Rewind

by Carolyn O'Doherty

  It’s not until Sunday afternoon that Dr. Barnard gives me the news I’ve been hoping for all week: I am cleared for time work and Ross is on his way over. We have a mission.

  Ross is waiting for me in the lobby. I’m so glad to see him that if Charlie weren’t hovering in the guard station, I would have given him a hug. Instead I offer him an eager smile, which he matches with equal enthusiasm. He clicks on my leash, signs out the key, and we head outside.

  It’s a cool afternoon, the sun hiding under a swath of gray. I hurry down the steps to the squad car parked on the curb.

  “What’s today’s mission?” I ask.

  “We have two, actually,” Ross says, opening the door for me.

  I climb into the car. The interior smells like old burritos, the radio makes unintelligible squawks, and my left leg is crammed under the laptop hanging off the dashboard. I welcome the awkward space like an old friend. Ross gets in on the driver’s side and asks me to hold out my arm.

  “It’s silly to make you wear this thing all the time,” he says, unlocking the leash and tossing it over his shoulder into the back seat.

  The maddening buzz quiets as soon as the metal band leaves my skin. I touch my wrist. The leash hasn’t even been on long enough to leave a pressure mark. Ross laughs at what must be the stunned expression on my face.

  “Just don’t freeze while we’re driving,” he says. “The car will stop, but thanks to momentum, you won’t.”

  He starts the engine with a rumble that resonates deep in the center of my chest. A second later the car leaps from the curb, nearly clipping Barnard’s sedan, which is parked in the other reserved spot. I watch the Center grow smaller in the side mirror as we drive away. When we turn the corner, it disappears completely. I unroll the window. A breeze blows past me, sending the loose strands of my ponytail dancing against my cheeks.

  “Where to first?” I ask.

  “Remember that lead I told you about?” Ross says. “I think we’re about to prove that one of the suspects Sal visited was Sikes.”

  “What?”

  I twist around so fast the seat belt locks. Before he disappeared, Sal visited three people: a businessman with ties to known drug dealers, a male bartender suspected of money laundering, and an often-arrested female political activist who claimed that wealth should be shared by the masses. Ross had shadowed the investigations that followed, but no shred of evidence was ever found to link any of them with either Sikes’s thefts or Sal’s death.

  I yank the strap crushing my ribs without managing to loosen it.

  “I thought they’d all been cleared for Sal’s murder ages ago?”

  “They were, until your rewind at the butcher shop opened up a new possibility.”

  Ross makes one of his trademark squealing turns onto the Steel Bridge and heads toward the east side of the city. I dig my fingers into the soft seats, both to keep from lurching sideways and to stop from bouncing around like an excited four-year-old.

  “Tell,” I demand.

  We weave through traffic while Ross fills me in. Torino’s death was the first case where he could pin down the timing for a Sikes-related crime to a narrow window. Ross, who still believed one of the three was Sal’s murderer, did some poking around to find out where they each were the night Torino died. He figured that even if Karl did the actual killing, there was a good chance Sikes was in contact with him during that time period, if not actually lurking nearby. The drug-dealing businessman had finally been arrested and he’d spent that night in jail. The political activist was hosting an all-night rally in Los Angeles—an event which was live-streamed on the internet.

  “And I don’t care who you are,” Ross says, “it would have been really hard for either of those two to be simultaneously tracking their hired killer. But Matt Thompson, our sketchy bartender, spent most of the night at his bar—in a back office, near an emergency exit, where he worked alone.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “An informant. The guy’s been keeping an eye on Mr. Thompson for me and he happened to be at the bar that night.”

  I clap my hands together.

  “So that’s where we’re going.”

  “Yep. I’m going to need you and your very special skills so we can figure out for sure if we’re onto the right guy.”

  I admire my leashless wrist. This case needs me. Choosing to take the new medicine was worth the costs.

  “It’s great that Chief is letting you take the lead on this one.”

  “He isn’t,” Ross says. “Technically, we only have one mission: the rewind of an armed robbery. We’ll head there next.”

  A vague unease curdles my excitement. I look at Ross. He’s focused on the traffic outside, frowning as he swerves around a slow-moving truck.

  “What about my tracker?” I ask. “If anybody is watching, they’ll know we aren’t going to the right place.”

  “Don’t worry. Matt’s bar is on the way.”

  I press my forehead against the window and watch the city flashing past me: used-car lot, taco restaurant, furniture store. People fill the vehicles and sidewalks around us, vulnerable people who would be safer if Sikes were behind bars. And I can help put him there. I straighten up. This work is important. What’s wrong with a small lie if it leads to the right results?

  Ross pulls the car over on a side street not far from the river. It’s a light industrial part of town, full of warehouses and showrooms selling things like marble countertops and plumbing supplies. The building in front of us has blank, windowless walls. On the opposite side of the street, two large semis are backed into loading docks.

  “Where’s the bar?” I ask.

  “A couple blocks away.” Ross cranes his neck to peer up and down the street. There’s no one in sight.

  “I thought we’d freeze here where no one will see us disappear.”

  I put my hand on his wrist. Ross checks once more that no one can see us, then nods. I reach for the time strands and pull the world to a standstill.

  We climb from the car. My stomach is in knots, with anticipation more than worry. My eagerness makes Ross’s usual hurried stride feel like a snail’s crawl. We wind our way through frozen cars as we cross MLK Boulevard, then up another block and a half. Ross stops. On our left is a four-story brick apartment building. There are two street-level commercial tenants: a secondhand clothing store and a bar called Tom’s.

  “This is it?” I ask.

  Ross nods. I stare up at the façade. The bricks show signs of wear, and the trim on the upper windows cries out for a fresh coat of paint. The bar itself has tinted windows, the interior further obscured by neon twisted into beer logos. The enthusiasm boiling inside me reduces to a low simmer. This building looks way more like some place I might have visited on a vice mission than the luxury digs of a millionaire thief.

  “Are you sure? It’s so … plain.”

  “What better cover? Plus, a cash business like a bar is a great way to wash stolen money.”

  Ross jiggles the door handle. It’s locked. I lean against the window, cupping my hands around my face to peer inside. A forest of wood meets my searching eyes. The chairs have all been flipped up on the tables, presumably to more easily clean the floors.

  “They’re closed.”

  Ross winks at me.

  “Let me show you a little unofficial police tool.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out something I think is an army knife until he flips the thing open and shows me a pair of thin metal sticks. I step back in surprise.

  “You’re going to pick the lock?”

  “Someone will notice if we break a window.”

  My laugh sounds hollow. Ross slips on thin gloves, handing a second pair to me, then drops to his knees in front of the door. Automatically, I look to see if anyone is watching. A woman hovers about a block away, arms sunk in her coat pockets, eyes blindly fixed somewhere over my shoulder.

  I yank on the end of my ponytail.

  “Isn’t t
his illegal? We won’t be able to use the evidence if we find any.”

  “All we’re doing today is seeing if my hunch is right. If it is, I’ll get a warrant and come back officially.” Ross glances up at me. “You’re not worried about this are you?”

  I shrug.

  “Alex, we’re talking about Sikes. The guy who murdered Sal in cold blood. He doesn’t deserve any rights.”

  I look down at the pick dangling from Ross’s hand. Jack would think this whole situation was hilarious, a thought that almost makes me smile until I replace Jack’s face with KJ’s. KJ would not think this was a fun game. KJ would most definitely disapprove. Then again, KJ has never understood the importance of cracking a case. Plus, he’s probably, more like definitely, been making out with Shannon every chance he gets, so he’s hardly the perfect rule follower anymore either.

  “He’s the bad guy,” I say to Ross. “We’re the good guys.”

  Ross grins and motions me closer. “Why don’t you come down here where you can see. This is a trick I think you’ll find useful.”

  I kneel on the hard concrete and watch while Ross sticks a metal rod into the key slot. He moves confidently, all the while describing what he’s doing in careful detail: a tension wrench to slightly turn the lock, a pick to feel for the pins, and then some wiggling of the pick until each tumbler raises enough to make the shear line on the pins match up. It doesn’t take very long. In less than a minute, we’re inside.

  Shadows cloak the bar’s interior. The air carries the bitter stench of spilled beer and a lingering whiff of deep fry oil. When I step inside, I can feel a slight suck on my shoes from the sticky floor. I guess I was wrong about the chairs.

  Ross relocks the door then heads straight for the back, skirting the polished bar to enter a short hallway. To our left is a small kitchen, to the right are three closed doors labeled Guys, Dames, and Office. Another door at the end reads Emergency Exit. Ross wiggles the unmoving knob on the office door.

  “You want to try out the pick?” Ross says.

  “Right now?” Even though time is frozen, I can’t help checking over my shoulder. Ever since I thought of him, KJ’s frowning face has been hovering in the corner of my brain. Go away, I tell his image. It’s just frozen time. Imaginary KJ looks about as understanding as he did the day I told him Ross was faking my chronotin readings.

  “Sure,” I say to Ross, who places the pick in my hands, covering my gloved fingers with his own as he moves them through the steps to unlock the door. I’m surprised by how easy it is. A few twists with the metal tools and the door swings open.

  Unlike the grimy bar, Matt’s office is almost antiseptically clean. The walls are painted a bright white that gleams under a pale shaft streaming from a skylight. The desk is made of blond wood, its surface bare except for a large computer screen, a cup full of matching silver pens, and a neat stack of files in a wire basket. Nearby are a bookcase, a row of wooden filing cabinets, and a large safe.

  “If Matt is who we think he is,” Ross says, “he’s probably using the bar to launder money, so the first thing we need to do is get his passwords so we can look up his accounts. Why don’t you start a rewind.”

  He walks around the desk until he’s facing the computer monitor. I run a finger along the outer edge of the doorframe. Despite its neatness, there’s something creepy about this room, like we’ve stepped into one of those tombs that rain curses on excavators.

  “Are you sure a rewind will work? What if the change in my freezes affects the rewinds, too?”

  “It will be fine, don’t worry. Even you can’t change the past.”

  I push away thoughts of KJ and curses, and walk toward Ross.

  “How far back do I need to go?”

  “Just one day. I talked to a waitress who works here. Matt does the books on Saturdays, so he’ll be checking account balances then.”

  Time slides back smoothly once I get the rewind started. I pull quickly at first, whipping us through Sunday morning and into the backward murmurs from Saturday night. Strains of disjointed music drift in from the bar along with unintelligible voices and the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. The clock on the wall shows a little after 9:00 p.m. when the office door opens and a man backs in. I slow the rewind.

  “Is that Matt Thompson?” I ask.

  Ross nods. Dim, rewound light further brightens the space. The memory of Matt sits down at the desk. I study him hungrily. I realize I’ve built Sikes up into a dashing figure, a movie version of a worthy adversary. If this man really is him, he’s disappointingly normal looking. Midforties, shorter than Ross—maybe a couple inches under six feet—with brown hair clipped over his ears. His face is cleanshaven. He’s thin and wears skinny jeans, cowboy boots, and a black T-shirt with a stylized image of an electric guitar printed on the front. The only thing that makes him look rich is a thick gold watch clamped to his left wrist.

  Matt settles in to work, intermittently tapping the keyboard and shuffling papers. A couple of times he picks up his phone and engages in a garbled conversation. Ross gestures at me to speed things up. Uncounted minutes slip by as the clock winds back to 7:30, 7:00—

  “Stop!” Ross calls. I grab the strands up tight. Ross takes a pen out of the cup on Matt’s desk and pulls a mostly blank sheet of paper from the recycle bin.

  “OK,” he says, “start again, but really slowly.”

  I move to stand beside him and let the seconds seep past me. Ross’s eyes are glued to Matt’s fingers as they move over the keyboard. The screen in front of him is pale blue and shows a white sign-in box filled with a string of black dots.

  “Four,” Ross says, jotting the number down as one of the dots disappears.

  “No,” I correct him. “It’s a dollar sign, look at his pinkie.”

  “Good catch. OK, so it’s: $-U-O-!-V-R-E-p-m-1”

  Matt lifts his hands and shakes the computer mouse. The screen goes black. Ross studies the sheet in his hand. A second later, he lifts his head with a smile.

  “Impervious,” he says.

  I accelerate the rewind again. Matt leaves the room for a while, then comes back. I speed up and slow down on Ross’s command, occasionally cranking time to a crawl so Ross can copy down more passwords or squint at the faded letters in an email. At 5:30, Matt stands up as another man, this one wearing a black apron folded at his waist, backs into the office. They chat together and Matt kneels down to open the safe, replacing a stack of bills the other guy hands him. Ross makes careful note of the combination when Matt closes the safe’s door.

  A headache worms its way into my brain, gentler than the throbbing pain that announces the sickness, but still uncomfortable.

  “Mr. Ross?” I say. “If we’re going to have to do a second rewind after this …”

  “Is it getting hard?” he asks, capping the pen. “Thanks for warning me. We have enough for now, you can let time go for a bit.”

  I release the strands, half-expecting the dizzy swing that would return us to Ross’s parked car. Instead, we sink into dimness as the rewound light in the office winks out. Ross laughs. He brushes past me and lights up the room for real with a touch of the wall switch.

  “Now for the good part,” he says. He’s radiating so much energy it makes the small room feel even smaller. My own heart rate speeds up in response.

  “What can I do?” I ask.

  Ross spins slowly, taking in the tidy space.

  “Computer, file cabinets, that—” he points to a door I hadn’t noticed before, tucked in a corner behind the desk, “—probably has office supplies. How about you start with that beauty,” he points at the safe, “and I’ll tackle the computer.”

  Ross hands me his note with the combination and tells me to look for bank statements, appointment books, or anything that might link Matt to one of the Sikes robberies. I turn the numbers slowly, running through them twice because the first time I forget they’re reversed. The door is thick and very heavy. Inside, there are stacks of
paper money, tucked into pouches by denomination, with a separate one for coins. I move them aside, setting them out very carefully on the floor in the same pattern so I can return them correctly. Underneath is a pile of folders. I open them one after the other, a process that goes slowly since my gloves make it hard to separate the pages. One holds the deed to the bar, and another seems to be insurance certificates. There’s a whole stack of tax returns, which I hand over to Ross. He glances at them, then keeps tapping away on the computer, occasionally printing a page or two on a softly humming printer set on top of the bookcase.

  The scream of a siren makes its way into the office. My hands tighten on the folder I’m holding. The siren grows louder. I stare out into the dark hall. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the noise starts to fade.

  “We should go,” I tell Ross. “It’s two forty-five. We’ve already been here for fifteen minutes of real time.”

  “One more sec,” Ross says, “I just want to follow this thread.”

  I’m nearing the end of the files. At the bottom is a final folder, bigger than the others, beige and somewhat wrinkled. The label on the front says Receipt Copies 2012 in smudgy handwriting. I unclasp the top and tip the contents into my hand. A sheet of canvas slides down, heavy and bright with color. It’s not a receipt.

  “Mr. Ross?” The canvas trembles in my fingers. “I think I found something.”

  He must hear the shock in my voice because he’s beside me in seconds. I hand it over. It’s a painting, unframed, the vase of sunflowers familiar to anyone who knows Vincent Van Gogh. Or Sikes, who was suspected of stealing it from the Portland Art Museum two years ago.

  “It’s him,” I whisper. “Matt Thompson is Sikes.”

  Ross touches the painting with a reverent finger.

  “Sure looks like it.”

  Every nerve in my body lights up. I feel like I’ve just drunk ten cups of coffee. My body is electric and my lips can’t stop smiling.

  “We found Sikes!” I throw my arms in the air, wiggling my whole body in a crazy happy-dance next to the filing cabinet. “We did,” I shout. “You and me.”