by MK Alexander
“He’s coming now…” one of them said.
I saw Fynn’s head appear first, just below a low dune. It disappeared for a moment then reappeared, closer. He came walking up to us with a big smile on his face.
“Well, Detective Durbin, Patrick... A fine afternoon, don’t you agree?”
“Tractus Fynn, you are under arrest for the murder of Lorraine Luis. Anything you say…” Durbin read him his rights.
Fynn was astonished to say the least. It passed across his face quickly, then his expression change to resignation. He was downcast but otherwise unfazed.
“I see… well then, please, you must do your duty, detective.”
I saw him quickly rummage through his jacket pocket, then he held out his hands in a position ready to be cuffed. One of the officers obliged then started to lead the inspector towards a cruiser. Fynn lost his footing, intentionally it seemed, and bumped in to me. He whispered two words in my ear: “Find Roxy.”
I also felt something slip into my pocket.
***
Durbin did the courtesy of taking me to Fynn’s hotel room for a look around. That courtesy came by way of a lot of begging on my part, and the promise not to print anything, as well as handing over the keys to my Saab. We had diametrically opposed agendas. Still, it was out of character for Durbin to let me inside, and I could only guess that he had some unspoken doubts. Part of him liked Inspector Fynn as much as anybody, and part of him wanted to see him not guilty. He handed me a pair of nitrile gloves and solemnly warned me not to touch anything. Why the gloves then?
Room 209 was the corner suite. There wasn’t much of a view, just a peek of the heather covered hills that led off to the ocean beaches beyond. Back to two floors for the Blue Dunes. “If I were just a bit higher, I think I’d have a view of the ocean,” I remember Fynn had said. I’d have to talk to Evan James again and see what happened at the planning board meeting. Inside, we found pretty much what you’d expect from a visiting policeman. A couple of suitcases emptied; suits in the closet. Shirts, socks, an assortment of bow ties and the rest. Not a single picture of his wife or daughter. On the dresser, a wallet with about two thousand in cash, American dollars, and a fairly expensive watch. On the bedside table were three things of interest, at least to me. Durbin dismissed them off handedly: a bus ticket from someplace in Pennsylvania… Doylestown, dated May 13, and a receipt dated the same day from a jewelry shop, confirming the sale of one gold sovereign, and finally a strange sort of belt, a money belt filled with gold coins, a lot like the one he gave me yesterday, two of which were conspicuously missing.
“Did Fynn have anything with him before?” I asked.
Durbin swung around to face me and took out a clear plastic bag from his jacket pocket. “He had this… Ever seen it before?”
I had. It was Fynn’s compass.
“Any idea what this is?” Durbin asked.
“A compass.”
“I can see that.”
“It’s also called an astrolabe.”
“What’s that?”
“For astronomy… it tells you where the planets are at night.”
“What’s it for?”
“Fynn is an astronomy buff… a hobby, I guess.”
“A hobby, huh?”
“Can I hold onto it for awhile?”
“No. It’s evidence.”
“Durbin,” I said just before I left. “My turn for a favor…”
“What are you talking about, Jardel?”
“Not a word to anyone about this yet, please.”
“You mean Leaning?”
“Especially Leaning.”
“Okay. I can keep it quiet for about forty-eight hours.”
“Thanks.”
Half an hour later the crime scene techs showed up to tag and bag every item Fynn owned. When I was far from Durbin’s gaze, I checked to see what Fynn had slipped into my pocket: A rabbit’s foot keychain— really, who uses these anymore? I held it up for a closer look. There were two keys dangling from the end. One said, Pontiac, the other seemed to be for a large padlock.
***
I ran into Jack Leaning at the Council Meeting. It was a waste of time, pretty much. They couldn’t even reach a quorum and shelved the entire agenda. I was leaving Village Hall just as he was arriving. I saved him from even getting out of his car. So that the evening wasn’t a total loss we decided to meet at Partners for a beer. I would make no mention of Fynn’s arrest, and for once, the website update could wait.
Dressed in a polo shirt, chinos and a corduroy jacket, Leaning dragged himself up to the bar about ten minutes later.
“Looking pretty spiffy there, Jack.”
“Well thanks, Patrick.”
“What’s up with the limp?”
“I screwed up my knee at last week’s pick-up game. Weren’t you playing on darks?” Leaning showed me a big black leg brace. “Hurts like hell.”
“Hey nice shoes…”
“Ferragamo baby, genuine Italian. Picked ’em up at the factory outlet in Fairhaven. Might be one size too big though…” Leaning tried to get Suzy’s attention at the other end of the bar. I glanced over and saw some of the regulars. It looked to be Peppy, Cecil and Hector, the newly released Hector. He made for the side door.
“So what’s all this I hear about Lucinda, the mystery girl? She worked at your paper, right?”
“Yup.”
“And what did I hear about her social security number?”
“What?”
“A bogus ID or something.”
“Oh, I think Durbin is still checking that.”
“He didn’t say anything to you?”
“No.” I took a sip of beer. “Did you figure out who hacked your morgue?”
“No one. Didn’t you get my message?”
“Oh yeah, a glitch or something.”
“Weird, right? Anytime a query line starts with the same letters, like LL or FF, the system returns an error. They’re still working on a fix.”
“Who, Jason?”
Leaning’s smile fled at that question. “Who?”
“Jason Knobblers from the Chronicle.”
“Oh… that guy, yeah, he’s been doing a little freelance IT work for us.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Hardly at all.” Leaning was too quick to answer. I knew he was lying.
Suzy came over to check on us. She smiled sweetly as usual. Leaning ordered a Guinness and I got a refill. I noticed Hector had returned rather suddenly.
“Hey, let me buy you a drink tonight, Suzy,” Leaning said with an easy grin.
“No thanks, I quit drinking completely.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Okay, well I have a glass of wine or two under the bar… but that’s fruit, right?”
“Fruit?”
“Grapes. I took your advice… I’m on the fruit diet.”
“Fruit diet?”
“Silly, it was your idea, remember?”
“Not really, I only eat fish sticks.”
“Yuck. Are you kidding?”
“I wish.”
“You like those things?”
“No. But what’s all this about the fruit diet?”
“You were the one who suggested it.” Suzy smiled.
“Remind me…”
“You told me only to eat fruit whenever I felt hungry.”
“What about protein?”
“No, just fruit.”
“I told you this?”
“You said you found it on the internet.”
“Well… how do you feel?”
“Freaking fantastic.” Suzy took a step back and did a quick twirl. She looked great also, almost slim. I watched her saunter to the other end of the bar. Hector was making for the door again. What, is he trying to chain-smoke?
“So where was he sitting?” Leaning asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Who?”
“Bobby Baker.”
“Right
there where you are now.”
“Really? He sat right here on this stool?” Leaning grinned excitedly.
I looked at him and tried to mask a bit of contempt. How could sitting on the same stool as a sports legend be interesting to anyone?
“What did he say?”
“Jack, we went through all this. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay, I’m just saying SI would shell out some big bucks.” He took a gulp of his Guinness. “Doesn’t matter to me anyhow. I’m outta here.”
“Outta here? What do you mean?”
“I’m this close,” he gestured with his fingers, “to taking that job in Colorado.”
“What job?”
“Assistant editor. I’m all ready-freddy, just got to bring the wife around.”
“Hmm— you, a Rockies fan?”
“I know, right?” He laughed.
“Have you ever been to Colorado, Jack?”
“Me? No… I guess, I’ll always be a NL East fan… just like Bobby Baker, love the guy and hate the guy, you know?” Leaning said and took another sip. “Still… Just can’t figure why he ratted out his best buddies, HoJo Biggs and Triple-X.”
“Triple-X?”
“Xavier Dante, the third baseman,” Leaning said.
“If anybody was going to fix a playoff game, it be them guys. Both were facing suspension, gambling debts… drug charges… but it wasn’t him, it wasn’t Baker.”
“But HoJo and Triple-X fingered him.”
“Yeah, big surprise there…” I said somewhat sarcastically.
“What about those horrendous errors? Bobbled an easy toss from the short stop, missed that routine double play… put the Pirates up by two runs, just on that alone. And he couldn’t hit for shit. He had like a one-sixty-seven for the whole series.”
“Nerves, stress, pressure? All I know is that Baker did not throw that series… he told me that, flat out.”
“Wow… so you’re saying he took the fall for the love of the game?”
I just shrugged.
***
I had to find Roxy or at least determine if he existed. Tuesday morning I was back in Durbin’s office. He thought I came to drop off the keys to my Saab… something about getting it towed to the crime lab. I had a lot of questions about dogs mostly, and specifically, where were the canines they had rounded up?
“Back at the kennel,” Durbin told me. “The county took over.”
“Can I visit them?”
“Visit them?” He gave me a look.
“I promised Alyson…”
“Promised her what?”
“That I’d take care of her dog, Roxy.”
“That sounds like bullshit to me, Jardel… besides they’re still evidence.”
“No way.”
Durbin gave me a slight smile.
“How about the dead dogs? I heard seven were killed.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I see them?”
“What? You want to see the dead dogs? Like a viewing or something? You want to ID a dog corpse?”
“A canine.”
“You’re an idiot, Jardel,” Durbin shook his head. “Can I ask why?”
“I’m not sure you’d believe it.”
“Try me.”
“I think one of the dogs belonged to Jane Doe number one.”
Durbin sifted through what he knew. “Okay, I remember something about a stray they found right around that time… so you’re saying it was her dog?”
“Could be.”
“What’s that gonna prove?”
“I don’t know… but it seems like a huge coincidence, right?”
“Coincidence?”
“All the stuff at the kennel.”
“Alright…” Durbin paused. “Let me see what I can do. I think they’re still at the ME’s office. ”
“Um… I’m gonna need my car keys back.”
“What?”
“I’ll have to drive to Fairhaven again.”
“You’re not taking it to the car wash or anything?”
“No, promise.”
“Not that it would make a difference. They can still pull trace. It doesn’t matter how much you clean it out.”
That definitely sounded like a warning.
***
First I checked the kennel and there was no sign of Roxy at all. And the dead dogs in question were not at the medical examiner’s office, instead they had been moved to the evidence storage room, and specifically, a meat freezer. I played the role of bereaved pet owner, though I had written permission from Durbin as a backup. The officer in charge was sympathetic enough and smart enough to ask me a few questions: “Can you tell me what breed he was? That would narrow it down… unless of course it’s a mix, you know, a mutt.”
“Oh, right… well, poor little Roxy… he was a lapdog, very small, a male, a yorkshire terrier.”
That left two bags to check, neither one was him.
On the way back from Fairhaven I set on several ideas for a Roxy search. They included pedaling the bike path and calling out his name on the bluffs, driving around town with an open window and keen eyes, or enlisting Joey’s assistance. Nacho filled pretzels also figured into the plan. I might even have to tour Saint Alban’s… it seemed like a good place for a dog to hide. None of these notions were very appealing. I headed over to Partners for a quick beer. I’d never been there this early. The sun was still shining... It was a Tuesday evening or afternoon, I guess, and the regulars were there, as well as a few out-of-towners with a Tuesday on their hands to kill. If they were famous or not, I had no idea.
But it was the newly-released Hector Diaz who got my interest. He kept going out the side door. What, still trying to chain smoke? I decided to follow him. “Hey Hector, got a cigarette?”
“I didn’t know you smoked, Jardel.”
“Not usually… tough day though.”
“Sure, come on out.”
There by the door, a little dog waited, looking up expectantly, his tiny tail wagging furiously. I was face to face with the notorious Roxy at last.
“Your dog?”
“Well yeah, I adopted him last week.”
“Cute.” I bent down to pat the yorkshire terrier. He seemed friendly enough. He wasn’t wearing a collar. Of course, I knew exactly where that was.
chapter 32
visitors
I was able to visit Inspector Fynn only once after his arrest. It took a whole day to get permission. Durbin begrudgingly allowed it, though he made it clear and so did I, it was not business. This was a personal favor. And for me, a personal visit. Deal was: I’d leave my car in Fairhaven with the forensics lab… Better than a tow, I figured, and left as early as possible, around seven in the morning.
The inspector was in county lock up, dressed in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffed to a rail. I got in using my press pass and paperwork from Durbin. The guard seemed slightly confused. He sat us opposite each other at a small table in an otherwise large empty room. There was no barrier between us.
“Thank you for visiting, Patrick. It’s good to see you. How is the case faring?”
“The case?”
“The Luis murder.”
“They’re looking at you, Fynn.”
“Yes, this I understand quite plainly. But it has not altered your course, I hope.”
“Well… to be honest, I’m not sure what I can do.”
“You must pursue this matter as vigorously as possible, I should think. Or would you prefer to see me in here indefinitely?” he added, though there was some remorseful humor in his tone.
“How are they treating you?”
“For a prison, quite well. Far better here than in a Parisian jail, let us say…”
“Did you know that you’re a retired DCI now?”
“Yes, Durbin has made this abundantly clear.” Fynn tried to smile. “What is all this about baloney though?”
“Baloney? Is that what Durbin’s been saying.”
“No. Perhaps it’s bologna… in the sandwiches. It tastes very unfamiliar to me.”
“That might be the least of your worries.”
“Well so far, Detective Durbin has been a good cop.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Ah, but I mean in terms of questioning. He’s been mostly pleasant and polite. As of yet, no beatings or torture.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“And what do you think of this color? How do I look in orange?”
I laughed despite the hard reality of the situation, and appreciated Fynn putting humor above all else.
“Did you get yourself a lawyer?”
“I have no need of a solicitor.” He grimaced slightly. “I waived that right.”
“I could recommend one. I know a couple of good attorneys in town.”
“No, it’s not necessary.”
“Have you confessed?”
“Confessed? Don’t be ridiculous. Confessed to what?”
“You know, the whole time travel thing…”
“Of course not. That’s an absurd idea.”
“Might help…”
“Might help what?”
“Your case… in general.”
“And who should believe such a preposterous story? Durbin? Arantez? My lawyer as you say?”
This may be the first time I’d ever seen Fynn approach anything like anger. “No, of course not. But what is it I can do?”
“Well, you probably cannot find Mortimer, but surely you can begin to deduce who his accomplice is.”
“How?”
“As I’ve said. It is someone close to you. Someone you have confided in. Someone who had access to your archives. Someone who found out Elaine was alive posing as her sister. Someone, who might even be capable of murder.”
“What do you mean?”
