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

by Alexander, MK

  “Right…” We walked by a row of closed shops, and a few open coco bars.

  “It is Drummond’s daughter who is killing the detectives, that much seems clear, but who is she? We have but a vague description… a young woman in her mid-twenties, short and with a big smile are the only details people agree upon.” Fynn paused. “It might well be someone we’ve never met.”

  “Cindy Ramirez,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “From Colorado, a reporter I worked with. She once told me that she knew Drummond’s daughter… Said she was nice.”

  “That could be something to go on.”

  “Maybe it’s her.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “She had a nice smile, a big smile, and she was on the short side.”

  “And she was present during all that Drummond business,” Fynn added. “Perhaps another visit to Colorado is necessary.” He walked on for several yards then suddenly stopped and turned to me. “Surely we have met Drummond’s daughter,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The woman with Mortimer in London.”

  “At the party, the cowgirl with a mask… Right. That had to be her.”

  “Did she seem familiar to you?”

  “She did, but I don’t know how exactly.”

  Fynn stopped and leaned against a railing, staring down into the gray-black canal and the lights that reflected there. “I’ve looked through Franny’s reports and I must say she does superlative work. Did you have the chance to read them?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Any thoughts?”

  “More like a feeling: very distressed.”

  “As am I. Above all though, we must first separate facts from speculation.”

  “Smart as she is, I don’t think speculation is in Franny’s skill set.”

  “Exactly this. She gives us the facts. We provide the speculation.” Fynn laughed and patted me on the back. “To my mind, we can be sure of several things: first, each policeman was gunned down by this Beretta; the same gun in nearly every case. Also, the bullet passed through a silencer each time.”

  “I don’t suppose its manufacture date is before any of the killings?”

  “No, it is an old gun, dating from the nineteen twenties or so…”

  “And your speculation about that?”

  “I will hold off for the moment.” Fynn smiled. “Fact two: we have a dozen murders that on the face of it seem to be exactly the same…”

  I continued, “…All the victims are detectives, roughly the same age, shot in the feet and then… executed… for the lack of a better word.”

  “Indeed. And all these crimes are greatly separated by geography and a good many years.”

  “Fact: a traveler. Speculation: a time traveler.”

  “To this, I will say yes.” Fynn laughed. “Finally, we have the mention of our young woman: attractive, short of stature, and probably with red hair. She is not present in every report… but enough of them… and she seems to be the same age regardless.”

  “Regardless of what?”

  “The year… even as far back as nineteen thirty-three— an auspicious date, don’t you agree?” Fynn asked but didn’t expect an answer. “She must be a traveler as you say.”

  “Didn’t Franny notice any of this?”

  “I’m sure she did, but I don’t know what conclusions she might have drawn. And we must be careful not to view this too linearly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s tempting to think the crimes took place in historical order. But if our killer is a traveler, she might be jumping here and there at her own whim.”

  “You’re talking about the gun,” I said.

  “Yes. We might reach a conclusion: if the same gun was used at all these crimes and across such a span of time, the killer is hard jumping.”

  “Carrying the same gun with them, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is that important?”

  “We shall see.”

  “Okay then, we seem to be out of facts. Time to speculate…”

  Fynn held me back with his arm as a car swept by. We crossed the road and he said, “Ah, but there is also the matter of the pearls.”

  “Pearls?”

  “Yes… a necklace left behind in the motel room.”

  “You mean in New Hope?”

  Fynn nodded.

  “I remember Jamal mentioned jewelry, but I didn’t know it was a strand of pearls.”

  “Nor did I. Happily, Franny is very thorough.”

  “Wait, didn’t Jamal say they recovered a gun from her handbag?”

  “Yes. We might assume it was the last time this particular gun was used.”

  “You never told Jamal about any of this?”

  “How could I tell him that I was investigating a crime spree spanning so many years, eh? He would surely not understand.”

  “But you knew about all these crimes before you disappeared?”

  “Most of them, yes, and others…”

  “Others?”

  “There were more cases, quite a few in Amsterdam, some in Belgium, Denmark, even the southern tip of Sweden… from Hong Kong as well. All, dead detectives.”

  “Did you know any of them?”

  “Some were colleagues, I will say… Some seem to be before my time as a Dutch policeman.” Fynn fell into silence for a time. He resumed the path along the canal for a few steps but stopped suddenly and took me by the arm. “Ah, I’ve been a complete Kaaskop.”

  “A what?”

  “A cheese head— a stupid blunderer.”

  “Why?”

  “The clue has been staring me in the face all this time. Our killer acts with the knowledge of Mortimer but with a will of her own.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said it yourself, Patrick.”

  “What?”

  “The downward angle of the shots.”

  “A tall person, like Zalika?”

  “No… a short person with a gun, and a victim already on his knees. It’s all about the order of the shots.”

  “I’m not getting this.”

  “Our detectives have been shot in the feet first, to incapacitate them, to prevent them from jumping, to prevent libra lapsus. It is Mortimer’s knowledge but not his methods.”

  “I sort of get it…”

  “Our policemen are doubled over from the pain of these first bullets. The fatal shot goes in at a downward angle just at the clavicle. Not a tall shooter at all…”

  “Two people then— partners? Mortimer and Drummond’s daughter.”

  “A reasonable guess, though also wrong, I believe.”

  “Why?”

  “In all the reports there is no mention of anyone resembling Mortimer being present.”

  “He could have been very careful… you know, stayed hidden in the shadows.”

  “Hardly his style. If he was directly involved we’d have some evidence of his imprint.”

  “But Mortimer was in Sand City when Durbin was murdered.”

  “Yes, though in all honesty, we cannot tie him directly to the crime.”

  Fynn sifted through some jostling pedestrians; they were a bit rowdy, lined up at a club maybe… I almost lost him. When I caught up, I asked, “Why was he there in the first place, in Gary Sevens’ timeline?”

  “It is not so far from your own, loath as you are to admit it… He might have been hunting for me, for you, or even Lorraine.”

  “But none of us were there.”

  “Then there is another reason that we have not yet discovered.”

  “He always seems to know something we don’t.”

  Fynn laughed. “This is what makes him such a troublesome adversary.”

  I returned his laugh grimly.

  Inspector Fynn walked on in silence for a while. “It’s a terrible bother but I must travel to each and every one of these places, to learn what can be learned.”

  �
�Haven’t you already done that?”

  “I may have, yes, and I may have to again.”

  “You’re going to prevent these crimes?”

  “This is a bit of an open question. It might be best if I don’t tamper with events.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, it sounds like Mr Quandary. You can’t let Durbin be killed.”

  “No, of course not… And yet, it could be that these events were meant to occur… I can only say with certainty that they did.”

  “In a place where people drink coco, not coffee,” I replied sarcastically. “What about justice? What about you being imprisoned for twenty-three years?”

  “Justice is a human concept, not usually found in the natural world. These events might need to take place.”

  “What?”

  “I can never be sure whether a person who is murdered deserves to die, or should die because history records it as such.”

  “How can you even say that?”

  “It’s simply a matter of causality. Changing the results one way or another could be disastrous.”

  “And who is the arbiter of that?”

  Fynn gave me a solemn glance. “Yes, you are correct as you often are, Patrick… So then, I am left with one big decision to make.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whether to fix these crimes or solve them.”

  “Solve them?”

  “Perhaps not… As I’ve said more times than you care to hear, my particular skills are best suited for preventing crimes.”

  “Well, that’s a lot of traveling to fix all this…”

  “Yes, quite tedious, and a great risk, traveling to the past so much.” Fynn gave off a sigh. “Ah, but to investigate all these cases thoroughly… It looks to be years of work ahead of me. Still, I must soldier on, I suppose.”

  “Years of work?”

  “It certainly won’t seem like that to you. I’ll call you in a few days once the task is completed.”

  “That’s your plan?” I asked.

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “I’m at your disposal, if you need a hand.”

  “You are a good friend, and yet this is something you cannot help me with.”

  “Why not?”

  “Traveling so much to the past, I mean to say.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you could just solve this whole thing? Figure out who Drummond’s daughter is, and— I don’t know— arrest her.”

  “As you say, though I’m not at all sure I have the strength to do so.” Fynn paused. “I would readily travel to the very first murder, to the source, and yet I cannot be sure which is the first one.”

  “I’m convinced New Hope is the key to everything.”

  “Why?”

  “The twins were there, Chloe and Lilly… Drummond’s daughter as the redhead… and my two dead clones floating in the river.”

  “Yes, tragic. And exactly why you cannot accompany me, as I’ve said.”

  “It’s also when you disappeared the first time— has to be a set up.”

  “It’s possible,” Fynn replied but was clearly distracted.

  “Seems like the best place to start… Did you know Gallagher?”

  “Who?”

  “The nightclub owner in New Hope… Zardoz.”

  “Ah, yes. I worked with the man once or twice. Something about smuggling, if I recall.”

  “So that’s your next destination?”

  “Hmm?” Fynn turned to glance at me. “No… I don’t think so.”

  “What then?”

  A bicycle glided between us. I barely saw it coming but stepped away just in time. Fynn said, “The trick for me is to determine when the timelines diverged. I will likely have to visit both of them.”

  “Both of them?”

  “The one with coffee and the one without.”

  “I thought my timeline had been erased?”

  “As you say… yet both of us can still recall it… both of us have lived through it?”

  “Yes…” I said, but a certain sense of despair filled me. It seemed increasingly unlikely that I’d ever find what I knew to be home.

  “We might guess that Gary Sevens’ timeline intersects our own at the point of Durbin’s murder.”

  “And all the others?”

  “We cannot be certain, but those predating my so called disappearance may have occurred in a place where coffee was widely available.” Fynn quickened his pace and started towards one of the canal bridges. “I will travel back approximately one year in hopes of saving Detective Durbin. It is the very least I can do.”

  “Solve or fix?”

  “I merely wish to prevent it.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea, Inspector.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Well, you tried this before, remember? At least in Gary Sevens’ version of events. And it didn’t work out so well. You disappeared too.”

  “You make a good point. Yet, excepting Jamal’s very unfortunate partner, this is the last of these crimes as far as I can tell, and so the best place to begin. It also falls squarely in Gary Sevens’ timeline.”

  “Is this a causality thing?”

  “Meaning?”

  “That I shouldn’t remember this, if you haven’t done it yet.”

  “Let’s call it the perfect example of encapsulated causality.”

  I laughed. “Mr Q would be proud.”

  “The past records that I visited Sand City one year ago, so I suppose I should… though I will tread lightly. Mustn’t change the present, eh?” He gave me a tired smile.

  “But you said it didn’t matter, since you’ve already been freed.”

  “Well, from here it doesn’t matter, but when I go to the past, and if I meddle too much, it may matter greatly.”

  “I guess you should fix Gary Sevens too.”

  “Yes, well eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  “One thing at a time, Patrick. I’d first like to see where things lead regarding Sheriff Durbin’s situation.”

  “Sheriff?”

  “I beg your pardon, of course I mean to say Detective Durbin.” Fynn chuckled slightly.

  “As far as I know, you disappeared in the middle of that case…”

  “But I am there to prevent it, not solve it this time. In any event, it seems that I have to write a warning letter to Jamal and get the manuscript safely into Lorraine’s possession.”

  “What about Lorraine?”

  “She has suffered, hasn’t she?”

  “Well, she seemed a little sad.”

  “I feel dreadful about it. Somehow I will make it up to her.”

  “She has a nice place in Virginia, the bottom of the Shenandoah Valley, very tranquil; you’d like it there… you could spend some time with her.”

  “Perhaps I will pay her a visit.” Fynn walked along the canal in silence, lost in his own thoughts for a while. He looked up at the bridge getting nearer and said, “Of course I must find out exactly when Detective Durbin was killed, and arrive a few days earlier.”

  “I remember the headline. It was April sixth.”

  “What more can you tell me?”

  “Durbin has a son.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “In Sevens’ timeline… Ricky is his name.”

  “Richard Durbin the Fourth, one might say?”

  “Yeah… well, I met him and he’s a nice guy.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “There’s also what Gary Sevens told me.

  “Which is?”

  “He had a vague idea that Mrs Domino killed Durbin.”

  “Who is Mrs Domino?”

  “A real estate agent in town… Mr Domino’s widow, I guess.”

  “I don’t recall meeting her… But why would she want to kill Durbin?”

  “He didn’t say…”

  “Do you think she is Drummond’s daughter?” Fynn asked.

  “No. She d
oesn’t have red hair and she’s way too old.”

  Inspector Fynn fiddled with his astrolabe and almost seemed ready to jump off into the canal. “Whatever happens from here, Patrick, you should take this.” He handed me a key.

  “It’s to your safe-deposit box.”

  “Yes… Promise me to keep an eye on the manuscripts, and be sure Anika stays clear from danger.”

  “I will.”

  “Ah, remind me… I must teach you how to use this device… it comes in very handy.”

  “Wait. You’re leaving right now? You’re just jumping away?”

  “No…” Fynn turned and smiled. “Tomorrow will suffice. I must book passage across the Atlantic. And for that I still need a passport from Anika, or her friends.”

  “She seems to know some shady characters.”

  “Yes,” Fynn said, “and I count you among them.”

  chapter twenty-six

  sevens up

  Usually Fynn just pops up when you least expect it, and usually in a matter of days. This time though, he needed at least enough time to cross the Atlantic in a freighter. It was about a week later when the telephone rang. Anika answered but I also came into the living room. I watched her face. It went pale for a moment, but then she smiled and laughed. After listening intently, she spoke a few words in Dutch and hung up. She turned to me. “We have to go now. We’ve been summoned by my father.”

  It was an easy flight, all on Anika’s credit card, including the rental car from the airport. “I pay, you drive, alright? I don’t like these interstate roads at all,” Anika said.

  A few hours later: Sand City— it was good to be home, almost. A muggy, moonless night greeted us; the gravel crunched when I pulled up into the parking lot of the Blue Dunes Hotel.

  Anika walked to the lobby and I went to the back of the car to get our luggage. As I was unloading, the bushes rustled and a well dressed man stepped out from the shadows. It was Fynn.

  “Are you Patrick or Gary?” he asked with an eyebrow raised.

  “Patrick.”

  “Thank heavens, I feared we would never meet again.” Fynn strode forward with a smile and gave me a long embrace.

  “Of course I’m Patrick… you telephoned and told us to fly here.”

  “Did I?” Fynn asked.