Time of Death

by Nathan Van Coops

  Time of Death

  A Time Travel Detective Mystery

  Nathan Van Coops

  For Grandma Maggie, who loves mysteries.

  Sorry for the swear words.

  Contents

  Free Story

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Series By Nathan Van Coops

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  1

  The padlock snapped open with a satisfying click.

  I scooped the stopwatch from my desk and checked the time. “And that’s a new record.”

  I lobbed the lock into the cardboard box near the door, and it clattered among the dozen others. “Better step up your game, Waldo. I’m getting too good for you.” I flourished my favorite lock pick, gave it a kiss for luck, then slid it back into my shirt pocket.

  My office was empty. Rain assaulted the southern-facing windows that looked out over Central Avenue. Cars and pedestrians dashed about their business outside, but Waldo remained silent. Likely because his settings hadn’t picked up on a request for action. That or my A.I. assistant was becoming a poor loser.

  “You could at least offer a ‘well done’ or something,” I said, rising from my swivel chair and stretching before scooping up the roll of packing tape. “That was at least six more than they sent in the last box.”

  “Congratulations, sir.” The deep voice came from the speaker embedded in the desk lamp. “You have once again proven yourself more intelligent than inanimate lumps of steel.”

  Attitude. Always the attitude.

  “Your sarcasm is noted, Waldo. Print a return label for this, will you?” I ran packing tape across the box and placed it near the hallway door for the mail carrier to retrieve.

  The freelance lock-picking service was only a side hobby, but it kept my skills sharp, and every package that went out carried a handful of my business cards. Greyson Travers. Private Investigator.

  “Your eleven o’clock appointment has arrived.”

  Waldo’s announcement was accompanied by footfalls on the stairs. I kicked the box of locks till it sat neatly in the corner and rolled the sleeves of my Oxford shirt another rotation up my forearms. I quickly crossed my customer lobby that consisted of only four chairs, a coffee table, and a ficus, then opened the main hallway door.

  The woman in the hallway froze, her fist arrested mid knock. Anyone else would’ve looked ridiculous. She didn’t.

  “Mrs. Phillips,” I said.

  Isla Phillips had sounded older on the phone, but the conversation had been brief. The woman standing before me was only in her late twenties, dressed like she’d stepped directly from an Anthropologie dressing room. Her skin tone suggested a heritage that was at least biracial. Part angel perhaps. Her embroidered blue mini dress featured flowing full-length sleeves and a V neck that bordered on plunging. A delicate gold pendant hung between well-defined collar bones. Everything south of that was worth observation as well, but her daintily freckled nose and stunning hazel eyes held me hostage.

  That and I’m a gentleman.

  “Mr. Travers?”

  “Greyson. Please come in.” I took her dripping umbrella, then gestured toward my open office door.

  She walked through to my office, and the place instantly smelled like wildflowers and summertime. I felt like turning a cartwheel.

  Isla Phillips paused near the two pine-and-steel guest chairs opposite my desk. “You keep a very tidy office.”

  “Cluttered room, cluttered mind,” I said, moving around the desk and waiting for her to sit. She chose the right-hand guest chair and sank gracefully to the seat before crossing her legs. I only had time to admire her well-defined calves before fixing her with my brightest how-can-I-save-your-day smile. I sat and folded my hands across my lap.

  “I’ve never hired a private detective before,” she began. “But I thought it would be best to explain my situation in person.”

  “Phones are the worst,” I said. “I’m happy you came to the fun side of the bridge. Can I offer you a drink?” I gestured toward the stainless steel mini fridge built into the credenza. “I have a variety of craft beers. All of Tampa Bay’s finest. Coffee, et cetera.”

  “No, thank you.” She studied my face. “You’re younger than I imagined. I don’t know why, but I thought you’d be . . .”

  “Less hip with the kids?” I offered.

  “More . . . traditional,” she replied.

  “I can put out the scotch and ashtrays if it makes you feel more comfortable. Perhaps refer to you as a dame when you leave?”

  She gave me a wan smile and fidgeted with her wedding band. The diamond at the center of the engagement ring could capsize a small boat.

  “I suppose I ought to tell you about my husband.”

  “Hmm. Mr. Phillips,” I said, to astound her with my detective skills.

  “It’s going on six months since the police closed the investigation and ruled his death a suicide. They tell me they’ll consider reopening it if I come up with new information they find plausible, but I haven’t found anything they say counts. I think the detective I’ve been talking to has only been humoring me this long because he likes looking at my legs. The last time I called, he tried to ask me out.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. I’m immune to beautiful women and their legs.”

  Isla Phillips eyed me skeptically, ignoring the implied compliment.

  “I believe my husband was murdered, Mr. Travers. And I need you to prove it for me.”

  “Why are the police convinced the case is closed?” I asked.

  She sighed. “There was a note. It’s in his handwriting, and there were no other fingerprints on the gun except his. But I know they’re missing something.”

  “You want your own detective.”

  “I’ve already waited too long for answers from the police. I asked around. They say you can solve any case in days. Are you really that good?”

  “I’m at least average. You found me by referral?”

  “One of the girls at my work. Said you got her out of a jam. Swears you’re the best detective in town.”

  “Depends on the case. I only take the ones I’m a good fit for.”

  “Think you’re fit to handle mine? Or is your reputation overstated?”

  A challenge.

  I scratched my fingertips across the ten days of stubble on my jaw. “You ever see The Maltese Falcon? Old black-and-white movie with Humphrey Bogart?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a bit of a classic in my field. I can admit I’m every bit as good as Miles Archer.” I pulled my favorite lock pick from my pocket and fidgeted with it, attempting to roll it finger-to-finger one-handed like a coin.

  “You do look like you could star in an old movie. You have that kind of face. Sort of striking.”

  My lock pick escaped my grasp and ended up on the floor.

  Utter betrayal.

  I rolled my chair closer to the desk so I had something to rest my movie star elbows on
. “What makes you think your husband didn’t kill himself, Mrs. Phillips?”

  Isla Phillips chewed her cheek, then exhaled. “It wouldn’t be like him. He wasn’t depressed. He was . . . determined.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible he was hiding a mental illness of some kind?”

  “I would’ve known.”

  “Financial trouble? Change in his career? Marital issues?”

  “We had our difficulties same as anyone, but I know there was nothing that would’ve made him want to end his life. If anything, he had more to live for.”

  “Did he have any enemies? People who wished him harm?”

  “Not that I know about. But there was another thing. A while ago, someone broke into our house but didn’t steal anything. I can’t help thinking it was somehow related.”

  “This was before or after he died?”

  “After,” Isla said. “And I know it doesn’t make sense to think the break-in was connected if he was already dead, but I just can’t shake it. I don’t know what else to tell you beyond what I’ve already told the police. And they don’t believe me. But I know there’s more, and until I find it, I’m not—” She choked up and covered her quivering lower lip with her hand. The composure she had maintained so gracefully was gone and she was suddenly fragile. I resisted the compulsion to reach for her hand. A moment later she collected herself. “I’m not going to give up.” She fixed me with her iridescent eyes, now glittering with tears.

  It was a convincing show but I didn’t buy it. Not yet.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She blinked. Wary.

  “There’s something else. Or you wouldn’t have come to me. You want a private cop. That means I work for you, not the police. You can spill it.”

  She bit her lip. Opened her mouth, paused, then finally let it out. “Foster had a record. He was trying to go straight. He had gone straight mostly. But before he died he said he was into something big. Something that would change things for us. He wouldn’t tell me what it was and I never found out, but I had the feeling it may have been something illegal. I didn’t want to tell the police about it. I knew they’d think it was only more proof he was troubled.”

  There it was. The real story. Her side anyway.

  “My usual turn around is seventy-two hours,” I said, and pushed my card across the table. “Fee’s listed on the back. Half now, half when I finish. If I run into any unusual expenses I’ll clear them with you first. Expect that I’ll check in with updates, but don’t worry if you can’t reach me. I’m on the case.”

  “You don’t want to ask more about him?”

  “I do. But first I like to get paid.”

  Isla picked up the card, wiped at her eyes, and reached for her purse. “This seems expensive. What happens if you don’t solve it in seventy-two hours?”

  “You can have your money back,” I said. “But I’ll get you an answer. I can’t promise you’ll like it, but if you meet me in this office Monday at . . .” I checked the clock, “ . . . eleven, you’ll have the truth.”

  The widow pulled a credit card from her wallet, but paused. “Why seventy-two hours? Aren’t all cases different?”

  “I tried twenty-four but people assumed I was cutting corners.”

  She blinked again, then rose from her chair to hand her card across the desk. I stood as well.

  “You’re a very unusual man, Mr. Travers.”

  I took the card and swiped it over the hidden pay port built into my desk, then handed it back.

  “I’m going to do some preliminary research, then I’ll contact you with my questions. Can I see you to your car?”

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  I moved around the desk and crossed to the door, opening it for her and retrieving her umbrella. She tucked her wallet back into her purse and paused in the doorway. “When should I expect to hear from you?”

  “Will you be home tonight?”

  “Yes. I can text you the address.”

  “I’ll stop by.”

  Isla Phillips took her umbrella as she stepped into the hall, still smelling like summer. I watched her go. At the corner of the stairs, she glanced back and gave me a faint smile. I tried not to melt.

  I closed the door and walked back to my desk. “Waldo, get me everything you have on Foster Phillips and put it in my cloud, will you?”

  Waldo’s voice emanated from the speaker in the lamp again. “The character of Miles Archer died within the first ten minutes of the film version of The Maltese Falcon. In the novel, it’s in chapter two. Is there something about this case you’re not telling me?”

  “I like to set a low bar for myself. Feels good later when I’m extra awesome.” I tapped a sequence on the surface of my desk with my fingertips and a hidden drawer popped out, revealing a semi-automatic pistol and a watch-like device with a variety of concentric rings on the face.

  “You could try allowing yourself more time for once,” Waldo offered. “Like a regular private investigator.”

  I slid the watch-like device onto my wrist and adjusted the dials. “What fun would that be? You know time is never the issue. I can cheat that. Double-check my coordinates for me?”

  “Your settings are perfect, as usual.”

  “Lock the place up for me.”

  “Have a good trip, sir.”

  I touched my index finger to the pistol in the drawer, pressed the activation pin on the watch with my other hand, and vanished.

  2

  I’m a time traveler.

  That’s what the clients don’t know.

  Tried telling one once but it was nothing but “I don’t believe you. How this, what about that, and why don’t you play the stock market?” Boring.

  It’s just another skill.

  Get a job, go to the past, discover the truth, get paid.

  Easy.

  My hand was still on the gun. Same gun, different place. Ten minutes in the future and two miles across town. My safe room.

  Travel by personal wormhole is handy like that.

  I took the pistol from its anchor stand and dumped it in the outgoing items bin near the door, then used my fingerprint on the exit lock. The system beeped, logging the time. I stepped outside.

  The hexagonal pavers underfoot were dry but the air smelled like rain. The rumble of thunder threatened from downtown.

  Hawk, a gargantuan black cat with a tattered right ear, stared at me from the deteriorating wall that encircled the patio. He gave me a slow blink.

  “Good to see you too, buddy.”

  The cat’s ears flicked and he raised his eyes to the second story.

  Something was up.

  There were still a few seconds left on my exit window from the jump room. I opened the door again and snatched my pistol from the bin before the time lock on the door could set. The 9mm Stinger 1911 unlocked in my hand, triggered by a combination of the palm print sensor in the grip and the titanium band on my right ring finger. I kept my index finger on the trigger guard and ascended the steps to my second story garage apartment.

  No signs of forced entry. I tried the door and found it unlocked. Not how I left it.

  My gun was up as I stepped inside. I scanned the open living area. Kitchen was clear. A sound came from the hallway to the bedrooms. Water running. The sink.

  Burglars and hitmen don’t usually pause to wash up before a crime.

  The bathroom door opened and a tall, middle-aged man wearing shorts and flip flops stepped into the hall.

  I lowered my gun. “Shit, Dad. B and E is a good way to get yourself shot.”

  Benjamin Travers stared back at me. “I didn’t B anything. Just needed to wash the blood off. Your ugly cat mauled me.” He held up his forearm and displayed several red scratches that were already turning to angry welts. He also had a chronometer on his wrist.

  “Hawk is handsome. All the girl cats love him. What are you doing here?”

  “Your mother is a persistent worri
er.”

  “I’ll visit eventually.” I walked to the fridge, pulled two beers out and handed one to my dad.

  He walked around the living room while he sipped his, studied the blinds. “How long have you lived here and you still don’t have curtains? You bring girls up to this? If anything you should decorate for them.”

  “I go to your place and insult your aesthetic?” I sank onto the couch with my beer.

  “An aesthetic requires some measure of beauty. Like art. Or at least objects that could be deemed artistic. You have blank walls and a doormat.” He took a seat next to me.

  “I like things simple. What do you care?”

  “I just don’t get why you want to live in this neighborhood. It’s depressing. The decade. All of it. Your mother and I went to a lot of effort trying to raise you somewhere nicer. Better. I don’t get why you came back here.”

  “You used to live in this decade.”

  “Before I had a choice.”

  “You said the first rule of time travel is to not make anything worse.”

  “You thought that meant go live in some armpit of a timeline? Who did they elect as . . . you know what? I’ll stop. You gotta live your life.” He drank more beer. “How old are you these days? Thirty?”

  “I don’t know. In my prime, obviously.”

  “Your mother said to remind you there’s a place for you in our time whenever you want it. You could find a job that isn’t chasing people’s misdeeds all night. Work some regular hours. Maybe see if you remember what the sun looks like.”

  “Yellow, burny, sky thing. I’ve seen it. Besides, I like it here. It’s where my cat lives.”

  “A cat isn’t a family.”