Sand City Murders (17 page)

“My friend?”

“The guy who ordered the good scotch. He raised his glass to you, didn’t he?”

“Me?”

“It sure looked like it.”

“He could be anybody…” I stopped to think whether it could’ve been Fynn. “Okay, if it was him then maybe he’s not crazy, maybe I am.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He told me he can travel to the future.”

“Don’t we all?” Suzy said more than asked.

“What?”

“Isn’t it what we all do. I mean, aren’t we all traveling into the future, second by second.”

“Not like that,” I said and shook my head. “He also says he can travel to the past.”

Suzy was flustered, then said, “Yeah, it’s called memory.”

I let off a weak smile. “He doesn’t travel second by second. He opens his eyes and days or weeks, or months have gone by.”

“So do I…” Suzy replied. “It’s called a bender.”

I started laughing.

She took my hand again. “Some guys were in here looking for you before.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Suzy reached behind the bar and handed me a business card. I recognized the sickening green color instantly, even in the dim light: Chamblis Enterprises, Burton Michael Dean, Counsel.

“Great, that’s all I need.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“You don’t know Chamblis?”

“I’ve heard his name… didn’t he run for mayor or something?”

“City Council,” I said. “And he lost... twice.”

“So?”

“He blames me.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing… an interview for the paper. I just let him talk… and I quoted him verbatim.”

“That made him lose?”

“You didn’t read the interview.”

“No… I didn’t vote for him either.”

“Well, he’s kind of like my nemesis.”

“You have a nemesis? How cool is that?”

I laughed again. “Maybe I’m his, too. I guess it’s a matter of perspective.” I smiled. “Nemesis from afar nowadays though. I can’t remember the last time I actually ran into him in person. He never shows up to the meetings anymore, always sends his lackeys, or that damn lawyer, what’s-his-name…?”

“Burton Dean,” Suzy said.

“You know him?”

“No, I read the card.” She put another draft on the bar.

“Oh thanks, Suzy, but I’m outta here...”

“You’re going to need it,” she said and glanced over at the front door. “Speak of the devil,” she whispered.

I turned to look, and sure enough it was Burton Dean, if not the devil himself, then his attorney. He was a skinny balding guy, tie recently removed. “Mr Jardel, I’m glad I’ve caught up with you finally. My name is—”

“Yeah, I know who you are…”

“Can we talk?”

“I guess…”

“Seltzer with lime,” he said to Suzy.

I tipped my glass and walked over to one of the booths.

Burton Dean followed and sat across from me. He opened a large briefcase on the table and started shuffling through some papers.

“Burton Michael Dean, sounds like a one man law firm,” I started the conversation.

“Pardon?”

“Just add a comma and an ampersand in there: Burton, Michael
and
Dean.”

“There’s no reason to be insulting.”

“Sorry, it’s late, I’m tired, and I have a bad sense of humor.”

“I wanted to discuss your paper’s coverage of the news as of late… and I have a proposition.” Dean got right down to business.

“You should be talking to Eleanor Woods then, our publisher.”

“I’m sure we will,” he said rather ominously. “But since you’re the senior correspondent, I wanted to talk to you first.”

“What about?”

“Of course we can’t influence your reporting, as that remains largely objective, and that’s as it should be.” He smiled but it wasn’t very convincing. “Yet, we are hoping your opinion might be swayed.”

“You mean, you hope my op ed column might be up for sale.”

“Not at all… though, we do have a proposition that would allow you to monetize all your diligent efforts.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Monetize your prose. We can syndicate your column across four hundred and ninety three separate blogs.”

“What?”

“We’ve come to an arrangement with various content managers and made a package deal to get your column monetized. I think it works out to about two point five cents per click.”

“On the web, you mean?”

“You’re catching on.” Dean smiled again but it lack all sincerity. “You can use your
nom de guerre
of course.”

“My what?”

“Your anonymous byline, the one for the tourists, Gary Sevens.”

I tried not to react. “What would this translate to per week? Money-wise.”

“Depends what you write.”

“Come again?”

“We value your opinions, Mr Jardel. The more controversial, the better.”

“Controversial, huh?”

“It would likely increase your page views.”

I could tell there was a hard calculus behind this offer and it had nothing to do with accounting or money. It was a little tough to figure. “Can I sleep on it?” I started to see where this was going. Chamblis had three big deals on the horizon and they’d all be hitting the paper in the next few weeks.

“We only have until tomorrow, your deadline, correct? And we’ll be very interested to see what you’ll come up with for the Friday edition.”

“I already finished my column for this week.” 

“Oh… and the topic?” Dean asked.

“Environmental collapse.”

He returned an exasperated face. “Of course, if you don’t wish to cooperate, or maybe,
participate
is a better word, my client might have to consider legal action.”

“What kind of legal action?”

“We might have to file a civil suit. Defamation of character, harassment, libel…”

“Really?”

“Well, you have quite a history with Mr Chamblis. I think we could show a judge that there’s a pattern of behavior here, a definite intent towards obstruction.”

“Obstruction? Is that a legal term?”

“It’s no secret that you and Charles disagree on a number of issues.”

“Charles?”

“Mr Chamblis, my client… It’s no secret…”

“You already said that.”

“The point is, Mr Jardel, you and he have had your share of run-ins.”

“Such as?”

“There’s the phone booth incident for starters.”

“The phone booth? The one at the Village Green?”

“Yes.”

“I thought that was one of Chuck’s better ideas.”

“Then why did you insist it should be painted blue? It’s supposed to be red, like the original, the very one Mr Chamblis shipped over from London, and at considerable personal expense.”

“That was Kevin.”

“Pardon?”

“It had nothing to do with me. It was Kevin Marchand from the Historical Society. They set the rules for what color structures can be painted in the Village. I guess red wasn’t on the menu.”

“I see. Well, it’s caused no end of embarrassment.”

“How do you mean?”

“It looks like a port-a-john now.”

I laughed. He was right. More than one tourist with a weak bladder had mistaken it for such. “Call of nature?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Right.”

“And there’s the Blackwater Quarry,” Dean said.

“That was like two years ago.”

“Nonetheless, another case of obstruction.”

“How’s that?”

“Your interview with Bob Mumford, the traffic engineer.”

“Yeah, and?”

“It was premature to say the least.”

I thought back. Chamblis sought to reopen the quarry, return it to full operations— are you kidding? Rock crushers and all. Re-instate it to its existing use was the legal maneuver he employed. That was a neat trick, I have to admit. The city council got killed with legal fees. My part in this? I just called up my old buddy Bob Mumford from the County Department of Roads and Bridges. I interviewed him, and he made it plain in no uncertain terms that the local roads could not sustain all the gravel trucks going to and fro. No official assessment was even necessary. It stopped the project cold. As soon as the residents realized they’d be sharing Route 16 with giant dump trucks, there was an uproar and the proposal was quietly withdrawn.

“Dust suppression,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“The quarry… dust suppression. It wasn’t included in the original proposal.”

“Reopening the quarry and using the granite for a new jetty to stop the breach at South Point would certainly have benefited the community.”

“Every erosion expert on the East Coast doubted that idea.”

“Our experts said otherwise.”

“I bet they did.”

Dean gave me a hostile glance. “There’s also the matter of Aladdin’s Cafe.”

“I loved that idea, and the place. Great music… pretty good food too, but sushi and coffee? Not the best combination to my mind. Still, I guess a liquor license was just around the bend, huh?”

“Why did you try to stop it?”

“I didn’t. Chamblis shot himself in the foot on that one.”

“What do you mean?” Dean sipped his seltzer.

“Chamblis opened the cafe in a residential district. He didn’t have the correct zoning permits.”

“That wasn’t Mr Chamblis. It was one of his associates.”

“Why are we even talking about it then?”

“Mr Chamblis backed the project financially.”

“Okay, then let’s talk about his associate, Larry, right?” I took a gulp of beer. “He opens the cafe, knowing it was only about a hundred feet from the old Methodist Church. It takes three months for the Village to issue a cease-and-desist. They close the place down. Larry turns around and sues the city for two-and-a-half million dollars, citing discrimination and religious persecution. He claimed he’s a Muslim.”

Dean nodded slightly, I continued: “Well, all I did was check with Habib at the cultural center. I remember the conversation vividly:
Did Larry ever come to your Mosque?
No. Is he a member of your congregation? No. Is he a practicing Muslim? No, I think he’s a Lutheran.
” I grinned. “I just quoted Habib for the story. Sorry the case was thrown out of court.”

“This is obstruction.”

“No, this is reporting.”

Burton Dean was growing frustrated. There was no judge or jury to hear his pleas. “Well then, can I say we all agree about Saint Alban’s at least?”

“I guess. It depends on your plans. I agree the place should be torn down or converted to a community center, even a hotel, but not a country club. And there’s no room for a golf course there anyhow.”

“That remains to be seen. Are you going to obstruct this as well?”

“No, I’m just going to report what happens. There’s a federal case pending with the Pequot Tribe. If they get a favorable ruling, a casino is still a long way off. Years, I’d say. It’s no secret that Chamblis has been backing them with scads of money. It’s also no secret that a county judge has to rule on this first.”

“It’s a very complex legal case,” Dean said.

“I agree completely… And I’d love to interview you about it.”

“Me?”

“Oh right, probably a conflict of interest thing, huh?”

“What about the new food court?” He changed the subject.

“You mean the shopping plaza redevelopment? That’s up before the planning commission in a couple of weeks.”

“And clearly, you are opposed to it. The Brand Wars?”

“I’m entitled to my opinion.” I grinned.

“You’re not going to smile your way out of this, Jardel.”

“That’s not a threat, is it?”

“No. And none of this is on the record either.”

“Says who?”

Burton Dean turned bright red, almost. He gathered his papers, closed his briefcase and left without another word. I sat quietly for a time and alone with my thoughts. Oddly, Dean had made absolutely no mention of Baxter Estates and the plans for the Woodlands expansion.

Suzy got a smooch and a big hug on my way out. I headed back home. It was bitterly cold. I don’t know what possessed me to wear a spring jacket today. It was freezing now. I started to worry about Zachary too. Hmm, covered in fur, should be okay. I walked up the dark street back to the Depot building. A man passed on the other side of the road, a stranger, I thought. I couldn’t see his face. He was tall and wearing an odd looking hat, like a hipster might wear. He called out a friendly “good evening.”

“Yeah, and good night too,” I mumbled back, but he had already disappeared from view. I jogged up my spiral stairs and made for the sliders. It wasn’t locked. When I opened the door, Zachary scooted out onto the deck. He turned to look at me, accusingly, I thought, and gave me a low meow. “Hey, don’t you want your supper?” I called out. Zachary turned and jumped, then leapt across the roof. He was definitely gone for the night. I tried to remember if I had let him out this morning, or if he was locked inside all day.

Back in my apartment, I took out my skinny notepad and turned to a fresh page. Time to write stuff down. I divided the sheet in half with Timeline One and Timeline Two. Under that, I wrote Victims: Clara, Debra, Lorraine. By each name I wrote down a notation: Roxy, Pontiac, Earrings. I then wrote Clues: All blond, all pretty, no cell phones, no pocket books, Italian shoes, a cane. Next I wrote, Suspects: Unknown. This wasn’t helping much. Then, Contradictions. I underlined that and made a list: Pontiac, and a set of keys… oh yeah, the rabbit’s foot too. Roxy? I added up Timeline one: Clara, Debra, Roxy, cane, car keys, shoe prints. Then I added up Timeline two: Lorraine, earrings, car keys, Roxy, shoe prints. The only real difference, aside from Clara and Debra being alive or dead, was Lorraine Luis and a cane, a cane that was missing in the present.

Next was all the crazy stuff Fynn had tried to explain. I started a new page and wrote Time Travel in big letters. Under that I started to list everything I could remember: The past changes the future. Everything resets. The future is always new, the past is like a memory. Concurrent lives... The present? Ah… how do you return to the present? There’s the paradox. You don’t, do you? You can’t… It’s impossible. Gotcha! I had something to ask Inspector Fynn next time I saw him.

PART TWO

chapter 14

off the map

Winter held on for another week at least. Cold nights, my kerosene heater, big bulky coats and raw rainy days. Sand City remained bleak, gray and brown at best. The trees still appeared lifeless and most of the grass looked dead. I was desperate for a bit of green now, and I’m not talking about Saint Patrick. There was a pitiful parade in town last Sunday and depressingly, it rained that day. I did my best to become invisible. It’s not always easy sharing a first name with a bona fide saint.

There are some days just too damn cold to enjoy, that’s below freezing for me. These days had to be coming to an end according to the calendar. Forty degrees or above would be fine, so long as there was some green around. I sought out these places now especially as winter began to lose its bite. It was my only solace. The waxy rhododendron forest by Sunset Park would do in a pinch, I guess, though it was hard to find a place to sit and be comfortable. My favorite spot? The woods along the bluffs; a barren place, dunes mostly, but forested with stunted pines all crowded together in the dry sandy soil. This was my private sanctuary, a tiny pine grove that always reeked with the wonderful fragrance of needles, fresh or otherwise; a soft mat of copper that had accumulated over the years, decades maybe. I have no idea if they were spruce trees or cedars, but that aroma always brought me comfort. I don’t know why.

On a cold rainy day I could still sit on the bed of needles and soft sand, all bundled up, propped up against a tree trunk. I’d be the last to get wet, easily finding shelter under the thick branches. If the sun came out, I could lay back in between the trees, and then framed by their green boughs, I’d just stare up at the white clouds drifting through the intense blue. I’d lay there for hours sometimes, just listening to the wind, watching the branches dance and gazing at the sky. I’d let my thoughts meander. Today was one of those days.

To see the big picture, I had to make sense of all the little details first. That’s just the way my brain works, I guess. I found my conversation with Burton Dean more than a little disconcerting. The big picture seemed pretty clear: More Chamblis machinations. Money, power, greed— all that good stuff. The details were fuzzy but it all came down to his lackey, Burton Dean. He was running some kind of scam. There was something here I wasn’t factoring in. Syndication is any reporter’s dream, but it didn’t seem right. Funny, Inspector Fynn’s words came to mind: “All text is subject to easy and instant change by almost anyone. How can I trust the written word nowadays?” Chamblis is a carrot and stick kind of guy. Usually the stick is way bigger than the carrot. Still, I pretty much gave him no for an answer so that should be the end of it.

As for Fynn, I hadn’t seen him in almost a week. I did run the whole time travel thing in my mind, but not too carefully. It was no use trying to sort out how it could work... It didn’t, it couldn’t, too full of paradoxes. It defied common sense. I flatly refused to accept his version of reality. I definitely wasn’t ready to sign up for alternate dimensions. As hard as I tried though, I couldn’t put his crazy notions out of my mind. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, or my only path back to sanity… And damn it all, I liked the guy… There was just something about him. More often than not he was in a great mood. He loved to walk, and to laugh. Fynn was not quite like anyone I had met before. Despite my misgivings, we became friends. And he was harmless as far as I could tell; that is, he didn’t seem to have much of an agenda. For now, I was content to play the role of good will ambassador, but most of the time I felt like a tour guide.

Delusional? Absolutely. Alternate timelines? What a crock. Improbable as it was though, I did have to consider everything Fynn had told me could be true. I guess I kept a foot in both camps. And sure enough, according to sullen Jason, Inspector Fynn had never stayed at the Fairhaven Holiday Inn. No record of it. That bit of news could go either way, I guess. Joey had also stopped by my cubicle that morning.

“What?” I asked and looked up at him.

He grinned. “Tracked down your garage. The owner on record of said ‘self-storage’ unit: one Tractus Fynn, title holder, purchased nineteen seventy-six, twenty thousand dollars paid in full, paid in cash.”

“What the hell?”

“What’s this about, Patrick?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Joey raised an eyebrow but left it at that for now.

There were my own memories too. They lingered. In spite of what Fynn had said, I still remembered the first two murders, Clara and Debra… Oh, and not to mention Roxy, the lapdog. As for Lorraine Luis, I hadn’t turned up a thing… yet. The coroner did though: a toxicology report came back for the Sunset Park murder. Not a suicide. The cause of death was still in question. The medical examiner’s office called it a central nervous system collapse. Apparently, her brain chemicals were completely out of whack. No one had ever seen anything quite like it. No drugs were found in her system either, though she had been drinking moderately. There was something else too, according to what Detective Durbin told me off the record, but they had to run more tests.

***

Fynn and I had agreed on a
Map Quest
. I don’t think he ever understood why I chuckled anytime he mentioned it. What he meant of course was my vague promise to visit every site on the placemat map, every Friday, or any other day we might find between us. I warned him in advance that there were some locations we wouldn’t be visiting, any one of several mini-golf courses, numerous restaurants that had yet to open, the town dump, and probably Chamblis’ yacht club.

“That hideous green building is the yacht club?”

I nodded.

“And the town dump?” he asked.

“The Waste Transfer Station, near the Marina. We drove by it once,” I reminded him. “Didn’t you notice all the seagulls flying around?”

“Ah yes, and the barges piled with rubbish. It would be a good place to dispose of a body.”

“What?” I asked and looked over at him. I immediately knew he was joking. “Like I said, there are things on the map that we won’t see,” I cautioned again. “And a couple of things that are not on the map.”

“Such as?”

“The old asylum for one, the abandoned hospital.”

“What kind of hospital?”

“A sanatorium. Some rich doctor built it in the nineteen twenties. Had some crazy notion about the healing powers of salt air… oxygen ions or something.”

“I see… quite interesting.” Fynn paused. “Tell me, are the records for this hospital available?”

“I doubt it… I mean, medical files are hard to access to begin with… and the place shut down before computers… in the nineteen eighties, I think.”

“And why is this off the map?” he asked.

“The powers that be requested it. Not exactly a prime tourist destination,” I pointed out. There was more to the story though… It was a big headache for Durbin and the force. They always had to send a patrol car around for a look-see. In all seasons, kids went up there to drink, to party, to crash, whatever… In the summer it was even worse. Officers Allen and Adams spent a lot of duty hours stationed out front.

“But this will be one of our destinations someday, yes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s creepy and I don’t like going there…”

Fynn gave me a dubious look. Today on the map was Long Neck Beach and our first walk along Serenity Bay. It was windy, chilly, and neither of us had dressed properly. Fynn didn’t seem to notice, wearing just a shirt and a wool cardigan. I was freezing my butt off in a black hoody. I zipped it up as far as it would go. We started along the boardwalk at the Grande Vista, once a hotel, now a condo complex, open year round, but only crowded in the summer. According to Kevin at the Historical Society, it was built just after the interstate carved Fairhaven right in half, sometime in the mid fifties; and he insisted it looked like something out of the Jetsons. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, something about an arching superstructure that had been dismantled years ago. By all accounts though, it was the first real attempt to make Sand City a resort destination.

The side streets were filled with small repair vans: electricians, plumbers, painters, cabinet guys, you name it, they were all there, except maybe landscapers. The boardwalk itself was pretty tame down this end, even at the height of the season. Now, all we could see were a bunch of closed restaurants, a small arcade, a candle shop and a candy factory. The last place was open for no apparent reason and Fynn went inside. After some deliberation, he bought a bag full of salt-water taffy. He paid in cash and refused his change with a friendly smile.

We continued north and the boardwalk changed character a little. It was still a ghost town, everything closed down and boarded up, but there were a lot more concession stands here: hot dogs, curly fries, cotton candy, and the world’s best pizza. At least that’s what the sign said. Other marquees boasted games of chance, squirt-gun racing, a ring toss, and a sharp shooter rifle range, among others. All closed up though. To our left, was a small pier that held an array of amusement park rides. We passed by quickly. I glanced over, and under the tarps, I could make out all the standards: a Ferris wheel, a carousel, the Zipper, the Gravitron, Swiss bobsleds and a modest roller coaster. Not a soul about, no giant furry prizes, no crowds, no smiling barkers, no blaring music, just the wind whistling through the painted shacks, creaking wood, and the flap of canvas beating against some metal pipe.

I cautiously broached the topic of time travel. I’m not sure why, it could only end badly. I’m not sure about my own motives either— I’ll be honest. I don’t know if I was just being a pain, a devil’s advocate, or just toying with the inspector.

 “I am more than happy to answer all your questions, but I think I must wait until your doubts have evaporated.” Fynn squinted against the wind, strands of his silver hair flitted across his forehead.

“Doubts?”

“You still have many doubts. I can sense this— not that I blame you.”

“Well, I do have some questions…”

“Ask away, by all means.” He smiled pleasantly.

“How do you travel to the present?”

“Hmm? I am in the present now.”

“But how do you get here, or get back, if you’ve gone someplace else. I sort of understand traveling to the past, re-entering a previous self… And, I sort of understand going to the future… a brand new you, as you described… The two modes of travel... But how do you return to the present?”

“Ah, this is the most difficult of all my journeys.” He turned to me, his silver hair went sideways across his face. He tried to push it back in vain.

“Huh?”

“Returning to the present can be quite difficult. It is the most elusive destination, as you can well imagine, but it largely depends on where I’m coming from.”

“Can you explain this?”

Fynn narrowed his dark eyes. “There is some problem with the language, I think.”

“What problem?”

“Well, the words do not translate well into English:
Jumping Backs
.”

“Jumping jacks?”

“No.”

“Back-Jumps?”

“Yes, that will do nicely.” Fynn smiled. “If I am returning to a particular present from the future, it’s quite straight forward. I merely return to my previous self. I
back-jump
, as you say.”

“But you can’t bring passengers, right?”

“No.”

“I mean, like say, a twenty dollar bill?”

“An unlikely passenger... but you are correct. Only my consciousness can back-jump to the past, or your present as it were. This I call a
soft jump
.”

“A soft jump?”

“Yes, but it has to do with how I land more than anything. A jump to the future is called a
hard jump
.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You will have to understand more before I can explain this to you.”

“Okay, how about if you are already in the past and want to return to the present? Which would be your future...”

“Yes, as you may recall, the past always changes the future, so, I cannot in reality return here from the past. The future is always unfolding anew. It’s never the same when I return.”

“Well that’s it then… the whole thing is impossible. Time travel I mean. If you can’t merge back to the present, this whole thing doesn’t work.”

“Not at all.”

“Then... how?”

“Over the years, I’ve worked out a few tricks.”

“What tricks?”

“Three tricks really…or perhaps
technique
is a better word. The first is rather easy. I would simply leap ahead in time and wait for you to catch up.”

“That does sound easy.”

“Yes, though not very practical. Sometimes the wait is rather longer than I would hope for. So, the best way for me to return to the present, is to slip to the future and then back-jump from there. Do you follow what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“Say, I wish to return to this approximate moment, this present time. In theory, it’s rather easy. I jump to the future, a new future, a new me. I count to ten… and then I back-jump to the past, which is the present me, just a moment before I left. In this way I do not alter the past.”

“How is that easy?”

The inspector chuckled slightly. “I suppose you’d want me to demonstrate this.”

“That’d be great.”

Fynn stopped in his tracks and took a long look up and down the boardwalk. There was no one in sight. He reached into his pocket and took out his compass, then looked to the sky briefly. He adjusted the dial and faced roughly north. His whole body tensed and he seemed ready to spring like an old cat. He looked down at the compass again and then relaxed. “Ah, this is a bad time of day to travel forward… and it’s too windy, I think.”

“Too windy?” I was hugely disappointed, and I’ll admit, almost fooled by his little display.

“What we are discussing is easy in theory. But, in reality, I am not so accurate with my jumps.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, we’ll try it another day perhaps.”