Sand City Murders (54 page)

“So, what do we got here?” Durbin asked with curiosity and started to lift the cover, “A Le Mans, a Tempest?”

“A T-37.”

“There you go,” Durbin said in agreement and stared at the pumpkin orange muscle car. “Nice…” he said with a certain admiration then gave me a look. “Huh, just had a weird deja vu…”

“You’re learning, Durbin…”

“What the hell are you talking about, Jardel?”

“Never mind.” I couldn’t help but smile to myself.

Durbin put on his gloves, opened the door and took a quick look around the front. He removed the registration papers, and the pink pocketbook from the seat. On his way back out, he poked the hideous troll hanging from the rearview and gave me a squinty grin. “What am I looking at here, Jardel?”

“I’m not saying a word. You make up your own mind— okay?”

He gave me the evil eye, then examined the documents in the light of day. First he looked at the crumbling, faded registration card. It was barely readable and meant little to him. Then he pulled Debra’s driver’s license from the handbag. “Huh, a California license… expires nineteen seventy-eight… and with a picture…” he muttered and compared it to his own photo of Jane Doe number two. “Holy crap,” was his only comment for now. He seemed to be at a complete loss. “What the fuck, Jardel?”

I just shrugged.

“Jesus, I gotta think about this now…” Durbin pinched his brow. “Okay… I’ll get forensics in, check for prints and run a trace on the VIN.”

“No.”

“What do you mean
no?
”

“I want to see who else is hot for this car. I want to see who’s going to steal it.” I paused. “They already tried once— remember?’

Durbin eyed me again and slowly seemed to understand what I meant. “The only way this car is going anywhere is on a flatbed.”

“What?”

“Dead battery probably, four bad tires, no plates… shit, the thing probably doesn’t even run on unleaded.”

“What do you mean?”

“A V-8, pre-catalytic converter.”

“No, I meant the flatbed.”

“This car probably hasn’t run in thirty years, I’d say. Nobody could steal it even if they wanted to.”

“How about I sell it?”

“Sell it? It’s not even yours.”

“I own the keys…” I replied. “Really want to see who might be interested in buying it— that’s all.”

Durbin paused to consider. “Okay, I see where you’re going with this, Patrick.”

“How about a stake out?”

“Ha,” Durbin chuckled slightly.

“How about I take it over to Matt’s and get it fixed up? Make it all premo. I can put a classified ad in the
Chronicle
. Then see who wants to buy it.”

“What, Matt’s Motors? Wait, not before I do a work up on this car... Let’s think about this for a second,” Durbin said slowly. “If somebody is interested, we don’t want to hand it over on a silver platter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell you what, I got some friends at the DMV. I’ll get you tags… you get it towed over to Matt’s, but tell him to fix it up just enough to pass inspection. And then I’ll take it from there…”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ll get forensics in here tonight… You call Matt tomorrow and run your ad. Make it like an auction… say, next Saturday, ten to noon.”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

“And?”

“And they’ll come to us.” Durbin laughed and gave me a grin.

***

“Eleanor, I was wondering if I could take out a classified ad?”

“A free one, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, Patrick. Just give it to Miriam… Free or not, any column inches we add to the classifieds can only benefit the
Chronicle
.”

“Thanks.”

“Buying or selling, if I might ask?”

“Selling… a car.”

“Your Saab?” Eleanor looked at me over her glasses.

“No… my other car.”

“I didn’t know you had two.”

“It’s been in storage.”

For
Sale

Vintage 1974 Pontiac T-37. Pumpkin orange, low mileage, needs some TLC. Best offer at one day auction, no reserve. Viewing Saturday, May 25, 10 a.m. to noon. Building 17, Canal Street, Long Neck Marina.

I texted Durbin the details and he replied,
Perfect. Will put the bag back— makes good bait.

chapter 34

deadline diner

Eleanor called us in early for the final editorial meeting, the final push for the Summer Preview issue.

“What do you have, Joey?” she asked.

“Bike Patrol Profile… six new officers. I’m having a little trouble following up with Detective Durbin.”

“Well, I imagine he is busy with other things,” Eleanor said dryly.

“Are they using those whatchamacallits this year?”

“You mean segways?”

“Yes.”

“No, back to regular bikes.”

“No ATV’s, correct?”

“The cops, you mean?”

“Yes, the police.”

“No, just a bicycle patrol.”

“What about skateboards, roller blades and such?”

“Not permitted this year.”

Eleanor turned to me. “Patrick, what’s left on your plate?”

“The Lighthouse feature… we haven’t run it in years… just have to update it a little. Got the Middle Cove erosion story, bad side of the jetty. I’m waiting on Clifford from the USGS to get back to me with a couple of quotes. Let’s see… there’s the photo montage of the Marina, the fishing boats. I did the club updates, Night Life Guide, and I have a humorous feature about former names.”

“Former names?”

“Well, I have to check with Kevin for verification, but yeah, all those clubs have been there for ages and they’ve all had strange names over the years…”

“Okay... And Evan?”

We all looked around the room. He was no where to be seen. And he should have been. The Baxter Estates expansion was still embroiled in controversy. They had to file no less than seven zoning variances already. It wasn’t exactly what we wanted for the Summer Issue but it was still news, hard news.

“How many pages did we run last year?” I asked.

“A hundred and twenty eight. I think it was a record.”

“Wow. Sounds like a book to me.” I commented. “Can we do that many this year?”

“Depends on Mel and Lu.”

“Lu?”

“No, not Lucinda,” Eleanor said in almost a whisper. She lit a cigarette. “Alright, we have to choose a photo for the front page now. What are our options?”

“Joey took some great shots of North Hollow… long lonely beach sort of thing.”

“Hmm, not quite right for this year.”

“Also have some pretty dramatic pictures of the sunken Liberty Ships, up at Bayview.”

“Again, lovely as they are, not quite appropriate.”

“Well, it’s got to be Frank’s telephoto shot of a sailboat on Serenity Bay…”

Eleanor studied the photo with her glasses and without. Frank Gannon had snapped a great picture of a skiff at full sail, keel half way out of the choppy water... the crew at the ready, and the sun sinking into a shimmering haze beyond.

“This wins hands down,” Eleanor said.

“That’s a superb photo, Frank, really,” I called across the room.

He turned to me and smiled but otherwise oblivious.

“What did we use last year?” I asked.

“Beach shot with umbrellas,” Eleanor recalled. She glanced at me over her glasses and gave me her look. “Patrick, who are you texting on your cell phone so incessantly.”

“Oh sorry, it’s Detective Durbin.”

“I see… Have they formally charged this Fynn character yet?”

***

About an hour later Durbin called me to the station. He insisted on meeting personally. I found him as usual in Arantez’s office sitting behind the desk.

“Patrick, have a seat.”

“What’s up?”

“That’s exactly why you’re here. You are going to tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

Durbin stared at me hard. I didn’t like the expression on his face. He picked up a pile of green folders and started sifting through them. “Okay, I did everything you asked me to, and now you are going to explain what the fuck is going on.”

“I’m not getting this, Durbin.”

“Not getting this, huh?” He picked up the first folder and opened it. “Jane Doe number one, the person you are calling Clara Hobbs... Reported missing September, nineteen seventy-five, North Hollow Beach.”

“Yeah?”

“Positive ID, birth certificate match, dental records: Clara Hobbs— that’s thirty-eight years gone by…”

“Corpsicle?”

“How the fuck did you know this?”

“Roxy.”

“Roxy, huh?” Durbin picked up a second green folder and opened it. “Sunset Park, victim number three. Toe print matches her birth certificate, ninety-nine percent probable to Lorraine Luis.”

“Well?”

“Well, that’s who we identified laying on the goddamn egg sculpture.”

“Okay.”

Durbin picked up another folder. “Victim number four… Spooky Park: birth certificate match to Elaine Luis, sister to the aforementioned Lorraine.”

“Bingo.”

“What the fuck is going on, Patrick?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me.”

“No, I would tell you… If I could, if I could explain it.”

“Then Fynn must know.”

“He might,” I said. “You’ll have to let him go now.”

“What the fuck? Why would I do that?”

“He has an alibi, right?”

“What alibi?”

“Didn’t you check the bus ticket and the pawnbroker?”

“I did.”

“So?”

“Okay, he’s in the clear for Lucinda.” Durbin stared down at his desk.

“Lucinda? Just Lucinda?”

“For now…” He made a face. “I still have seven other murders here.”

“C’mon, Durbin.”

“Alright. He’s looking less like a suspect, I’ll give you that.”

“What about the car?”

Durbin looked at me hard. He clicked the intercom. “Manuel, can you get Allen in here now. Thanks.” Durbin picked up another file. “Forensics came back. Your prints, Fynn’s prints, and the Jane Doe number two, now identified as Debra Helling, went missing October nineteen seventy-six.”

“And?”

“Twenty-two bucks, and this too...” Durbin held up a small plastic bag with several coins inside.

“What’s that?”

“Loose change.”

“So?”

“So, the dates on these coins are weird… most of them are from the nineteen sixties on... up to nineteen seventy-four.” He held up another small bag. “These dates are from two thousand three, two thousand nine and twenty twelve.”

“I’m not getting this.”

“Either am I.” He held up a third bag with a single coin inside. “This quarter was minted in two thousand fifteen.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow…” Durbin repeated. “Please explain what the fuck is going on.”

“Time travel?”

Durbin laughed.

“Corpsicles?”

“I’ll go with that for now.”

Officer Allen entered the office, gave me a nod and sat down nervously.

“Allen, thanks for coming,” Durbin said. “I want you to tell Jardel here what happened on Saturday.”

“Sure…” the officer took out a large spiral bound notebook. “Let’s see… okay… We had twenty-seven respondents to the advertisement. Eighteen of them volunteered their email or cell number. Here’s the list.” Allen ripped the page from his notebook and handed it to me. I started reading. It was a goddamn parade. While most of the names were completely unfamiliar, some were not: Jack Leaning, Eddie Hernandez, Evan James, Frank Gannon and Donald Pagor.

“How about the pocketbook? Anybody show extra interest in that?” I asked.

Allen glanced at me. “They made a lot of jokes about it… and about the troll… I made two lists—”

“Allen...” Durbin interrupted.

“Sir?”

“Tell him who bought the car.”

“A guy named…” He looked in his notebook. “Eddie Hernandez…. fourteen thousand bucks, paid cash.”

“Really?”

“Thanks, Allen. Nice work on this.”

“Now what?” I asked.

“Let’s go have a little chat with your buddy from Fish City.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.” Durbin got up from his desk. “Not exactly procedure, but I want you with me. You know Eddie pretty well, better than me… he might talk to you.”

***

It was lights and sirens from Chambers street, down the hill and through the Village along Captain’s Way. Durbin had no patience for traffic, for tourists in their cars waiting to get from the ocean to the bay. Flashing blues alone were enough to clear Long Neck Road all the way to the Marina. Those came off when we pulled into the back parking lot of Fish City Seafood, spitting gravel till we came to a lurching stop. The air was pungent, thick with the smell of fish, and it was hot, too hot, and muggy. We found Eddie inside, his feet up, watching TV in his paneled office. The air conditioner was on full blast and he didn’t even hear us come in. Durbin found the clicker and switched off the television.

“Hey Eddie…” Durbin said as he sat down at the other side of the desk. I found a chair in the corner.

He glanced at us both with a surprised expression, but it quickly changed to dread.

“Jesus, Patrick, when I said I needed to talk to you, I didn’t mean Durbin too.”

“Oh yeah, something hard-core, heavy-duty, right?” I paused. “I thought you were going to call me?”

Eddie shook his head, his crazy curls followed. “So what the fuck is this about then?”

“Oh, I don’t know… two dead girls, a freezer, a Pontiac T-37 you just bought,” Durbin said flatly.

The color fell from Eddie’s face. His feet left the desk and he sat upright. “Crap,” he mumbled. “Wait,
two
dead girls?”

Durbin nodded. Eddie looked across at me too.

“So what’s the story, Eddie?” Durbin asked.

“Fuck, that’s going back a ways.” He squirmed in his seat. “It’s like this: I go into the freezer Monday afternoon when my shift starts and I find something wrapped in a big contractor’s bag. I didn’t know what the hell it was.”

“When was this?”

“Beginning of March, right around that big storm when the power went out for five days.”

“And?”

“Well, it wasn’t no freaking fish. I had to move it to get to the shrimp boxes… That’s when I saw her all curled up in the bag.”