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

by Alexander, MK

  “He also left these.” I handed Lorraine the legal documents and the other note.

  “What house does he mean?” she asked after reading.

  “On Dune Road.”

  “He always promised he’d buy that house.” Lorraine was half laughing, half sobbing.

  “I thought you and Anika should have it.”

  “Have it?”

  “Well, yeah…”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From a real estate broker in Sand City.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs Domino.”

  “I’m not sure I know her,” she muttered to herself, then paused as if a thought struck. Lorraine turned to Ricky. “Hey, if you’re a Durbin… Well, if you’re Richard Durbin, I’ve got something for you.”

  Ricky was clearly surprised. He looked at me when Lorraine scrambled from her chair and disappeared into another room. She was back a moment later carrying a carefully wrapped package.

  “What is it?”

  “No idea,” Lorraine said. “It showed up on my doorstep about a year ago with a note attached. I recognized the handwriting… but I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s Fynn’s handwriting, just like the letter you showed me.” She turned to Ricky. “It said, To be returned to its original owner— the note, I mean.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Richard Durbin.” She smiled. “Open it, why don’t you?”

  Ricky complied and tore at the brown paper. Inside was a book, a very old book. It was one of the Voynich manuscripts. “Be like ridiculous,” he said. “My Gran just gave us one of these.”

  “One of these?” Lorraine asked.

  Ricky slid the book in my direction. “Yeah, some kind of old medieval thing… Patrick says it might be worth something. Right?”

  “Well historically, at least.”

  Ricky smiled. “Or on e-bay.”

  “How did you get this?” I asked.

  “Like I said, it just showed up at my doorstep, about a year ago.”

  “Did your other visitors ask about this? The guy and his wife?”

  “Not much gets by you, does it, Patrick?” She smiled. “I only said, she could be his wife. I’m not sure they were married,” Lorraine added. “But yes, they seemed very interested in old books.” She sat back in her chair. “I played dumb of course…” Lorraine laughed.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a copy of the Fairhaven Times folded around the story of a stolen manuscript. “I think this might be book number three.”

  “That’s a coincidence,” Ricky said.

  “I’d say you’ve got quite a mystery on your hands…” Lorraine commented. “Tractus would have loved to—” her voice broke and she caught herself. There was along silence.

  “When were they here?” I asked.

  “Last week,” Lorraine replied and quickly rose from her chair. She rummaged through a kitchen drawer, then placed a card on the table. Another tarot card: the King of Swords.

  “What’s this?”

  “That woman left it on the driveway. “What does it mean?”

  “No idea.”

  ***

  “So…” Lorraine began, reluctant to continue our conversation, “you’re going to find my husband for me?” She added a smile.

  “I’m going to try.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  “What’s next then?”

  “I’ll go to Colorado.”

  “Why there?”

  “Talk to Jamal Morris about that old case.”

  “You know him?”

  “Um, no, but Fynn mentioned him to me once or twice. He’s chief of the Boulder Police department nowadays.”

  “You think he’ll talk to you?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Ricky lowered his voice to a whisper, “You sure you want to be talking to a cop, Jardel? You might still be a wanted man.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll give you a ride if you want.”

  “To where?”

  “Richmond, I guess.”

  “That’s the closest big airport to us,” Lorraine confirmed.

  “What about Anika?”

  “What about her?”

  “She might be able to help.”

  “I’m not sure I want her involved in any of this.”

  “Right, my bad…”

  Lorraine was surprised by my response, startled almost. “It might be upsetting to her. She doesn’t have the strongest grip on reality.”

  “Is she alright?”

  “My poor little Anika. I’ve failed her as a parent. I don’t know why she’s gone so astray.” Lorraine let off a deep sigh and sat at the table with us. “Tractus was devoted to her when she was little… when he was around at least— always on some case or another…” Lorraine swept away a few tears. “Later on of course, it was hard on Anika growing up without her father,” she said quietly, but then chuckled to herself. “Oh, she’d come up with the wildest stories sometimes, what an imagination…”

  “How so?”

  “You know, stories about where her father was… what he was doing… or like, Mommy, I just finished having tea with father. It was all kind of sad, really.”

  “Are you still in touch?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. She visits from time to time, when she remembers to come. But we’ve grown apart over the years. And I hardly ever get overseas anymore.”

  “She may know something,” I persisted gently.

  “What could she know?”

  “Well, she may have seen him… Like Ricky here did.”

  “But she would have said something… called me on the phone,” Lorraine protested.

  “Maybe she got a letter, like I did… or a package.”

  “Alright, you’ve made your point.” Lorraine sighed. “Give me a second.” She rose from the table, disappeared to the hall and returned a few moments later. “Here’s her address. She lives in Amsterdam; uses my maiden name, Luis. You can write to her if you want. That’s her phone— I know it’s a lot of digits…”

  “Email?”

  “She never answers her email.” Lorraine gave a painful smile. “Go easy on her, you hear?”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “Well, one thing you might not know. Anika was adopted.”

  “Adopted?” I repeated, a bit surprised.

  “Give her this when you see her, please…” Lorraine presented me with a necklace in a jewelry box. It was a simple silver chain that held an odd looking gem at the center. “Tractus bought it when she was just a little girl. I didn’t have the heart to give it to her. It made me too sad— all those years ago. But I think now she should have it.”

  “It’s beautiful. What kind of stone is that?”

  “Kiku-ishi, Tractus calls it, a chrysanthemum stone.”

  “No time like the present,” Ricky said.

  “What?”

  “We should probably head. Poco and Goose are still waiting.”

  “Right… sorry.”

  We left a waving Lorraine and sped up her driveway. “Where to next?” Ricky asked.

  “Airport, I guess.” I sat back to collect my thoughts. “What did you think of her?”

  “Who— Mrs Fynn? Super nice, a class act.”

  “Yeah… but something strange though.”

  “Like?” Ricky asked.

  “Can’t really put my finger on it…”

  “Like she was a hostage or something?”

  “No…” I laughed. “Nothing like that.”

  After another conference with Poco and Goose at the diner, we went our separate ways. It was decided they’d make the buy and later meet Ricky on their way north.

  It was a very long drive to Richmond airport and this time in broad daylight.

  “What’s this?” I asked when Ricky thrust a p
lastic box into my hand.

  “A burner phone— you know, disposable, untraceable…”

  “For what?”

  “For what?” Ricky scoffed. “Who you gonna call, right?” His tone oozed sarcasm. “You’re gonna call me, Poco or Goose, if you find trouble… You’re gonna call that sweet Lorraine lady when you find her Mr DCI Fynn… and you’re gonna call your new girlfriend.”

  “Who?”

  “Anika, the little Dutch girl.” He laughed. “I saw it all over your face, guy.”

  I probably blushed, then said, “I might pay her a visit.”

  “Amsterdam, huh? I hear good things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Tulips.”

  I grabbed Ricky by the hand and turned it over, palm up. I thrust a doubloon into it and said, “Listen, there’s no way I can really say thank you. Take this, split it with your buds. It was the best ride ever, and I’m never going to forget it as long as I live.”

  “I can’t accept this.”

  “For Daisy then…”

  “Tell you what, take that book with you, huh? It’s stinking up the car.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, well… you owe me half if you sell it on e-bay. Hey Jardel, good luck, and stay off the grid, right?”

  chapter eight

  boulderado

  Getting to Colorado was problematic. None of the nearby regional airports offered a direct flight. Lorraine had no computer, and I didn’t feel like wrestling with the internet on Ricky’s two-bit disposable phone. Richmond International Airport seemed like the best bet. I bought a one-way ticket with cash. That may have been my first mistake. I probably should have taken a train or even a bus, as I had some trouble at security.

  No one took notice of the remaining doubloons mixed in with my pocket change when I dumped it all into a plastic container. The cane was another matter, even though I had carefully practiced my limp.

  “Sir, you can’t go through carrying that. On the conveyor belt, please.”

  By the time I passed through the detector, two TSA officials were waiting for me. My pocket change and doubloons were already in a plastic baggie, and the cane had been seized. Seems I was singled out for special treatment, a random cavity search probably. They escorted me to an office and I was asked a lot of questions by the head of security. He was a big man but not unfriendly. I recognized him as a southerner.

  “I didn’t know about the sword inside. I’m really sorry,” I tried to explain, and added, “It’s my grandpa’s.”

  “Oh? What’s he using then?”

  “He doesn’t do much walking anymore.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “I was told it belonged to a Confederate general.”

  “Ya don’t say?” The security officer seemed mildly interested. “Which one?”

  “Not really sure.”

  “Can I ask why you’re flying outta Richmond? You’re not exactly from around here.”

  “I’m down for my yearly visit… I do a kind of pilgrimage thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Stonewall Jackson Shrine, up the road a piece.”

  “You just came from there?”

  I nodded.

  “You hobbled around the place with a cane?”

  “It was worth it. Very inspiring.”

  “How did you get to the airport?”

  “My friend gave me a ride, Sheriff Durbin…”

  “A sheriff, eh? Where’s he from?”

  “Mechanicsville.”

  “Which one?”

  “Um, south and west, bottom of the valley.”

  “Yeah, I know that place, real peaceful.”

  “It is. Nice folks there.”

  “Okay then… someone will get you a wheelchair.”

  “No, I’m fine… I can hop. It’s just a sprained ankle.”

  “Might be able to get you a loaner cane… this one, you’ll have to check through as regular baggage.”

  “Damn… Is there an air marshal on this flight?”

  “That’s not information I can divulge, and a mighty suspicious question to my mind.”

  “Sorry. It’s just I didn’t want to put the cane through as baggage. It’s an antique, pretty valuable, and the airline is gonna charge me an extra hundred bucks.”

  “What’s that got to do with the air marshal?”

  “I was kind of hoping he could look after it and return it at the end of the flight— or the cabin crew.”

  “Well, that’s not a totally unreasonable request… and he does happen to be a friend of mine.”

  The security official looked over my identification. “Your driver’s license is expired, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just the one-way ticket to Denver, eh? Mind telling me what you’re going to do out there?”

  “I’m on my way to Boulder actually. A new job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “A reporter for the Boulder Broadsheet, a newspaper.”

  “You got a number for them? I might need to verify that.”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly landed the job yet...”

  The security supervisor looked through my carry-on. “Not much in here… a couple of old books, make that really old, a deck of antique playing cards…” He chuckled and went on searching. “…some tee shirts, socks, dungarees, sundries…”

  “I like to travel light.”

  The security guy sized me up and down and finally smiled. “Okay,” he said at last. “Pick up your cane at the end of the flight.” He slapped a DEN sticker on it and turned to one of his colleagues, “Hey Lasko, put this fella in a wheelchair and get him on board thirteen-oh-seven, will ya?”

  I had made it past security despite my lingering paranoia; and the stop-over in Atlanta went smoothly. If I was a wanted man, I wasn’t wanted yet. There was a good deal of turbulence flying west, even the stewardess looked terrified at one point. I saw the expression on her face when she thought no one was watching, and buckled up for the rest of the trip.

  I decided not to rent a car at Denver airport and took the bus north to Boulder. Better to stay off the grid, like Ricky said. Luckily, the Hotel Boulderado had a vacancy and I was shown to an overly ornate suite. I ran a few errands in the city that was once familiar to me and returned to my room utterly exhausted.

  Except for the usual strange dreams, I slept well enough and was happy enough not to remember them the next morning. After breakfast, I walked over to the Boulder Broadsheet on Fowler Avenue, half expecting to see a smiling Cindy Ramirez poke her head up from her cubicle. I knew she wouldn’t recognize me at all. That was a different life, a different timeline and quite possibly a different me entirely.

  I was very relieved not to see Douglas Drummond’s bloated face appear anywhere in the office, nor was there any sign of the Texas Tech twins. At least Fynn and I had done some good here. It was Andy Williams who looked over his cubicle to give me a glance. He was a few days unshaven as usual. I had seen a maroon El Dorado in the parking lot and guessed it was his.

  “Hey, is that your El Dorado? Nice ride.” I called to him. “I don’t suppose it’s for sale?”

  “Can I help you?” Andy rose to his full height and started to lumber over.

  “Good morning, you must be Andrew Williams.”

  He looked at me. “Do I know you?”

  “No, not exactly… My name is… um, Patrick… I applied for a job here once.”

  “Did you now? Well, we’re always looking for stringers.” He smiled. “You still interested?”

  “I might be…”

  “You got a resumé?”

  “I sent it to you online.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last summer.”

  Williams gave me an exasperated look. “Last summer?”

  “Sorry… yeah. I work for a paper on the East Coast, the Sand City Chronicle. It’s a lot like yours… a small weekly. Thing is, I’m on vacation, and well
, I just thought I’d… you know, check the place out.”

  At this, a smile spread across Williams’ face. “Oh, a comrade in arms, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, how can I help you then? You want the grand tour or a job?”

  “Maybe just a little information.”

  “Like?”

  “Quiet around here?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Who runs the paper?”

  Andy laughed but lowered his voice a bit. “That’s the thing, you might not like it here that much. The boss is kind of a hard ass.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Mr Wheeler, Jeff Wheeler.”

  “Owns a car dealership?”

  “That’s right, his brother does anyhow, over in Nederland.”

  “Where’s Cindy?”

  “Who?”

  “Cindy Ramirez… isn’t she a reporter here?”

  “No…” Williams said and gave me a troubled glance. “But I knew a Cindy Ramirez from my college days.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Kind of lost track of each other. Why? Do you know her?”

  I paused awkwardly. “Um, okay, well actually, I need a huge favor from you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to talk to Jamal Morris.”

  “The Boulder Police Chief?” Andy asked, completely surprised. “What, like an interview?”

  “Not really…”

  “Is there a story here— something I should know about?” Andy asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “What makes you think Morris will see you? He’s a busy guy, and honestly, I don’t think he likes me much.”

  “I don’t think you like him much either.”

  Andy gave me a cold stare, but then smiled. “You could be right about that.”

  “Well, you two ought to be friends, make peace, you know?”

  “Why is that?”

  “He protects the same town that you write about. No reason to be enemies.”

  “I wouldn’t call him that. He’s just not very forthcoming.”

  “Morris likes to protect people.”

  “Sounds like you know him already.”

  “No, but I know his type. It’s pretty much the same thing where I live, with the PD… but, well, I made peace with it.”

  “Alright, I sort of get what you’re saying,” Andy conceded. He rubbed his face. “Still, I doubt he’d talk to you.”