Time of Death

by Nathan Van Coops

  I made a mental note to investigate that further.

  “Do you know anyone who wanted to harm Foster? Or any vices that might have got him into trouble? Drugs?”

  “No. He never did any. Might have smoked once or twice with friends but it wasn’t his thing. He drank but never lost his head. He was used to not drinking around others who were.”

  “Like you?”

  She paused the drink on the way to her lips. “Mostly. I’m not one to waste a night off. But he’d probably agree with me now.”

  “Life is short. Did he behave like he wanted a future?”

  “God yes. He was always looking up dream vacation spots. Tropical beaches mostly. Even the morning of the day he died. I found a listing on his phone. We didn’t have a proper honeymoon when we were married, but he wanted to take me on one. I think he was trying to surprise me with a trip. I tried telling the police there was no way he would plan a vacation like that and then kill himself. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It would be helpful if I could see his phone. You still have it?”

  “In the bedroom. They gave his things back when they closed the case.”

  “It seems like you’re doing well financially. Why no honeymoon?”

  “My job demands a lot of my time. Clients are high profile and can be high maintenance. The management prefers that I keep myself available.”

  “How did Foster feel about that?”

  Isla shrugged one shapely shoulder. “He wished we were the ones on the other side of the table. But we were happy enough.”

  “Can you walk me through the location where his death happened? Unless it’s too emotional for you.”

  “No. Thank you. I’m fine.” She knit her fingers around her cocktail glass. “I want you to have everything you need.”

  She glided off the stool and led the way back inside. The music seemed louder.

  We turned left past the kitchen and she took me down a brief hallway that split to meet several doors. The master bedroom door was ajar and revealed an elegantly outfitted king bed neatly made with a mountain of decorative pillows. The office door was to my left and it was there that she guided me.

  The desk was reclaimed wood. Three drawers with a slim silver monitor on top. A small lamp. Cords were all tightly bundled down the back. There was an armchair, a bookcase, an oval throw rug beneath the ottoman. Office chair was missing. Exercise ball sat in one corner.

  “Would you say your husband was a tidy man?”

  “Absolutely. Always kept his office like this. Nothing out of place.”

  “What about the day he died?”

  Isla’s cheeks grew taut as she clenched her jaw. She pointed to an area just left of the desk. “He was in his office chair. There. I threw it out because I couldn’t . . . his blood—”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it. If you could find the phone, I’d like to look at that.”

  Isla wiped under one eye to catch a tear, smearing her eyeliner. “It was just like this. Only that chair—I’ll get the phone.” She spun out of the room and her dress wafted after her as she vanished.

  Whoever had cleaned up had done a good job. The fresh paint was barely discernible on the wall where they’d patched a bullet hole.

  Isla returned with the phone and disabled the security timer before passing it over. “Will you have to look through the photos? I haven’t had a chance to check if there’s anything . . . private on there.”

  “You can take me through any relevant photos yourself, make sure we bypass anything of a delicate nature.”

  “Yes. Thank you. If you can excuse me, I need to . . .” She gestured to her smeared eyeliner.

  “Please do. I’ll only be a few minutes.” As she vanished into the master bedroom, I closed the office door behind her.

  I thumbed through the unlocked phone of Foster Phillips, skimming the various apps he had installed. Nothing unusual. The open browser windows weren’t illuminating either. The news app. A few social media sites. A vacation rentals site. He had several places bookmarked. They did look tropical. Maybe Mexico. I checked his calendar. It was mostly blank after the day of his death. The only upcoming event noted was this coming Sunday. WORK TRIP. No time or destination was specified.

  Not going to be making that.

  That was all the cards he had showing. If this was a poker hand, I’d fold.

  I flipped to the photos and checked for images of Foster’s house, using only the search bar and typing first “office” then “desk.” It was only when I tried “chair” that I finally had a hit that showed the home office I was in now. The rolling office chair had no arms and was tucked tightly against the desk. A smiling Foster Phillips grinned back at the camera from a standing position. Alive. This photo showed him with an amused smile. Dark hair, dark eyes. An intensity of focus to his gaze.

  Another shot showed the office again, this time without him in it. Tidy. Like Isla said.

  Okay. I would take the risk.

  I double-checked the time on the phone. As much as I enjoyed Isla’s company, it was time to work. Time to visit the scene of the crime. I studied each photo of the office I could find and selected the space that was consistently unoccupied. I set the phone on the desk, then dialed my chronometer settings and pressed my hand to the edge of the bookshelf. It was time to see how Foster Phillips died.

  I pushed the pin.

  5

  The man in the chair was certainly dead.

  I hated this part of the job.

  I’d arrived back on the date of Foster’s suicide, the minute after I heard the gunshot in the Phillips’ house. Outside, two men lurked in a blacked-out SUV and an earlier version of me was standing in the alley on the next block recording the time. Soon he’d jump back to the future to make his way to becoming present me. Twisty time travel.

  Death doesn’t bother me but this scene did. Foster Phillips was staring blankly toward the wall beyond his desk with a piece of his head missing. Despite any troubles he’d had with the law, he was a young man with a beautiful wife and a promising future.

  There was less blood than I expected. Not like TV.

  I didn’t move. Just observed. I only had a few minutes till Isla showed up.

  I slipped my sunglasses on and hit record as I studied the scene.

  Learn fast.

  I scanned the room. Foster’s body, still warm. The desk had a laptop open. A browser window showed the same vacation listing he’d had on his phone. A loose pen cap rested on the desk with no sign of the pen. A half-empty glass of water sat on a coaster. A drop of blood had spattered onto the outside of the glass. Otherwise the desk was uncluttered. I didn’t touch a thing.

  This was the most dangerous part of what I did.

  Jumping through time in an unfamiliar location is a good way to wind up fused with a piece of furniture. That’s bad enough. But the act of inserting myself into a known past is every bit as dangerous. People think time is a straight line—the actions of a concrete history creating the fleeting present ahead of an amorphous and undefined future. They’re wrong on all counts.

  Time isn’t a straight line, it’s a fractal, capable of being broken or altered at any point. But while an infinity of variations could exist, it’s a finite number that actually does. The reality of a “present” is an illusion, though as Einstein suggested, a very persistent one.

  A good time traveler always walks the past like a crime scene, careful of his footsteps.

  Unless the police report mentioned a private detective with classic movie star good looks being present at the time of their arrival, I had to be gone when they got here. Anything else would mean a paradox, or possibly a change to time. Not what I was there to do.

  Observe. Take notes. Don’t disturb anything.

  At least that was the plan until the man in the balaclava stepped through the doorway.

  Thankfully I’m bad at shrieking or I might have tried it.

  I’d been focused on
keeping my cool with the scene before but now I mimicked an ice sculpture. Froze in place.

  Who was this guy?

  He didn’t notice me at first, intent as he was on the body in the chair.

  He stooped to have a look at the weapon on the floor beneath Foster’s limp arm. Looked like a Glock 23 from where I stood. Then the man looked up.

  Perhaps it was a function of the ski mask over his face but when his eyes went wide, he looked cartoonish.

  His hand still hovered near the planted gun.

  My fingers flew to my chronometer, dialing my destination as fast as I could. I expected him to go for the gun again. I had time. But he raised his other hand instead. Something invisible struck me in the chest. My stomach spasmed, my legs turned to jelly, and I lost muscle control. I hit the floor hard, gasping for breath. It wasn’t a stun gun. Something worse. My mind flickered, sight coming and going as my consciousness fought to stay.

  He stepped closer. Not a big guy, but a giant from my perspective. He loomed over me and aimed his gloved palm at me again. Something at its center glowed. “Whoever you are, you’re a dead man.”

  “Not yet,” I muttered. My hands were beneath me on the floor. My fingers found the pin on my chronometer and I pressed it.

  The image of the man standing over me vanished as I catapulted myself forward through time. When I arrived, my body was still reeling from whatever I’d been hit with and my chronometer was scalding hot, burning my wrist. I fumbled with the latch and the chronometer clattered to the floor. I hissed through my teeth as I rubbed my wrist and stayed curled in the fetal position on the floor.

  Shit. That hadn’t gone well.

  I checked my arm. A burn in the shape of forked lightning had spread from my wrist halfway to my elbow.

  I unclamped my jaw and rolled onto my side with a groan. I located the chronometer and shoved it into my jacket pocket. I was only just feeling like I could try moving again when the door opened and Isla Phillips appeared in the doorway.

  “Jesus, are you okay?”

  “Not Jesus,” I muttered as I climbed to my feet. “But people confuse us all the time. Same great abs.”

  She must not have found me funny. Maybe her ears were ringing too.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Dizzy spell.”

  “What can I get you?” Isla asked. “You look like you should sit down.”

  She guided me out of the office and back to the living room. “Are you on something? You need a doctor?”

  “No. I’m fine. One too many is all.”

  By the time I reached the couch I was steadier. Enough that I declined the seat. My body aches were letting up and the effects from whatever had hit me were dissipating.

  “I’m staying right next to you till we’re sure. What about some fresh air?” She led me back outside, this time to a wicker loveseat near the pool.

  Once we were seated she leaned close and put a hand to my arm. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you need something . . .”

  “Better now. But I’ve discovered a few things. One is that your husband was murdered.”

  Her breath caught.

  Isla Phillips was a strong woman. It was evident in the natural grace she exhibited. Grace doesn’t thrive on its own in the modern world. It must be projected from strength. But even strong women have limits.

  My words settled into her. Changed something.

  “How? Why?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “But you’re sure. Murdered.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I nodded.

  She let out the breath and her shoulders slumped. “You have proof to give the police?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll get it.”

  “If you need to keep the phone longer . . .”

  She thought I’d found my proof on her husband’s phone. Of course she did. What else could I have been doing in a closed office? Certainly not getting knocked down by a guy six months ago.

  “That would be helpful. I’d like to hang onto it for a day if I can.”

  She nodded. Wrung her hands. “I’ll reset the password before you leave. Will you stay a bit longer? I’m worried about you leaving in the state you’re in.”

  “I do have a few more questions.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Why him?”

  She met my eyes, questioning, but seemed to understand. She took a breath. “He was . . . different. Not what I was used to. He had this incredible assuredness about him. I think part of me just wanted to see what that was like.”

  “You weren’t used to confident guys?”

  Her expression darkened. “I was used to entitled assholes. Foster wasn’t like that. He’d worked for everything he had.”

  “Any of these entitled assholes ever come around while you were married to Foster?”

  “Occasionally on the job. But never outside of work. Foster would run them off. He wasn’t shy about that. Didn’t tolerate other guys hitting on me. He could be a bit . . . possessive.”

  “Violent?”

  “Never with me.”

  “But you tolerated it.”

  “It’s not the worst thing. A man who fights for what’s his. He made me feel like I was his whole world. I felt . . . protected.”

  “How long did you date before you were married?”

  Isla bit her lip. Held her breath. Her response came out with her exhalation. “Two weeks.”

  I tried to stay stoic but my raised eyebrows betrayed me.

  “We were doing something spontaneous. But we really had a connection. It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds.”

  I ruminated on that. “Somebody wanted your husband dead, Mrs. Phillips. Who do you think that was?”

  Isla fidgeted with a bracelet on her wrist. “I don’t know.”

  She knew something but I didn’t push her. Not yet.

  “That a charm bracelet?”

  Isla looked down at the bracelet she’d been fidgeting with and stopped. “It was a gift. He used to call me his lucky charm. It’s from a quote he saw at the casino the night he met me. I know it’s not the style anymore but it was something he gave me that felt real.”

  She had a slight hitch in her voice. It sounded authentic. She turned back to me with moist eyes. “How do you know he was murdered? What’s your proof?” Her face was expectant, vulnerable. She needed hard evidence and something to validate her faith in me.

  “I’m playing that close to the chest for now. Still working out the details. But I’ll get justice for Foster. I don’t know what that looks like yet, but I promise you’ll have it.”

  She seemed mollified by that.

  Isla gathered herself and rose. We wandered back indoors.

  I sipped water and oozed competence. The unflappable calm of the stalwart detective.

  Isla was still attentive. Would I like another beer? Stay a little longer?

  I wanted both but the nagging in my head wouldn’t let me.

  Despite my rampaging confidence, all I really had to show for the night was a busted chronometer, a sore body, all the signs of an impending hangover, and a dead guy’s phone.

  Nothing good ever happens after midnight, and getting there in the proximity of Isla Phillips wasn’t going to do anything for my mental clarity.

  It was time to go.

  Isla walked me to the door.

  “Call me tomorrow?” she said.

  “I’ll check in,” I said. “Goodnight.”

  I summoned a ride on my phone.

  Standing on the curb, I stared up at the few stars the trees and light pollution couldn’t obscure. I wondered what the rest of the universe was up to tonight. It was only as the Uber was arriving that I noticed the shifting silhouette in the driver’s seat of an eighties model Dodge truck down the street.

  I climbed into the passenger seat of my rented ride and watched the side mirror.

  “Back to the Burg?” the driver asked.

  She was hipper than me
.

  “In no particular hurry,” I said.

  She shifted the car back into drive and pulled away. A block behind us the Dodge slunk out of its parking space. Its lights didn’t come on until we were turning the corner.

  Looked like my night wasn’t over.

  6

  My Uber driver needed to invest in better air freshener. The label on the container said ‘dark cherry’ but smelled like someone burning Fruit Loops in a Yankee Candle store. I cracked the window and checked the side-view mirror again. The Dodge truck was two cars back on the interstate, keeping a wary distance.

  I had the driver drop me off near my office downtown instead of my apartment. Central Avenue was busy. Couples held hands strolling beneath the streetlights and groups of twenty-somethings laughed their way between bars. My Uber driver had a new fare by the time I got out of the car.

  I pretended to ignore the Dodge as I walked up the block. Whoever was tailing me would have a hard time finding parking downtown on a Friday night. Despite the glacial 15 mph speed limit, they were forced to pass my position on the sidewalk. I made sure there was a palm tree between us as they went by in case they were looking to shoot me, but the driver was doing a good job of pretending to be uninterested.

  I stole a glance. Guy. Mid-thirties. Scruffy beard and a trucker hat. Never seen him before.

  The truck was a beater. Faded blue paint and rust holes on the bed. I pulled my phone from my pocket and made a note of the license plate number. I’d see what Waldo could do with it.

  The burrito place next door to my office was still open so I stood in line at the take-out window and waited for Trucker Hat to reappear. Took about five minutes but I spotted him across the street just about the time my tempeh burrito was up. What to do.

  This guy clearly had an interest but wasn’t especially subtle about it. Still, he was one of the only leads I had going at the moment. It wouldn’t pay to lose him.

  I opened the door to my office and locked it again from the inside, then jogged up the stairs two at a time. When I reached my office I stole a quick peek out the window to see if my stalker was still on the corner. He was. I noted the time and sat myself at the desk to see what I could do with my chronometer.