Memphis, Tennessee 1922-v2

A diner on Main St. 8:00am

1. Conspiracy Theories

The diner I was in was small, but the food was fantastic. Some Greek guy who made his way down here from up north decided he needed to give us southerners a taste of his home country. We rarely let people stay longer than a few years, but Speros earned his keep. He put back into the community what the community gave to him. He married a southern woman and their children married other southerners. He added without diluting. He could stay.

I ordered a coffee, six fresh eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Speros knew how to whip it up like few others I’d ever met. The only cook I knew better than him was Amelia. I hoped she was doing well.

It was a single story, wooden building. The diner was only a few years old, but business was booming. Speros was really making a name for himself here in Memphis. If he kept cooking like this, his business might last until the next millennium.

The waitress dropped my food off with an “Anything else I can get you, hun?”

I politely shook my head and thanked her for the food. I bowed my head and thanked the Lord for the gifts of his bounty, for Diana for serving me so well, and for Speros for being a high class gourmand.

Diana the waitress made her rounds on me, a newspaper tucked underneath her arm and a pot of coffee in the other, looking for refills. She had brown hair that was tucked up high in a ponytail, a bright blue dress with a dazzling white apron. Her eyes were brown as the coffee she was serving and her voice was sweeter than the sugar some took with it. She was around my age, give or take a year.

 “You from around here, stranger?” The twinkle in her eye was dazzling. She hovered around me two and a half times more than the other customers, always smiling extra wide when she’d check on me.

“Just traveling through.” I’d reply with a soft smile of my own.

The excitement on her face lessened a little, but she smiled through it, “Well, that’s a real shame. We don’t get many men around here who are as polite as you.

“Where are you headed, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I swallowed a piece of pancake and chased it with a shot of coffee, holding up my finger before I responded, “To the US. Going to Chicago Prime.”

“Oh, my, I hear that place is just dreadful! Nothing but violence and godlessness up there. Why on earth would you ever want to go there?” She was leaning with one hand on the back of the booth in front of me, fully invested in what was apparently a conversation.

I laughed and agreed, “I hear the same things. But, I’m looking for someone. Someone who knew my father. I just have some news I need to deliver to him. I’d send him a letter, but I don’t know where he is, so I figured, might as well make a trip out of it.”

She was sitting across from me now, the newspaper and coffee pot on the table. “Wow! You must be some kind of brave to go all the way up there just to speak to someone. I can’t even imagine leaving Memphis, let alone the entire CSA! Just don’t make no sense.”

I shrugged and said, “Sometimes that’s life, Diana.”

She nodded like she was hypnotized by my voice and eyes.

A voice came from the kitchen, “Diana! Food needs running! No time for chitter-chatter! Aye aye aye!” Speros threw his hands down on the metal between the kitchen and the expo station just behind the counter.

 “Well, duty calls!” She giggled and got up. Her hand lingered a little longer near mine before she turned and went back to work, bouncing away like personified sunshine.

I took a big swig of my freshly topped off coffee. It would’ve burned a normal man’s mouth, but I’d been drinking scalding hot coffee since I was eight years old.

I looked in front of me on the table and saw that Diana had left the newspaper. I picked it up and started perusing its pages. Headlines like National Football League Established and Babe Ruth Signs to New Rome Yankees. The headline that particularly piqued my interest was found near the back of the newspaper titled Are We In The Original Timeline?

I read through the article, sipping more coffee and polishing off my breakfast.

A local man named Leonard Smith claims he’s discovered a man who claimed to be from the year 3,000. Smith, a 65-year-old college Astrophysics professor, states, “I was researching time-space paradoxes when I came across an article from 1860 about a man named Judas Lebowitz who claimed to be from the year 3,000. When asked for proof, Lebowitz was able to accurately predict certain events in history that none could explain, such as the attempted assassination of United States President Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth at the Ford Theater. Thanks to his clairvoyance, President Lincoln was spared what would’ve been an untimely and rather significant death. When I looked into Lebowitz, I discovered that a few years after the end of The War Between the States, Lebowitz admitted that The CSA originally lost, leading them to utter economic disparity and complete infrastructural upheaval. He claims to have been leaking classified details of United States military strategies to the CSA, that would’ve otherwise been impossible to obtain. This would lead to US authorities detaining Lebowitz, and summarily executing him in 1870 for treason.” 

Naturally, I raised an eyebrow in severe skepticism. But, I'd always been a fan of Jules Verne, so I kept reading.

Smith goes on to talk about the origins of Lebowitz and his first appearance in the public eye, stating, “There is no data on Judas Lebowitz that goes back farther than March 14, 1850. Nothing. Not even a family tree. It’s like he’s never existed. When looking into events that involved Mr. Lebowitz, I found that the first mention of him was on March 14, 1850, just outside of Cambridge, MA, where he was found in a crater, dressed in what locals described as ‘skin tight, unusually stretchy clothing, and a diving helmet, lying near an metal orb that hummed and produced heat they’d never felt before without being burned.’ Local reports described the event as a science experiment gone wrong, and that Lebowitz should be institutionalized, but disappeared shortly after until his reappearance in 1860 in Washington.”

Diana strolled by and refilled my coffee. I apparently had downed two other cups in the time between picking up the paper and now. The last bit of the article was left.

Smith claims that Lebowitz was not mad, but in fact a man from the future, as he claimed back in 1860. Smith states, “I was able to find some fringe articles from the local Cambridge newspapers that talked about how Harvard officials had ‘studied and eventually disposed of’ the metal orb found near Lebowitz. Digging even further, and even calling some associates of mine who are professors emeritus from Harvard, I found that they had NOT disposed of it, but were still studying it, even seventy-two years later. I traveled up to Massachusetts in the United States to see for myself. It is a specimen of alien technology. Not alien as in extraterrestrial, but rather extrachronological. Same genus, same species, entirely different time. We are in a different timeline.”

It was a strange thought to consider that one might be living in a different timeline. That somewhere in the universe existed a different version of me. My mind began running down the ideas that maybe in this other timeline my father was still alive, and maybe even my mother. Or maybe they’d never met and I would never exist. Maybe this Lebowitz guy is the reason I exist at all.

The thoughts began to torture my brain more than my brain already tortured itself. I decided it wasn’t something I needed to dwell on for now. And besides, even if I were living in a different timeline, what in the world could I possibly do about it?

Chicago Prime, 1931-v2

The Silver Slipper, 99th Floor

8:10pm

2. Sunset Killer

Jackson Mahoney and I walked down the hallway of the 99th floor. The hallway looked the same as it did down on Callahan’s floor, but the air felt a little bit thinner. It seemed like the jade windows on the outside walls were letting in a little more sunshine than they did down there. It felt more like Olympus and less like Athens.

The doors had the same red color with gold door numbers on them. We were passing rooms ‘16’ and ‘17’ when Mahoney broke the silence.

“What aren’t you telling me, Jones?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, Mercury, I’ve been a detective a long time. I know when someone is lying, and while you’re exceptionally good at it, everyone has a tell.” He spoke without breaking stride.

“And what would mine be, exactly?” I asked, my voice full of curiosity.

“The fact that you’re here and not grabbing your guns right now. That’s how I know. You know something and you’re not telling me.” The sound of betrayal resonated.

“Not sure how I haven’t been clear with you, Jacks. I’ve told you all I know so far. Everything else is speculation, and when I have something concrete, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, I’m not going to waste my time or the department’s time with pure speculation without anything solid.” I replied.

I realized that it had been almost seven hours since I’d had a cigarette.

Jacks Mahoney shot me a sideways glance, pursed his lips, then nodded in understanding and relaxed. “You’re right, Jones. I guess uncovering this whole serial killer thing just really has me worked up. I haven’t dealt with anything like this ever. Have you?” Mahoney’s countenance became one of minor insecurity at the question. He was twenty-five years my senior, and had seen a hell of a lot more than me in my time as a P eye, but he was well versed in my track record for solving even the most impossible of mysteries.

I remembered them like they were a few minutes ago. “Kind of. A few cases from a couple years ago involving some dead old people from different nursing homes. Local police wrote it off as either patient elopement or patients without family dying and ending up in the morgue for the state to deal with.”

Mahoney stopped and looked at me, “The Sunset Killer? That was you? I was in the middle of campaigning for captain at that time, but I remember Delaney being lead on that case. Said any trail leading to any potential suspects went cold. Then some consultant gets brought in,” he gestured at me, “and nabs the perp in two days. I guess that was my first introduction to your work, although you requested to have your name left out of the report.”

There was disquieting in the hallway where we stood as Mahoney’s thoughts were putting a lot of other unsolved pieces together. We kept walking towards Cavalier’s door.

“It wasn’t easy. Delaney did good work, but he missed a key detail. The victims didn’t have any family. I discovered that all the victims had large fortunes with no apparent heirs named. Visitation reports say that there was a person who visited them all exactly one week before they died, matching similar descriptions. Each victim within that week became severely sick with sepsis, and died in their sleep. I looked into any known associations that the victims might have shared and pinned it down to one thing: they all had volunteered at St. Mary’s on Saturdays to feed the homeless for the past twenty years. 

“The lady who ran the shelter had hit financial hard times. Shortly after the death of the first victim, the shelter was back up in running, all debts paid. Even a new kitchen was built. I paid her a visit. She confessed within thirty minutes of my visit. Said she convinced each of them to write her into their Will, under different pseudonyms, and then used a vial of a rare mycobacterium to infect them.”

Mahoney’s eyes widened, “That’s some serious work, Jones. Old people in homes like that die all the time of infections and whatnot. Even if they didn’t have family, they had a vindicator. They didn’t die unavenged.”

We reached the door with a golden ‘24’ reflecting the incandescent light from the ceiling.

I had no idea what I was about to walk into. Entering a dead man’s high-rise apartment after being pursued and nearly killed by The Twin Mountains was starting to put me a little on edge when it came to entering closed doors. It felt like the more evidence I collected, the further away the answer got.

3. Stratosphere Lounging

Mahoney gave the sanguine door a few raps of his knurled knuckles. Professional courtesy. I had no reason to believe anyone would be home, but then again I didn’t have any reason to believe anything was out of the question.

No one answered. I gave the handle a jiggle. It was open. We pushed through to find something similar to Callahan’s apartment. Evidently there wasn’t much room for customization here in The Silver Slipper, no matter how much money you made—at least between levels 33-99. The same panoramic window stood against the far wall, curtains open, the tops of the taller buildings looked miles below, their glowing lights making it feel like I had God’s view of the stars. Nighttime clouds were passing by the window like slow moving traffic. 

The living room was also sunken down a level, a semicircular ring of a couch occupied the central aspect of the circle, opening up towards the panoramic window view. Other than that, everything else looked the same.

“Geez Louise, Jones. Can you imagine the wealth required to live here?”

I had an idea. Growing up on thousands of acres in Yazoo made me feel like I had more than anyone. This—what Cavalier had—was just stuff. Isolated from the world below, from the people separated by twenty feet of wood and plaster. He sat closer to the sun than most, but there was no light in his life all the way up here.

“Pretty insane. Callahan’s apartment looked similar, although the buildings outside were still visible.” I replied dryly.

Mahoney stalked around the apartment, like a kid in a toy store. Everything caught his eye like he’d never seen it before in his life.

I scanned the living room for anything that might stand out. Nothing out of the ordinary. My nose wasn’t reporting anything remarkable either.

I checked the kitchen. I found some mail sitting on his counter top. Bills and mass publications were mostly what littered his counter top. He had one personal letter from an organization called Angel Wings. It was already open, so I read it. Christopher Cavalier had been a sex addict and was in recovery. Good for him. But, living in a place like this as a sex addict must’ve been like an alcoholic living in a liquor store.

Mahoney had made his way to the far side of the apartment looking at a massive painting of a naked woman hanging on the wall.

The only way to describe the woman was to say she looked very similar to B, Senator Callahan’s mistress. But it wasn’t B. This woman was a redhead. Cavalier certainly had a type.

I couldn’t help but admire God’s and the artist's craftsmanship for a moment, but I had a job to do. “I’m going to check the bedroom.” I said to Mahoney. He grunted in faint acknowledgement before turning around and wiping his mouth of drool.

The bedroom door was closed. I turned the handle slowly and carefully pushed my way in.

Before the door was open two millimeters, my nose reported a scent of jasmine and ginger. I took a step back. I quietly called to Mahoney, “Jacks, I need your gun.” 

Captain Mahoney’s short but strong legs carried him effortlessly across the uneven living room, gun already drawn and in the low-ready position.

“You hear something?” He mouthed.

I tapped my nose a couple times and mouthed back “Rat King.”

Mahoney’s eyes widened. My pulse quickened.

I held up one finger in front of both of our faces, initiating a count before we breached, my knife back in my hand for whatever we might find.

Two.

Three.

I threw the door open. Mahoney checked the far two corners first before slamming his back into the door and looking in the corner immediately to the right on the inside of the room. No shots were fired. No bad guys needed killing.

Mahoney disengaged his firearm and re-holstered, both of us out of breath from the surge of adrenaline.

The lights were off and the curtains were closed. I turned on the light switch right beside the door. The room was large for a bedroom, larger than my office-apartment anyway. The bed was king-sized, black silk sheets, a large black comforter unmade on top of it. Cavalier must not have opted in for housekeeping to come by when he wasn’t here.

There was an attached bathroom that looked like a Turkish bath house. Four pillars of marble stood erect in the center of the bathroom outlining a central bath the size of a small swimming pool. There was no door separating the bedroom from the bathroom, but why would there be?

In the middle of the water lounged a beautiful red-haired woman, soaking in the warmth and luxury. Her head was back against a towel resting on the edge and her eyes were closed. Bubbles filled the bath, hiding her secrets underneath the water.

She was the girl from the painting. She didn’t move, but her chest was rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Mahoney and I stepped into the bathroom, but before we could say anything, her voice, bright and cheery, spoke, “Chris? Is that you? Do join me, dear.” She didn’t open her eyes or move her head.

I looked at Mahoney with a contemplative face, but then turned my head towards her and said, “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am—” her head slowly straightened and her eyes opened. Her smile was brighter than any I’d seen in my life. Everything about it made me want to do whatever it is she asked of me. Her eyes lit up and she met both of ours. Her melodious voice played music in our ears, “you boys don’t have to be so shy, now. I’m only bathing. Besides, there’s plenty of room in here for the three of us!”

My brain was turning somersaults at her request. I side-eyed Mahoney and saw a single bead of sweat form on his brow. I had to find the conversational cold water to throw on this situation before it got out of hand.

Mahoney beat me to it, “Miss, my name is Captain Mahoney of the Chicago Prime Police Department, and this is our consultant Mr. Jones. We’re investigating the murder of the man who owns this apartment, Christopher Cavalier. Who might you be?”

She gave a pouty look. Feelings inside of me wanted to hold her and make it better, but they didn’t make sense. It’s like she was casting a spell with her looks. I fought it, and apparently so did my shorter colleague.

“Chrissy-poo is dead? Who’s going to wash my back then?” She gave us both a suggestive look, as if we were two very capable candidates. I suddenly felt very qualified for the job.

“And names are so…categorical.” she began. She started stirring the bubbles in the water, creating gaps just big enough to give us a view underneath. The floor and ceiling suddenly became the most interesting things in the bathroom.

“But, you can just call me Miss L.” Her tongue flicked out very emphatically as she said the letter.

B and L? Two dead victims are associated with two beautiful ladies who go only by letters. I thought to myself. This was turning out to be a bigger and deeper mystery that even I had expected.

“Miss L,” I began, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Cavalier?”

“Well, just yesterday afternoon, right after we had spent the whole morning in bed.”

“Had he seemed unusually strange leading up to that?”

“Nothing too unusual, although he kept going on and on about wanting to leave The Silver Slipper for a simpler life. Said he’d found love.” She said the word like she was barfing it out of her.

“So you two weren’t romantically involved?” Mahoney cut in.

“What does romance have to do with the carnal pleasures? We just liked to have fun. Chrissy-poo was my plaything and I was his. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement”

I asked, “is there anything you can tell us about his room in the Winner’s Circle?”

Her bright smile was replaced with a mischievous one, “tsk-tsk oh, detective, that’s only for Winner’s to find out. There’re things down there that you can only find in your wildest fantasies.”

“So you’re from down there? Does that make you part of the WC?” The battery of charms was beating against my brain, but I focused on the questions.

“People in my position have certain privileges that aren’t bound by such titles, Mr. Jones. We can come—” she let that word hang in the air for several seconds and she stared her beautiful green eyes into mine, “and go as we please.”

Mahoney turned to me and whispered, “What’s the Winner’s Circle?”

“Basically high-roller suites under the hotel. Levels B1-B9. Cavalier had a room on B2. You only get there when you win a jackpot or something.” I whispered back.

“Now, now, boys. No secrets.” L said, standing up out of the bath. She paused as soapy bubbles and water cascaded down her immaculate form. The painting in the living room didn’t do her any justice. “Would either of you mind handing me a towel?” She pointed to the towel hanging near her.

Mahoney and I looked at each other, deciding who should get it. Then we both turned to her and said, “get your own towel.” We knew the game, and we decided not to play hers.

She laughed a contemptuous, but somehow still cheery laugh. “No one tells me no.” She got out of the bath, bypassing the towel and walked between us into the bedroom, still soapy and still wet. She found a silk robe and donned it facing away from us. She turned back towards us. “If you two don’t have any more questions, I think I’m going to call it an early night. You’re welcome to stay.” She patted the bed next to her as she sat.

Mahoney and I declined, but I decided to ask her one last question.

“Miss L, did Chris ever mention a girl by the name of Stacy, or Anastasia?”

Her eyes rolled at the name. “Yes. He wouldn’t stop talking about her. Kept saying she was ‘the one.’ What Chris didn’t realize is that once you’re in the Winner’s Circle, you can’t settle for just one anymore. I saw her. Looked just like me. How could she be special when she looked just like me? You men sure have stupid minds.”

I brushed past that last comment. “Would you say he regretted being a part of it? The WC I mean.”

She shrugged. “I can’t imagine anyone regretting being able to live out their wildest fantasies without consequences. Seems love got him killed. Stupid boy.”

“Well, we’re sorry for your loss.” Mahoney said.

She laughed, “Loss? Honey, I don’t lose. Chris is just as replaceable as anyone.”

At that, we left.