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

by Alexander, MK

  “What about the witnesses?” I asked.

  “I’m getting to that, hold your horses…” Jamal took a quick sip. “Ballistics did tell us something though: there was a downward angle to the shots. So, either the shooter was very tall or the victim was already on his knees when shot in the chest.”

  “Wow.”

  “And let me tell you, that’s when things started getting tricky.”

  “Why?”

  “The club opens the next night like nothing happened… we’ve got a couple of undercover officers working the place, hoping somebody shows.”

  “Did they?”

  “Yeah, the bartender ID’s this girl, a real bombshell, very curvy if I remember right, and I do at that. Definitely a person of interest.”

  “Why?”

  “Gallagher was observed talking to a lot of women that night but only danced with three… A brunette, a redhead and a blonde. She was the latter.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Don’t remember… anyhow, Fynn and I go talk to this girl. He gets the house music turned down, buys her a glass of wine and chats her up.”

  “What did she say?”

  Jamal laughed, “Ha, claims she’s got an alibi for the night in question: home with her sister.”

  “Really?”

  “Neither of us believed her story… but then again, neither of us thought she was the killer either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just instinct… she was too ditzy.”

  “Did you arrest her?”

  “No. It’s not like we could hold her on anything, let alone get a warrant to search her place. Fynn takes me aside and says it’s best if we give her a long leash. He wants to talk to this sister: her alibi. End of the night, Fynn hands me her glass in a handkerchief.”

  “Fingerprints.”

  Jamal nodded. “We requested that her and the sister pay us a visit the next day.”

  “Did she show up?”

  Morris laughed slightly. “The sister shows up alright. Couldn’t be more different… dark hair tied back, big glasses, all frumpy-like. Thing is, she refuses to give her sister an alibi. In fact, she claims they were both there that night.”

  “In the club?”

  “Like I said, things got tricky. I’m sitting there with Fynn, he turns and says to me on the quiet, we’re looking at the same woman.”

  “The sisters?” I asked. The idea of twins and doubles, and doppelgängers came sharply to mind.

  “Only she’s like wearing a disguise or something.”

  “A disguise?”

  “A wig, glasses, dressed all different, and like almost a different voice. I disagreed with Fynn, and said there were two of them. I was so sure he was wrong.”

  “Was he?”

  “Fynn? He’s never wrong.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, I try to make them both come into the station at the same time… but only one would show up. The other one always had some lame excuse…” Jamal paused. “Couple of days later, Fynn comes in early with a bag of pretzels.”

  “What?”

  “Puts ’em into a bowl on the table, interview room number one. The sister comes in— not the blonde— we ask a bunch of questions… She’s munching away the whole time. Fynn pours her a big glass of cold water.”

  “Fingerprints again…”

  Jamal nodded but added a huge grin. “They were the same person.”

  “Not the killer though?”

  “No, forensics cleared them, or her… No GSR, no blood spatter. But she did take a keen interest in Fynn at the time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she had the hots for him. Always asking about him, following him around, almost like his own personal stalker. Didn’t give up any good information though. We were just chasing our own tails.” Jamal stopped his story and took a drink. “Settled in for a very long investigation.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Surveillance on the so called sisters…” Jamal chuckled. “And all the reasons I’ve mentioned: ballistics, the window reconstruction, other witnesses to follow-up on, and the one other suspect.”

  “Who was that?”

  “The dancing redhead, probably on the short side— that’s how the DJ described her. She was also seen with Gallagher on the night in question.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Not at first.”

  “She was the killer,” I blurted.

  Jamal gave me an odd look, but continued, “A month into the investigation, we get two floaters.”

  “Floaters?”

  “Dead guys in the river.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Tuesday, bing, one victim, shot in the head. Wednesday, bang, another one, exactly the same.”

  “Not shot in the feet?”

  “Just the head. But that’s only half of it. Ballistics says it’s the same gun that did Eugene Gallagher, the nightclub owner.” Jamal paused. “Creepy, right? And these two guys? Identical twins, same fingerprints, freaking clones— explain that— will ya? Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Never identified.” Jamal slapped the table, almost reliving his frustration. “Needless to say, Fynn was very upset by all this.”

  Somehow Jamal’s account made me uneasy, more, I felt deeply troubled, though I couldn’t exactly say why. I slumped into my chair.

  “Freaking Hardy Boys,” Morris said with disgust.

  “What?”

  “I dunno… the two dead guys… just my gut talking.” Jamal stared at me. His eyes almost flickered with recognition. That didn’t make me feel any better either.

  “Anyhow, two days later, the sister gives up the shooter. No name, but an address… The redhead was holed-up at some shabby hotel in Lambertville, Route Two-O-Two, the Jersey side… Did the whole SWAT thing, but we must’ve missed her by like five minutes. She had cleared out fast… Found the murder weapon though, a four-eighteen Beretta and silencer sitting in her handbag… Hmm, some jewelry, and a pair of high heels with blood splatter that matched Gallagher’s. She was definitely the perp.”

  “You never ID’ed her?”

  “No. Her prints were not on file. A mystery woman. Vanished into thin air. Only know that her initials were DD.”

  “DD?”

  “The handbag said DD on it.”

  “Couldn’t that be a brand or a logo or something?”

  “No, that would be D and G, right?”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothing… But two days later, Fynn just disappears.”

  “Disappears?”

  “Well, he started on back to his wife and kids— Amsterdam, I figured.”

  “Kids?”

  “Oh, just the one. A little girl, I think… he showed me her picture once. Anika, maybe?”

  I smiled.

  “Thing is, I get a call from his wife a week later… Lorraine, a nice lady, a class act… He never made it home.”

  “What?” Andy asked.

  “Yeah, like he disappeared off the map. We mounted a huge nationwide manhunt, Dutch Police, Interpol… even called in the Bureau. Nada. He just vanished.”

  “At the same time as your suspect,” Williams commented.

  “That’s right… she was never found either.” He looked at Andy. “I’m not sure what you’re implying though.”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that…” Andy stammered. “Just a weird coincidence.”

  “I’ll give you that.”

  ***

  We were on our third round of drinks and I was feeling it a little. Jamal let off a grin unexpectedly and rose from his seat. “There she is… Franny, over here,” Morris called her over. A young woman in her twenties sifted through the crowd hesitantly. She had black hair, purple at the ends, and was dressed mostly in stripes. She acknowledged Andy and I, but greeted Chief Morris.

  “Is this the guy
?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Showed up yesterday asking for help, research. Gives me an old credit card and says find this guy: Tractus Fynn—” Franny interrupted herself. “You are going to pay me now, right, in cash? You do understand that the card has expired?”

  “This guy?” Jamal asked, nodding at me.

  “Gary Patrick Stevens… from Sand City. His ID and his prints check out.”

  “Good…” Jamal chuckled, satisfied. “I’m glad I wasn’t wrong about you, Mr Stevens.”

  I was at a loss for words.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Jamal said and let go a loud laugh. “What, you think I wouldn’t talk to Franny here?” He chuckled again. “I told her she could do what you wanted, but I’m not paying for it— understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not department business… but I’ve got a soft spot for old Fynn.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “Research, Mr Stevens… research… I’m two steps ahead of you, guy.” Jamal gave me a grin. “I told Franny to cooperate fully, only I gave her the correct parameters: a Beretta four-one-eight with a silencer; victim profile: a thirty to forty-five year old male caucasian, un-uniformed officer and… shot in the foot…” He turned to her. “Find anything good, Franny?”

  She reached into a backpack and pulled out a huge file. “More than you might expect.” She smiled. “But shot in both feet, right?”

  “Yeah… why?”

  “Cause you’d be surprised how many officers were shot in just one foot.” She dropped the file on the table.

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say… thanks…”

  “It’s exactly what Fynn would have done.” Jamal laughed again and handed me his card. “You call me if you find out anything about Fynn, or my guy Rocky James— know what I’m saying?”

  “Right… I will, promise, and thanks again.”

  Jamal smiled, then answered a call on his cell. He turned to Andy: “Got a State Patrol requesting an assist, ten-forty-five. You want to come along?” he asked.

  Williams beamed back and stood almost immediately.

  “Good, you can give me a ride. I’ve been drinking whiskey and you’ve been nursing a beer.”

  ***

  I found myself alone with Franny and sat for a moment awkwardly. “What’s a ten-forty-five?” I asked.

  “Road kill,” she said and then turned to scrutinize me. “You’re the dead guy.”

  “What?”

  “Gary Patrick Stevens, found dead three days ago in his apartment, in Sand City. I read all about it.”

  “Thanks for not mentioning that to Jamal.”

  “So, you are him?”

  “No… How could I be?”

  “Why are you using his ID then?”

  “Who says I am?”

  Franny looked confused for a moment. “Okay, who’s the dead guy back east. You look a whole lot like that fella. Want to explain it to me?”

  “He’s my doppelgänger.”

  “Doppel-what?”

  “My twin brother.”

  Franny paused to think, but finally just smiled. “Okay. That’s police business as far as I’m concerned. It’s not like you’re a suspect or anything, right?”

  “Right.” I paused. “How did I die?”

  “What?”

  “Did the newspaper mention a cause of death?”

  “Oh yeah… asphyxiation.”

  “Really?”

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning, faulty dryer maybe. Probably suicide.”

  “I doubt it…”

  “Hmm, I wonder if they serve food in this joint?” Franny asked and looked around.

  “You mean pizza?”

  She smiled. “I could probably eat a whole one by myself.”

  “So what’s in the file?”

  “What Jamal asked for… and maybe a little more. I found cases like this from all around the world. Even saw a murder in your home town, about a year ago.”

  “That’s what started all this.”

  “Started all this?” Franny seemed puzzled. “These cases go back as far as the nineteen thirties… Let’s see, if I remember… the first case was in Canada, Ottawa, nineteen thirty-three, Sergeant Finnegan … An Officer Runyon, killed on Eighth Avenue, New York City, same year. There were a bunch from the forties in Hong Kong, and from the west coast of Europe.”

  “West coast?”

  “Denmark, Belgium, Holland…”

  “What’s the most recent?”

  “A cop in Portland Oregon, two thousand eleven. One from Seattle Washington, two thousand nine. A DOC cop in LA, two thousand six.”

  “DOC?”

  “Department of Corrections, Los Angeles County.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s all there,” Franny said and patted the thick file.

  “Did you search for the books I mentioned?”

  “Written by Tractus Fynn, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh yeah… not on Amazon or anyplace else… sorry.”

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a doubloon and handed it to Franny.

  “What’s this?”

  “Cash payment.”

  She inspected it briefly. “Hmm, a piece of eight, seventeen fifty, probably from the Nuestra Señora De Guadaloupe, wrecked off Cape Hatteras. Worth maybe twenty thousand dollars.” She smiled. “I can’t possibly accept this.”

  “Please… with my compliments and my thanks.”

  ***

  I made my way back to Denver on a shuttle bus and had quite a few errands to run. First up was a pro shop. I purchased an airline-sanctioned golf bag for a single club. The cane fit inside nicely. I also bought a box of balls for show, all on Fynn’s debit card. I had guessed the PIN number: 1933— some sense of humor. I did not want a repeat of airport security, though I’m not sure this was the best idea ever. Now it looked as if I was carrying a rifle on my shoulder.

  Next, I found a coin shop and the grateful owner took a doubloon from me for a hefty sum in cash. I also found an old fashioned travel agent by the name of Mimi, a very pleasant and efficient woman. She booked me a flight to New York, accommodations, and another package deal to Amsterdam. For this I paid in cash.

  chapter nine

  take a hike

  Everything Mimi the travel agent had promised to do, she did. It was a smooth non-stop to Kennedy. I only had to wait for my golf bag to come around in the carousel, then hailed a taxi to Manhattan. She had booked me a nice enough room at the Hudson Hotel, midtown. It was a stylish place with an inner atrium and hanging gardens. I did not really want to know why there was an upside-down chair bolted to the ceiling. The staff was friendly and helpful, and by late afternoon I found myself on Broadway and 76th in a camping store. I was outfitted with some basics: a sleeping bag, a one-man tent, a backpack, and a few other essentials.

  I had about forty-eight hours till my flight to Amsterdam, so my plan was to return to the library and the temple; the place I had visited in 1933. I figured it had all changed by now, but, if on the off chance that Madame Madeline and Brigadier Thomas were still there, they’d know something about where Fynn was.

  I even considered hiring a helicopter or a small plane out of Teterboro airport to fly me up along the Palisades Cliffs, just so I could see what was different. Instead, I decided on a long hike, probably about fifteen miles. I was pretty sure I could not do a there-and-back in a single day.

  I tried calling Anika repeatedly on the burner phone Ricky had given me. All I got was a voicemail in Dutch, and I had no idea what she was saying, though her voice was very familiar and it made my heart flutter a bit. I was also running low on minutes. Back in the hotel room, someone had slipped a tarot card under my door: The Empress.

  Next morning, early, I loaded up at the grocery store on West 54th and Eighth— provisions for the day’s hike. As I was perusing the shelves of instant coco mix, a very tall, beautiful woman breezed past me in
the aisle. I recognized her immediately. We had met eighty-two years ago in the library, though she looked as young as ever.

  “Zalika?” I called out, and she turned with a smile.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Do you remember me?”

  It only took her a moment. “Why, if it isn’t Mr Patrick…” She stepped closer and gave me a polite kiss on the cheek. “How are you, my dear man?”

  “Well enough. And you?”

  “No real complaints.”

  She stood at least a head above me. “It’s been a while…” I stammered.

  “I suppose one might say that.”

  “Have you seen any of the others?”

  “From the Library, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “No, we’ve drifted apart over the years.” She paused to smile. “Of course I’m still in touch with Sonny Ming and Cook.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They have a little restaurant downtown. Quite popular. I go in for lunch when I can.”

  “What about Madame Madeline, the Brigadier?”

  Her smile wavered. “Madeline moved back to France… after the fire… And the Brigadier? Traveling, I’ve heard; though I doubt he’ll ever return to this century.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, well, he’s dead.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Eighteen fifty-four… in the Crimean War.”

  “Mrs Hatchet?”

  “Myra, you mean? Last I heard, she was in Switzerland.”

  “Carlos?”

  “Not a peep from him, nor his Viking empire.” She laughed.

  “Well, what brings you here?” I asked. “Kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “There’s no such thing.” Zalika smiled. “I work at the UN, the development council. And, I always shop at Gristedes.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you, Mr Patrick, you are from this time?” she asked but answered for me as well: “That makes sense, I suppose; no one would choose to live here unless they had to.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for Fynn.”