As a private detective, my relationship with local police was sometimes frosty. It might get to room temp on a good week. But it was frigid on a bad one. Mostly because I rarely dealt with them face-to-face. Navigating labyrinthian phone directories or filling out online request forms for public records brought out my most colorful swearing. Thankfully, Waldo remained nonplussed. My A.I. assistant kept me at arms length from the local LEOs, but sometimes an in-person meetup had its benefits.
Browsing the public records on the death of Foster Phillips, I discovered the lead detective on the case was someone I knew. And I knew where to find him.
Dave Walsh had aggressively climbed the ranks of the department to become a homicide detective. He played men’s league softball when he wasn’t on duty and drank after the Wednesday night games at a pseudo-Irish bar called MacDinton’s. I found him there with a few of the guys from his team drinking Miller Lite from plastic cups as they sat around tables on the sidewalk.
He gave me a nod as I walked up. “Travers. Haven’t seen you in years. How’s your old man? You come to join the league?”
“Team sports still aren’t my thing.”
“Don’t know what you’re missing, man.”
“Cheap beer and a participation trophy?”
“League champions trophy this season. Comes with a T-shirt.” He plucked at the shirt he wore, displaying the screen-printed logo.
“I stand corrected.”
Dave grinned and turned to one of his buddies at the table. “This here is Greyson Travers. Top of his class at the Academy.”
“You still with the department?” the friend asked.
I shook my head. “Never was.”
“Travers paid his own way. The city offered to pick him up but he turned them down,” Dave explained. “Decided to go the private route.”
“Police work wasn’t for me,” I said.
The friend shrugged. “Some guys don’t have it.”
“Want a beer?” Dave asked.
“I’ll get this round. Let me pick your brain about a case.”
“Deal,” he said. Dave gestured to the other guys around the table. “You guys need one?”
Thanks to the Wednesday night special on domestics, a round for six guys and myself only cost me twenty bucks. I overtipped the bartender and she brought them out to us.
I showed Dave a picture of Foster and Isla Phillips and he filled me in on the details of the case he could share. He hadn’t been the only one working it but was convinced it was by the book.
“Trust me, I’d have kept the case open if there was anything to go on. Didn’t mind that Mrs. Phillips coming by one bit. But handwriting analysis had a clean match. We had plenty of samples. Note said plain as day that he was doing himself in. We dusted everything. House, car. Blood spatter analysis, fibers, bank records, phone records. The works. The widow swore it was foul play but they all want it to be something it’s not. Collect your fee and move on to the next one.”
“Gunpowder residue?”
“Now that I recall, that was one thing we came short on. Not much on his hands. But it was on scene. Trust me, Grey, we did the diligence.”
“The victim had a record. Any chance his death was connected to his past?”
“Wouldn’t have thought so. Unless he was hiding worse than we know about. Had a dishonorable discharge from the Army. Maybe something there, but we don’t see many guys get a guilty conscience and go offing themselves over small time shit he was into. Maybe he wanted away from her. Lots of people get depressed. It happens. The guy said as much in the note.”
“They checked the note for prints, I assume.”
“Sure. Just his. Right there on the desk for all to see. Like I said. Open and shut. Suicide.”
“What was his explanation? In the note.”
Dave furrowed his brow. “Don’t recall it saying much. Just something about . . . it was his time to go.”
I finished my beer.
That time for me too.
I looked around for my cat when I got home to Friday afternoon. He wasn’t in his usual spot on the patio wall but must have been recently. The mail carrier had left the mail on the bottom step. Hawk had once again discouraged her from making it all the way to the mailbox.
I climbed the concrete steps to my garage apartment and pressed my thumb to the fingerprint sensor on the door. I took one last look for the cat, then reached inside the door for the tin of cat treats. I shook it. Hawk shot out of the bushes in the neighbor’s yard.
“Keeping the world safe from vermin?”
Hawk meowed.
I set a handful of treats on the concrete wall that rimmed my small front porch. He leapt up and immediately set to devouring them, purring like a well-tuned motor.
I went inside.
I walked to the bedroom and collapsed onto my bed. Kicked off my shoes.
My chronometer was next. I placed it on the charging pad hidden in the surface of the nightstand. Sunglasses too. I folded my hands across my chest and closed my eyes but my mind wouldn’t settle. After a minute of futility, my eyes opened again.
“Waldo, I have some new video recordings on my phone. The Phillips residence. Compile them for me and add in the feed from my sunglasses cam too. A couple of dudes in a Mercedes G-Class rubbed me the wrong way. Get whatever background you can on the guys in the video, will you?”
His voice came from the room’s built-in sound system. “Would you like me to do any more of your job for you while you enjoy your nap?”
“Yes. I need a new assistant. Find your replacement for me.”
“I’ve done a comprehensive search of applicants in neighboring centuries. There is an abacus from 1880 willing to give you a chance. Shall I send for it?”
“Wake me when it shows up.”
I gave the siesta a solid effort, but was awake within an hour.
Something about what Dave had said didn’t sit right. I just didn’t know why. I’d hoped the hour of sleep might sort whatever my conscious mind had missed, but no such luck. I was back to doing legwork.
I climbed off the bed and went to the kitchen, mixed myself a drink.
Old Fashioned in hand I walked back to my bedroom and opened the closet.
My plans for the night didn’t call for anything specialized, so I donned a pair of dark jeans, a light-blue button down, a navy blazer, plus faux leather wing-tip oxfords and a belt to match. I looked damned good.
Everything I was wearing had already been treated for time traveling, imbued with temporally unusual particles known as gravitites. Besides natural charisma, the particles in my body were what set me apart from linear men. A chronometer on an average person’s wrist would be nothing more than a flashy decoration.
Stuff with gravitites can time travel, stuff without them can’t.
It’s a simple rule that new travelers are wont to forget, causing them to arrive at their destinations stark naked, leaving piles of belongings behind when they vanish. Never a classy look. I fitted my recharged chronometer back to my wrist, slipped on my shades, finished my drink, and locked up the apartment.
Waldo had summoned me a ride and it was already pulling up to the curb.
It was time to revisit the Phillips’ house.