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

by Alexander, MK

  “That’s right,” I stepped forward with a smile and an outstretched hand. “Elaine Luis? Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Here to give me some good press, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So, where’s your camera?” she asked. “I thought you were going to take pictures.”

  “Oh, well, I thought it would be better if we didn’t— you know, a really grand unveiling.”

  She looked at me briefly then chuckled. “I like the way you think.”

  “Will it be ready?” I asked.

  “Sure, just a little last minute polishing.”

  “In the dark?”

  “I like to feel the smoothness of the stone, I don’t need to see it.” She took off her goggles. “I’ve got till the first day of summer, almost a month away… You want to take a peek?” Elaine led me inside and turned on the lights.

  I had seen the sculpture already, but sitting atop a hill in Central Park. In my timeline it had been there for decades. I felt its smooth surface, like gently curving glass.

  “Well?” she asked with unmistakable pride.

  “You’ve captured the fragility of an eggshell in the timeless permanence of stone.”

  “Ooh, I like that…” Elaine laughed.

  “How are they going to transport it to Spooky Park?”

  “Spooky Park?” she asked.

  “Central Park.”

  “Oh… A big truck, I guess… ought to be something to see.”

  “And how long have you been working on the egg.”

  “The egg?”

  “Isn’t that what you call it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh… sorry.”

  “It took me near forty years to get this far…”

  “Forty years,” I repeated. “Like since the seventies?”

  “Scary, when you say it like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  She laughed.

  “Your sister use to live here back then.”

  “My sister?”

  “Lorraine.”

  “Yeah, what about her?” She eyed me.

  “Well, I’ve been trying to track down someone she knew, a guy named Tractus Fynn.”

  “Fynn, eh? I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

  “You know him then?”

  “Oh yeah, I remember him. A real charmer— and I say that with no sarcasm at all… handsome he was too… Showed up that summer and swept Lorraine right off her feet. I thought he was Irish though.”

  “Irish?”

  She laughed. “No, just kidding. A Dutch policeman, if I remember… from the Netherlands.”

  “And they got married?”

  “That’s right. Moved to Amsterdam.”

  “When was this?”

  “Hmm, a long time ago… Late-seventies, maybe?”

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t they live in Sand City for a while? Maybe that house on the beach?”

  “Which house?”

  I paused awkwardly. “Did they have children?”

  “What?”

  “They were married, right?”

  “Yeah… well, you’re asking a lot of weird questions.”

  “Sorry… Like I said, I’ve been searching for Mr Fynn.”

  “Why?”

  “I think he might be missing.”

  “Missing? Like a missing persons?”

  “Exactly that.”

  Elaine gave me a skeptical smirk. “How can you possibly know Fynn? He disappeared twenty-five years ago. What— you were like five?”

  “Did they have a daughter… um, Anika?”

  “Anika?” she repeated. “Hmm, they did adopt a little girl… I forget her name.”

  “Where’s your sister now? Holland?”

  Elaine looked me up and down. I had probably asked one question too many. Finally she smiled, but it was not a friendly one. “Why are you so interested in Fynn?” She paused and put her hands in her back pockets. “Have you seen him or something?”

  “Who?”

  “Fynn, of course,” she said.

  At this point I knew I had to lie. “No, Mrs Domino hired me to find him.”

  “Mrs Domino? The real estate lady?”

  “Yup. I think he owes her money.”

  “I’ll be damned.” She laughed slightly.

  “I thought your sister might be able to help.”

  “I doubt it. That would be too painful for her anyhow.”

  “Divorced?”

  “No, nothing like that. Like I said, Fynn disappeared in the nineties. Broke her heart. Big manhunt, big investigation. Never found him. He must have bought the farm.”

  “Dead, you mean?”

  “Of course, where else could he be?”

  “When was this?”

  “Ninety-two... Hmm, early spring maybe? Not sure I remember exactly.”

  “Where is Lorraine now?”

  “Lives in Virginia.”

  “Could you give me her phone number or address, maybe?”

  “Definitely not. I don’t want to put her through anything like this… digging up the past… You should probably—” Elaine was interrupted by a ringing telephone. It seemed to come from a long way off, maybe the main house. “Lost renters,” she said.

  “Lost?”

  “Weird, right? This place doesn’t show up on google maps for some reason… Happens every year… One of the guests books a cottage for the week and they need directions. Be right back…”

  As soon as Elaine was out of sight I walked over to the small writing desk and spotted her address book. I found Lorraine under L: 22 Glasgow Highway, Mechanicsville, VA. There was also a telephone number that I tried to memorize. I searched under A for Anika but there was nothing.

  ***

  Driving back to Sand City and still ahead of the weekend traffic, I hoped to catch Mrs Domino between appointments. I was also feeling crushed by the news that Fynn was dead, or had disappeared so long ago… nineteen ninety-two.

  The rain stopped and the sun was breaking through again. A few gulls hovered overhead. Coming down Longneck I saw flashing blues in my mirror and heard a full out siren. I pulled off the wet pavement onto a sandy strip just opposite the Sand City Surf Shop. Some giant inflatable thing was rising slowly and colorfully in front of the parking lot. I expected the squad car to pass, but it pulled in behind me, and aggressively, I thought. Another cruiser screeched to a halt just at my front bumper and I was immediately surrounded by two officers who actually drew their guns. I recognized them at once: Officer Allens and Officer Edwards, though I wasn’t entirely sure which was which.

  “Outta the car, nice and slow, buddy,” one of the officers started shouting.

  My window went down, and as each man saw me, he seemed relieved. They lowered their guns at least. “Hey guys, is this some kind of gag?” I called out.

  “Jesus Christ,” Officer Allens muttered. “What the hell are you playing at?”

  “Nothing.” I tried to look innocent.

  Officer Edwards came up to the car and peered in suspiciously. “We got a nine-one-one reporting a stolen vehicle. Your vehicle.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “Someone called it in on your cell phone.”

  “Weird that you say that, seems like I lost my cell this morning.”

  “Really?”

  “It might have been stolen.”

  “What’s this all about?” either Allens or Edwards asked.

  “Must be some kind of terrible practical joke. I’m really sorry.”

  “You had nothing to do with it?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Was it Frank Gannon or Joey?”

  “No… they’re way too responsible for that kind of thing.”

  “Pagor, maybe,” Allens commented. “Or Leaning— he’s got it out for you.”

  “Jack Leaning from the Fairhaven Times?” I asked.

  Both men nodded. �
��Okay… well, you seem to be you, and it seems to be your car,” one of the officers concluded. “Don’t let anything like this happen again, alright?”

  “I won’t, promise… and I’m really sorry.”

  Behind them and across Longneck Road, I could see the shape emerging, inflating ever larger. It looked to be an enormous Barney Rubble, and I believe he was holding a giant surfboard. Ha, the Flintstones— I hadn’t thought about them in years.

  A car drove by at that moment and slowed to a stop in the middle of the road. It was very familiar to me: a 1974 Pontiac T-37, primer gray but glossy and trimmed in chrome. I also got a good look at the driver. It was Richard Durbin to be sure, but he looked younger than I could have imagined. This incarnation of Durbin was barely twenty. He stared belligerently out from his window but when he saw me, gave a nod of acknowledgment like we were friends. The squinty grin and the dimple were unmistakable; his hair was much longer than I could remember.

  “What we have here is a failure to communicate,” he called out from the window. Both the officers laughed. He held his car at a throaty idle, the engine threatening to stall, and then raced off down Longneck.

  “That’s Durbin,” I blurted.

  Allens turned to me. “Of course it is. Ricky Durbin.”

  “Captain Durbin’s son,” Edwards added, and looked to the ground solemnly. “The man is greatly missed.”

  “Yeah, poor kid… can’t imagine him just finding his dad’s body at the marina like that,” Edwards said.

  “I guess you might say he’s Richard Durbin the Fourth now.” Officer Allens gave off a sad smile. “Prowls around town in that car of his…”

  “Yeah, with the police scanner on…” Edwards added. “Good kid though.”

  ***

  In the Village, I found a parking space not too far from the old theater, the Roxy on Main, but couldn’t see what was playing on the marquee. I hurried over to Commercial Street. The Real Estate office was already closed. Mrs Domino had fled. A plastic clock on the door reported that she would return at eleven o’clock. I wondered when that could possibly mean and felt incredibly frustrated.

  Instead, I walked down a few doors to Cuppa-Joe’s, though cafe was not a word I could use apparently. The doors were open, it was otherwise empty. Not quite though: There was a woman behind the counter, voluptuous beyond measure, that much was obvious even under her green apron. She was very pretty with an exotic face, but by far, her most prominent feature was her nose. Her chin seemed too small or her mouth too large, though her eyes were wide and alive. A long tangle of dark hair was barely tied back by a red bow. She did seem familiar to me, almost as if I had just met her.

  “The usual?” she asked as I came up to the counter.

  I noticed right away she seemed a bit flirty, and thought her question odd as well. “Um, no… maybe something different today.” I smiled at the girl and then stared up at the menu. There were at least a dozen kinds of coco, from cocoaccino to coco-lattes, lots of flavors too, butterscotch, hazelnut… There also seemed to be just as many varieties of tea. I didn’t see any chicory drinks.

  “Hmm, think I’ll have a regular coco, medium.”

  She burst out laughing and screwed up her face, “The usual as usual,” she said. “You’re so funny— why put me through all that?”

  “I don’t suppose you serve coffee?”

  “What? No, of course not.” She glanced around the room as if her employers might be surveilling. “It’s illegal anyhow.”

  “Right… Quiet in here today.”

  “The in-between season,” she explained.

  “What’s that?”

  “Too nice for a hot drink, not hot enough for an ice-coco.” She smiled. “That’ll be two sixty-three, please.”

  I searched my pockets for change and found a handful of loose coins. She looked at the money and then back at me.

  “What, did you have to rob your own coin collection for a cup of coco?”

  “Hmm?”

  “This money, it’s funny, like really old. Look at this dime. A liberty head— I think it’s real silver… and these quarters… nineteen thirty-three, wow, still shiny.”

  “You’re a regular numismatist,” I said.

  “A what?”

  I just smiled, then noticed a jar on the counter that read: Chloe’s Doctor Fund. It was already quite full, stuffed with bills and coins. I looked up at her name tag.

  “What’s this? You need a doctor?”

  She smiled. “No silly, it’s for my doctorate. I got my masters last September— remember? Chloe’s Master Fund?”

  I didn’t remember this at all. “What are you studying?”

  “Astrology.”

  “Hmm, a Doctor of Astrology, eh?”

  She laughed. “Astronomy, I mean… But you already know about that, Patrick.”

  I was a bit startled that she knew my name and took a sip from the paper cup. The coco was as strong and bitter as any black coffee, not what I would call hot chocolate. I must have made a face. Chloe nodded to the counter. “Cream and sugar is over there, as usual.”

  I sat alone and started through this week’s edition of the Chronicle. Everything seemed completely normal, though there were far too many Gary Sevens bylines. I noticed a big photo spread by Joey Jegal about the Rail Trail that was now opened all the way to Fairhaven. Then I saw it, on the table, a playing card face down. I turned it over: the Ten of Swords. This was almost too much for me. I was definitely getting spooked. The card depicted a dead man face down by a shoreline, pierced with as many swords. No matter what, it could not be good news.

  Chloe walked over, taking off her apron along the way, and planted herself in my lap, face to face. She gently massaged my shoulders then kissed me on the neck. “I love it when you pretend not to know me,” she whispered in a soft soothing voice. Chloe drew me close. “And you like it when I call you by your middle name, don’t you, Patrick?”

  I tried to change the subject. “Who left this here?”

  “What?”

  “This card… a tarot card.” I showed it to her.

  “How should I know? A customer?”

  “What customer?” I persisted.

  She gave me a strange look. “Search me… maybe the shady lady…”

  “Who?”

  “She looks like she’s never been out in the sun.” Chloe laughed. “I should talk though, look how pale I’ve gotten over the winter…”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know her name, always orders a camomile chai, extra sweet. Kind of mousey, around my age, big glasses.” Chloe extracted herself from my lap and sat in the chair opposite.

  “Does she work at the Chronicle?” I asked.

  “You’d know better than me,” Chloe replied and smiled. “So… are you going tonight?”

  “Where?”

  “The Beachcomber— opening night. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Fireworks, babe.”

  “What?”

  “On the beach.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not taking crazy Amy, I hope.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t give me that, Patrick… you know who I mean.”

  “If I do go, I’m sure I’ll be alone.”

  “You better be,” she said and headed back to her station. I drank the last few sips of coco and followed her.

  “Hey… you like old coins… here…” I said and plunked a doubloon into the tip jar. It made an odd muffled sound.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Pirate’s treasure.”

  Chloe picked up the jar for a better look but I was gone before she found it. I wondered what a doubloon is worth these days. I should look that up.

  ***

  It had been an impossibly long day. Hard to fathom, but just this morning I was in New York City and in 1933. A simple errand saving poor Murray, I had convinced myself. Obviously
I was wrong, very wrong. I drove up to my favorite sanctuary to be alone, to think, to try and work things out.

  I pulled off Dune Road and walked up the sandy path to the pine grove, my temenos, as Fynn had called it. A cool breeze, the shade of the scrubby trees and the scent of pine needles were all soothing. To my slight surprise I found a hammock strung up. This was familiar at least and I decided to put it to good use. I lay back, closed my eyes and began to consider. It seemed that I had no other option than to travel back to 1992… early spring, Elaine had said. All I had to do was jump back and save Fynn before he disappeared. Seemed simple enough, though a bit more information might be useful… and somehow I needed to read that letter addressed to Patrick Jardel.

  None of this was my fault at least— Okay, maybe I had returned one day early, but it hardly seemed like everything would be fixed by tomorrow. I may have dozed off…

  ***

  Walking down a dark corridor, someone was shouting inside my head but it was utter gibberish. Stone walls were sweating with moisture and I noticed my clothes were ill-fitting. Two men were just ahead of me, one carried a flickering torch and led the way. They were wearing metal helmets and some sort of leather tunics. One man stopped and turned to me with a near-toothless grin, then rattled some keys and unlocked a rusty chain set across the door. The stench was almost unbearable.

  Inside a large cell was a man shackled to the wall. The shouting in my head grew louder, almost deafening, yet I could understand nothing; it was a language I did not speak. I did know it was important to recognize this man, but I had never seen him before. He was pitiful, near starvation, with long white hair and a great unkempt beard to match. I stared at him. He stared back at me through swollen eyes. There was defiance in this man’s face.

  chapter four

  double u

  What woke me was the sound of someone walking up the path, maybe a twig snapping. The light of day had changed: shadows were harsher, colors seemed almost garish— the world lit by a failing sun.

  I looked up to see a man wearing a heavy trench coat and fedora. He looked a lot like me. I was startled of course, but more, deeply disconcerted.