Chronica (19 page)

The Lieutenant, sensing that he had been talked about, approached Max, Sierra, and Astor.

"James Flannery," he said, and extended a hand to Astor.

"Jack Astor," Astor said and shook the hand.

Sierra and Max each froze, thinking the same thing: he's from the late 20
^th
or early 21st century. The accent was unmistakable. Then they both thought: every care had to be taken not to let James Flannery know that they knew he was not of this era. In addition and more importantly: they had to try not to let this guy know, Lieutenant or whatever he really was, that they were not from this time, either. They both looked at Astor – let him do as much of the talking as possible.

Max extended his hand and muttered his name as unclearly as possible.

Sierra nodded, waited until Flannery extended his hand, then took it and said her name as quietly as possible, too. Let Flannery think she was just shy.

"Let me be honest with you and get right to the point," Flannery said to all three. "First, as it happens, Miss Anderson and I know each other – we're friends – so I have an interest that goes beyond policing in what happened to her. Second, I want
you
to be honest with
me
: when was the last time each of you saw Miss Anderson? Was it earlier today? Don't lie to me – if you do, I'll find out. And I don't believe in giving second chances."

Sierra shook her head no. "We've never met. I'm with him." She gestured to Max.

"Me neither," Max said. "We would have been meeting for the first time at the hotel, as I told Detective Woodruff."

Flannery turned to Astor. "We met late last week, to discuss the play, as I also told Detective Woodruff," Astor said. "And you?"

"Excuse me?" Flannery said.

"You just said that you and she were friends," Astor replied, "so one might ask the same question of you." He didn't like police, but, more important, he could see that Sierra and Max were not themselves, and he figured he might as well do what he could to throw this Flannery a little off.

"You've got a hell of a nerve," Flannery said, now sounding 100% like an early 21
^st
century New York cop to Sierra and Max, or what they had seen of those cops many times in many movies and television shows from and about that period. He jabbed a menacing finger at Astor. "Let me tell you something: I don't care how rich you are. I can still haul your sorry . . . arse into the station and book you."

"Is that so?" Astor asked, calmly. "On what charges? Asking you a perfectly reasonable question?"

Flannery's finger moved closer to Astor's nose, but before he could speak, a police officer hustled up to him. "Miss Anderson would like to see you now, Lieutenant."

***

"Should we talk here, or someplace else?" Max asked Sierra and Astor, after Flannery had withdrawn his finger, given Astor a parting glare, and walked off to see Mary Anderson.

"We can stay here a little longer," Astor said, "in case we can get in and see Mary after Flannery is finished with her."

Max nodded. "Ok, two points, then. First, that asshole's not from this century."

Sierra agreed. "I would say a hundred years later."

"So that's what made the two of you so nervous," Astor said. "Who brought him here – Heron? Maybe we should repair to safer quarters, after all."

Max and Sierra agreed and the three walked to the staircase. They were on the fourth floor.

"And the second point?" Astor asked Max.

"I'm sure we're all thinking the same thing," Max replied. "Do you think Dickson did this?"

***

The three sat in a spacious, noisy saloon about two blocks from the hospital. They had been talking along the way about what they knew about Dickson.

"He was the one who suggested that we contact Mary Anderson," Sierra said. "Why would he do that if he drugged her beforehand – doesn't make much sense."

"I guess not," Max said. "But the fact is none of us know him very well at all."

"As a businessman, I have to go with my instincts," Astor replied, "and I trust him."

"He was in league with Heron and admits it," Sierra said. "That would also be a strange thing to do, if he was actually still working for Heron – his plan would have been, what, gain our confidence by admitting he used to be with Heron? . . . I don't know, I'm with Jack on this. But let's talk about something else: will Mary support your story about the Hypatia play?"

"I guess that depends on how recovered and alert she really is," Astor replied. "Her interest in Hypatia is no lie, and she knows about us and our involvement with Appleton and Heron."

"Did you really meet with her last week?" Max asked Astor.
 

"No, I did not," Astor said. "I was making it up as I went along, as they say."

"If Mary Anderson is awake enough to support your Hypatia play story, there's no reason she won't say, yes, she did meet with you last week," Sierra said to Astor.

"That's putting a lot of confidence in a woman who was just drugged unconscious and left in her hotel room," Max said.

"Perhaps she was given the drug earlier, came back to her hotel room, began to undress, and lost consciousness then," Astor said. "Drugs don't all have an immediate effect on the body."

"Which returns us to the question of who drugged her, and why?" Sierra said.

"It's too bad Dickson's on the boat and we can't talk to him about this further," Astor said.

"Which brings us back to my concerns about Dickson," Max said.

"I'll tell you who my chief suspect is," Sierra said.

"Who?" Max and Astor asked in unison.

"Edwin Porter," Sierra replied. "If he found out that she and Dickson were working with us and not for Heron, and he is indeed still working for Heron, then that would give him every motive."

"To kill her or to drug her?" Max asked.

"Maybe both," Sierra said. "Maybe he's clumsy and wanted to kill her, and this is what resulted."

"And not to bring us back yet again to our discussion this morning," Astor said, "but that could also apply to Edison."

"Or Heron himself, if he's here in this town with us now," Sierra said.

Astor nodded gravely.

"He comes in disguises, so he could look like anyone we know – or don't know," Sierra added.

"Could Heron be that Lieutenant Flannery?" Astor wondered.

"I don't think so," Sierra said. "We're talking about facial reconstruction, not a whole body, and Flannery has a very different kind of physique than Heron, who is shorter and less muscular."

"Muscles could be added through exercise," Max said.

"True," Sierra conceded. "But it would take major, dangerous surgery to make him taller, at least in our time. And I don't think Heron could put on that early 21
^st
century New York cop accent that Flannery was spouting when he was angry, whatever Heron might have been able to make himself look like."

Max agreed. "Perhaps we should get back to why I went to see Mary Anderson in the first place: what are we going to do about Thomas Edison, if he indeed has Heron's
Chronica
and wants to build a Chair?"

***

The door was open, so Flannery walked into to Mary Anderson's room. He had to admit she looked good, even in this situation, propped up by pillows in bed, face still a lot more pale than the last time he had seen her. He was not all that surprised – there were running jokes in his time about deceased young women who came in for autopsies who looked good enough to kiss, and more.

"Lt. Flannery!" she said and gave him a big smile.

"Miss Anderson, I'm sorry we have to meet in such circumstances." He thought, I've daydreamed about you in bed, but not in bed in a hospital. "Are you well enough that I can ask you a few questions?"

"The doctor says I'm fine, and I'll be able to leave in an hour, so go right ahead," Mary said, still smiling.

"Can you tell me what happened to you today?"

"I'll do my best," Mary replied. "I had an early lunch with a few lady friends at Luchows, off Union Square – marvelous place!"

"Yes it is," Flannery said. "My uncle once took me there." He caught himself and said no more about that, since it had been in the next century. "But, please, continue." He always conducted his interviews this way – let the interviewee talk, in his or her own words, before he put ideas in their heads with questions.

"Yes, we had a delicious lunch. Then I returned to my hotel, and Mr. Astor called me – Jack Astor – and asked if I could see a colleague of his—"

"Maxwell Marcus?" Flannery violated his own rule and asked, because the mention of Astor still irritated him.

"Yes, I believe that was his name," Mary said. "And I decided to change into something more suitable for the appointment," she blushed, "God knows what I must look like now."

"Like the beautiful woman you are," Flannery said, and again found himself thinking about what was under those covers.

"Thank you," Mary said, still blushing.

"What happened next?" Flannery asked.

"I'm not sure," Mary said. "I felt a little woozy as I was undressing and . . . the next thing I knew the doctor was standing over me, telling me all was well, but I would need to be brought to the hospital to be sure – I was frightened!"

Flannery looked at her, kindly. "The doctors told me you will indeed be fine."

"Thank you," she said, and reached out and touched his hand.

Flannery took her hand, squeezed it, and put it back down on the bed. "Let's see if we can get what happened in that restaurant into a little more into focus," he said. "Who were your lady friends?"

"Just friends," she said. "I'd rather not get them involved. I can give you their names if you really insist."

"Maybe that won't be necessary," Flannery said, seeing that she was a little distressed at the prospect. "At least, not for now. But who else was in the restaurant – anyone you knew or recognized?"

"Diamond Jim Brady was leaving when we arrived – he is immense!" Mary said.

Flannery nodded. "Anyone else?"

"Just the typical portly older men you'll find in a restaurant like Luchow's," Mary answered. "All mutton chop sideburns to go with the mutton chops on the menu, and mustaches, you know."

Another doctor came into the room – younger than the one who had brought her down here.

"Ok," Flannery said. "I think that's enough for now. Would you like one of my men to escort you back to your hotel, when you're released from here?"

"That should be in less than an hour," the doctored offered.

"Good," Flannery said to him.

"Yes," Mary responded to Flannery, "especially if he is as gallant as you."

Flannery laughed, smiled at Mary, and left the room.

The doctor was saying something, but Mary was not completely listening. She had indeed recognized one of those mustachioed older men at a nearby table, but she didn't want to give his name to this self-impressed officer of the law and saddle the poor man with an unpleasant police interview simply because he had been in the same restaurant as she. He was a well-known and wealthy financier, and a patron of the arts: J. P. Morgan.

Chapter 12

[New York City, April, 1999 AD]

Flannery's wife kissed him goodbye at the door. She put her hand gently on his face. "You look tired, honey. You're working too hard."

Flannery took her hand, kissed it tenderly, and left. She didn't know the half of it, he thought. Or maybe it was more than half. He had been in 1899, working nonstop for almost a month, and the only reason he was here in 1999 now was to take care of that Cyril Charles matter for Heron. Fortunately, as far as his wife was concerned, he hadn't been gone at all. All she saw and knew about was the toll it took on his face, living a life in two centuries, a hundred years apart -- living in double-time, as Flannery often characterized his own bizarre life to himself, as he fell asleep late at night in whichever of his two centuries.

The doorman downstairs had the television on, and there was some breaking news about the Senate passing some binding resolution preventing President Clinton from bombing Yugoslavia. That was indeed news to Flannery. His brother was a colonel in the US military stationed in Germany, and Flannery followed military issues pretty carefully. If he remembered correctly – and he was sure he did – the Senate had authorized the U.S. bombing of Yugoslavia in March. The report now on television said that Senator Joseph Biden, a self-styled "pragmatic dove" and a Democrat no less, had spearheaded this morning's vote against Bill Clinton, a Democratic President. Flannery didn't recall that happening, either.

So what
had
happened? Did he do something in the past that had accidentally changed history? He shook his head, left his high-rise apartment building on the West Side, and took a train downtown to One Police Plaza. He preferred not thinking about these time paradoxes or whatever they were – they gave him more than a headache – but maybe the world was starting to give him no choice.

***

A police captain and a forensic detective were having an animated discussion about something in the lobby of 1PP. Flannery slightly knew the captain and found something about him irritating today. Or maybe this time-traveling was making Flannery more than tired. He was suspicious by nature – most police detectives were, and if you made it to lieutenant, you had it in spades. But Flannery was seeing suspicious things everywhere he looked these days.

He exchanged casual salutes with the captain and nods with the science guy, and heard his usual share of deferential "Lu"s as he walked to the elevator. He got off on his floor, exchanged more nods and salutes, and closed the door after he entered his office. It was all glass in the front, so the closed door wouldn't give him too much privacy, but he needed all the non-interruption he could get to come up with a plan for Cyril Charles.

Heron had given him several photographs of Charles the last time they had talked about him in 1899 – in 1890s "cabinet card" not any future photographic style, so his men and colleagues in 1899 wouldn't be curious if they got a look at the photos – but Flannery hadn't seen anyone who resembled Charles when he'd arrived at the Millennium last night. He had a good eye for faces, but he had to be careful as he looked around. The cover Heron had arranged for him was as a minor mystery writer – enough to get Flannery into the literary club, but not enough to attract any big attention – and unlike cops, writers couldn't just go around staring at people and asking pointed questions, whether in the club or not.