Chronomancer (Time Mage Saga Book 1)

by Mackenzie Morris

  "One suspect is white and the other is Middle Eastern."

  "Yeah, but I like to look at why a seventy-year-old white woman from an affluent neighborhood would lie like that."

  He shifted in the chair. "Maybe she couldn't see clearly. It was dark."

  Hardly. "Maybe. I think it's more of a hatred thing, actually. It's abhorrent, but it's the truth. See, everyone wants to alter the story to fit their own preconceived notions, to project their beliefs, or to prove a point to themselves and others. It's my job, my duty as a detective and even more so as a decent human being, to knock down those walls of prejudice, racism, misogyny, bigotry, and all other forms of hate that cloud judgment. Too many people are targeted and incarcerated for no reason other than someone in charge didn't like the way they looked or where they were from. I have to be on the side of truth so justice can truly be blind and fair to all people. I've been doing this for many years, longer than you've been alive. I've learned more from fools and drunkards than I ever learned in a college classroom. It would be easy for me to pin this on two black men, thugs, or gangsters. But that's exactly what's wrong with the world we live in. I would have expected Daniels to be more proactive after all the racial profiling he suffered through to get where he is."

  Ryan set his beer down. "Sir, I just came here to go over the file."

  "Sorry. Too little sleep and too many thoughts."

  "What problems do you have with the official report? I thought it was accurate."

  Dean opened the file again. "Kids. You've managed to pin two kidnappings, a mass murder, and a reported shootout with a SWAT team on two small town kids."

  "Sir, Nikolas Valentino is nineteen."

  "Teenagers, then. A young adult teen and a minor accomplice. The seventeen-year-old has no prior history, no traffic violations because he doesn't even have a driver's license, and he takes all honors classes at his high school."

  "But Valentino-"

  The detective interrupted him. "A couple of misdemeanors. Shoplifting, vandalism, and petty theft. They all resulted in fines that were paid without issue. That's it. A bit of a troubled teen, but not exactly the mass murderer type. Did anyone find a motive?"

  "No."

  "Two kids, reportedly best friends since childhood, wake up one morning and decide to butcher eight innocent people and kidnap their female friend and her father, a bright scientist at a local university. I don't see it. I've been staring at the case file all night, but I can't see these two boys doing something like this. What would they have to gain? There is a reason for every crime. Greed, jealously, revenge. None of those fit. Has anyone managed to locate them? Anything at all? Security footage? Plane tickets? A license plate photo?"

  Ryan bowed his head and his shoulders slumped. "No, sir. Nothing."

  "And you think that two boys managed to escape your perimeter without any help and completely undetected? Is their vehicle gone?"

  "No. The car was in the garage when we did a full sweep of Valentino's residence. We didn't find any incriminating evidence inside the house."

  "And this Allen Lambert?" Dean asked, tapping his finger on the grainy picture.

  "A drama teacher at the high school. He is also Valentino's stepfather."

  "This is his address right here. How did I overlook that? I think I'll have a chat with this schoolteacher. I need more insight into these boys that I can't get from sheets of paper or online records. People can't be defined by words on a page."

  "But it's not your place to define them. We just need to know if there's enough evidence against them to send this case to trial."

  He was not about to be told how to do his job by a rookie officer. "Why don't you go back to Daniels then head home and let me do my work the way I've been doing it all my life? Tell Daniels that I won't let this case go until I get the undeniable truth. And if he has a problem with that, he can come take the file from me himself. Get out of here."

  "Yes, sir."

  The moment the young officer left, Olivia Morningstar squeezed past him into the office, looking more frantic than her normally polished self. Her blond locks had already started to fall out of the tight bun on top of her head and her navy blue eyeliner was smudged on the inner parts of her eyes. Even her plum purple pencil skirt was not ironed. "Detective! I didn't realize you were here already. It's so early."

  "I didn't leave last night. I've been here with this file. Cancel my appointments for the rest of the week. If anyone comes in, send them to Donaldson's down the street. He's a good private investigator and one of my close friends. He will appreciate the boost in business."

  "Where are you going?" Olivia asked.

  "I'm going for a ride." Dean stood, tucking in his shirt and buckling his belt. He took his long tan trenchcoat from the hook on the wall above the safe and slid it on. "You know how to get ahold of me. I'll be back before tonight."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Take calls, read my emails, clean up a bit. Take it easy. Thanks, Olivia."

  Olivia tucked her bangs behind her ears. "No problem, Detective. Be careful on these roads before dawn. It's dark out there."

  "I'll be fine." He patted her shoulder and plucked his keys from the bowl by the door. Dean headed through the dark green office that was empty aside from a stray spotted dog who munched on some leftover pizza crusts in the corner. "Who's this?"

  "I don't know. He looked hungry and you said to take in anyone or anything that needed shelter, so here he is."

  He rubbed the dog's head. "Good boy. Keep him company. He seems friendly."

  "Just hurry back, please. I'm allergic."

  Dean chuckled as he left the office, sending the bell above the door chiming. He went to the parking space along the curb. He straddled the glittering purple motorcycle with the chrome accents gleaming in the pink and yellow neon nightclub signs. Even at five in the morning, Memphis was alive. The city's heart never truly slept. Distant jazz music could be heard over the nearby thudding from inside the clubs. The rain had tapered off, leaving a mostly clear sky after the showers.

  A homeless woman with a denim quilt around her shoulders waved at him from across the street. He knew her well. "Ms. Devon? Ms. Devon, I left you some hot coffee inside my office. Olivia will let you in."

  "Thanks, Detective."

  Dean smiled as he turned the motor on. He loved helping in any way he could. On cold winter mornings, his office routinely became a haven for anyone who wanted a warm place to stay and a cup of coffee or a donut. The poor and the downtrodden were some of his favorite people. They would sit in the lobby with the news on and talk about life, family, and their hopes for a better future. He kept a file on every one of them, noting their children, their favorite foods, and tastes in music so he could surprise them every year with small gifts on Christmas morning.

  After all, they were the only family he would ever know. With none of his own, he spent every spare cent on making their lives at least a tiny bit better. And no one, not even a usually solitary detective, wanted to be alone on Christmas.

  His motor roared as he sped away from his office and through the main streets of Memphis. Beale Street was covered in confetti and strewn bottles from the festival the night before. The tantalizing scent of barbecue already wafted out from smokers beside restaurants. Four men in overly large hoodies stopped on the sidewalk to wave at him as he blazed past. Dean took a sharp left turn along the Mississippi River bank, passing the silver pyramid that overlooked the city. He throttled it around two more turns until he ran a red light going ninety miles per hour onto the road leading out towards Mana Glen.

  Dean took a deep breathe of freedom, reveling in the cold wind flowing through his hair as he whipped between early morning traffic. The drivers honked at him and shouted from their windows, but he only laughed. Thirty years of being shot at, dealing with bomb threats, and taking down dangerous criminals by himself had hardened him to fear. He had a shell around him, making him impervious to threats of destruc
tion. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe he was delusional. But Dean lived for it. The adrenaline pumping through his caffeinated veins nourished him like oxygen.

  He could have taken the easy way out, settled down and had a handful of kids. He could have been a grandfather by then, relaxing on his porch and fishing through his retirement, but that life was not for him. No amount of silver in his hair, wrinkles around his eyes, or how high the numbers of his age climbed, Dean Amethyst would never let anyone call him old.

  He barely felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket, but it was there. He pulled over at a rest area before digging the cellphone out and checking the screen for missed calls. The office. Dean rolled his eyes then called back.

  Olivia answered, her accent making her sound extremely concerned or pissed off, Dean could never tell. "Detective, we just received word of another incident involving the suspects from the Mana Glen case."

  "Send the details to my phone. Email me. I'm nearly to Mana Glen."

  "It's urgent, sir."

  He growled in frustration. "Then send it to my phone. I can't do anything about it right now."

  "All right. Stay safe."

  The detective shoved his phone back into his pocket before noticing the vending machine by the brick restroom building. The hours of no food gnawed at his growling stomach. Dean approached the beacon of convenient sustenance. Pretzels, sour gummies, cheese crackers, and potato chips. The breakfast of champions.

  He dug in his pockets for some quarters. Nothing. He groaned. With a quick kick to the side of the vending machine, he knocked a bag of pretzels loose. He retrieved his score then pulled out a sticky note from his wallet and scribbled on it with a permanent marker before slapping it onto the front of the machine. Detective Dean Amethyst owes you 75 cents. He even left his business card stuck in the corner to be extra helpful.

  Dean leaned up against a streetlight and crunched on salty pretzels while listening to the wail of sirens echoing from the city. He crumpled the bag and tossed it into the mesh trashcan before lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. The stretch of road between Memphis and Mana Glen was abnormally quiet and serene for being that close to the metropolitan area. A few houses dotted the empty fields of grass and private gardens. An elementary school and a lonely bus stop were the only other buildings aside from a shipping distribution center. For being the birthplace of the current president of the United States, Mana Glen was virtually unheard of by most of America.

  He watched the sun rising as he had done on far too many sleepless mornings. The exhaustion never went away, it was only alleviated by adrenaline and caffeine. Dean jumped back onto his motorcycle and took off towards Mana Glen. It was a short ride through the fields that turned into dense wooded residential areas.

  Quiet neighborhoods with homes of brown brick, white shutters, and identical steel mailboxes at the curbs of their dew-kissed, manicured lawns. Men in business suits strutted to their expensive cars while their wives rolled strollers filled with sleepy children to their vans and loaded them up. Few gave him a passing glance, but occasionally someone snarled at him for invading their daily routine and disturbing their cookie cutter definition of a perfect existence.

  He slowed as he pulled into the driveway of the modest home at the end of the cul-de-sac where the grass had not been mowed in a while. A short section of yellow investigation scene tape flapped in the breeze where it still hung, taped to the side of the blue trashcan that was overflowing. This was the place. After parking, Dean smoothed his trenchcoat before walking up the steps to the front door.

  Before he could ring the doorbell, the door opened and a disheveled man with scraggly brown hair and a receding hairline stared blankly at him. The man held onto his red suspenders and sighed. "I've already been cleared by Memphis police. I don't know anything else that I haven't said. I was not involved in the events of November third in any way except being in my office when two children ran inside to hide from bloodthirsty cops who were shooting at them for no reason. I would appreciate it if you got off my lawn and got back on that bike of yours and went back to whatever big government agency you get your blood money from. I don't want to be a part of it."

  "Mr. Lambert, I'm not here to interrogate you or place blame. I'm here for Jackson and Nikolas. Let's get real here. This is about them. I know you were close to them and you want to help them. I do too."

  "Who are you?

  "Detective Dean Amethyst, Director of the Memphis Special Case Division. I am the head of this investigation, working with the Memphis Police Department. No one does a thing without asking me first. Right now, they all want your boys in cages. I'm here to find the truth."

  The teacher seemed surprised. "My boys?"

  "Nikolas is your stepson and you have legal guardianship of Jackson."

  "Oh. I forgot about that part. It was done when he was a baby. I've always taken care of him."

  "Of course. May I come in?"

  "I guess."

  Dean followed him into the cluttered house. Frozen burrito wrappers, foil takeout trays, and grease-stained paper bags littered the living room. Half-empty two-liters of soda were stacked on the wrinkled sofa cushions, dirty laundry was piled in front of the entertainment center, and what Dean hoped was strawberry jelly had been smeared on the wall.

  "Excuse the mess. I've been busy with . . . drinking, mainly. I have a lot of free time now that I've been removed from my position at the high school."

  "You were fired? Because of the investigation?"

  "The school board prefers to call it a forced resignation, but we all know what it truly is."

  Dean draped his trenchcoat across a chair then sat at the wooden kitchen table. "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "This isn't about me, though." Allen took down two coffee mugs from the cabinet. "What did you want, Detective? Coffee?"

  "Please. I'll be level with you. I've been studying the case file for clues and I've come up empty-handed. I simply cannot accept that two teenagers such as them could have done something so heinous and for apparently no reason. There's no motive. There are no red flags that we normally look for, especially when dealing with Jackson."

  "Jack. He hates being called Jackson."

  Dean smiled. "Jack seems like a normal, everyday kid. More than that, he's an upstanding citizen who volunteers collecting coats and canned food for the less fortunate during the holidays. He's a member of his school's humanitarian club, charity organizations, and he volunteers with children every Monday afternoon during the summer to teach them acting. Does that sound like a mass murderer to you?"

  Allen set the cup in front of the detective then sat across from him. "No."

  "Then you see my issue pinning this on the boys. Being the closest to them, I figured you could give me more insight into where they may be now."

  "So you came here to get me to lead you to them."

  "No. I came here to get you to tell me where they are so I can work with them to find the true criminals behind the attacks."

  "Attacks? There have been more than one?"

  Dean retrieved his phone and scrolled over the email that Olivia had sent him. He spoke to Mr. Lambert, giving him select details from the recent event that he was only just learning about. "Preliminary reports coming out of Little Rock, Arkansas are that Nikolas and Jack were involved in a bank robbery, then stole an SUV from a car dealership. Eleven more people were killed."

  Allen took a flask from somewhere below the table then poured some amber liquid into his mug. "When?"

  "About two hours ago. Two of the fatalities were state troopers at a roadblock they allegedly ran while fleeing. The government is in turmoil, trying to hunt them down. Every agency you can think of is involved. Tell me where they are so I can clear their names."

  "That couldn't have been them."

  "I have two photographs, still pictures from the surveillance cameras at the dealership." He held out his phone to show the images. "Tell me what you think."

&nbs
p; "That's not them. Jack is taller than Niki, not the other way around. Niki has black hair. Jack has light brown. Their features are off. I know it's blurry, but that's not them."

  "Do you know what you're implying? Mr. Lambert, do your boys have any enemies, anyone who would want to see them dead or in prison? Anyone who would go to these lengths to frame them as being terrorists? Anything at all? Bullies on the playground? Rival sports teams? A pot deal gone wrong? Were either of them a victim of a crime?"

  "Not really." The teacher rubbed his neck. "Well, except . . . no."

  "Yes?"

  "They were children. From what the police told me, it was just bullying and the bullies were sent to juvenile facilities for the weekend. Jack and Ellie lied about it to me, claiming she had to get stitches because she fell from her bicycle. They didn't know the police had called me and told me."

  It was news to him. "What happened? I wasn't able to find anything of the sort in the database."

  "Because they were juveniles, nothing was really done about it. That's what I was told, anyway."

  "That doesn't sound right. There should still be a record. Go ahead and tell me what happened."

  "Jack is a good kid. All he's ever wanted was to help people and feel loved. He's gentle."

  "Was Jackson involved in this bullying?" Dean asked, setting a small notepad and a pen on the table. "Was he pressured or forced into going along with it?"

  "Officially? No. He used to keep a journal that he wrote in every night before bed. Shortly after the incident, his behavior changed. He became withdrawn, anxious, like he carried guilt. I'm not proud of it, but I sneaked into his backpack one day when he left it here and I read through it. He may have . . . no. Jack is a good boy."

  "You don't have to tell me anything that might incriminate him."

  "I think he may be blaming himself for something, taking the blame for something he didn't do because he feels like he deserves punishment."