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

by Alexander, MK

  “Tell him I’m a friend of DCI Tractus Fynn. I’m sure he’ll meet with me.”

  “You want me to call him… right now?”

  “If you could.”

  ***

  “Well, what do you know? He’s willing to see you… this address, eight o’clock tonight.”

  I glanced at the paper. “That’s where I’m staying, Hotel Boulderado.”

  “Yeah, well, downstairs in the bar.” Andy paused for a second. “Say, mind if I come with?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “What does Morris say?”

  “Like I mentioned, we don’t get along too well, but what could he do if he just shows up and finds me there?”

  “Hmm,” I considered, “not talk to me?”

  ***

  The Catacombs I once knew was surprisingly different, though it was probably due to renovation rather than time travel. It was now called License No. 1 and resembled a speakeasy, rather than a college basement bar.

  I’m not usually early to things, especially appointments, but the bar was so close it was only seven forty-five when I sat down and ordered a local micro-brew on draft. Andy Williams appeared five minutes later and I was happy to buy him a beer. He was with a friend of his, whom I knew as Doc Fisher. He looked the same: a skinny lumber jack with steel glasses and a flannel shirt. I bought him a beer too.

  “Hey, nice to meet you. Find anything interesting at the bottom of Barker Meadow Reservoir?”

  “Huh?”

  “The sonar mapping thing,” I said.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Must’ve read it somewhere.”

  “Well, didn’t find much…” Doc Fisher laughed. “An old truck, some refrigerators…”

  Jamal Morris showed up exactly at eight. He was the same as I remembered, though his hair may have been a bit grayer around the sides. He glanced at Andy Williams, Doc Fisher and then at me. “You Patrick Stevens?”

  “I am.”

  “You didn’t tell me Williams was coming.”

  “Sorry. He wanted to tag along. This is…”

  “I know who these guys are… Gentlemen…” Morris added politely but did not take a seat. “What is this, some kind of set up?” Jamal asked.

  “No.”

  “You mentioned Tractus Fynn. That’s the only reason I showed.”

  “And I appreciate that, Chief Morris. None of this has anything to do with Boulder.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He glanced at Andrew. “Is that why Williams is here?”

  “No. I just thought you should be friends.”

  “Friends,” Jamal scoffed.

  “You two love this town, am I right?” I looked at them both. They were staring hard at each other. Doc Fisher somehow sensed the tension, threw back the rest of his beer and quickly excused himself. Morris finally decided to sit.

  “Can I get you something, Chief?”

  “Whiskey sour…” He nodded to the bartender. “Okay, what about Fynn? He was a good friend of mine once,” Morris said.

  “Me too.”

  Jamal gave me a look. “How could you possibly know Fynn? He disappeared like twenty-five years ago,” Morris said and swiveled in his bar stool, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Oh, he was friends with my dad.”

  “Really, your dad? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”

  “Probably not.”

  “I don’t believe a word you’re telling me, Mr Stevens. Why are you here? And why do you want to talk to me about Tractus Fynn?”

  “Believe it or not, I was with him less than a year ago… and your name came up.”

  “Did it now? What were you doing with Fynn?”

  “Helping him on a case.”

  “What case?”

  “A detective was murdered in my town. A guy named Richard Durbin. Gunned down in broad daylight.”

  “Where’d you say you’re from?”

  “Sand City.”

  “And what’s your profession?”

  “A reporter, like Andrew.”

  “Okay, if you know Fynn so well, if he was sitting across the table here, what kind of tie would he be wearing?”

  I laughed outright. “A bow tie, with the edges tucked under his collar.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned…” Morris chuckled and gave me his wide smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tattered envelope. “Take a gander at the return address.”

  I recognized Fynn’s handwriting immediately; printed in the top left corner was Blue Dunes Hotel, Sand City. There was a letter inside.

  “Can I read it?”

  “Sure, be my guest.”

  Dear Jamal,

  I beg for an apology. Please excuse my long absence, but I have been unfairly indisposed. I write to you with a warning of sorts… While investigating a spate of murders— all detectives— and most recently in Sand City, I have found striking similarities to the case we tried to solve so long ago in Pennsylvania. I have very few clues at present, but speculate that you too may be in some danger. Please be wary, my friend.

  I looked up at Jamal. “Did you have any trouble?”

  “Me? No…” Morris paused. “Not personally. But I’m sure Williams here told you what happened.”

  “No… he didn’t.”

  Jamal looked at us both. Andy was also shaking his head. “Last year, Detective Rocky James, murdered in cold blood.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Just about one week before I got that letter. No clues, no trace, no witnesses.”

  “You never mentioned any of this before,” Williams protested.

  “I held a press conference,” Jamal replied.

  “I was there, but you didn’t give any details.”

  “There were none to give, Andy,” Morris said and faced me again. “Thing is, Fynn disappears for twenty years— then out of the blue I get that letter. I thought he was dead. Very odd, you know what I’m saying?”

  “So these cases might be related?”

  “What? Our case from twenty years ago?”

  I nodded.

  “Was your guy, Durbin, shot in the foot?” Jamal asked.

  “Both feet.”

  “Hmm,” Jamal grunted. “Same with Rocky James.”

  “Okay, that is definitely a detail you did not mention at the press conference,” Williams cut in.

  “You are correct. It was information I had to withhold.”

  “Why?” Andy asked.

  Jamal gave him a half smirk. “Is that something anyone needed to know except me and the coroner?”

  “I guess not…” Andy said. “But it is news.”

  “It wasn’t relevant to anything till now.”

  “Why now?”

  “The dead detectives,” Jamal answered and handed Williams the letter to read. “Rocky James, this Durbin guy in Sand City, and one from twenty years ago…”

  “Did you search for Fynn after you got his letter?”

  “Looked everywhere. Nada.”

  “Did he ever mention anything about other cops being killed?”

  “Not at the time.”

  “Where’s this Inspector Fynn now?” Andy asked.

  “An MP,” Jamal said.

  “A what?” I asked.

  “A missing persons.”

  “You think so? I mean, he must be somewhere.”

  “So, like he’s just lost or something?” Jamal asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied a bit defensively.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Well… where’s he been all this time?”

  “Who is this Fynn guy?” Andy asked.

  “He was a detective that I worked with on a case outta Philly. Afterwards, he just up and vanished into thin air.” Jamal took a sip from his glass. “I will say, I’m curious as hell. I haven’t thought about Fynn for a long time. And then in one
day, two people call me up with all kinds of questions.”

  “Two people?” I asked.

  “You and Franny.”

  “Who’s Franny?” I feigned the question.

  “She does freelance research for the department. She called me today too. Say, wait a minute… Don’t you know Franny?” he asked with a slight smile. I chose not to reply, and Morris continued: “Andy here does.”

  “Yeah, she works for the paper sometimes. I’ve never met anyone like her… a savant, I’d say.”

  “Nothing can hide from Franny,” Jamal said.

  “Or no one,” Andy added and Morris laughed.

  “So… Chief… can you talk about that old case?”

  He looked around the bar and then at us. “None of this goes into print, right?”

  Andy and I both shook our heads. I bought another round.

  ***

  “Normally, I’m not sure I could remember that far back, but this was the weirdest case I ever worked, that’s for sure. Around nineteen ninety-two— that winter. I was working homicide, Philly PD. There was a shooting a couple of towns over in Bucks County, but the victim had ties to the city, so I was called in. A jurisdictional overlap.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A nightclub owner… Zardoz, I think.”

  “That’s a strange name.”

  Jamal laughed. “That was the name of the place… right on the water, the Delaware. Some old warehouse converted into a dance club… A big place, all windows, all disco. And really loud.”

  “What happened?”

  “Victim was a guy by the name of Eugene Gallagher, nightclub owner, and a detective from Philly, District Seven… only a few years till retirement.”

  “How could he afford a nightclub?” Andy asked.

  “It was like an inheritance… and he was very enterprising. Everything was on the up and up. He was investigated thoroughly by Internal Affairs.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I’d seen him around enough to say hello. But hell, I was a green kid, just getting started. He was the seasoned pro. Well liked, respected.”

  “So, nothing shady there?”

  “Shady? No. He liked to roam a bit, but most of the time he hung out at his club, glad-handing people as they came in; sometimes, behind the bar, especially if there was a pretty girl around. He had a condo up on the hill… Used to take the young ladies back there, I was told.”

  “Married?” I asked.

  “No, divorced.”

  “Nobody with a grudge, like an ex-wife?” Andy had a question too.

  “Not that we could find. Later on, I talked to IA; he wasn’t even on their radar. Looks like he lived a good clean life, had an excellent arrest record, friends to everyone, and nobody had a bad word to say.” Morris took a sip from his glass and continued:

  “So… the night in question, I drive up to this resort town, like two in the morning, New Hope, right on the river… An artsy little place, all antique shops and galleries, restaurants, and crafty stores.” He paused. “You ever been there?” Jamal asked and looked at us.

  Neither of us had.

  “Close to Doylestown, weird place, odd people… not Philly-types… Maybe they snuck across the river from Jersey, ha— you know what I’m saying?” Jamal laughed. “Anyhow, only had a detective and a couple of officers there… Might say, I was called to the scene a bit late. Let me tell ya, it was chaos.”

  “Why?”

  “Most everyone went screaming outta there as soon as the shots were fired, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Witnesses?”

  “A couple of bartenders, waitresses, the bouncer and the DJ. They all gave statements. Unreliable at best.”

  “Any reports of a tall guy hanging around, maybe had an eye patch or a glass eye?” I asked.

  “What? That’s pretty weird,” Jamal said. “No. Nothing like that in any of the statements.”

  “Oh, well, we had a person of interest like that in our case… in Sand City.”

  “Anyhow,” Jamal continued, “best I could piece together: A packed Friday night. Nothing unusual till the giant windows break, one, two, three in a row. Somebody screams. Then there’s a dead guy on the dance floor: Detective Gallagher. The music stops and everybody goes tearing outta there.” Jamal paused, frustration crossed his face. “The crime scene was a goddamn mess. Of course, if it was today, we’d swab every freaking glass in the place and come up with a list of patrons via DNA. Back then, forensics wasn’t so advanced.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that by the time I arrived, half the club had gone home. We had nothing.”

  “So the killer just left the scene?”

  “Exactly right.”

  “How did Inspector Fynn get involved?” I asked.

  “Fynn? Well, he swoops in that very night. Says he knows Gallagher from Interpol; investigating smugglers, he claimed.”

  “What kind of smugglers?”

  “Diamonds, gems maybe?” Morris paused. “Anyhow, he shows up and takes over the scene. I was pissed, I’ll tell ya.” Jamal took a sip from his glass. “But I gotta say, he was outstanding. Tells me to make a statement to the press: Investigating the illegal discharge of a firearm.”

  “Not a murder?” Andy asked.

  “Right… and a very shrewd move.” Morris paused again. “Gotta say, I didn’t like Fynn when I first met him… but well, he grew on me. Probably the least judgmental human being I’ve ever met. Taught me how to drink scotch, good scotch. A very easy guy to work with.”

  “So?”

  “Next morning, I hold a press conference… Detective Eugene Gallagher discharged his weapon accidentally.”

  “That’s a total lie,” Andy complained.

  “Yes, it was. Lucky for us, the TV news never got wind of it. Just the Inquirer and the Gazette.”

  “Gazette?”

  “The local weekly paper.” Jamal smiled. “Further, we stated that Detective Gallagher was unconscious but recovering in the hospital.”

  “Was he?”

  “He was not. He was DOA. We had a corpse on our hands and snuck him into the county morgue.”

  “What was the point of that?” Andy asked.

  “Two-fold. We staked out the hospital room where our patient was recovering… just in case someone wanted to pay him a visit, or kill him again, as the case may be. And, we were able to re-open the club the very next night… like nothing happened.”

  “Why?”

  “Both Fynn and I agreed there was a chance the killer would show up again. Curiosity… or uncertainty… especially if they thought the victim was still alive.”

  “Did anyone come to the hospital?”

  “No. But it bought us a couple of days.”

  “Not just a random shooting?” Andy asked.

  “I refused to believe that. So did Fynn, but he did have some doubts about the killer and the victim being connected. That was my job though. I had Gallagher’s life turned inside out. Found nothing, like I said.”

  “What then?”

  “The first problem was ballistics. Three slugs pulled out of the victim, twenty-five caliber. A very odd bullet. Not many guns use this kind of round… a few Beretta models, a Baby Browning, some antique revolvers, and maybe old varmint rifles.”

  “What about Detective Rocky James?” Andy asked. “What kind of gun killed him last year?”

  Jamal turned to Williams. “You ask good questions… and yes, it could’ve been a similar weapon: a twenty-five caliber semi-automatic.” Morris gave Andy a tight smile but turned to me. “Probably the same kind of gun that did your friend Durbin last year in Sand City.”

  “Wait, how could you know that?” I asked.

  “I must have read it in Franny’s report.”

  “Franny?”

  “Long story… anyhow—”

  “If it was a rare bullet, why was ballistics a problem?” Andy interrupted.

  “First
of all, we didn’t even know how many shots were fired. It was too damn loud in the club. No one heard a goddamn thing.”

  “The windows…” I said. “Somebody shot them.”

  Jamal smiled and pointed at me. “Give this man a prize.” He took a sip from his whiskey sour. “It was a problem though… there should’ve been three bullet holes in the windows, not shattered glass everywhere. Why did they break?” Morris asked at large.

  Neither Andy or I had an answer.

  “After a very costly and time-consuming reconstruction of the scene, the lab comes back and says the glass was substandard, not tempered properly… and, the angle of the shot was perfectly placed as to shatter and not pierce.”

  “Shot from the inside or the outside?” Andy asked.

  “Another good question. Undetermined however. Worse, we never found any casings.”

  “Which means?”

  “Left us with a lot of questions…” Jamal counted on his fingers: “The shots were fired elsewhere; a revolver was used; or the perp cleaned up after themselves.”

  “You’re kidding about the last one, right?”

  “It was not likely, but it was a possibility.” Jamal paused. “Pretty good guess that six shots were fired in total. But from where?”

  “What did your ballistics guys say?”

  “The three bullets we did have were all chewed up. One alternative was a low-velocity rifle fired from a good distance away… So now we’re thinking someone shot him from a boat on the river.”

  “The Delaware?”

  “That’s right. Hence the shattered windows.”

  “Does the river freeze in the winter?” Andy asked.

  “Now, there’s a good question.” Morris smiled. “But no, no ice skaters with varmint rifles.”

  “So that ruled out someone in a boat on the Delaware?”

  “What, like George Washington?” Jamal laughed. “No seriously… the shots would have been fired from the bridge that runs across the Delaware to Lambertville, the Jersey side.”

  “Wait, wasn’t this guy shot in the feet like the others?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Jamal smiled.

  “How could you shoot someone in the feet from across the river? Like a sniper or something?”

  “Ballistics did not back up that idea. No, this was up close and personal. Bang, one foot, bang, the other, bang, point blank in the chest, and Gallagher falls over dead. I’m thinking whoever it is, they’re a damn good marksman, and stone cold, you know what I’m saying?”