tour buses and boats were being cleaned and fueled in anticipation of another day's business. Obie watched the numbers on the passing piers until he spotted Pier 5 and the turn for the convention center directly across the street. A line of prospective customers was already forming, Obie noticed with satisfaction.

  "An eager crowd, Brody, that's a good sign. Ready to look, ready to buy," he remarked.

  Brody's growl was unimpressed.

  "You doubt me now, but wait and see."

  Obie had been half-right: ready to look they were. Ready to buy was a whole other story. Three hours and twenty-five explanations of the meditation kits later, the only thing at Obie's booth that had sparked interest was Brody.

  "That's a dog." This from a bridling woman who, in Obie's humble opinion, wasn't one who should be pointing fingers.