The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1)

by Davis, Sophie

  “Finally, my Stassi, I humbly beseech you to not waste your time trying to find me. You have more important matters to attend to, do you not? I will disappear like the wind following my finale, and it would be a fruitless effort for you to attempt to follow me. The timewaves are a marvelous thing, are they not? Our mutual friend has provided me with all I need to travel throughout time. Tomorrow night will be my last performance in this era, and is sure to be my finest yet.

  “When we meet again—and I solemnly swear we will, my dear Stassi—you must give me your thoughts on the show. A constructive critique is important for perfecting one’s craft, don’t you agree?

  “With this, I leave you until tomorrow night. Please know that you have inspired me so, and I dedicate this final act to you.”

  Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, I reached for the counter to steady myself. My arms felt like lead as they fell to my sides, the letter still clutched in my right hand. My thoughts were dizzying as I tried to process all of this new information.

  Cyrus reached for the letter and I readily handed it over. He read the final words in a measured voice that, despite its lack of emotion, left me cold all over.

  “All my best, Mr. Mitchell T. Baylarian.”

  My boss held up four glossy rectangles that he’d pulled from the envelope. “He sent tickets to tomorrow’s performance of the Flying Codonas.”

  “He’s taunting us,” I muttered. “He admits to drugging Gaige. And he knows we went to see Lachlan. Is he stalking us?”

  “As disconcerting as that thought may be, I actually hope he is following us,” Cyrus said. “If he’s seen us, then we’ve seen him.”

  “Do you know how many people we’ve all come across? How many that I alone have encountered?” I demanded, frantic. Images zoomed through my mind like a slideshow on fast forward. “This is Paris, Cyrus. In a time when people are living voraciously. He could be anyone. A guest at the Fitzgerald party. A patron of Stein’s. A cab driver. A bartender. A bellhop.”

  I gazed beseechingly at my boss, feeling overwhelmed and already defeated. We’d met dozens of people, and crossed paths with hundreds more. The thought alone was daunting.

  “Gaige has seen him,” Cyrus interjected calmly. “Somehow, this man,” he tapped the creepy letter, “managed to get Dragon Dust into something Gaige ate or drank. He must have—”

  “The man!” I exclaimed, cutting off my boss’s deductions.

  With the unfailing patience that never ceased to amaze me, my boss waited wordlessly while my thoughts came together.

  “If Hadley’s supposed hangover was actually the effects of Dragon Dust when he was trying to drug me, then I saw Mitchell. A man sitting at the bar sent over drinks while we were having lunch at the Ritz—it had to be him. It was him. That’s why he sent tickets to the Flying Codonas. He must have overheard Hadley telling me that she wanted to see the show.”

  “Do you recall what he looked like?” Cyrus asked, a hint of excitement flashing in his eyes.

  “Not particularly,” I replied, deflating as I realized how little attention I’d paid to the man at the bar. “He was sitting in the shadows, and I only saw part of his profile.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Merriweather asked.

  “I think so. I can look at the pictures on both cameras, maybe he’s in one of the photos?” I suggested.

  “Very good,” Cyrus answered. “We know that Lachlan and this man—Mitchell—were together at some point, so it’s likely that he’d be in at least one photo on the camera we found on Lachlan. In fact, I think it’s a safe bet that the men traveled to this time together.”

  “Ah, time tourism,” Dr. Merriweather said knowingly.

  “Precisely.” Cyrus nodded. “It is an easy, albeit risky, way for runners to make extra money. You might be surprised how much some are willing to pay for the chance to visit other times.”

  Actually, no, I wouldn’t be surprised. Our clients were willing to pay obscene amounts to own a piece of the past. To experience the past was on a whole other level—entire fortunes had been spent on time tourism back when it was legal.

  “Hopefully Gaige got a better look at him,” Cyrus continued. “I’ll take both of the cameras down to the police station and see if Gaige recognizes anyone. We should also see if the florist can tell us anything about who bought these flowers. Stassi, will you handle that angle?”

  “I want to go see Gaige,” I said hurriedly. “Please, Cyrus.”

  “I can visit the florist,” Dr. Merriweather offered. “I know that it is not customary for alchemists to do fieldwork, but this is a simple task, and it sounds like you could use all the assistance you can get.”

  “Thank you, doctor. That would be a big help,” Cyrus decided.

  Even though I was pleased that he wasn’t sending me off on the errand, my boss’s approval was a worrying development. It was a sign of how desperate the situation had become that Cyrus was enlisting the alchemist’s help. Their specialties were paperwork and diplomacy, not fieldwork.

  “So, yes? I’m coming with you to see Gaige?” I asked, hoping my boss was too distracted to deny my request.

  Cyrus’s expression softened when he met my gaze.

  “I understand wanting to see your partner, Stassi. But I need you to call Hadley Richardson and Charles DuPree and set up the date for tomorrow evening. Invite them to dinner and the show. While you are at dinner, I will search the Hemingways’ apartment for the third piece of the manuscript. That will allow plenty of time for me to arrive at the theater before you do. I will hang back for the duration of the performance, and watch for anyone watching you. Several extra sets of eyes won’t hurt either. I’m sure Bane and his people will be happy to help. And, of course, the alchemists.”

  “Of course,” echoed Merriweather.

  “Wait, we’re actually going to follow the instructions of a madman?” I asked incredulously. “You must be kidding. We cannot invite Hadley and the others. We’d be purposely putting them in a dangerous situation. Can’t we just have the show cancelled?”

  “I know it seems risky,” Cyrus said gently. “But if you and your friends aren’t there tomorrow night—if no one is there tomorrow night—Mitchell will simply choose another time and place for his so-called performance. We have knowledge and forewarning on our side for tomorrow night. If the show is cancelled or he isn’t satisfied with the audience, we will lose those advantages.”

  For several long moments, I weighed what he’d said. Though I hated the idea of endangering Charles and the Hemingways, Cyrus was right. If not tomorrow night, Mitchell would just attack some other time, when my boss and his team weren’t there to stop him.

  “Cyrus, those calls will only take a couple of minutes,” I replied grudgingly. “Will you just wait until I’m done to head over to the station?”

  “I don’t like the idea of you being out and about with this guy on the loose and fixated on you,” he answered. “I want you safe.”

  “The Night Gentleman knows where I live,” I pointed out. “I’ll be safer with you.”

  “Inspector Thoreau wants to speak to you about the murders,” Cyrus hedged. “I’d like to avoid that, if at all possible.”

  “I can handle him, Cyrus,” I replied with a wry smile. “Unless he is prepared to throw me into the cell beside Gaige’s, we have nothing to discuss.”

  “That is precisely what I’m worried about.” Cyrus sighed heavily. “I don’t need both of you in jail.”

  I gave him my best puppy dog eyes. My boss took one look at my pleading expression and folded like an accordion.

  “Go make your calls. We will leave when you are finished.”

  SURE ENOUGH, THE inspector spotted me at the préfecture’s front desk as we inquired about visiting Gaige. He pounced on the opportunity, insisting that I join him in a windowless room for a “friendly chat”.

  Unfortunately, Thoreau was sorely disappointed in my conversational skills. Stubb
orn to the end, I refused to change my story, despite the glaring evidence that contradicted it.

  “Miss Prince, you could not have arrived in England on March 24th. There were no commercial liner arrivals from America,” Thoreau repeated, his face set in hard lines. “I presume that also means you did not take the ferry over from London on the 26th.”

  “My brother and I arrived in Paris last Thursday,” I replied obstinately.

  “By train?” he persisted.

  Actually, by vortex.

  “Yes,” I said instead.

  “From London? You previously said you left from Victoria’s Station. Is that still what you say happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have only been in France for one week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not three weeks? Maybe four?”

  “No.”

  “And you and your brother arrived here together? Not on separate trains?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  “He did not come earlier? Perhaps to settle your living arrangements?”

  “My father’s secretary arranged our accommodations before we left Baltimore,” I answered, meeting his gaze directly.

  “Miss Prince, we know that your brother’s passage documents are not authentic. We know that he did not travel in the manner you have stated on the days that you have said.”

  I sighed. “Is my brother’s mere presence in your city the only evidence you have against him? As I’ve said numerous times, he was not here when the murders began. Neither was I. But even if we were, we’d have been two among hundreds of thousands of other people.” I leveled him with a cool gaze, inspired by Cyrus. “This is an absolute witch hunt. My brother’s arrest is a travesty of justice, and it will not be tolerated.”

  “Those other people have not lied to us about their whereabouts, Ms. Prince,” Thoreau replied warily.

  “Have you questioned them all? I am impressed. Your station is far more efficient than the ones back home. Perhaps you should offer a seminar on interrogating every single person residing in or visiting a city at any given time. Truly, it is a remarkable feat, you mustn’t keep these abilities to yourself.”

  Inspector Thoreau began tapping his pencil on the table. Lips pursed and jaw working back and forth, it appeared he desperately wanted to tell me exactly how much he appreciated my attitude. I smiled sweetly.

  “Am I under arrest, Inspector? If not, I would like to visit with my brother now. I do believe you’ve wasted quite enough of my time for today.”

  “No, Miss Prince, you are not under arrest at this time,” Thoreau replied, emphasizing the last bit. “But I do have more questions for you, if that is not too much trouble. Your brother will still be here when we are done.”

  Inspector Thoreau was showing his claws. I was getting under his skin.

  “Actually, Inspector, I believe we are done here,” I said, keeping my tone light and cordial. “My uncle has insisted that our lawyer be present for any further questions. You understand, of course. I came to speak with you today against his advisement, because I was of the mind that we could be civilized about this whole thing. But good manners only go so far.”

  Inspector Thoreau slid his chair back, the metal feet screeching against the tile floor. He stood, one hand on the table, and leaned down until our noses were indecently close. I didn’t flinch. Evidently, we’d moved on to the bad cop portion of the program.

  “We will find out the truth, Miss Prince,” the inspector spat.

  I eased my own chair backwards and stood. In my modest heels, I was a hair taller than the police officer. Taking full advantage, I stared down my nose at him.

  “I hope you do, Inspector.”

  Cyrus was waiting in the station’s front reception area when I exited the interrogation room.

  “How did it go?” he murmured in my ear.

  I tilted my hand to indicate so-so.

  “Sir?” Cyrus called to the young man sitting behind the desk. The officer looked woefully bored; desk duty probably wasn’t what he’d had in mind when joining the force. “We are ready to go back, when you have a moment.”

  “For Prince, yeah?” the officer replied in a thick cockney accent, eyeing me with interest.

  “That’s correct,” I said with my most innocent smile.

  “Just a tick, then.” With that, he poked his head behind a door and bellowed something in French. The officer nodded to Cyrus and resumed his position behind the desk.

  Another uniformed officer showed us to a meeting room several minutes later. He waited for us to sit, then gave us brief instructions about interacting—or, rather, not interacting—with the prisoner. Finally, two officers led in a shackled and cuffed Gaige. I stared at my hands as my partner’s shackles were attached to the table legs, feeling almost embarrassed that I was witnessing his humiliation. The handcuffs were removed before the officers stepped outside the room, leaving the three of us alone.

  For several long moments, none of us spoke. Dark circles hung beneath Gaige’s eyes like black half-moons. His dark hair was sticking out on the sides but flat in the back, suggesting he’d spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling.

  “How are you?” I asked finally.

  Gaige shrugged. “It’s not the Ritz, but I’ve stayed in worse.”

  “We’re working on bail,” Cyrus assured him.

  “I know. The lawyer stopped by earlier.”

  Cyrus glanced around the room, evidently gauging exactly how private our conversation would be. The lack of a two-way mirror was a good sign—it meant that the nosy inspector wasn’t standing on the other side, eavesdropping on us. Since neither security cameras nor listening devices were standard yet, it seemed we were in the clear.

  “Dr. Merriweather found Dragon Dust in your system,” Cyrus said in a low voice, skipping the pleasantries. “I am going to ask you this once, because I have to—did you knowingly ingest it?”

  A series of emotions quickly crossed Gaige’s drawn face. I caught disbelief, horror, and then finally relief. If I had to guess, the latter was a result of knowing that there was a reason for his odd behavior and blackout.

  “No,” Gaige said emphatically. “Cyrus, of course not. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  Our boss leveled a gaze on him, measuring the truth of his response.

  “I don’t need that shant,” my partner added, a faint glimmer of his unbroken spirit flickering through his eyes. “I get high on life.”

  I stifled an inappropriate giggle.

  “That’s what I thought,” Cyrus replied, looking amused, too. “I just needed to be sure.” My boss began pulling document sleeves from his pockets and setting them on the table. “Stassi and I found Lachlan.”

  Excitement flared in Gaige’s dark gaze. “Was he arrested? Can I go home now?”

  “He was in a mental hospital,” I responded quietly. I watched as the flames of hope were doused as quickly as they were lit. “He’s been there since last Thursday, so he’s not the killer.”

  “Okay…so what does that mean? If Lachlan isn’t the Night Gentleman…,” Gaige trailed off, glancing between Cyrus and me for answers.

  My boss didn’t disappoint. He launched into an abbreviated version of our visit to the sanitarium, then told Gaige about the newest flower delivery and the accompanying note and show tickets. Cyrus finished by relaying the latest working theory—that Lachlan might’ve been moonlighting as a time guide. Gaige listened to it all with rapt attention, as if there would be a quiz later.

  Once my partner was caught up, Cyrus slid the vacuum-sealed envelope containing the note across the table for Gaige to read.

  “As of right now, it seems the Night Gentleman is the civilian who hired Lachlan to come to this time. It also seems he’s taking credit for drugging you,” our boss said, pointing to the line asking if my partnered enjoyed the present. “We found another camera today, in the pants Lachlan was wearing when he was admitted to the sanitarium. Since the two men w
ere most likely traveling together, there is a chance the Night Gentleman, this Mitchell T. Baylarian, is in at least one picture on one of these cameras.” Cyrus tapped the devices, and then added a magnifying glass to the pile of gadgets on the table. “Did you drink or eat anything at the boxing gym?”

  Gaige rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. The details of that day are a little hazy. I mean, I definitely didn’t eat anything. I’m sure I had some water, though. It was hot and I was sweating. So, yeah, probably water.”

  “Where did the water come from?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Gaige said, looking helpless. “It’s almost like I was in a gray-out before I blacked out. I remember having breakfast with Stass, then walking over to the gym since it was nice out. Once I got there….” My partner shrugged as he trailed off.

  “Close your eyes and focus, Gaige,” Cyrus commanded.

  My partner complied, his forehead scrunched up in a caricature of a thinking man.

  “You’ve been in the gym for some time now. It’s hot, and there’s very little airflow in there,” Cyrus said evenly. “You’re thirsty. Where did you get the water from?”

  My partner shook his head slowly.

  “Where did your water come from the other times you were there?”

  “Sometimes there are towel boys with water bottles who work for tips. There’s also a water cooler with cups on a table off behind the back ring.”

  “Did you all have a towel boy that day?” Cyrus prompted. “Do you remember someone squirting the water into your mouth?”

  Gaige shook his head more emphatically this time.

  “No. I went and got water from the back.”

  “Okay. Do you remember—”

  “Wait!” Gaige’s eyes snapped open. “A kid handed me a glass before I could fill up my own.”

  “Is that normal?” I asked. “Was he filling up cups for other people, too? Or just you?”

  Gaige thought for a moment, then shook his head in frustration.