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

by Alexander, MK

“Do you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “He said not to.”

  “Figures…”

  “Um, could I have my wallet back now?” the other me asked.

  “It’s in the car.”

  “Can I have my Saab back?”

  I tossed him the key.

  “I’ll leave you the bike,” he offered.

  “Thanks. I don’t suppose I have a cell phone?”

  He looked at me. “Who are you going to call?”

  “You’ve got a point there.”

  ***

  The other me went to his car and returned with a couple of warm Yoo-hoos and a bag of trail mix. We still had questions, a lot of questions, and took turns asking:

  “What’s it like?” he started. “Traveling, I mean.”

  “It’s a lot like being a tourist in your own life.”

  “That does not sound good.”

  “Most times it’s not.” I took a sip of chocolate-flavored water. “Supposedly, if I travel to the future, I pick up where I left off— that is, there shouldn’t be another me here.”

  “Says who?”

  “Fynn.”

  “Right. So what went wrong?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “You’ve done this before then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many times?”

  “Hard to say exactly… a couple of dozen maybe?”

  “Wow… Did you ever go to the future?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “How far?”

  “Hmm… about fifty years from now.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Here? In Sand City, you mean?”

  The other me nodded.

  “Big flood, a tsunami… not a whole lot left.”

  “Figures…”

  “Why?”

  “Climate change, sea levels, all that.”

  “Yeah, must be.”

  It was my turn for questions:

  “Ever hear of anyone named Drummond?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Good. Ever been to Colorado?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember someone named Elsie?”

  “Like the cow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, tell me about her.”

  “Long story. How about Mr and Mrs Dumont?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Old books?”

  “Might talk to Mrs Lovely.”

  “Are we on speaking terms?”

  “Of course we are. I was in the library all morning.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Researching a story. There was supposed to be a canal here in Sand City but it was never built.”

  “Don’t tell me, County Commissioner Fred Mears… during the Great Depression.”

  “Yeah. You did that story already?”

  “Not exactly.” I paused. “What about the cat?”

  “The cat? he asked.

  “In your apartment.”

  “Oh, that’s not my cat, it’s Schrödinger’s.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend of mine, or ours.”

  “I don’t remember meeting him.” I smiled. “Still playing ultimate?”

  “No, more of a frisbee golf kind of guy.”

  “Really? Playing in a band?”

  “Not so much lately…”

  “Been dating Suzy?”

  “Suzy Chandler? No…” He seemed surprised. “Well there’s a lot to love. Her smile especially, and an extra fifty pounds or so.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “Sorry… Why are you so hot for Suzy?”

  “I married her and had two kids… or, you did.”

  “Me? I don’t think so.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Hmm, a long time, months. I stopped going into Partners.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “One of the regulars, Higgins— he was always on my case. I just got sick of it.”

  “Lionel Higgins?”

  “I’m not sure that’s his first name, I think it’s Cecil. Why, do you know him?”

  “Sort of.”

  ***

  The light was failing and we were running out of things to say. The other me rose and dusted himself off. “You need a place to crash tonight, like the sofa in my apartment?”

  “I’m good. But maybe I can use your hammock here.”

  “Sure… just watch out for coyotes… or bears.” He laughed.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Um, Joey, Frank, Pagor— all friends of yours, right?”

  “Of course, friends and colleagues.”

  “Well, say hi from me.”

  “Say hi yourself.”

  “What?”

  “You should totally come to the Beachcomber tonight. You can see them all there.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “What could go wrong? It’ll be a blast.”

  “How are you going to explain me?”

  “Well, my long lost twin brother, separated at birth, the whole nine yards.”

  “Will people believe that?”

  “No, but it might be fun.” He paused. “Sneaky Pete will be there too.”

  “Who?”

  “Francis Peters, runs the place, and he was a pretty good friend of Fynn’s, if I remember right.”

  “Okay. That name does ring a bell.”

  “You should talk to him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Um… what about the hat?” he asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Can I keep it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Perfect for tonight.”

  “Consider it yours.”

  “Thanks… Hey, maybe one of us should grow a mustache or something,” he said.

  “You first.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” The other me smiled. “So… I’ll see you later?”

  “The Beachcomber? Yeah, I guess.”

  “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “I’ll bet… You’re talking about Amy and Chloe, aren’t you?”

  “Among others…” My alternate self gave me a sly grin.

  chapter five

  ricky don’t

  It was a dark room with an absurdly high ceiling. The walls were made of plaster and slightly damp it seemed to me. The only light came from a window open to the outside. I sat at a wooden table across from an old man who did not seem completely familiar. He wore a funny hat. My clothes were heavy and ill-fitting, and I tugged on my robe as if it were about to fall from place at any moment. We were having a conversation, certainly not in English, yet I could understand everything that was said:

  “Ah, my very own Asclepius. I’m glad you could visit,” I heard myself say.

  “My aim is clear,” the old man replied. “And that is to either help, or, at least do no harm.”

  “Well, Hippocrates aside, I pray you will not make mention of this to his Eminence.”

  “You think this a spiritual deficiency, or a physical malady?” the doctor asked.

  “I know not, but your discretion is required in either case. I called for you as a physician, not a confessor.”

  “Of course, but tell me of your symptoms again.”

  “I have trouble sleeping more often than not, and when I do drop off, I’m plagued by strange dreams.”

  “Dreams of what sort?”

  “Nightmares, surely. I was visited by a devil last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “In my dreams…”

  “Tell me then, what happened?”

  “I was in a place by a tumultuous sea. A kind of house I suppose, filled with the oddest people— if I could even call them such.”

  “They were not people, you mean to say?”

  “Not that I recognized. Yet they gathered in this place performing some kind of ritual insurrection, or perhaps a cel
ebration— you know how dreams can be so muddled.”

  “Indeed.”

  “There was a deafening noise all throughout, and half naked women and men were writhing to it’s diabolical rhythms.”

  “The demons, you are saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, by the end of the dream I was walking along the shore. It was very dark and I believe someone else was there, perhaps a woman. She bore me great malice.”

  “How very strange, Lord Magistrate.”

  “Yes… though I also witnessed works of fire, wondrous lights creating the most extraordinary patterns. These were exploding sparks of color that filled the night sky with thunderous booms and smoke.”

  ***

  Despite every intention of going to the Beachcomber, I had fallen asleep in the hammock under the stars, and in the safety of my pine grove. I was lucky enough there was no rain, and warm enough in a blanket the other version of me had provided. Despite his warning, not a single coyote had visited— at least as far as I knew.

  I woke abruptly though, fell out of the hammock onto my backside and into the soft sand. It was definitely morning. And this had happened before, I remembered; but last time Inspector Fynn was waiting with a thermos full of hot coffee. A momentary panic set in. Had Fynn and my doppelgänger jumped back to 1933 without me? No… that wasn’t possible.

  Mmm, coffee, the second thing that came to mind. It would be an unfulfilled desire… I was hungry for breakfast though. All I had was a warm can of Yoo-hoo and half a bag of trail mix. I also had lingering dreams, in particular, a dream about fireworks on the beach.

  I sat awhile as dawn gathered, put on my shoes, found the cane, and took to the bicycle. I would ride to my apartment, or his, for a hot tea or a coco, and a shower. On the branch I noticed the fedora hanging. Odd, I thought the other me, Sevens, had taken it before. Maybe he decided to return it.

  Riding in the chilly morning was a balm to my lingering confusion. I started along the bike path to the top of North Hollow Road. A few early morning joggers went by, among them, the ever-present Walking Lady, appropriately draped in flags for Memorial Day. She gave me a friendly wave and marched on at a brisk pace. Incongruously, a white van labored along the road, though at quite a distance. No doubt Marvin the Milkman was driving.

  I coasted into the Village down Higgins Hill and Captain’s Way, approaching the Depot building at some speed. I came to an abrupt halt however, using my feet as brakes. Something was wrong. I could see my black Saab, but the whole parking lot was cordoned off with yellow tape. This was not about piping plovers, nesting or otherwise. This was a real crime scene. Every police cruiser in Sand City was parked outside, as well as two rescue vehicles and even a fire truck. I could hear a steady barrage of radio chatter, and saw lots of officers and EMTs loitering about. Something bad had just happened.

  Instinctively, I knew not to involve myself, show my face, well, not another me, and chose not to linger despite my desperate curiosity. I turned unseen and biked back up to Commercial Street. Everything appeared closed at this early hour but maybe Cuppa-Joe’s was open. It wasn’t. Chloe was not yet on duty. I glanced up at the Domino Real Estate sign; an idea struck me, and decided to steer into the side alley instead. I leaned the bike against the brick wall.

  A small window was just within reach and I stood on a trash can to pry the lock open with my knife. Breaking and entering, I said to myself. But there was a letter for me inside, probably an important one. Slipping into the office with just enough light, I found the file and made a note of the address for Aldus Kenon Holdings in Amsterdam. I also found another damn tarot card: The Chariot. Taking the letter, I stuffed it into my pocket; it was thick and heavy. I left as quickly as I could, and lowered myself back into the alley.

  Two things were almost immediately apparent: the bicycle was gone, and there was an alarm ringing. I felt a bit panicked but then remembered every cop in Sand City was standing outside the apartment. If I was quick and lucky, I might make it to the edge of town and out across the salt marsh to the rotary in Oldham. From there, the bus stop, and then… I wasn’t sure where.

  As I emerged from the alley a car rolled up Commercial Street and slowed beside me. It was the gray Pontiac T-37. Ricky Durbin was inside. He rolled down his window and called out: “Not bad for a dead guy.”

  “W-What?” I stammered, unsure if I heard him correctly.

  “You died this morning. Heard it on the scanner.”

  “I did?”

  Ricky laughed at my expression. There was a ringing in my ears. “Not so silent alarm,” he said. “Still, everybody else is kind of busy.”

  “With what?”

  “Like I said, you’re dead, murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Maybe it was just an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  Ricky shrugged. “Care to explain any of this?” he asked with a grin. “Looks like I can add B and E to the list. What did you just steal?”

  “I needed a file from inside,” I said, and stood there rather helplessly.

  “What kind of file?”

  “A letter addressed to me.” I held up the envelope.

  “I hate that lady anyhow. She’s evil.”

  “What?”

  “Well, she creeps me out.” Ricky grinned again. “You need a ride?”

  “Um, I guess.” I stepped closer to his Pontiac.

  “What’s with the big stick?” he asked.

  “Hurt my ankle.”

  “So, if you’re not dead… who are you?” Ricky looked me up and down with a glance. “What— are you like Gary Sevens’ brother or something?”

  “Yeah, that’s it exactly. Twins, separated at birth.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You got a name?”

  “Patrick, Patrick Jardel.”

  “Hey, I’ve seen that name in the Chronicle.”

  “Yeah, my brother borrows it sometimes.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Canada.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Of course not. Who’d kill their own brother?”

  “Cain, Abel maybe.”

  “No, it’s not like that at all.”

  “Suicide then?”

  “No, I wouldn’t commit suicide.”

  “How about your brother?”

  “He wouldn’t either.”

  “Murder then,” Ricky concluded.

  “You just said it was an accident… What do you know about all this?”

  “Only what I heard on the scanner.”

  “Which is?”

  “They pulled a DB from the apartment above the Depot Grill.”

  “A DB?”

  “Dead body.”

  “Whose?”

  “Not totally sure… but a male caucasian, I heard.”

  “Not a woman’s body?”

  “Something you’re not telling me?” Ricky grinned.

  “No. Just hypothetically.” I paused for a second. “How did he die?”

  “What?”

  “Shot, poisoned, strangled?”

  “Don’t know, probably waiting on forensics.” Ricky urged me closer. “Where were you last night, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Asleep in a hammock.”

  “Oh, up at North Hollow, in the high dunes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Anyone see you there?” Ricky asked.

  “A coyote maybe.”

  “Not much of an alibi.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just sayin’…” He turned to smile. “Come to think of it, I’ve seen that black Saab parked along the path sometimes.”

  “Well, I was supposed to go to the Beachcomber last night, but I fell asleep.”

  “So you didn’t go?”

  “Can’t remember exactly.”

  “Whoa, you must’ve really tied one on.” />
  “Yeah… Were you there?”

  “For a little while.”

  “Did you talk to me?”

  “Not really sure… might have been your brother.” Ricky looked me up and down again. “Well, hey, you don’t much seem like a killer to me. Come on, get in,” Ricky urged, and the door opened partially. I hesitated but complied. “Heard some chatter; the victim, um, your brother, last seen at the Beachcomber… I think with Suzy Chandler.”

  “Big Suzy?” I asked.

  He turned to me. “Super-hot Suzy, you mean?” Ricky laughed. “I heard they found his wallet in the surf, where the high tide left it… some footprints, maybe drag marks.”

  “It wasn’t in his car?”

  “What?”

  “His wallet.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I saw it there yesterday.”

  “Hmm…” Ricky accelerated down Commercial and wound his way to Longneck Road. “Was that you driving the Nine-Three?” Ricky asked.

  “What?”

  “Yesterday, across from Fred Flintstone, over there, by Surf City.”

  “Fred Flintstone? Oh, you mean the giant inflatable Barney Rubble.”

  “So it was you.” He grinned. “You borrowed his car and he didn’t know?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So… Mr Jardel, how much you think the cops know about you?”

  “Huh?”

  “You make for a good suspect.”

  “Oh, well, I just arrived… for a visit.”

  “Even better,” Ricky said and made a face. “Did you leave your stuff in his apartment?”

  “What stuff?”

  “Suitcase… clothes, devices…”

  “Funny you say that, all my stuff was stolen.”

  “Stolen? When?”

  “Yesterday. At the bus depot in Fairhaven, my carry-on, laptop, phone… everything.”

  “Really?” he asked doubtfully.

  “Lucky I had my bus ticket. Took the shuttle to the rotary.”

  “Figures… tough part of town, the South Side. I guess you’ll need some new stuff.”

  “What?”

  “Clothes, socks, toothbrush…”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, I wonder if identical twins have identical fingerprints?”

  “What?”

  “Just wondering…”

  “It’s a good question. I don’t really know.”

  “I heard they don’t… wonder if they’ll find your fingerprints in that apartment?”