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

by Alexander, MK

  “Maybe on a coffee mug.”

  “A what?”

  “A mug of coco, and maybe the shower knobs.”

  “Shouldn’t you, like, be there for your brother?”

  “I have a funny feeling that it’s best not to get involved just yet.” I paused. “Don’t want to complicate things…”

  “Okay, I’m down with that, I guess.”

  “My brother asked me to do him an urgent favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Lorraine Luis.”

  “I know that last name… What’s so urgent though?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Down south somewhere.”

  “You got any money?”

  “I might… in Fairhaven.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Like a bank?”

  “No, I need to find a We Buy Gold place.”

  “A what?”

  “Like a pawn shop or a coin collector.”

  “Hmm. Might be a couple of those…” Ricky glanced at me with some distrust. “What then?”

  “A bus, a train, an airport.”

  “Fleeing the scene, eh?”

  “No.”

  “It all seems wicked suspicious to me.”

  “Might be I want to avoid the same fate as my brother. Might be he was murdered after all.”

  “You got a point. Who’s out to get you?”

  “Persons unknown.”

  That made Ricky laugh, then he fell silent for a time. “Okay, I’ll run you to Fairhaven, but I’ve got a quick errand first.”

  “What?”

  “Gotta visit my Gran in Oldham. Shouldn’t take long. Down with that?”

  “Sure…”

  Ricky hit the accelerator and we were at the end of Longneck Road in a flash. He swerved around the rotary and merged onto Route Sixteen, a two-lane highway; the other side now filled with early morning tourists. I opened the envelope addressed to me:

  Dear Patrick,

  If you are reading this letter, it’s likely I’m in a spot of difficulty. In fact, it is probably the end of me. Please do the largest of favors: find my wife Lorraine and my daughter Anika to be sure they are well and unharmed the best you can. Use your time wisely and change as little as possible. Sadly, you have little hope of finding me in this particular present.

  Your very good friend,

  Tractus Fynn

  “What’s that?” Ricky asked, and tried to glance over.

  “A letter from a friend, Tractus Fynn.”

  “Oh yeah, I know him,” Ricky said.

  “You know Fynn?”

  “Yeah, saw him once or twice. Tried to solve my old man’s murder.”

  “Sorry about your dad and all…”

  “Thanks,” Ricky replied quietly and turned back to driving. “He didn’t get very far… Fynn, I mean.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t think Chief Arantez was all too fond of the guy. Probably sent him packing.”

  “What did he say about… your dad?”

  “Had some crazy idea about a serial killer— somebody shooting detectives.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Fynn disappeared the same night Melissa’s husband did. That’s no coincidence.”

  “What does Arantez say?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Thing is, afterwards, the chief did some checking. This Fynn guy was a ghost… retired from the Amsterdam Police, like before I was even born.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Arantez kind of hushed it up. Embarrassed, I guess.” Ricky turned his attention back to the road and sped along his empty lane.

  Also inside the envelope was a key, some folded documents and what seemed to be a credit card: Tractus Fynn, Dune Road, Sand City. There was another note attached:

  Though expired, this credit card may still open some doors. The beach house is yours to do with as you wish. You need only sign the enclosed legal documents.

  “What else you got there?” Ricky asked, glancing over.

  “Fynn’s old credit card.”

  “Wait, how do you know Detective Fynn?”

  “Long story. He came to Canada once for a visit.”

  We sped along without conversation for a while, protected only by a double yellow-line. A stream of slow traffic faced us on the other side.

  “So, tell me about this car,” I said, since I started to notice anachronisms throughout the vehicle; toggles and switches that were probably not standard equipment.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it seems a lot quieter than yesterday.”

  Ricky laughed. “Yeah, stealth mode…” he reached over and flipped a toggle. The engine noise suddenly grew much louder.

  “How did you do that?”

  “This button here, reroutes the exhaust pipes.”

  “Impressive. Tell me about this car. Must be a story behind it.”

  “You’re a lot like your brother,” Ricky said and glanced over at me. “You’re not him… not exactly, but damn, you guys are like freaking clones.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “He was a pretty good friend of mine. We use to hang sometimes.”

  “He mentioned that… and he talked about your car too.”

  “Yeah, it’s a vintage seventy-four Pontiac T-Thirty-Seven, very old school.”

  “Big engine?”

  “A V-eight— yeah, well, it’s not great on gas…”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Police impound.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Sort of… it was locked away in a garage for like forty years. I put a lot of work into it.”

  “You’re good with cars?”

  “No skills… My friends Goose and Poco help me out.” Ricky grinned with some pride. “Most everything on the dashboard is original, tach, oil pressure and voltmeter… Of course, I made a few modifications, added a few aftermarket items.”

  “Like?”

  “A radar jammer…”

  “I bet it’s illegal.”

  Ricky grinned. “You got that right… See this? Looks just like an eight-track-player… but it’s really a satellite radio.”

  The whole ride, songs from the seventies had been playing; at that moment, there was something on by Steely Dan. I made half an effort to change the station but Ricky stopped me. “Classic rock, dude, don’t mess with that.”

  Neither of us was paying enough attention to the road ahead. We came upon the other car much too quickly. He was in our lane but traveling at half our speed. I was sure we were going to hit. There was no room to maneuver except into a solid line of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the other side. Ricky veered to the right instead and lurched onto the shoulder, a sandy embankment. The car continued along at a steep angle, but he narrowly avoided a collision.

  “Wicked rush,” Ricky said, and laughed wildly.

  “Mind if we switch decades?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “The radio, I’m getting sick of the seventies.”

  “You want to go back or forwards?” he asked.

  chapter six

  pushing daisy

  Tucked away in the pine barrens was the Oldham Assisted Living Compound. It probably housed well over two hundred seniors in various stages of decline. It was all very tastefully constructed and some of the rooms had a partial view of the ocean. Not the worst place to spend your remaining days.

  “Who are we going to visit again?” I asked Ricky as he pulled into the parking lot and shut down the engine.

  “I told you, my Gran… be like a hundred years old.”

  I chuckled.

  He glanced over. “No, I’m serious, dude, she’s ninety-nine.”

  “What, your grandma?”

  “No, she died a couple of years ago… It’s my dad
’s grandma.”

  “Your great grandmother.”

  “Yeah, I guess… she married the first sheriff in town.”

  “How old did you say?”

  “She’s gonna hit a hundred come August, if she makes her birthday.” Ricky paused. “That’d make a good story for the paper wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “Well, Gran’s kind of loopy, but she does have her moments.”

  “What’s her name again?”

  “I told you, Grandma Daisy— but call her Gran, she gets confused by stuff.”

  I must admit, I hadn’t put it all together in my mind— who Daisy could be— not until we entered the room and I saw her sitting at the edge of a neatly made bed. It was her: Elsie Everest’s little sister, a young woman I had met in 1933. Impossible, but she was still alive, now with a head full of snow-white wispy hair.

  Daisy Durbin had done a good job of erasing the institutional feel of the place, using bookcases, lace curtains and old furniture. She sat patiently waiting. I had never seen anyone so ancient, someone who had spent a century battling gravity’s persistence… Daisy was old clearly, but not particularly frail. There was a spark of life left to her, and I soon learned, she had a feisty demeanor.

  “Well, well, there you are, Ricky, good to see you, dear,” she greeted in a clear voice.

  “Hey Gran, how ya feeling?”

  “Never better. You?”

  “Not bad— same old, same old.”

  “So, how’s your dad?” she asked.

  “Still dead.”

  “Of course he is, Ricky, and I’m sorry for that. I meant, did they catch his killer?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I see you brought in the Mounties,” she cackled and looked directly at me.

  “What?” Ricky asked.

  “Your friend over there, he’s a cop from Canada. He married my sister, Elsie.”

  Ricky raised an eyebrow and glanced at me with a slightly awkward smile.

  “I know you,” Daisy went on, “but you should be as old as me at least. Care to explain that?”

  “I must look like someone you know,” I replied.

  “Hmm.” She turned to Ricky. “Get that old album out for me, would you, dear?”

  “Which one is that, Gran? Frank Sinatra?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. The photo album…” Ricky handed her a large plastic book. Daisy put on her glasses and slowly turned the heavy pages, stopping near the beginning. “There’s me and my sister, back in the day.”

  I saw her standing next to Elsie by a white picket fence. I recognized the Lovely’s rooming house. Grandma Daisy turned the page. “There he is, the damn Mountie. What was his name? Can’t remember now…”

  The man looked embarrassingly like me.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Ricky said as he took a closer look. “A long lost relative, I’d say…”

  “You two must be related then,” Daisy cackled, “by marriage at least.”

  “Are you also related to Margret Dumont?” I asked.

  “Peggy, you mean? Well, she wasn’t a Dumont till she married that Frenchy, Jacque. She was little Peggy Boole. My mother’s sister’s daughter.

  “A cousin?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “What about her books?”

  “Her books?” Daisy asked, seemingly a bit startled. “Oh, you mean Aunt Lillian’s. Elsie gave them to me before she moved. I donated one to a museum, Yale in Connecticut. I gave one to Peggy a long time ago. Don’t know what she did with it.”

  “And the other?”

  “I kept it for myself… should be right over there on the shelf.” Daisy turned to her great grandson. “Have a look for us, Ricky dear.”

  He walked over and returned with a heavy old volume.

  “You take it, please,” Daisy said. “Never could read Latin properly…”

  “Me?”

  “I think Elsie would want you to have it.”

  “Might be worth a lot of money,” I said.

  “You’re right, I should give it to Ricky instead.”

  “I don’t want it,” he complained, “that stinky old book has been sitting in the attic— like forever.” Ricky paused though. “Wait, you said it’s valuable?”

  “Well, historically… but some people say it’s a hoax.” I smiled.

  “Ha, sell it on that e-bay thing and split the money with Ricky here,” Daisy put in, and then frowned. “My own son was a terrible disappointment, Richard Durbin the Second, Pharmacist.”

  “C’mon, Gran, it’s not nice to talk about him like that. He was a nice guy.”

  “You’re right, Ricky… I only say that because he never visits anymore.”

  “You know he’s dead too, Gran.”

  “Ha, I’m the only one left now, aside from you, Ricky…” She turned to me. “Who was that other guy you were with? An old guy back then, white hair, snazzy dresser. Finnegan maybe?”

  I shook my head as if I didn’t know.

  “Gran— What happened to your sister, Elsie?” Ricky asked.

  “Elsie… Elsie… She married that Canadian. He’s standing right next to you.” Daisy glared at me.

  Ricky gave a quiet sigh and rolled his eyes a little. “Canadian?” he asked.

  “Damn Mountie. They ran off to South America, flew all the way down to Rio Di Janeiro, I think.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Had a bunch of kids and opened a school… dancing, or maybe a music school.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Died in the war, or went missing in action. Sent to North Africa, fighting Rommel in the Sahara.”

  “Did you stay in touch with Elsie?” I asked.

  “Sure… she’d send me a postcard now and then.”

  “She’s almost as pretty as you,” I said, glancing at the photograph.

  “Still a real charmer, aren’t you?” Daisy smiled up at me. “She was always the pretty one… Oh, that Elsie, I do miss her.”

  I could feel tears welling up. Daisy took my hand and comforted me. “Are you alright, sonny?”

  “Yeah… just seems like a sad story.”

  “Sad? No, Elsie was very happy in that life. She told me so many times…” Grandma Daisy went quiet for a time, then maneuvered herself to the edge of her bed. “Ricky dear, wheel me outside, please. I just want to feel the breeze on my face and stand on my own two feet for one last time.”

  “Gran, you say that every week I come to visit.” Ricky laughed.

  She smiled. “I know I do, and I like getting my feet all sandy. When you’re as old as I am, you never know… never know when... it might rain,” she said and slipped into silence.

  ***

  “You did good, Jardel,” Ricky said as we made our way back to the lobby.

  “What?”

  “Playing along with Gran, buying into her story like it was all true. I think that made her real happy.”

  “She’s nice… and I don’t think she’s crazy at all.”

  “You believe her?” Ricky asked.

  “Well… I might not go that far.”

  “Hey, be right back.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Just some admin stuff. Somebody has to pay for all this.” He shrugged. “Meet you at the car.”

  We were back on Route Sixteen speeding towards Fairhaven when Ricky turned to me. “Breakfast?” he asked.

  “I stole a donut at the nursing home.”

  “Good, don’t feel like stopping.” Ricky turned his attention back to the road. Across the double orange line was a stalled snake of traffic that stretched for miles. I could hear each car swish by as Ricky raced along at well over the limit. Our lane was wide open and he took full advantage, hitting about eighty, eighty-five.

  I remembered something Inspector Fynn once told me while we were driving: “The Romans would be quite envious of all these roads.” I also wondered if they ever got stuck in traffic.
I watched the drivers sequestered behind tightly closed windows, oblivious to everything except— hopefully— the road ahead.

  “Hey, what’s with the old book?” Ricky interrupted my thoughts.

  “A medieval manuscript written like six hundred years ago in a language no one can read.”

  “What good is that?”

  He had a point.

  Ricky continued, “So, where are you headed after Fairhaven?”

  “Virginia.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned, one of my favorite states.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I do a lot of business down there.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Import-export.”

  “Not coffee?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Cafe… mocha beans…”

  “Nah, I never do that stuff. Nothing that illegal. Strictly legit, well, almost legit.”

  “Like?”

  “Bogeys: Reds, Golds, and Parliaments.” Ricky swiveled a grin.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cigarettes. I run them up from the south.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re fifteen bucks a pack in New York.”

  “So?”

  “I pick ’em up for like two bucks in Virginia. Then I sell them to a guy I know for six or seven. I can make fifty bucks a carton… a hundred cartons and I’m five grand richer… less expenses.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Just the unintended consequences of a messed-up tax policy.” Ricky’s attention went back to driving. “Why, what calls you down to Virginia?”

  “Oh, the person I have to find: Lorraine Luis, Detective Fynn’s wife. Her sister Elaine gave me her address, and I’d like to talk to her.”

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “Plane, train, automobile…”

  “I’d think twice about that.”

  “Why?”

  “You might be a wanted man, Mr Jardel.”

  “Right.”

  “Tell you what, let me make a few calls… I can give you a ride, if you want.”

  “Thanks, but you probably shouldn’t get involved.”

  “Already am.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “I dunno…” He shrugged. “Nothing better to do. Besides, my old man knew your brother,” Ricky said. “He liked him, he told me that once…”

  “I liked him too.”