Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3)

by Alexander, MK

  LOW

  CITY

  MISSING PERSONS

  A Tractus Fynn Mystery

  by MK Alexander

  Low City: Missing Persons

  By MK Alexander

  Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between actual persons is purely

  coincidental.

  This work may not be reproduced or electronically transmitted without

  expressed consent of the author.

  Published by KMACK Design, BOX 144, Sea Cliff, NY 11579

  Cover art copyright 2016, KMACK Design

  Please direct any inquiries to mkalex@optonline.net

  Also by MK Alexander:

  Sand City

  Jump City

  The Farsi Trilogy

  Jekyll’s Daughter

  GenreJam, Volume One: Death & Injury

  My New World: A Teenager’s WWII Odyssey

  Random Sacrifice

  note:

  This, the third Tractus Fynn mystery contains spoilers. For maximum enjoyment, readers might want to read Sand City or Jump City before embarking on the journey.

  PART ONE

  chapter one

  reckless abandoned

  Everything was as it should be. That’s what I hoped as I returned from 1933 after saving Murray the memory-guy from harm’s way. If you don’t recall, I bought him a one-way ticket to Havana… Believe me, it was an act of kindness.

  I’m back in the present now, having landed safely just at the water’s edge. The searing pain gone in an instant, my feet barely wet, and I’m feeling pretty damn proud of myself. Going back to save poor Murray was an accomplishment, and that I returned to the present unscathed… well, relieved and overjoyed are words I might choose.

  The sun was just rising, a fiery ball with a well-defined edge roiled against the Atlantic horizon. Red sky in the morning… something about sailors… though it seemed unseasonably cold for May and I was glad to be warmly dressed. Over my shoulder I could see the Sentinel, the lighthouse, the top of it at least, and behind me, three stone jetties jutting out into the surf at Middle Cove Beach. I leisurely strolled south along the edge of wet sand, and felt soothed by the pounding of relentless waves.

  By my reckoning it was Saturday morning, Memorial Day weekend, and I was just in time for a pleasant breakfast with Fynn, his wife Lorraine, and his daughter Anika— maybe a little sooner than expected, but Fynn is an early riser. That’s Tractus Fynn, Detective Chief Inspector, retired from the Amsterdam police, my best friend, and… well, a time traveler.

  His house was practically in sight, a boxy shape poked above the dunes. As I ambled up the empty beach, I noticed the sun was not alone; a long line of tumbling clouds massed over the ocean. It was being swallowed.

  For a brief moment some anxiety passed through me. My heart skipped a beat, since far in the distance, the area seemed to be cordoned off. I could see a perimeter of yellow caution tape strung along the sand very near to Fynn’s place and almost panicked. I broke into a jog, but on approach realized the tape was merely there to protect a family of nesting piping plovers, not a crime scene. With some relief, I turned and headed up the narrow boardwalk that led to the house nestled in the spiky tufts of dune grass. I could hear wind chimes now, and when I got closer, I saw the garden ablaze with azaleas in full riotous color, purple, red, blue, and other colors defying my vocabulary.

  The garden was well-kept, the hedges trimmed, the small patch of lawn was a lush green and freshly cut; the driveway immaculate in its white pebbles. But everything was not as it should be. The house was all wrong. It was shuttered, boarded up as if in preparation for an impending hurricane. I walked around the property several times. It was pretty clear no one had been here for years. This place had been long abandoned.

  I went to the deck and sat sullenly in a weathered Adirondack chair, then pulled my coat closer against the chill of the morning. Brooding hours may have passed. The sun battled against the clouds though neither got an upper hand. All the while, waves pounded in ceaseless rhythm, ordering my sense of dread… Of course I blamed myself. How did I f— this up? Did the past change the present? Uh-oh. Panic set in.

  I could only be certain that I was in the right place. Was I in the wrong time? The season seemed correct, but was I mistaken about the date? Had I landed in a different year? Had Fynn jumped to the future to save me from something… Maybe this was Billy Baker’s house after all, and he was away for the baseball season.

  The more I thought about it the less sense it made. A feeling of hopeless futility overwhelmed me. Fynn could be anywhere on the planet, or anyplace in time… or both. The possibilities seemed endless, but they were not. I could have probably sat there for even more hours, just moping, trying to figure things out, and to no avail— that much I understood.

  I turned to logic: Fynn was dead. Fynn was never here. He had moved. He was traveling. He did not buy this house. These seemed the only possibilities. One thing was certain, Inspector Fynn wasn’t just out for an early morning stroll. To find him, I needed more information, and recklessly jumping back in time again or traveling to the future was not a good idea.

  Eventually, the clouds gathered enough force to send rain spattering across the deck. Big thick drops thudded across the planks and the side of the house. I sought refuge in the breezeway where I found an old bicycle leaning against the railing. It wasn’t locked and looked to be an old Schwinn Collegiate, a five-speed. It probably had chrome fenders once, but now looked pretty beat up, all rusty, the handlebars speckled with age. The chain was oiled though, and there was air in the tires.

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and I decided to head into town, now worrying how different this Sand City might be. As I began to pedal up Dune Road there was a terrible clicking sound, and I quickly realized it corresponded to my speed. Someone had attached a playing card to the spokes with a clothespin. Strange though, it was a tarot card, the Hanged Man or something. A picture of an upside down guy with a glowing head, and suspended by one foot. I really didn’t know what to make of it.

  Preferring to ride in silence I put the card in my pocket, then took a shortcut along the bike path. There wasn’t a single early-morning jogger to be seen, nor a vehicle on the roads. At the top of Higgins Hill I could smell jasmine or honeysuckle, a perfume wafting just over the smell of fish sticks being manufactured down below. I stopped for a moment and looked westward to the horizon.

  Everything was as it should be. I saw Serenity Bay far in the distance; closer, the two hotels: the Commodore and the Californian, the pier, the marina and the yacht club. No canal— that was good. To my left I could see the water tower, the salt marsh, and Baxter Estates. The Village itself was picture perfect. Sand City looked exactly as I hoped, even Saint Albans looked less menacing than usual, though not a charred ruin. All very different from my other arrivals: No post-tsunami watery world this time, yet that image was superimposed on my imagination. No shanty town either, no Great Depression, no peeling paint.

  Despite appearances, I knew things were going to be messed up. I began to fret. Anxious thoughts overwhelmed me. Luckily, the wind from my wild downhill ride pushed away all concerns. It felt good, but I soon learned this bicycle had no functioning brakes, and had to use my feet against the sandy pavement.

  I thought more about what I might be riding into: The day before I left to save Murray, things were good. At the Sand City Chronicle, Eleanor Woods had retired and handed the reigns to Melissa. She took over as publisher, working hard to balance her life as a single mom,
and she had offered me the job of editor, which I politely declined. I recommended my colleague Joey Jegal instead, and had agreed to stay on as a contributor, writing an occasional op ed piece. But my reporter days were over.

  In some ways, a new life had begun. I was now a traveler. Well, not a very courageous one. Inspector Fynn’s ongoing admonition rang in my ears anytime I thought about it: “the past always changes the present.” And that pretty much kept me in one place. Sometimes I felt a yearning to travel back and spend time with Elsie Everest. For now it was out of the question. That was another lifetime anyhow.

  I skidded to a stop at Chambers Street and had the idea to chat with Richard Durbin, Detective Durbin, heading up the Sand City PD. I considered him a friend, well almost. He could clear things up in a hurry. His direct and blunt approach would be refreshing. Wait… I thought better of it. I needed to know more. I had absolutely nothing to go on yet. Instead, I coasted onto Captain’s Way. The shopping plaza looked exactly right: the Asia East Restaurant open early for a brunch buffet. Commercial Street seemed the same, everything was perfect, right down to the red call box in the center of town.

  I glanced over at Central Park. Okay, something missing: no egg sculpture. I came to a full stop. My hand went up like a visor. There was supposed to be a giant egg there on the hill, a hunk of polished granite eight or nine feet long: Elaine Luis’ opus magna. This was wrong, but how could it be connected to anything? Only that it should be there, and Elaine Luis was Fynn’s sister-in-law. Just a coincidence…

  The Village was bustling; people preparing for an invasion of tourists. They were opening shops, painting, sweeping pavement; some were walking with intent and purpose. I saw lots of familiar faces and lots of smiles. A few people waved. I saw no one wandering around from 1933 and that was probably for the best.

  My first stop was the Chronicle office. It was properly tucked between Maggie McMoo’s Ice Cream Parlor and the Candle Factory. This was good. Everything was as it should be, at least on the outside. I leaned the old bike against the wall and went in. Surprisingly, Miriam, our somewhat manly receptionist, was waiting when I jingled through the door.

  “Back already?” she asked.

  “Yeah… I guess,” I replied, but wondered why she was in on a Saturday.

  “What, are you practicing for Halloween?”

  “Huh?”

  “The coat, the hat, the cane…” Miriam looked me over.

  “Oh…” I chuckled. The fedora and the overcoat made it to the communal rack, though I held onto the cane. I glanced at the calendar behind Miriam’s desk. It was Friday… I had returned a day too early. The year was correct at least.

  “Sevens,” Miriam said, looking down.

  “What?”

  “I have too many sevens,” she explained and scanned the tableau.

  “What are you playing?”

  “Solitaire— duh…”

  “Looks complicated.”

  “It is. Two decks, a hundred and four cards.” She eyed me briefly. “What’s with the cane?”

  “Um… Just for show.”

  “Nice. Isn’t it Pagor’s?”

  “He lent it to me.”

  “You hurt yourself again?” Miriam glanced up.

  “No, I’m fine.” I pointed to a black eight. “Where is everybody this morning?”

  “Friday… and a holiday weekend. No one’s here.”

  “No one?”

  “Well, Amy’s in the studio, but she’s in a mood as usual.”

  “Melissa?”

  “Dropping off Madison at school.”

  “Frank, Joey?”

  “Out and about…”

  “Lucinda?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind,” I muttered.

  Miriam looked up at me. “You forgot about Lilly.”

  “Is she here?” I asked, though that name didn’t ring a bell.

  “No.” Miriam went back to her game.

  “I’m going to grab a coffee, you want anything?”

  She stared at me, bewildered. “What?”

  “Do you want a cup?” I glanced over towards the break room.

  “No. We ran out of coco. Only tea or chicory left.”

  Chicory? That’s kind of odd, I thought but said nothing, then made my way to the tiny kitchen. “Hey, where’s the coffee?”

  “What?” Miriam yelled back from her desk.

  “Did we run out of coffee?” I asked.

  “Coffee…?” she repeated the word in a strange tone of voice.

  I poked my head out and stared at her while holding a glass carafe. “Cafe, Java, Joe, Mocha…”

  Miriam glared at me. “Oh yeah, I think I heard about that, like on a Nat-Geo documentary… some kind of berry-juice… natives in Ethiopia, if I remember…” She paused. “Isn’t it illegal or something?”

  I did my best to remain unflustered; it could be that Miriam was cultivating a sense of humor. I prepared a cup of tea instead.

  “Gary,” Miriam said when I passed by her desk again on the way to the main office.

  “What?”

  “Don’t forget to call Gary. He’s telephoned twice today.”

  “Who?”

  “Gary Marchand, Planning Commission. Wants you to write another editorial.”

  “Oh…” That name didn’t ring a bell either, though I seemed to recall his brother, Kevin. “Say, Miriam, what do you know about that house up on Dune Road?”

  “Which house?”

  “By South Point, near the big turn.”

  “Hmm, built in the sixties, abandoned since the early nineties.”

  “Do you know who owns it?” I asked.

  “I think it’s still on the market.”

  “Really? Who’s the broker?”

  “Mrs Domino, your landlady.”

  “Right…” I remembered that name. “She advertises in the paper…”

  Mariam squinted at me. “Denise? Of course, not as much as Melissa wants, but you know all about that— don’t you?” She raised an eyebrow.

  I spotted the queen of spades on the floor and stooped to pick it up. “Hey, found this under your desk…”

  “Damn,” Miriam cursed and began to sweep all the cards into a pile. “I’m going to have to start all over again.”

  I continued towards the editorial office.

  “Where are you going?” Miriam asked.

  “I have to use a computer.”

  “Oh, the internet’s down, if that’s what you need.”

  “Down?”

  “Jason is on it. Something about the wireless. Says he’ll have it working by this afternoon.”

  “Is he here?”

  Miriam gave me a look. “He’s always here— in the basement— do you want me to buzz him?”

  “No, that’s okay.” I hesitated. “Just have to look at some back issues.”

  Miriam’s eyes traveled to the staircase and up towards the attic.

  “No, not that far back. I don’t need the morgue. Just something from last year.”

  “Where’s that famous memory of yours, huh?”

  “On the fritz, I guess.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for the big bound book, Amy took it into her studio.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I know? I saw it there this morning.”

  I changed directions and headed for the back room instead.

  ***

  The studio was empty, no Amy. The layout tables stood at their usual angle, also empty except for the big book of bound papers. Exactly what I was looking for. I started to leaf through. Everything seemed pretty normal at first, yet I noticed there were more Gary Sevens bylines than I could account for. Sevens, my nom de guerre, the extra byline that I sometimes used to make the paper seem better staffed than it really was. There were far fewer stories by me, Jardel. I checked the masthead. We were both listed as correspondents. Frank was still writing about local sports, Joey Jegal was editor and Melissa Miller was publish
er. I even saw a couple of stories from our one-eyed stringer, Evan James.

  Flipping through the pages, I made it back about a year and ran across a kind of bookmark. Someone had placed a tarot card, the Knight of Swords. It marked a troubling story:

  Detective Durbin Gunned Down in Broad Daylight.

  That didn’t seem like a headline Eleanor Woods would have ever approved of. I read on: Sand City Police Chief Leo Arantez promised no effort would be spared to find Officer Richard Durbin’s killer… Detective Durbin, twenty years on the force, was apparently gunned down by an unknown assailant at the Sand City Municipal Marina last Friday morning…

  This timeline just went from bad to tragic. I was completely devastated. At that moment, Amy the paste-up artist came through the back door. I went from stunned to startled. She noticed my expression and smiled, then came rushing over to give me a big kiss. “I snuck out the back to do a little shopping,” she explained.

  “What did you get?”

  Amy grinned. “A new dress, just for tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “The Beachcomber, opening night. You promised we’d get drunk and go dancing.” Amy reached into a lime green bag and pulled out a piece of cloth. I was hardly an expert but it seemed too small to be a dress, though it was black and had straps, and maybe sequins.

  “How ’bout I try it on?”

  “Now?”

  “Miriam won’t mind,” she said and smiled seductively.

  This was not quite the same Amy I was used to. Usually she wore a smock and oversized glasses. Today she had dangling hoop earrings and was dressed in a tight shirt. Her hair was stylishly cut, and she had more make-up on than I recalled. She smelled perfect though.

  Amy pushed me back against the angled table and leaned in close, her face to mine. She was practically straddling me. I felt her leg wrap around the back of my calf. She nibbled on my ear. Everything was not as it should be… I found it difficult to concentrate.