The Vanishing Hour

A disappearing house travels to alternate dimensions—some peaceful, others dangerous. Now Rachel is trapped there. Tom struggles frantically to unlock the puzzle of an ancient clock that controls space and time to rescue her before it’s too late.

The Vanishing Hour, Part One

As P.I. assignments go, this one looked easy. All I had to do was watch a house.

The house was on north Dearborn Street on Chicago’s near north side. Three stories, brown brick, a small well-kept yard in front, five stone steps leading up to the front porch. Thick wrought iron bars shielded the windows from top to bottom. Lights glowed behind the drawn curtains on the first floor. I sat across the street in my car at 11:30 p.m.

            My client, Jake Fischer, owned the house, but his son lived in it. And Fischer was annoyed.

            “He’s an artist.” We were sitting in Fischer’s office downtown that morning. He was CEO of a company that did medical billing. A big man, balding, with a broad, wrestler’s build. “I mean, that’s fine, he wants to do—whatever. I don’t know what kind of art he does, really. It’s not paintings or statues. ‘Found objects’? Anyway, the thing is, I get the idea he’s throwing parties in the house. Or renting it out for parties or—other stuff. I bought the house for an investment, and I let him live there. But I go visit him, and furniture’s moved around, things are missing, there’s stuff I don’t recognize.”

            He leaned across his desk. “I just want to know what’s going on in there.”

            “Could you ask him?” I asked. “It would be cheaper.”

            He laughed. “I can afford it. I want to be sure.”

            So I took his check, got the address, and promised him I’d start tonight.

            In the three hours I’d been parked across the house, I’d seen five people walk up the steps and press the doorbell—one group of three at 9:30, and two solo at 10:45.. Two women and three men, all in their late 20s or early 30s. I caught just a glimpse of the son, Ronald, as he opened the door—32 years old and thinner than his father, with blond hair shaved close to his scalp. I managed a few photos of the visitors with my Minolta from the car.

            The street was quiet. A few cars rolled by. People walked their dogs. A late-night jogger ran down the center of the street. A woman on a bike shouted at him.

            My phone buzzed. Rachel, my girlfriend and sometimes my assistant detective. “Hi there.”

            “How much longer? I’m going to bed.”

            “I told him until midnight.” The car clock said 11:54. “Go ahead. I’ll be half an hour or so.”

            “Don’t wake me. Or maybe wake me. I’m watching Bridgerton.”

            I’d seen a few episodes with her. “I know the feeling. See you soon.”

            She hung up. I stretched, waiting impatiently for midnight.

            11:55, 11:56 . . . I tapped the steering wheel. Come on, come on. Maybe I could just leave now. It was almost midnight. Fischer wouldn’t know. Nothing was going to happen in the next four minutes, was it?

            I forced myself to stay put. I’d said midnight. What kind of a private eye would I be if I went home early and missed something important? It was just a few minutes more.

            The clock finally changed to 12:00. Midnight. Finally. I figured I’d  wait 10 minutes or so, just to be sure. I looked up. 

            The house was gone. 

            What the hell? I blinked and rubbed my eyes. Just one minute ago a three-story house had been sitting across the street, between two other houses, solid and tall. Now . . .

            All I could see was a vacant lot. Grass grew wild past the carefully trimmed front lawn. I saw the alley behind the house, and the back of the house on the next block, its windows dark. But the house I’d been watching for four and a half hours had vanished.

            I took a picture with the Minolta. Then I got out of the Prius and walked slowly across the street.

            I pulled out my phone to call Rachel. “What is it?” She sounded sleepy.

            “You know that house I was watching?”

            “Yeah. What happened? Did it blow up or something?”

            “It’s gone. Vanished.”

            She paused. “Huh.”

            “Yeah. Just—gone.”

            I walked forward, up to the point where the stone steps had started. I reached out with a hesitant hand, expecting—what? An electric shock? An invisible barrier? But I felt nothing, Just air.

            “There’s nothing here.” I stepped forward. The ground was soft under my shoes. I leaned down to brush my fingers against the tall wild grass. It felt like, well, grass. I walked to the back edge of the lot, up to the alley behind, and then walked back quickly, nervous that the ground might open under my feet and drop me into pit, or that the house might reappear and trap me inside a wall or something.

            “It’s just—gone,” I said again from the sidewalk in front of the house. “This is weird.”

            “Should I come over? For a look-see?” Rachel is partly psychic, which comes in handy on some of my cases. I hadn’t expected this to be one of them.

            I shook my head. “No, it’s late. I don’t think there’s anything dangerous going on.” I turned to look at the empty spot. “I’m going to hang out for a while, though. Maybe it’ll come back.”

            “Okay.” She sounded doubtful. “Call me. Be careful.”

            “I’m always careful.”

            “Hah!” She snorted. 

            I took some pictures with my phone showing the houses next door. to establish that this was the right place, and that the house was indeed gone. As I slipped my phone away an elderly man walked by.

            He stopped and stared. Then he looked at me. “There used to be a house here.”

            I nodded. “Yeah.”

            He shook his head and walked on, as if it wasn’t any more unusual than a coffee shop changing into a dry cleaner. I went back to my car.

 

The house came back at 1:00 a.m. I almost missed it, half-dozing with the radio on. I sat forward, blinking and rubbing my eyes again to make sure I was really seeing it. As I reached for the camera, the front door opened and all five visitors came out at once. They shook hands with Ronald on the front porch, then split up as they reached the sidewalk. 

Any other time, I would have followed one of the groups as far as I could. But at 1:30 a.m., after hours of just sitting in a car watching a house—and then the blank space where the house had been—I wasn’t sure I could walk straight. So I went home and went to bed. Without waking Rachel.

The next morning, after lots of coffee, I staggered into my office working up the nerve to call my client. How would Fischer react? Would he just assume I was drunk or crazy? Laugh? Swear? 

Rachel, sitting at her side of the office, watched me sit down with a grin. “Sleep good?”
            “Not long enough.” I punched the number on my phone and waited. Then Fischer picked up. “Mr. Fischer? Tom Jurgen speaking. I’ve got some information on the house.”

“Yeah? Go ahead. What is it?” He sounded eager, but a little nervous.

“Well, here’s the thing. I, uh, watched the house for several hours, starting at 8:30. I saw some people go into the house, and I tried to get some pictures. They’re relatively clear. Anyway, at, uh, twelve midnight, the house—well, it disappeared.”

Silence. It was probably just a few seconds, but it felt like half an hour. “Disappeared?”

“It just vanished. I can send you some pictures. It was gone for one hour. Then it came back, and the people left shortly after.” I tapped my computer, emailing the photos I’d taken. “I—don’t have an explanation.”

“You expect me to believe . . .” He took a deep breath. “A three story house just went poof? Gone? And now it’s back?”

“That is what I saw.” I was used to people not believing me—editors, cops, clients. It was why I’d quit being a reporter. “Take a look at the pictures.”

A few moments passed while he checked his email. “Okay, that looks like the property.” I’d made sure to take some shots that showed the houses next door. “But this is impossible. Isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen some strange things.” I didn’t tell him about the vampires, demons, killer plants, cyborgs and the rest. I tend to attract the supernatural, even when I’m not looking for it. Especially when I don’t want to find it.

“Huh.” He cleared his throat. “This isn’t what I expected. Okay, I guess I’ll just have to talk to him. Like you said up front. Hey, would you mind coming with me? It’ll be easier if I have someone who actually saw it.”

“Sure.” I was curious, and he was paying. 

Rachel waved a hand at me. “Uh, would you mind if I bring an associate? She’s, uh, good with this sort of thing. Strange phenomena, I mean.”

He laughed. “The more the merrier. Bring her. I’ll text you the time.”

We hung up. Rachel smiled. “Sounds interesting.”

“Yeah.” I just hoped the house wouldn’t disappear with us in it. 

The Vanishing Hour, Part Two

At nine that night we were standing on the stone porch in front of the house—me, Rachel, and Jake Fischer. He pressed the doorbell. A moment later his son Ronald answered.

Ronald was taller than his father, slender, with deep blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled. Short blond hair, like I’d seen last night, and a thin pale beard.  “Dad! Hi!” They shook hands, and he turned to us. “You guys are—”

“Tom Jurgen. And my associate, Rachel.” We shook hands, and then Rachel shook hands as Ronald checked her out.

Rachel is slender, with red hair and hazelnut eyes. She was wearing jeans, her boots, and a denim jacket. I’m mostly used to men checking her out. Mostly. She shot me an amused glance as Ronald turned, and then we followed him into the house.

He led us into a large living room crammed with bookshelves holding a wide collection of old and newer artifacts: ceramic pots, ornate telephones, a silver flute, a wooden bowl, a a child’s toy drum, and other stuff I couldn’t immediately identify. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows.

On a table in the corner sat a large clock, three feet tall, carved from dark wood, with a silver base and gems for the numbers on the face. A pendulum swung slowly in its middle.

Ronald offered us drinks, coffee, tea, and other beverages. We sat down. 

Fischer cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Ron, I hired Tom here to watch the house last night. I was—concerned. That you might be having parties, or using it like an AirBnB or something.”

Ronald snorted. “I told you I’d have friends over. But it’s not like anyone’s getting a keg and trashing the place. Most of the time I’m just working on my art. The third floor makes a great studio—”

Fischer held up a hand. “That’s not what this is about. Last night Tom was watching the house, and he saw—he saw . . .” Fischer hesitated.

“The house disappeared,” I said. 

Ronald looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. His eyes flickered toward Rachel, and he smiled. “Yeah. I wondered if anyone was going to notice. That’s why I set it for midnight.”

Fischer sat back in his chair, startled and confused. “What? Set what?”

“I’ll show you.” He stood up. “But you’ll have to wait for midnight. Changing the setting is tricky.”

He walked over to the clock. “I got this at an estate sale. I was looking for it for years. It belonged to some rich guy in Skokie, but it was built by an Italian clockmaker in the 16th century. His name was Volpano, Guiseppe Volpano, and he was famous for his clocks. And also being a wizard.”

“A wizard.” Fischer stared at him. 

“Yeah!” Ronald ignored his father. He was looking at us. Mostly Rachel. “There were all kinds of legends about what he could do—read minds, travel through space, through time—stop time. I don’t know how much of it’s true, but when I found the clock I had to buy it. Don’t worry,” he said to Fischer. “The family didn’t know how much it was worth, they had no idea. I only paid $200.”

“What family?” I asked.

“The, uh, Rosenbergers, I think. Alan. He died a few months ago, the family needed to get rid of stuff.” He shook his head, bored with the question. “Anyway, this is the clock! It’s got his name engraved inside. It needs a special sort of crystal, and that took me a few weeks to find online, but now I can do it. Every night.”

            “Do what?” Fischer looked impatient.

            “We can—” Ronald frowned. “Look, can you guys stay until midnight? It’s easier to show you. You’ll believe it then.”

            Fischer looked at me. I looked at Rachel. “Is he crazy?”

            She rolled her eyes. “Not as far as I can tell. I’m psychic,” she told Ronald. “Sort of. I can sometimes tell if people are lying, or possessed, or magical. I can’t read minds. I mean, I can a little. You seem like you’re telling the truth. Or you believe it, anyway.”

            He smiled. “You’ll see. Just wait.”

 

We waited.

            I didn’t mind much because I was getting paid, although I decided not to remind Fioscher that I was on his clock. Still, I was behind on my sleep, and there was nothing to do. Ronald didn’t even have a TV. 

            Aside from that, Ronald was doing his best to flirt with Rachel, and she wasn’t trying too hard to ignore him. He offered her drinks, suggested a tour of the house, tried to show off his collection of antiques and artifacts, and although she laughed and rolled her eyes at me when he wasn’t looking, she didn’t shut him down. 

            I got it. Rachel is hot. And I could see that Ronald was good-looking—young, enthusiastic, with a cocky smile and a quick laugh, that close-shaved scalp and hipster beard. He’d have no trouble attracting girlfriends or hookups. 

            I didn’t seriously think Rachel was interested in him, but I couldn’t shake off my irritation. And I couldn’t forget that a long time ago, when we were having some problems, Rachel had slept with a few other men. The problems were partly or mostly my fault—the stress and trauma of a job that all too often threw us into life-or-death struggles with the supernatural—and we’d worked through them. 

            But I can be hard to live with even on good days sometimes, and my job could be pretty tough sometimes. Ronald was a likable young guy. I couldn’t help feeling a little insecure when she laughed at one of his jokes.

            Time crawled forward. At 11:30 Ronald opened the back of the clock to check its gears. He fetched more water for me and poured Rachel another glass of wine that she hadn’t asked for. Fisher checked his watch every few minutes, yawning each time. I walked around the living room in circles, stretching my legs and arms..

            At 11:55 Ronald stood up. “Just a few more minutes. You might feel a sort of shifting around the house. It’s not an earthquake, don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” He smiled at Rachel.

            Fischer rubbed his forehead. “I had to reschedule an important tomorrow morning. I can’t be out all night like you kids.”

            “It’ll be an hour,” Ronald assured him. “You’ll see, and then you can go home.”

            We waited. The clock’s pendulum swung. At 11:59 Rachel stood next to me and held my hand. She whispered into my ear: “I can feel it. Outside, underneath. All around. Something’s moving.”

            I nodded. I expected a gong or bell to ring  from the clock, but its second hand crossed the Roman numeral XII and stayed silent. 

            Then, like Ronald had predicted, the floor shuddered beneath my feet. The walls seemed to warp around us. For a moment a cold breeze blew across the room. The lights flickered. Then everything was quiet and normal again.

            Smiling, Ronald ran to the front door. “Take a look!”

            He pulled the door. Sunlight streamed into the house. 

            I double-checked the clock. Still midnight. But when I got to the door with Rachel and Fischer, the sun was bright outside, high in the sky over a forest of green and gold. No streets, no cars, no other buildings. The grass was high and wild, with red and gold flowers stretching up as if peering at the sun’s blinding light. Butterflies with wide colorful wings circled their petals. Round gentle hills rose in the near distance.

            Ronald stepped onto the porch, motioning Rachel to join him. We all came out and went down the stone steps, looking around.

            Birds flew overhead—big birds, like golden eagles from The Lord of The Rings. Clouds drifted in the breeze.

            Rachel pointed. “Is that a unicorn?”

            It was. Tall and cream colored, a unicorn with a long white horn jutting from its forehead stood 20 yards away, munching happily on the tall grass. 

            “Where—what—is this place?” Fischer looked up into the sky, then down to peer at his son.

            “It’s always a different place.” Ronald walked across the grass, then turned to look at us. “Usually. I’ve been here before, or a place just like it. There was a lake just over the hill for swimming. And the fruits on the trees are delicious. Come on!” He waved an arm.

We followed him across the grass. The unicorn watched us, keeping its distance, then turned and galloped away when we got too close. The air smelled of honey and wildflowers and the sky was deep blue, like an ocean wave in the South Pacific. The sun was burnt orange, and I could see a small moon next to it, like a pearl floating in space.

Over the nearest hill we found the lake Ronald had promised. Red animals with tall, angular antlers drank from it on the far side, and they stayed calm as he ran down the slope, pulling his shirt off. “Come on! The water’s great!”

Rachel crossed her arms and shook her head. He was pulling at his belt buckle, then decided not to strip down and skinny-dip if no one was going to join him. Instead he crouched, cupped his hands, and drank from the lake with a loud sigh.

Something rustled in the trees. I turned and watched as something on two legs stepped into view. Its legs, covered in fur, bent in the wrong direction, with hooves instead of feet. Bare chested, the thing had two horns curling from its head, and a thick black beard over its chin.

“A faun,” Rachel said. “Mythological ancient Greek creature. Symbol of peace. And fertility.” 

Ronald stood up and approached the creature. They spoke quietly, and the faun nodded. He stepped to the lake, knelt, and buried his face in the water to drink.

Ronald came back to us, pulling his shirt on. “His name’s Silenus. They’re peaceful.”

“I want to go back,” Fischer grunted. 

Ronald looked disappointed, but he nodded and led the way back up the hill. I looked over my shoulder to see Silenus stand up and march into the water up to his waist, then dive down into the lake, leaving just a trail of bubbles as his hooves kicked the surface.

Back in the house Fischer slumped in a chair. Ronald poured him a glass of whiskey. He drained it and held the glass out for another.

We sat. I looked at the clock. 12:30. “How long are we here?”

“Just an hour. Like in the real world.” He drank some wine and started to pour more for Rachel, but she put her hand over the glass. Then he looked at his father. “You okay, dad?”

He set his glass down. “This is what you’ve been doing?”

Ronald sighed. “I figured out how to do it, and for a couple of days I just did it on my own, exploring all the new places. Then I invited a couple of friends. Lately I’ve been charging people—”

“How much?” That seemed to perk Fischer up.

“Two hundred. This last week I made—”

“You could charge more.” Fischer sat forward. “Five hundred—a thousand. You’d have to be careful, I guess. You don’t want the wrong people here.”

Ronald frowned. “It’s not like that. Maybe I could get more money, but I just want to have fun, and explore.”

“Explore?” Fischer looked out the door. “How far does it go?”

“As far as you can go in an hour.” Ronald grinned. “But like I said, we don’t a;ways go the same place every time. And some places are—bad.”

“Bad how?” I asked.

His grin disappeared. “One had dinosaurs. Or big lizards. Dragons, maybe. Fighting and eating each other. We didn’t go out. Another one was lava and falling rocks, screaming from the sky. Like Hell. And there was one that was an ocean, freezing cold and filled with monsters. You never know what you’re going to get.” 

“Like a box of chocolates.” Rachel smirked.

He laughed. “Yeah. Just like that.” Then he pointed down a hallway. “If it gets too crazy for anyone, the back door connects to the real world. Like an escape hatch. I don’t know why it does that, but it’s there.”

“Are there people in these other worlds?” I asked. “Like the faun?”

“Not usually.” He blinked, thinking. “One time there were people riding horses, but far away. And there was a mermaid out on a rock in the middle of the sea. She waved to me.” He smiled.

“How many trips have you made?” Rachel.

He looked up at the ceiling, counting. “Twenty or 25. I should probably write them all down.” He sipped his wine. “I find all sorts of things for my found art. Rocks, plants, bones. I’m working on an installation for a gallery in River North. You should come see it once it’s up,” he said to Rachel.

“Maybe I will.” She smiled.

“So now we know what’s going on here . . .” I looked at Fischer. “Am I done? Once we get back to the real world, I mean?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. Send me your invoice in the morning.”

We stood up. “You’re all welcome to come back,” Ronald said quickly. Meaning Rachel. “No charge.”

Rachel smiled and looked at me. “Maybe I will.”

The Vanishing Hour, Part Three

Back home we went right to bed. The next morning I was getting the invoice ready when Rachel came into the office, carrying coffee in her Wonder Woman mug.

She kissed my neck. “You okay?”

            “Fine. You?”

            “Yeah. That was fun last night.”

            I yawned. “Yeah. Glad it’s over, though. I can’t take a lot of late nights in a row.”

            “Yeah.” She sat down at her desk. “I was thinking I might go back tonight. Like Ronald said.”

            I stared at my screen. “That’s fine.”

            “Is that okay with you?”

            I tapped some keys. “You don’t need my permission.”

            I heard her sigh. “Look, I don’t have to be a psychic to tell you’re mad at me.”

            I turned in my chair. “And you don’t need to be a psychic to know what Ronald wants.is a different kind of exploration.”

            “Him?” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe trying to go skinny-dipping in an alternate universe works with some girls. I’m a little beyond that.”

            “Even so . . .” I frowned.

            “Even so what?”

            Honesty is the best policy, right? “I just didn’t like him trying to flirt with you all night. You’re not my associate, you’re my girlfriend. Okay, I didn’t announce that—”

            “You don’t mind me flirting if it gets you information, right? Or dressing sexy?” She crossed a leg over her knee.

            “That’s—different.”

“Riiight.” She smirked.

“Anyway, I didn’t say you were flirting with him. I just didn’t exactly enjoy watching him try out his game on you, like a frat boy inviting a college girl up to his room to ‘listen to music.’”

            Rachel laughed. “Did that work for you?”

            I frowned. “No. Never mind. The thing is—”

“Tom, Tom, Tom.” She stood and walked over to me. “Look, even when I was in college I didn’t go for the frat boy type. Or the would-be artists with their daddies’ trust fund. I like the bad boys.” She leaned down to kiss me. 

“I’m a bad boy?” I grinned.

“The worst.” She punched my shoulder.

            “Okay.” I sat back. “Go if you want to. Be careful. I don’t trust him.”

            “Oh, I know how to take care of myself around guys like him.” She rwalked back to her computer. “You really don’t mind?”

            Of course I minded. But I couldn’t say that. “Have fun. Call me before. And after. Maybe mention that you have a boyfriend. Several times.”

            She laughed. 

 

Rachel left at 9:30. She wore jeans, knee-high boots, and a white blouse. “Don’t wait up,” she said as she kissed me.

            “Oh, I’m waiting up.” I squeezed her arm. “Got your pepper spray?”

            She punched my shoulder. “Don’t watch Station Eleven without me. Stick to porn.” She left.

            I watched some TV, read a book, ate a snack, and turned on the TV again to watch some Steven Colbert. Rachel called at 11:35.

            “There’s five of us,” she told me, her voice low. “I’m in the bathroom. Me, a blond girl named Cassie, an older couple—the Nelsons,—and a guy named Mark Quinnley.” She laughed softly. “Parked his red Miata in front of a fire hydrant 20 minutes ago. Doesn’t care about tickets. Acts rich. He tried to hit on me right away.”

            Great. “What about Ronald?”

            “Oh, he’s busy hitting on Cassie. I think he’s keeping me in reserve.”

            I choked a sigh of relief. “Okay. Well, be careful. Like you always tell me.”

            “And like you say, ‘Of course.’” She laughed again. “Love you. ‘Bye.”

            I watched some James Corden, or whoever it was. I kept checking the time, feeling uneasy as midnight appeared on my phone, staring at it as the minutes passed: 12:02, 12:04, 12:10 . . .

            I fell asleep. I dreamed of unicorns, and Rachel, and Rachel riding a unicorn, and then a stampede of unicorns across a raging river while a volcano erupted in the distance. Then I woke up.

            It was 1:15 a.m. I checked my phone. No call from Rachel. I called her.

            No answer. 

            I tried not to panic. Probably she was just busy. Talking to the others about whatever place they’d visited. Maybe Ronald made them all mute their phones, and she forgot to turn hers back on. Maybe they were all having an orgy upstairs. No, probably not. I got a drink of water, paced, then called again. Still no answer.

            At 2:00 I gave in. Rachel had taken our Prius, so I called an Uber. Thirty minutes later, I was standing by the car and staring across the street.

            The house was still gone. 

            My heart pounded as I crossed the street and walked to where the steps should have been. Just like last night, nothing invisible got in my way. I walked over the grass and weeds to the alley behind the backyard, then came back. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I found nothing.

            A heavy pit dropped into my stomach. Rachel was gone.

            Standing next to the car, fighting to breathe normally, I pulled out my phone. I hesitated before calling Fischer, but damn it, Rachel was gone. I punched in his number.

            “H-Hello? Who is this?”

            “It’s Tom Jurgen. Sorry to wake you, but the house is gone. Still gone. It should have come back.” I clenched my jaw to keep my voice from shaking. “Rachel’s there. Have you talked to your son today?”

            “What?” I heard a voice behind him. “Just a minute—gone? What time is it?”

            “It’s 2:30. He said the trip was only for an hour. Rachel is gone.”

            “Okay, okay. I—I haven’t talked to Ronald today. Yesterday. Whatever. What happened?”

            “Ronald had another trip tonight, with some paying customers. I don’t know what happened. I keep hoping maybe—” I stopped. “I’m right in front of the place. I’ll wait. Maybe it’ll come back. Maybe—I don’t know.”

            I didn’t want to think about the possibilities. Something had damaged the clock? The house had sunk in quicksand or lava? Ronald was kidnapping people? Was Rachel safe?

            “Is there anything I can do?” Fischer’s voice was raspy from sleep.

            I leaned against the hood. “Let me know if you hear from Ronald. I’ll call if it comes back.”

            “All right.” He coughed. “I got your invoice this morning. You can add this to it if you want.”

            That was the last thing I was worried about. But it was generous of him. “Thank you. We’ll see.”

            We hung up. I got into the car and crossed my arms, staring at the empty space. The bottle of water next to me was half full. I took a sip, looking up and down the street. Silent. Empty.

            A car rolled by slowly. Looking for a parking space? Someone working the late shift, like me. It paused a few yards away, then moved on, passing a fire hydrant in its search for legal parking.

            Wait. Rachel had mentioned someone—Mark something. Mark Quinnley. Parked his red Miata in front of a fire hydrant. I got out and walked up and down the street. No red Miata. No car parked in front of any hydrants.

            Mark Quinnley, whoever he was, had gotten out.

 

I waited in the car until the sun came up at 7:41. Joggers puffed up and down the street, cyclists pumped their pedals, people walked their dogs on the sidewalk,and cars zoomed in both directions. One woman walking a small boy to school stopped to look at the empty lot. The little boy pointed and asked a question. The mother shook her head and pulled him along.

A jogger doubled back to take a second look at the bare space, jogging in place for 10 seconds before heading on his way. A car slowed to look until cars behind it honked impatiently.

I’d spent a few hours looking up Mark Quinnley on my phone. If I had the right guy, he was a retired VP of a bank in Arlington Heights, and he collected antiques. They were all over his Facebook page. Along with a photo of his red Miata.

I couldn’t do anything more from the car, so I started up and headed home. After a quick showeer and some coffee, I staggered to the office. My eyes felt fuzzy from lack of sleep, and my back ached from sitting in the car all night.

The office felt empty without Rachel. I rubbed my forehead and tried to focus. I couldn’t find a number for Quinnley, so I went on Facebook and sent him a message. Then I waited.

I fell asleep at my desk for half an hour. When I woke up my neck hurt. I stretched, got myself more coffee, and tried to think of something to do. I decided to look up Giuseppe Volpano, the clockmaker.

Born 1481, died 1537. Like Ronald said, he was rumored to be a wizard, an alchemist, and a troublemaker. He claimed to control space and time, talk to spirits, and—of course—turn lead into gold. But he did make fantastic clocks, apparently, fetching high prices from wealthy patrons. The ones that had survived were worth thousands of dollars to collectors today.

How did one of them turn up at an estate sale in Skokie? I scratched my head, trying to remember the name—Rosenberger. 

            I searched for estate sales using that name, and came up with it after a few minutes. The site was still up, promoting the company that had run the sale and was always looking for others. I called them.

            It took a few transfers to reach a woman named Ellen who could answer my questions. “Yes, I worked that sale. It was quite successful. Are you interested in listing with us?”

            Despite my fatigue and worry, I laughed. “My estate would fit into a showbox. No, I’m interested in the Rosenberger estate. There was a clock there, item number, uh, 121? Can you tell me anything about it?”

            “Let me see . . . There wasn’t an unusual amount of interest in it. A few bids. I can’t tell you who bid on it, that’s confidential, but it went for a good price. Oh, here’s something.”

            I waited. “Yes?”

            “Well, I can’t explain too much. We have strict rules about confidentiality and clients. You understand.”

            “Of course.” On the other hand, my job is to break those rules as much as I can. Legally, or at least without getting caught. “What can you tell me?”

            “After the sale was completed, one person came in and, uh, expressed interest in the clock. We had to turn him away. There’s a note next to his name, but I can’t tell you what it is.”

            “Or his name?”

            “I’m afraid not.”

            I nodded. “What if I gave you a name?”

            “I don’t think—”

            “Mark Quinnley.”

            Ellen hesitated. “I—I can’t confirm that.”

            “I understand.” I smiled even though she couldn’t see me. “Thanks for your help.”            

            So Quinnley wanted the clock. And he’d been at Ronald’s house last night. And his car was gone. 

            Ronald said the back door led back out into our world. Did he steal the clock? 

            I needed to talk to him.

            I went hunting again, and this time found his number using a source that wasn’t strictly legal. I didn’t care. I called. No answer. I left a message.

            I had his address from the same illegal source. Although the bank he’d worked at was in the Northbrook, a suburb, he actually lived in a condo only a few miles from Ronald’s house. So I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was awake, finished my coffee, and headed for my car.

            Quinnley’s condo was in a high rise off Lake Shore Drive, called Lakeside Tower. I walked into the lobby, spotted the elevators behind sliding glass doors, and asked the doorman, a Black man behind a wide desk, for Mark Quinnley’s apartment. He lifted a phone.

            After a few seconds he shook his head. “No answer.”

            Damn it. “Is there any way you could do a wellness check or something? He’s not answering my calls, and I really need to see him.”

            He looked me over. “Are you a relative?”

            I considered being Quinnley’s brother, or cousin, or lover, or something, but that could get complicated too quickly. “It’s a business matter. It’s very important.”

            The doorman shook his head again. “You’d have to call 911 then. We can’t do checks unless it’s a family member.”

            I frowned and took a step back from the desk. The doorman would have to buzz me through to get to the elevators. No chance of sneaking in behind behind a resident with him standing right there. I sighed. “Thanks.” I left.

            The building had an underground parking lot that charged roughly $17 a minute for public parking. Downtown parking in Chicago is ridiculously expensive, so I’d parked on the street, but now I drove in, got a ticket from a machine, and found an empty space in a corner. I changed into a blue blazer jacket and put on a black hat with a wide brim. Then I wandered around until I found a basement entrance to the building.

            I patted my pockets like I was looking for my keys, aware of a camera on me from behind. Fortunately, the door opened in 10 seconds, and a woman carrying a small dog came out. I held the door for her, she thanked me, and I slipped inside.

            I took the delivery elevator in the rear up to the 12th floor. Quinnley lived in 1204. The doors opened next to apartment 1212. I walked fast, thinking I’d probably been spotted by security cameras in the basement and didn’t have much time. I hurried past 1210, 1208, around a corner, then down that hall to 1206, 1202 and finally to 1200, with 1201 opposite.

            I stopped. Wait, what?

            I backtracked. 1202, then a long stretch of hallway to 1206, then the elevators—

            I turned around again and walked back. There was no 1204. Just a longer than usual wall, with no door where 1204 should be. 

            The hallway was painted a pale blue, with flowered wallpaper in a border at the top and gray carpet on the floor. I planted my hand on the wall where a door would be. I knocked softly. Then hard. It sounded solid, felt thick. I ran my hand back and forth, feeling for what? An invisible opening? A secret passage?

            A door opened on the other side. 1203. A woman came out in a long coat, varying a tote bag. She glanced at me, then looked away. Stranger. Suspicious. Better to be cautious.

            “Excuse me.” I pointed at the wall.”Shouldn’t there be an apartment here? 1204?”

            The woman stopped. She looked past me at the blank wall, puzzled. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Huh.” She turned and headed to the elevators.

            Okay . . . I was about to ask her another question when one elevator opened and two uniformed Chicago Police officers stepped out.

            “Excuse me, sir?” He was white, with a Black partner. “You’ll have to leave, sir.”

That was fast. “I was just looking for 1204.” I pointed. “It should be right here.”

Both cops crossed their arms. Quite intimidating.

“Okay, okay.” I lifted my hands, fingers wide. “I’m a private detective. I was just looking for the guy in 1204. He’s not here. It’s not here.”

The Black cop looked at the wall. He looked at the opposite wall. He cocked his head. “Yeah, that’s weird. You still have to leave, sir.”

“Of course.” Arguing would only get me in trouble. Possibly jail, and I couldn’t afford that. I let them take me down to the lobby, where they guided me past the wide reception desk. 

“Can I just—” I looked at the doorman. “There’s no door for apartment 1204. Where Mark Quinnley lives? It just skips 1204.”

“He’s right,” the white cop said. “What’s up with that, anyway?”

The doorman shook his head. “I don’t know. Please leave, sir.”

I leaned forward, reaching slowly into my pocket, and dropped my card onto the desk. “If Mr. Quinnley comes back—”

The Black cop clamped a hand on my elbow. “Sir?”

“Yes, officer.” I didn’t struggle. “Uh, my car’s in the garage downstairs. I don’t suppose you can validate my parking?”

The doorman rolled his eyes.