Jump City: Apprentice Page 12

  At the beginning of December, I got a call pretty much out of the blue. It was Captain Jamal Morris. I was granted the title of “Press Liaison” to the special task force. Andy was at once mystified and overjoyed. Kaiser seemed happy too. Cindy took it in stride. I’m not sure the title meant anything at all. No new information was forthcoming, though Morris did agree to an interview, mainly to address public concerns that the investigation had stalled.

  The holidays came and went. Both Cindy and Andrew extended generous invitations, both politely declined. There was no visit from Suzy either. I began to wonder if she was mad about something since she had stopped texting and emailing, nor did she pick up anytime I called. Sand City seemed more and more like a dream to me.

  The national media had come and gone as well, apparently bored with the story after it became apparent that this was going to be a long investigation requiring lots of routine police work. There were new stories to cover and Murder Lake began to fade from public interest.

  ***

  There was snow everywhere, piled up, shoveled, and plowed into great heaps. I walked through the door and stamped my feet on a rubber mat. There was even snow inside. I made my way through the empty room to the counter and smiled at the cashier, whom I recognized to be the manager of the Cactus Cafe.

  “No dedicated employees today?” I asked.

  “There’s one or two in the back,” she replied wearily.

  “Definitely a snow day.”

  “Or a snow night.”

  “It’s only four o’clock,” I pointed out.

  She shrugged, then handed me a bag that smelled vaguely like hot cardboard and cilantro. “Thanks, and good luck.”

  “Good luck?”

  “Making it home.”

  I should’ve known what to expect— my first winter in Colorado. The cold and I are not best friends. It was definitely a mistake to walk home from the Tex-Mex place, and it was already dark. After just a few blocks my feet were numb and my hands only survived frostbite because they were wrapped around the bag of warm tacos. The thought occurred to me that I might not make it back to my apartment. Along Broad Street, a car pulled up next to the curb; some model of Jeep I couldn’t quite identify. The window went down automatically and I heard someone call my name. My head turned uselessly, my face slapped up against a furry hood, so I turned my whole body like an awkward penguin to view the unseen voice. I trundled over to the parked car and maneuvered over a snow bank. Leaning in at an odd angle, I peered into the dark vehicle. It was Captain Jamal Morris.

  “I’ve been trying to text you.”

  “Think my battery’s dead.”

  “Have to keep it warm,” Morris said.

  “What?”

  “Your battery and everything else.” I heard the car door click open. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Tacos.”

  “Hard or soft?”

  “Soft.”

  “Come on, we’re going for a ride.”

  “Where to?”

  “Just get in the car, Jardel. I can tell you’re freezing your ass off.”

  With some awkward effort, I climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Give me one of those tacos.” Jamal switched on the dome light. “What flavor did you get?”

  “Barbecue, a chicken, a black bean, smoked pork…”

  “I’ll take the BBQ.”

  “That’s my dinner,” I protested.

  “Dinner’s on me. Let’s call this a snack for now,” Jamal said with a slight chuckle and pulled into the snowy lanes along Broadway. He used one hand to steer and the other to unwrap his taco.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Bus station.”

  “Why there?”

  “The Denver bus is due in.”

  “Wait a second, Denver? We’re taking a bus to Denver?”

  “No, I said due in, not out.”

  “Oh. Who are we picking up?”

  “A friend of mine…” Jamal let off a grin so wide it was hard not to count his teeth. “I was wrong about you, Jardel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s all about the company you keep,” he said.

  “What are you talking about, Captain?”

  “Our mutual friend.”

  I wasn’t sure who he meant. It definitely wasn’t Andy or Kaiser Wayne, and Morris had seemed positively hostile towards Douglas Drummond in the past. None of them would likely be riding a bus either. Something else came to mind: a bus station… “You’re not talking about Inspector Fynn?”

  “I am.”

  “How the hell do you know him?”

  Morris laughed at my expression, then swallowed down a mouthful of taco. “He’s been calling me up for favors for years… I can hear him now: Jamal, tell me, I do not fully understand American police procedures…” Captain Morris did a pretty good job of imitating Fynn’s voice. He changed his tone, “My turn to ask for a favor.”

  “For the lake murders?”

  “Yup. I called him a couple of weeks ago, just as soon as it became clear this was going to be a goddamn mess.” Morris glanced over at me, smiled and grabbed a second taco at random from the bag. “Mentioned your name…”

  “My name?”

  “You’re our new press liaison, right?”

  “Because of Fynn?”

  He nodded. “So how do you know DCI Tractus Fynn?” Morris asked.

  “From Sand City, where I used to live,” I replied as vaguely as possible. “How about you?”

  “We worked a case together… Fifteen, no, closer to twenty years ago. Outside of Philly, Bucks County, a town called New Hope. Ever hear of it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, a different time, a different place,” Morris said almost wistfully. He pulled off North Broadway and parked near a giant snowbank. We hurried inside to the waiting room only to find the bus had been delayed by at least an hour.

  “Lucky for Fynn we don’t have a big airport,” Jamal said, and paced around the tiny glass enclosure, full of nervous energy.

  “He doesn’t like to fly.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Kind of guy that likes to keep his feet on the ground,” Jamal said and laughed.

  “I thought Fynn was retired now.”

  “He is. I called him in as a special consultant. He owes me big time.” Morris frisked himself when he heard his cell phone ring… “Where?” I heard him ask. “Be there in five.”

  “Now what?”

  “He’s here already, waiting,” Jamal said and led me back to his Jeep. It was a quick drive to Spruce and Thirteenth, Hotel Boulderado; a fairly imposing five story building masoned in reddish-brown bricks, trimmed with a green roof and matching awnings. It looked more like a fortress than a hotel, maybe like a red Alamo. Inside was a different matter. There was an expansive colonnade two stories high with a stunning stained-glass ceiling. We found Inspector Fynn sitting comfortably in the elegant lobby reading a newspaper. He greeted us both heartily. Jamal and Fynn embraced for quite a long time.

  “My god, Fynn, you haven’t changed in twenty years.”

  “Kind of you to say.”

  “Not really. You were old back then, and you’re still old.”

  “But you are catching up with me, I should think.” Fynn laughed easily.

  “No denying that. See this white hair?” Morris turned to me. “Well, it used to be black before I met this guy.” He glanced over at Fynn who was still smiling. “That was our first case together. Remember? What, was it like twenty years ago?”

  “At least.”

  “Different time, different place, right Fynn?”

  “As you say…” The inspector had a bright sparkle to his otherwise sad eyes. “And Patrick, how very odd to find you in the thick of things.”

  “I think that’s my line.”

  “Good to see you, my friend.” He gave me a big hug and patted my back.

  “I thought you were taking the bus?” Jamal eventually interr
upted.

  “So did I, but it was far too confusing.” Fynn turned to face him. “I hailed a yellow cab from Union Station instead.”

  “You could’ve called.”

  “I did, several times.”

  “Well… how was the train ride then?”

  “From Chicago, aboard the Zephyr, it was quite relaxing. I had a sleeper cabin.” Fynn took a few steps back to his chair and picked up his briefcase. “And I’ve managed to review your reports.”

  “So?”

  “It’s quite a puzzle.”

  “Hope I’m not keeping you away from your other case,” Morris said.

  “Not at all.”

  “Murder by falling tree? Crazy stuff…” Jamal chuckled slightly.

  Though to me, that sparked a distinct memory. I was about to say something when Fynn asked: “Have you run background checks on the neighbors?”

  “Franny is working on it… and the insurance inventory,” Morris replied.

  “Good,” the inspector said with a smile.

  Jamal searched through his pockets and unfolded a square of paper. He handed it to Fynn. “I’d red flag this guy, Fred Mears. He’s a book antiquarian.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He used to be in the business of buying and selling rare books.”

  “And?”

  “And well, he’s disappeared. He’s off the grid, like he vanished into thin air.”

  “Most curious,” Fynn nearly whispered and looked at me. “Do you know of this man, Mr Mears?” he asked.

  “Who? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, so long as you haven’t seen him strolling through Boulder, everything is as it should be.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Mr Mears, the Dumont’s neighbor.” Fynn smiled and turned back to Morris. “Tell me, Jamal, were you able to trace the family history?”

  “It’s an odd list of names,” Morris cautioned and handed another paper to Fynn.

  The inspector read it carefully and passed it to me. “Patrick, do these names mean anything to you?”

  I examined what looked to be a complicated family tree and gleaned what names I could: Everest, Boole, Voynich. “I don’t think any of them are from Sand City.”

  “Though they are familiar in some way, yes?”

  “Well, Everest as in mountain, Boolean as in logic, and…Voynich? Hmm, maybe something about a medieval manuscript.”

  “Perhaps I’ll ask Franny.”

  “Who’s Franny?”

  “A friend of ours who is very good at research,” Fynn explained. “Well gentlemen, what do you say to dinner?”

  “Where are we eating?”

  “Q’s.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Here in the hotel. It’s supposed to be quite good… organic food, I believe.”

  “Surprised you didn’t choose the Saint Julien,” Jamal said. “I hear they have a better menu.”

  “I have no need for a spa, and I like this old building. It has a charming character, though I will admit the room is a bit ornate.”

  ***

  I ordered something with a foreign name but it turned out to be not much more than a pretentious pizza. I finished the whole thing and was still hungry. The food was tasty and probably healthy, but the portions were definitely scant.

  Fynn pushed away his plate. “I’ve read all the files you have sent. They kept me occupied for the entire train ride.”

  “How long was that?” I asked.

  “Twenty-nine hours and forty-seven minutes,” Fynn answered but looked at Jamal. “Has anything new developed in that time?”

  Captain Morris paused awkwardly. “Hmm, now why would I want to say anything with a reporter sitting next to us— know what I’m saying?” He chuckled slightly.

  “Consider it off the record, yes, Patrick?” Fynn spoke for me and I nodded my assent.

  “Well, I hope we didn’t call you out here for nothing.”

  “Why is that, Jamal?”

  “It’s just… um… I think we got our guy already.”

  “Who is your suspect?”

  “Theodore Wheeler. His younger brother is victim number three. We just got back a positive identification, dental records. The vehicle was his father’s, went missing at the same time, nineteen eighty-two.”

  “Looks rather bad for Mr Wheeler,” Fynn commented.

  “Not a slam dunk… we need some hard evidence but I think we can make him for these killings.”

  “Yet, why has he murdered the others? Has he a connection to any of them?”

  “The DMV has him tied to several of the vehicles.”

  “This man, Mr Wheeler…what is his occupation?”

  “Runs a dealership, sells cars locally.”

  “Ah,” Fynn made an exasperated sound. “Certainly a person of interest, but I don’t believe he’s your killer.”

  “Why not?’

  “I can discern no motivation. Why would he murder his own brother?”

  “Unknown,” Jamal admitted.

  “He doesn’t seem to fit the FBI profile either…” Fynn paused. “Though I would like to speak to him eventually.”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  “What of this woman in the Mercedes, Jolene Hendricks, your most recent victim? Is there any connection to her?”

  “Not so far.”

  “You are searching for more clues then?”

  “Ha, I’m in goddamn management now. I don’t do much detecting anymore, besides, I’m a motive guy and there’s no motive here, as far as I can tell.”

  “I will disagree with this, Jamal.”

  “Why?”

  “If all the victims were chosen at random, we have little hope of solving this crime.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “The victims are not, I believe, hapless people whom the killer stumbled upon and dumped into the lake.”

  “A motive, you’re saying?”

  “I believe all these people must be connected to the killer, and perhaps to each other in some way.”

  “That’s unlikely to me,” Jamal said.

  “Is it?” Fynn rummaged through his briefcase and pulled out some papers. “There is one name in the report that intrigues me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lambert.”

  “Lambert? Let’s see if I remember…” Jamal started. “Oh yeah, Mr El Dorado…”

  “Mr El Dorado?” Fynn asked.

  “We’ve named the victims after the vehicles for now,” Jamal explained.

  “That’s quite clever.”

  “His vehicle was reported stolen in nineteen seventy-four.”

  “Who reported the theft?” Fynn asked.

  “Well, I assumed he did…” Jamal’s voice trailed off. “I’ll find out for you.”

  “Is he a missing person? I did not see his name on the list.”

  “No, we’re trying to track him down. Could be really old, or dead by now. That was in nineteen seventy-four— you know what I’m saying?”

  “There is another Lambert,” Fynn said. “He disappeared in nineteen ninety.”

  Jamal glanced at the paper. “Missing but found, Inspector… Some college kid out on a bender— they picked him up a couple of days later… and he has absolutely no connection to any of the vehicles. Lambert is a fairly common name around these parts, Fynn.”

  “Can he be found again?”

  “We should have an address. I think he moved to Texas, or Oklahoma.”

  “How old would he be?”

  “Mid-forties.”

  “Not quite old enough… Still, it is a coincidence that does not sit well with me.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Jamal said wearily. “Another job for Franny?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Okay, what else you got?” Morris asked.

  “I do know how the cars sank into the lake of course.”

  “The rafts we found…”

  “No. I had to ru
le these out for various reasons.”

  “How then?”

  “But is this not obvious?” Fynn looked at me and then Morris.

  “Not to me,” Jamal replied.

  “Your medical examiner’s report gives me the answer.”

  “Wait. The coroner’s report tells you how the cars are smack in the middle of the reservoir?”

  “Yes, and I must say, they’ve done a miraculous job determining time of death in each case. I’ve already spoken to Doctor Chu, the coroner; and Marisa Welsh, your vehicle expert.”

  “And…”

  “They concur.”

  “So, what does that mean?”

  Fynn sat back with a smile. “I am saving it for tomorrow’s spearhead meeting. All the department heads and liaisons, yes?”

  “Fynn— I don’t like surprises, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Indulge me, please, Jamal.”

  “Alright…” He let off a sigh, then laughed. “Time to work a little of your whiteboard magic,” Jamal said and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced two lanyards. One he gave to me, the other to Fynn, then passed a large sheriff’s badge to the inspector. “Consider yourself deputized.”

  ***

  “Shall we retire to the bar for a nightcap?” Fynn asked once Jamal had departed for the evening.

  “I’m kind of tired… I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  “Patrick, please… I think we have quite a lot to discuss.” Fynn paused. “And quite honestly, I’ve missed your company.”

  “Alright, fine… there’s a bar downstairs.”

  “The Catacombs.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The name of the hotel bar.”

  “Right… but how did you know?”

  “I think it was in the brochure.”

  We went to street level and then down a flight of stairs to what must have once been a very large basement. It was divided into several rooms, most of them rather noisy and crowded, some with blaring arcade games, another with a pool table and foosball. One room was uncomfortably dark, though much quieter than the others.

  “There’s a nice table there.” Fynn pointed. “We should have our privacy.”

  “Can we sit somewhere else? Somewhere brighter?” I asked, feeling a great unease.

  The inspector glanced at me, puzzled. “As you wish… but why? may I ask.”