by MK Alexander
“That’s preposterous,” Fynn said, almost with a tinge of anger.
“Maybe it’s not different timelines, maybe it’s different me’s... in different places.”
“I do not like this idea at all. If this were so, then how do the different you’s talk to each other? How is there any awareness that things have changed?”
“No idea…” I took a sip from my glass and finished it. “Maybe they’re entangled, the various me’s.”
Fynn laughed. He poured us both another glass. I had the feeling this was going to be a long night.
***
A few days later I got a courtesy call from Inspector Fynn to inform me that Durbin had made an arrest. Forensics had finished their work-up on the bicycle and found two sets of prints: the victim’s, when she apparently clutched the handlebars for dear life, and a set belonging to Hector Diaz on the underside of the chrome bumpers. Hector Diaz, itinerant fisherman, regular at Partners, age 49… and now a murder suspect.
He was easily found and brought in for questioning, “a thorough interrogation,” were Fynn’s exact words. It didn’t seem right to me and I jumped in my car and drove directly to the station. Somebody had to speak up for this poor old guy. Durbin got pretty pissed off.
“No, Jardel, it’s completely off the record. You can’t print this yet.”
“You’re arresting this guy for murder and I can’t print it?”
“We’re not arresting. He’s a person of interest right now.”
“Hector Diaz, are you kidding?”
“So far, he’s admitted it’s his bike. His prints were found. The girl’s prints... It’s a slam dunk. As soon as we match the trace from under her fingernails, the DNA, I’ll file charges.”
“C’mon, Hector? He’s a harmless old drunk.”
“Well I guess he just turned nasty.”
“Inspector? What do you say?”
“I have to bow to my colleague on this matter.”
“What about Garret?”
“Who?”
“Garret at the bike shop.”
“What about him?”
“What he said about chrome and steel, and how a bike like that couldn’t possibly look so new.”
“Yeah, well maybe he kept it in a garage or something, and polished it up every year.” Durbin paused. “I’m not buying Diaz’s story… stolen forty years ago when he was a kid… and he’s never seen it since? C’mon, nobody’s believing that.”
“Durbin, you know he’s not good for it.”
“I agree,” the inspector spoke up. “My instinct says this man is innocent.”
“Not you too,” Durbin shot back at Fynn.
“There are certain inconsistencies that bother me.”
“Like?”
“He seems to have an alibi, firstly.”
“Drinking at Partners? Ha, that’s no alibi. Who’s in Partners at ten a.m., drinking?”
“You’d be surprised,” I said under my breath. “Even Suzy says she saw him there.”
“Suzy saw him the night before. She doesn’t open up in the morning.”
“So who saw him then?”
“Old man Diego, but he isn’t really sure what he saw. And his drinking buddies? What’s their names, Cecil and Peppy? Are you kidding? If he was really there, they’d have seen two Hectors each.”
There was an awkward silence. Durbin’s joke fell flat.
“What about the whole corpsicle thing?” I asked.
“I don’t know how that ties in yet.”
“Am I the one who’s going to have to say this?”
“Say what, Jardel?”
“The season’s coming… everybody wants this over… you’re under pressure to wrap it up… but you can’t railroad this guy on a murder charge. It’s just not right.”
“Okay Patrick, you made your point… And yeah, I am under a lot of pressure… But if he’s not the perp, who the fuck is?” Durbin seemed to be losing a little steam.
“I think it’s highly doubtful that a man like Hector Diaz could have dragged the body up to Sunset Park in the first place,” Fynn commented. “You found no such indications at the scene, yes?”
“Yes, I mean, no.”
“And there are the shoes…”
“The shoes?”
“Perhaps I should say, the lack of shoes… on the victim, and the shoe print we found in the mud.”
“He’s got a point, Durbin,” I jumped in. “Can you even imagine Hector wearing Italian shoes?”
“Who says they’re Italian?” Durbin rubbed his brow and gave off a loud sigh. “Okay, you’re right. Hector only has one pair of boots and a pair of flip flops. We checked.”
“And the victim’s shoes?”
“Well, nothing yet… but Hector is good for this, I’m telling you,” Durbin said, but there was certainly some doubt in his tone. “I’m going to hold him for now.”
“What about Samuels?”
“No alibi for that either. Says he was sleeping.”
“Why would he hurt Samuels?”
“Money? An argument that got out of hand? Who knows?”
“So these two killings are related?”
“I didn’t say that,” Durbin replied defensively.
“The shoe prints seem to match at both crime scenes,” Fynn pointed out from his chair.
“Okay, so Hector suddenly decides to go on a killing spree?” I was less calm. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“So far he hasn’t said much. I’m going to give him a couple of days to sober up.”
“You haven’t even identified the Jane Doe at Sunset Park. Who did he kill?”
“He’s gonna tell us… eventually.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“What?”
“Just a couple of questions.”
“Like an interview? No way, Jardel.”
“Well, what can I print then? My deadline is tomorrow.”
“I’ll let you know...”
***
I was back at the office fifteen minutes later. Melissa walked in, Madison in tow. The latter was her daughter, the cutest five year old you could ever hope to meet. The former had a scowl on her face. I don’t think I ever saw Melissa look like this. She took Eleanor aside and whispered something in her ear. She turned to me and managed her perfect smile. “Patrick, could you watch Madison for like five minutes? I have to talk to Eleanor— thanks.”
She didn’t leave me much room to maneuver. Eleanor was already on her way to the ad office and Madison was standing right in front of me, just staring up, smiling expectantly. I grinned back. I heard the door close. “Well, hey cutie-pie… How are you today, Madison?”
“Thirsty.”
“Thirsty? Well, follow me… what do you like to drink?” I asked and led her to the break room fridge.
“Soda.”
“Are you allowed to drink soda?”
“No.”
“How about a juice box?”
“Always a juice box… fine.” Madison sighed dramatically.
We went back to the office and I set her up in a cubicle of her own. I supplied paper and colored markers but she looked at me strangely. “What’s this for?”
“Drawing.”
“I only draw on my tablet.”
“This is the old fashioned way… paper and, well, I don’t have any crayons...”
“Yes you do.”
“I do?”
“In that drawer, from the restaurant,” Madison told me.
I was wondering how she could possibly know that. I searched, and sure enough there was a small box of complimentary crayons from the Clam Shack.
“What should I draw?”
“Anything you like.”
“I like horses and dinosaurs, houses and the beach.”
“Any one of those would be great.”
“Are you going to put it in the paper?”
“Hmm, you haven’t even started yet.” I winked.
Madison
set to work. It was way more than five minutes. I could hear Melissa and Eleanor talking in the next room but couldn’t make out a word they said. Madison returned to my cubicle holding her new drawing rather proudly. It was a little hard to understand what it was.
“Wow, Madison, this is very cool. What is it?”
“My family…” she said and put the paper on my desk. “That’s me, riding a dinosaur on the beach… that’s mommy when she’s at work... and that’s daddy when he’s a pirate.”
“Why is he a pirate?”
“He has a peg leg, an eyepatch, and a parrot on his shoulder.”
“Cool…” I looked at the drawing. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to something I couldn’t hope to recognize.
“The dog on a stick, silly,” Madison replied as if it were obvious.
Melissa and Eleanor stepped out of the ad office. They both had rather grim looks. Melissa gave me a pained smile and came over to give Madison a big hug. “What’cha doing, sweetie?”
“Drawing a picture for Mr Patrick. He’s going to put it in the paper.”
Melissa glanced up at me and I smiled.
“Family portrait,” I said, and Madison filled in the details.
“Oh yeah, that stupid bird. Pooping all over the house…” Melissa whispered to me, hoping Madison didn’t hear.
Later, Eleanor took me aside. “I had lunch with Chamblis some weeks ago,” she said straight away. I could tell she was uncomfortable.
“What’s that about?”
“It was a business lunch.”
“And what do you make of him?”
“I don’t care for the man at all.”
“He’s a slippery fish, that one.”
Eleanor stared at me and I couldn’t tell if she agreed with my assessment.
“Does he have a cane?” I asked.
“Not that I saw.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Patrick, surely you’ve met the man.”
“I thought so… but apparently I never have, close up, except that once… and my memory is a little hazy. I’ve only seen him from afar, so to speak.”
“Well, he’s a tall man, though everyone seems that way to me.” Eleanor let go a raspy laugh. “Well groomed and— He wants to buy the Chronicle,” she blurted.
“And you’re thinking of selling?”
“Oh Patrick, I don’t know what to do…”
“Eleanor, you are the Chronicle. You can’t leave.”
“I have to… I’m just too old for this now. I’m too tired.”
I took her hand gently and tried to smile. “Okay, so what’s next then?”
“Well, Chamblis wants Melissa to run things.”
“Melissa?” I was almost angry at the idea. “She’s damn good at her job, selling ads, but she can’t run a paper.”
“I have some doubts too. She might be willing to make you assistant editor.”
“Oh boy, I’m going to have to think about this. Me, working for Chamblis? That’s just not in the cards.”
“I’ll understand if you say no.”
chapter 21
open mic
Sunday morning I was happy enough to wake up in my own bed, and to find my cat Zachary, who seemed to be the same one from the night before… well, at least, not Schrödinger’s cat. I was firmly convinced that my timeline was constantly shifting. Nothing was sure. My reality had more than frayed. It was inside out and upside down. I felt a certain dread. Somehow this was all Inspector Fynn’s fault.
I really freaked on Monday. Donald Pagor came up to me and whispered, “good morning.” This was just impossible. Not a bellow, not a yell, not even a normal tone of voice… a hoarse whisper. He handed me a slip of paper. It read: laryngitis. At least his suit is still big and shiny, his persona intact, though I swear those are blood stains on his lapel… wait, probably just ketchup.
Cub reporter Joey seemed the same, ever smiling and ever eager. Jason was still more or less a ghost, relegated to his basement domain. Again, not so strange. I glimpsed him heading down to the cellar on Tuesday and caught up with him on the stairs. “Hey Jason, long time…”
“What’s up, Mr Jardel?”
“I’m having some trouble with my email.”
“What kind of trouble?” he asked sullenly.
“Emails aren’t going through.”
“Not going out or not coming in?”
“Both.”
“Maybe a server problem,” Jason considered and pushed on his gold framed glasses. “I can change the settings… make a whitelist and a blacklist.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, part Santa, part Joe McCarthy.” He smiled.
Wait, did Jason just make a joke? That was a first. He certainly wasn’t known for his sense of humor.
“Funny, same thing happened to Jack last week.”
“Jack? You mean Leaning from the Times?”
“Well yeah.”
“How do you know Jack Leaning?”
“I do a little freelance for their IT department sometimes.”
“Oh.”
And there was Amy too. Anytime I went into the studio, she was all over me, completely flirtatious, though still impossible to talk to. Apparently she only had one tattoo yet to be revealed.
Frank Gannon had given up wearing baseball caps entirely. He walked into the office wearing a floppy canvas hat.
“Hey Frank, what’s with the chapeau?”
He reached up for a nonexistent brim. “Oh this? I was out fishing this morning. It’s good against the sun.”
The final straw was Pat’s Place. Wait, who changed my standing head? I’m sure the title of my weekly column was Jardel’s Journal... Pat’s Place just sounded way too cutesy. I asked Eleanor about it.
“Patrick, we had this discussion a few weeks ago,” she said with more patience than usual. “Are you alright?”
“I’m not sure. Can we go back to Jardel’s Journal?”
“Fine.”
***
Wednesday, I rolled into the office to find Inspector Fynn sitting in the thick of things. I was a bit startled. They were all over him. It was a sickening charm fest on both sides. Even Miriam, Lucinda and Amy got into the action, fawning over him like he was some kind of local celebrity. Apparently they were in the midst of planning the Policeman’s Ball. I interrupted the proceedings:
“I see you have a new king,” I said to Fynn.
“Eh?”
“A new king for the Netherlands.”
“Ah yes… I am sorry to miss the festivities.” Fynn smiled up at me. “But, I’m very happy to see so many tulips in town.”
Melissa gave us both a look and picked up where she left off: “I was thinking we could book the Grande Vista or the Californian maybe. They both have huge dance floors. Big function rooms, you know?” She was starting her hard sell.
“Not the yacht club?” I butted in.
“There’s an idea... I wonder if Chamblis would go—”
“I was being facetious.”
“Okay, then what’s your great suggestion, hmm?”
“Seems obvious...”
“Where?”
“I can think of three places: Sneaky Pete’s, Shorties, or the Beachcomber.”
“Patrick, you’re a genius. That’s it. A party on the beach...”
“On the beach?” Fynn asked. “I might prefer something at a higher elevation.”
What a strange thing to say. Melissa gave him an odd look but generally ignored his request.
“So… will it be a masquerade or formal attire?” she asked.
“As much as I like the idea of a costume party, all those masks and such will only make things confusing,” Fynn said and smiled. “I think formal attire best suits the occasion.”
Was that a pun, I wondered.
“I’ll call Jerry right now.”
“Jerry?”
“My husband, Jerry…” Melissa turned on her smile.
&n
bsp; “Right,” I said, but swore his name was Julian.
“He knows the guy down at the Beachcomber…”
Melissa had it all mapped out. Her tongue was racing as fast as her mind: “We’ll sell tickets at a hundred dollars a pop… and probably about a hundred people… Maybe ten percent in comps… A charity event, a benefit… We could do a raffle too. Do you have anything we could raffle? Or maybe auction off?” she finally asked Fynn.
“A pair of wooden shoes, perhaps?”
***
Suzy had definitely lost weight. She was almost approaching hotness. I ran into her outside the ice cream place, or rather, she ran into me. I was crossing Captain’s Way when she came flying down the hill on her bike, one hand on the handlebars, the other wrapped around a fruit smoothy. I stepped back just in the knick of time. She slammed on her brakes and skidded to the curb. “I’m so sorry, Patrick,” she called out and pedaled up to me. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Hi Suzy… I’m fine, no problem.” I brushed away some imaginary smoothy splatter from my jeans. I was surprised by her appearance. She was wearing a tight green sweater, a short skirt and wool leggings up to her thighs. “Wow, you look great, Suzy. I guess I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Thanks, Patrick…” She grinned and sucked from her straw.
“I guess the bike thing is paying off.”
“Yeah, I’m always riding now. Getting a little wild on this thing…” she said while straddling. “So are you coming?”
“What?”
“Open mic. Murray’s expecting you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night, silly.”
“Okay, yeah... I guess I’ll be there.”
Suzy let go a big smile and leaned in close. She planted a kiss on the side of my cheek, gave me a special look and took off down the hill again. She was definitely approaching hotness. I wasn’t totally sure if this was a timeline thing or not.
***
The next afternoon was the faux paste-up. Our Thursday ritual began as usual at around five o’clock. Eleanor, Frank and I joined Amy in the back room, the studio. Eleanor had long since given up being apologetic about her old fashioned ways, but this hybrid method had it’s plus side. Amy had laid out all the flats, thirty-six pages this week. Some of them had to be stacked on top of each other to make room. Eleanor liked to do the front page, the cuts and the jumps. She also liked to write headlines on the fly with her pale blue marker in the space provided. This was old school. Eleanor spent most of her effort making sure the Op Ed page looked good. This was the jewel in the crown of the Chronicle. Even her own column Out of the Woods was subject to gentle editing. Letters to the Editor were subject to ruthless cuts.