“Maybe I prefer caring for something that stays where I left it. Doesn’t expect me to do anything but show up with Meow Mix. Doesn’t expect me to be a guy I’m not.”
Dad swallowed hard. “I know you didn’t ask to be born a time traveler. Didn’t ask for the problems that come with it. We did the best we could.”
“I’m good. Don’t beat yourself up. You bring the car?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I’ll drop it by later. You want it in the garage?”
“Leave it out front. I’ll handle putting it away.”
“Still don’t know how you pulled it off.”
“You’re the one who taught me poker. You really ought to blame yourself.”
“Your mom doesn’t know I saw you that night.”
“Who am I going to tell?”
He got off the couch and put his beer can in the sink. When he came back, I stood and he put a hand on my shoulder. “Take care of yourself, all right? Maybe make some friends or something.”
“I’ve got Waldo. And Hawk. I’m already over-scheduled.”
He went to the door. “I’ll drop the car by tomorrow.”
“Tell Mom not to worry. I’m fine.”
“Sure. And I’ll tell this sky not to burst.” He gave me a wave and shut the door. A moment later, lightning flashed across the sky. Storm was settling in.
Good time to get back to work.
* * *
It took me several stops, cross-referencing safe jump locations with Waldo, but I got myself to Hyde Park, a trendy neighborhood of South Tampa in the twilight hours of October 20th, 2018.
The night Foster Phillips died.
The evening was cool and the moon was rising. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans and whistled as I strolled through Hyde Park Village—an attractive, high-end shopping district filled with attractive high-end people. No one can suspect you of being a time traveler if they are too stunned by your whistling prowess.
I’m the Michael Phelps of whistling.
After doing my best not to ogle a group of fit thirty-something women exiting LuluLemon, I turned down a side street, cruising the sidewalk in front of beautified Old Florida bungalows with wooden porch swings and lawns of verdant St. Augustine grass.
The slice of Americana where Foster and Isla Phillips lived had an oak tree in the front yard and a garage apartment in the back. The porch swing was green and the front door was sunshine yellow. I strolled by slowly, then crossed the street, pulling my wallet out at the corner before circling back. I slipped a business-card-sized sheet from my wallet and punched out one of my eight micro-cameras. They resembled the googly eyes kids stick on kindergarten craft supplies to give them personalities. My cameras were similarly adhesive and I stuck one to the pole of a NO PARKING sign opposite the Phillips’ residence. A tree a dozen yards down got one too.
Lurking in a car on stakeouts for hours is an honored tradition of the private investigator trade, but the Impossible Burger with extra guac I’d had for lunch was already sending me toward a siesta. I figured I’d make this quick.
I made a lap of the block and cruised down the alley to check the rear access, depositing another two micro-cameras. I checked my phone to make sure all of the cameras were transmitting, then browsed through a few mugshots Waldo had found of Foster Phillips.
The police department isn’t known for flattering photography but Foster presented as a handsome man in his late twenties. He had a sharp, eager face. Isla had described him as determined. I could see it in his eyes. He’d been arrested a few times. Car theft and attempted robbery. Did a couple years but was paroled early for good behavior. Employed by some kind of security firm but had been let go six months ago.
It was on my return lap from the back alley that I spotted the truck. The Mercedes Benz G-Class SUV was black on black from its window tint to the color of its rims. It was parked on a side street but had a clear view of the Phillips’ house. The engine was idling and a steady drip of condensation had created a puddle beneath the air conditioning system. Attempting to see inside was like staring into the nothing.
Hyde Park was a nice neighborhood, and it was home to plenty of money-savvy millennials, and probably a few of their parents, but not Russian mafia. Even a half-decade-old G-Class SUV was an eighty-thousand dollar ride. On a woke street full of Mini-Coopers and Priuses, it stuck out like a Mercedes G-Class SUV.
This was one downside to getting around by time travel. I didn’t have my own lurker mobile around a corner with which to surveil the suspicious SUV. But I did have my sparkling personality. I tugged my sunglasses from the collar of my shirt and slipped them on, pressing the record button on the in-frame camera, then jaywalked across the street to the driver’s side of the Mercedes. I rapped on the window and gave my reflection a winning grin.
I rested my hand on the side-view mirror. The window came down halfway.
“The fuck you want?”
The driver of the car wore sunglasses too, but not as cool as mine. Obviously jealous. He was a hulk of man whose shaved head and abundant neck folds meant he probably didn’t have my outstanding hair genes or low cholesterol numbers. A second man was in the passenger seat. He had excellent hair but a pinched, constipated tension to his features. He might be able to compete on the cholesterol front but I doubted Isla Phillips had ever told him he had classic movie star appeal.
“Excuse me, gents. You happen to see a little dog run by? It’s a shepherd-yorkie-schnoodle-chow. Goes by Barkley.”
“We look like dog catchers to you? Get lost.”
The window went back up.
“I’m just gonna keep looking around then!” I shouted to the closed window. I gave my reflection a wave, then wandered back past the Phillips’ house, periodically calling for my dog who stubbornly refused to exist.
My hunt for Barkley was so intense that I almost missed the dented Volkswagen Golf that cruised by. But the driver’s face caught my attention. The car swung into the narrow driveway and pulled alongside the bungalow with the yellow door. The engine cut off and the brake lights went out.
Foster Phillips had arrived home.
I was around the corner and out of sight by the time the man climbed out of his car. I pulled my shades off and watched the action with my phone via the micro-cameras. Foster Phillips wore jeans and a Tampa Bay Lightning jersey. He carried a shoulder bag—the kind used for hauling a laptop—and some kind of hard-sided crate, size of a suitcase. He hurried up the steps, ignored his full mailbox, and went directly inside. I toggled between cameras and made sure each was recording.
Whatever happened from here had already happened. It wasn’t my job to stop it. But the circumstances did have me curious. I lingered in the alley midway down the block, watching the clock. Took about twenty minutes. I was close enough to hear the gunshot when it went off.
I watched for fifteen more minutes—till the second car pulled into the driveway. Isla Phillips. She took her time getting out of the white Volvo, checked something on her phone, then gathered the mail. Not the actions of a woman who knew she’d find her husband dead in their home.
She entered the front door and disappeared.
No one else came in or out of the Phillips’ house. I rewound the recordings and double-checked. Nobody but Isla.
Evidence said suicide.
The camera I’d surreptitiously stuck to the Mercedes’ side-view mirror had shown no movement, but now the vehicle started rolling. They passed a police cruiser on its way in. The video feed only lasted another half block before it was out of range. That camera disconnected from my screen.
“Where did you make your fun friends, Foster Phillips?”
I pocketed my phone and took the long way back to Hyde Park Village.
The trip had given me answers, but now I had more questions.
3
As a private detective, my relationship with local police was sometimes frosty. It might get to room temp on a good week. But it was frigid on a bad one. Mostly becaus
e I rarely dealt with them face-to-face. Navigating labyrinthian phone directories or filling out online request forms for public records brought out my most colorful swearing. Thankfully, Waldo remained nonplussed. My A.I. assistant kept me at arms length from the local LEOs, but sometimes an in-person meetup had its benefits.
Browsing the public records on the death of Foster Phillips, I discovered the lead detective on the case was someone I knew. And I knew where to find him.
Dave Walsh had aggressively climbed the ranks of the department to become a homicide detective. He played men’s league softball when he wasn’t on duty and drank after the Wednesday night games at a pseudo-Irish bar called MacDinton’s. I found him there with a few of the guys from his team drinking Miller Lite from plastic cups as they sat around tables on the sidewalk.
He gave me a nod as I walked up. “Travers. Haven’t seen you in years. How’s your old man? You come to join the league?”
“Team sports still aren’t my thing.”
“Don’t know what you’re missing, man.”
“Cheap beer and a participation trophy?”
“League champions trophy this season. Comes with a T-shirt.” He plucked at the shirt he wore, displaying the screen-printed logo.
“I stand corrected.”
Dave grinned and turned to one of his buddies at the table. “This here is Greyson Travers. Top of his class at the Academy.”
“You still with the department?” the friend asked.
I shook my head. “Never was.”
“Travers paid his own way. The city offered to pick him up but he turned them down,” Dave explained. “Decided to go the private route.”
“Police work wasn’t for me,” I said.
The friend shrugged. “Some guys don’t have it.”
“Want a beer?” Dave asked.
“I’ll get this round. Let me pick your brain about a case.”
“Deal,” he said. Dave gestured to the other guys around the table. “You guys need one?”
Thanks to the Wednesday night special on domestics, a round for six guys and myself only cost me twenty bucks. I overtipped the bartender and she brought them out to us.
I showed Dave a picture of Foster and Isla Phillips and he filled me in on the details of the case he could share. He hadn’t been the only one working it but was convinced it was by the book.
“Trust me, I’d have kept the case open if there was anything to go on. Didn’t mind that Mrs. Phillips coming by one bit. But handwriting analysis had a clean match. We had plenty of samples. Note said plain as day that he was doing himself in. We dusted everything. House, car. Blood spatter analysis, fibers, bank records, phone records. The works. The widow swore it was foul play but they all want it to be something it’s not. Collect your fee and move on to the next one.”
“Gunpowder residue?”
“Now that I recall, that was one thing we came short on. Not much on his hands. But it was on scene. Trust me, Grey, we did the diligence.”
“The victim had a record. Any chance his death was connected to his past?”
“Wouldn’t have thought so. Unless he was hiding worse than we know about. Had a dishonorable discharge from the Army. Maybe something there, but we don’t see many guys get a guilty conscience and go offing themselves over small time shit he was into. Maybe he wanted away from her. Lots of people get depressed. It happens. The guy said as much in the note.”
“They checked the note for prints, I assume.”
“Sure. Just his. Right there on the desk for all to see. Like I said. Open and shut. Suicide.”
“What was his explanation? In the note.”
Dave furrowed his brow. “Don’t recall it saying much. Just something about . . . it was his time to go.”
I finished my beer.
That time for me too.
* * *
I looked around for my cat when I got home to Friday afternoon. He wasn’t in his usual spot on the patio wall but must have been recently. The mail carrier had left the mail on the bottom step. Hawk had once again discouraged her from making it all the way to the mailbox.
I climbed the concrete steps to my garage apartment and pressed my thumb to the fingerprint sensor on the door. I took one last look for the cat, then reached inside the door for the tin of cat treats. I shook it. Hawk shot out of the bushes in the neighbor’s yard.
“Keeping the world safe from vermin?”
Hawk meowed.
I set a handful of treats on the concrete wall that rimmed my small front porch. He leapt up and immediately set to devouring them, purring like a well-tuned motor.
I went inside.
I walked to the bedroom and collapsed onto my bed. Kicked off my shoes.
My chronometer was next. I placed it on the charging pad hidden in the surface of the nightstand. Sunglasses too. I folded my hands across my chest and closed my eyes but my mind wouldn’t settle. After a minute of futility, my eyes opened again.
“Waldo, I have some new video recordings on my phone. The Phillips residence. Compile them for me and add in the feed from my sunglasses cam too. A couple of dudes in a Mercedes G-Class rubbed me the wrong way. Get whatever background you can on the guys in the video, will you?”
His voice came from the room’s built-in sound system. “Would you like me to do any more of your job for you while you enjoy your nap?”
“Yes. I need a new assistant. Find your replacement for me.”
“I’ve done a comprehensive search of applicants in neighboring centuries. There is an abacus from 1880 willing to give you a chance. Shall I send for it?”
“Wake me when it shows up.”
I gave the siesta a solid effort, but was awake within an hour.
Something about what Dave had said didn’t sit right. I just didn’t know why. I’d hoped the hour of sleep might sort whatever my conscious mind had missed, but no such luck. I was back to doing legwork.
I climbed off the bed and went to the kitchen, mixed myself a drink.
Old Fashioned in hand I walked back to my bedroom and opened the closet.
My plans for the night didn’t call for anything specialized, so I donned a pair of dark jeans, a light-blue button down, a navy blazer, plus faux leather wing-tip oxfords and a belt to match. I looked damned good.
Everything I was wearing had already been treated for time traveling, imbued with temporally unusual particles known as gravitites. Besides natural charisma, the particles in my body were what set me apart from linear men. A chronometer on an average person’s wrist would be nothing more than a flashy decoration.
Stuff with gravitites can time travel, stuff without them can’t.
It’s a simple rule that new travelers are wont to forget, causing them to arrive at their destinations stark naked, leaving piles of belongings behind when they vanish. Never a classy look. I fitted my recharged chronometer back to my wrist, slipped on my shades, finished my drink, and locked up the apartment.
Waldo had summoned me a ride and it was already pulling up to the curb.
It was time to revisit the Phillips’ house.
4
Isla Phillips opened the front door wearing a dress that could start a riot—a billowy maxi-length number the color of a Georgia peach. The laces holding the plunging V-neck together weren’t good at their job. I glued my eyes to her angelic face.
“You came.” Her flushed cheeks were framed by waves of black hair.
“The invitation was irresistible.”
She held up a glass that was mostly ice. “You missed the first round. You’d better catch up.”
“Had one before I left. But hit me again.”
She led me into the kitchen where indie rock streamed from the sound system.
Can lights illuminated a countertop tiled in a Moroccan motif. Stainless basin sink and a pot-filler spigot. Modern appliances with touchscreen interfaces.
“Cocktail or beer?”
“Whatever’s coldest and wettest.
”
Isla opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Cigar City Lager. “Foster liked these.”
“Have to appreciate a guy who drinks local.”
My host selected a can of White Claw for herself but went to the effort of pouring it over her glass of ice.
She caught me staring. “You like the dress?”
“Not going to thank it for obscuring an otherwise excellent view.”
Isla turned. “You talk to all the grieving widows you meet this way?”
“If it’s welcomed. You want me to pretend it’s not?”
She studied me in silence for a long moment, then turned on her heel and led me through the sliding doors to the back lanai, the dress swishing about her ankles.
There was a pool with lights that changed colors at the bottom, built-in planters around the deck. Cantina lights were strung above an outdoor bar—an inviting space. Beyond the screen enclosure was a well-kept lawn. I had a hard time imagining Isla behind a push mower but someone was taking good care of it all.
“Great place. How long have you lived here?”
She took a seat at the outdoor bar, gliding onto the stool and resting her drink on the bar top. I mounted a stool beside her. “A few years. It’s a work in progress.”
“LinkedIn had Foster’s job title listed as ‘freelance security.’ Does that pay better than I’ve been led to believe?”
Isla ran a forefinger along her perfectly formed lips and over her chin in a way that wasn’t distracting at all. “Foster worked a lot of jobs. Personal security was one. Is looking into our finances part of your investigation?”
“I’m rude and I like to pry.”
Isla laughed. “I don’t believe you. You don’t seem the type of man who talks for no reason. I admire that.”
My heart turned a somersault.
“I purchased the house a few years before Foster and I were married. When I started work at the casino.”
“What kind of work do you do for them?”
“Admin really. Sort of a concierge position. I fit certain players to the games they’d most enjoy. My clients mostly prefer high stakes poker.”
Time of Death Page 2