She's Not There (8 page)

How desperate was Amelia Tobias? And where the hell had she gone?

The voice came again, softer this time:
This one’s special, Bucky.

Buchanan glanced at his watch. It was almost ten, which meant Amelia had been officially missing for thirty-five hours. How far could a woman with a concussion—and no phone, money or ID—get in such a short time?

Buchanan had instructed Alex not to cancel his wife’s credit cards, just on the chance she might try to call and get replacements. But there had been no activity on either her Visa or Amex accounts since last week, when Amelia charged a visit to a Pilates studio. Even if she did somehow get her hands on some money, without an ID there was no way she could rent a car or buy a plane ticket. She couldn’t even apply for a replacement license because the Florida DMV wouldn’t take cash to pay for the fee, and they required you to show a photo ID.

ID . . . that was what usually tripped runners up. Since 9/11, the world had gotten more complex, but his job had gotten easier because of it. There was no way to get along in the real world without an ID. The only way she could travel without ID was by bus. But even the Greyhound folks needed money. And so far, there was no indication Amelia had spent a dime.

There was a knock on the door. Buchanan went and opened it to see a young man wearing a W blazer and holding out a large white mailer.

“This just arrived for you, Mr. Buchanan,” he said.

“Thanks,” Buchanan said, taking the envelope. It was emblazoned with a gold and black logo—
M
C
C
ALL AND
T
OBIAS
A
TTORNEYS AT
L
AW
, and under that the firm’s motto: “We’re In This Together.”

He stuck his hand in his pocket, groping for his wallet.

“That’s not necessary, sir,” the young man said, and started back down the hall.

“Wait,” Buchanan called. “Can you ask them to send me up some bourbon?”

“Of course, sir. What kind?”

“I changed my mind. A bottle of Jack Daniels will do.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

The young man left, and Buchanan took the envelope to the desk.

Back at the restaurant, he had told Tobias he needed access to his wife’s computer and e-mails. Tobias had told him Amelia didn’t have a computer and hated anything “techy.”

The police had probably run her phone LUDs—local usage detail. But as long as they were looking at Tobias as a suspect in her accident, they weren’t going to share those. And while it was easy enough to bribe an impound guy, Buchanan had no contacts in Lauderdale PD high enough to get a copy of the police report.

Normally, Buchanan would be able to access Amelia’s iPhone contact list through her iCloud account. But unlike her fastidious husband, she had never bothered to back up her phone list.

Instead, she kept track of phone numbers in a Day Runner book. The only gadget she used, her husband said, was her Kindle, which she took to bed with her every night.

Buchanan tore open the mailer. Inside was a red leather Day Runner and the Kindle. He opened the Day Runner to the week that Amelia disappeared.

Nothing exceptional. Amelia had written in the Pilates appointment, a dinner at YOLO with Joanna, notations for “guild meet,” “hair,” and “Greta facial.” Her last entry for Friday morning was “Fantasia Spa 9 a.m.” The only other entry was a scribble in the box for tomorrow: “J’s birthday!” Had to be Joanna McCall.

Buchanan flipped to the address section. Amelia had recorded names, addresses, and phone numbers in her neat straight handwriting. At first glance, the entries appeared to be all doctors and personal stuff like trainers and manicurists.

According to Tobias, Joanna McCall was Amelia’s only close friend in Fort Lauderdale. Tobias had told him Amelia’s only other friend was a woman named Carol Fairfield. Carol had been a dancer with the New York City Ballet but retired ten years ago and was now living in Minneapolis. Tobias said his wife flew up there every August to see Carol because their birthdays fell within days of each other. Tobias told him he never went on the visits, that it was Amelia’s annual “chick trip” and Carol never came to Fort Lauderdale.

Buchanan had done a quick Google and PeopleFinders search for Carol Fairfield. It turned up nothing, but that meant she was probably using a married name now. His call to the New York City Ballet got him a promise from a clerk to check their records and get back to him.

Buchanan flipped the Day Runner’s pages to
F
. No listing for Carol Fairfield. Odd, but then an old friend’s address and phone were often just stored in a person’s memory.

Problem was, Amelia didn’t have a memory right now, according to her husband.

He tossed the Day Runner down and picked up the Kindle. The books and magazines runners downloaded left virtual breadcrumb trails. He had once traced an embezzler to Manila because the dumb fuck had downloaded
Lonely Planet Guide to the Philippines.

He popped open the bright pink cover and fired up the e-reader. He got a screen that read
E
NTER
P
ASSWORD.

Password? Who the hell password-protected their books?

He began to type in various combinations of Amelia’s name, maiden name Bloodworth, and her date of birth, because he knew most people relied on the most obvious shit for their passwords.

Nothing.

He stared at the blinking cursor, but in his mind he was hearing Alex Tobias’s petulant voice.

She takes the thing to bed with her every night.

Buchanan turned the reader over in his hands. It was a Kindle Fire, which meant it had Internet capability. He had a sudden vision of Amelia Tobias lying next to her husband with her Kindle, not reading her books or magazines, but reading her e-mails.

Carol Fairfield’s e-mail was probably hidden in Amelia’s Kindle. And maybe others that Amelia didn’t want anyone to find, like that of a lover?

He switched off the Kindle and set it aside. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as the long day finally began to settle into his muscles and brain with a throbbing ache.

There was a rumble of thunder, and he looked to the sliding glass doors in time to see a zigzag of lightning. He pushed himself from the chair, went to the doors, and slid them open. The heavy night air rushed in, smacking up against the artic air-conditioning. He stepped out onto the balcony.

Ten floors below, through the wind-whipped palm fronds, he could see the lights of the cars creeping along A1A. He couldn’t see the beach because the streetlights were off. Knocked out by the coming storm, maybe?

There was a soft rap on the door. He went to answer it and found a woman in a black W uniform holding a tray. It held a bottle of Jack, a glass, and a bucket of ice.

“Your order, sir.”

“Yeah, good. Just set it on the desk there, please.”

The woman set it down and held out the room-service bill for Buchanan to sign. A rumble of thunder and a gust of wind came from the open sliding glass doors.

“Shall I shut that for you, sir?” the woman asked. “There’s a bad storm coming.”

“I guess so. It’s already knocked out the streetlights.”

“Streetlights?” The woman looked to the open doors. “Oh no, the city shuts them off on purpose.”

“Why?”

“For the turtles.”

“What?”

“The sea turtles, sir. It’s turtle season. They lay their eggs in the sand and when the babies hatch, they use the moonlight to guide them to the ocean. But if the streetlights are on, they lose their way and follow the bright lights up to the highway.”

Buchanan nodded. “Where they die.”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid so.”

She started toward the sliding glass doors.

“No, leave them open, please,” Buchanan said.

She nodded, gave him a smile, and left. The room was quiet for a moment and then came another rumble of thunder. Buchanan went to the tray, dropped some ice cubes into a glass and opened the bottle of Jack Daniels. He filled the glass halfway and drank it quickly.

Bucky?

The voice was there in his head again, not his dad this time but the other one, the gentle voice that came like a ghostly whisper, echoing in his hollow insides. The only one who ever called him by that nickname.

No more, Bucky, please.

And then she was gone.

He drained the glass, wincing at the scorching in his throat, waiting for the numbness to come. When it didn’t, he poured another glass and took it out onto the balcony.

Below, it was nothing but blackness. He could smell the rain and hear the rumble, but there was nothing else there. Then, suddenly, there was a break in the black clouds and the moon emerged. Moonlight, soft and silvery, slid over the sand, lighting the way, and then it was gone.

CHAPTER TEN

Buchanan got only twenty feet into the lobby of the Lauderdale Yacht Club before he was stopped.

“Are you a member, sir?”

The man who had stepped in front of him was wearing a hard smile and a blue blazer with a little flag emblem on the breast pocket.

“No, I am not,” Buchanan said. “I’m a guest of Joanna McCall’s.”

“Ah. Yes. She’s waiting in the bar, sir. Just beyond the trophy case.”

Buchanan eyed the silver cups and model boats in the case as he passed, and then paused at the entrance to the bar. It was well past lunchtime, but the place was still full of big dogs in Maas Brothers sherbet slacks and polo shirts, with a few Brooks Brothers types thrown in. There were only a few women, most of them old tsarinas and a few sleek young SWANKS—second wives and no kids.

He scanned the crowd for Joanna McCall, looking for a woman who matched the ones he had seen in the society rag
City & Shore
. He was looking for someone who was all teeth, tan, and gold jewelry. King Tut’s trophy wife.

A blonde in the corner was waving to him. He went over to the table.

“Mr. Buchanan?” She offered him a smile and her hand. “I’m Joanna. Please, won’t you sit down?”

He shook her soft warm hand and sat down across from her.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” Buchanan said.

Her smile faded. “I want to do whatever I can to help find Mel.”

Joanna McCall wasn’t young, probably past fifty, and she had worked hard and paid a lot of money to turn back time. But with her good skin and thick blonde hair cut in a long bob, there was a softness to the woman that was undeniably attractive. Her green eyes were liquid and slightly reddened, and he knew it wasn’t from the untouched Bloody Mary in front of her. The woman had been crying.

There was a scattering of pastel paint chips on the table, and she began to gather them up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re building a new house up on Hillsboro Mile, and I was trying to pick out paint colors.” She set them aside, shaking her head. “I can’t decide anything right now.”

Her voice carried just a hint of Southern drawl, but from where, he couldn’t pinpoint.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

She motioned to a waiter, and he was at the table in two quick strides. Buchanan ordered coffee. The half a bottle of Jack from the night before was still sloshing around in his gut.

Buchanan watched the waiter disappear, and when he looked back at Joanna McCall he knew she was studying him, almost like he was a biology specimen or an alien life-form. He was used to it. The people his clients employed—the gardeners, maids, and au pairs—were just shadows moving along the peripheries of their lives. But he was different, and Joanna McCall knew it. He was one rung up, like a dentist, someone who you didn’t need until you were in pain.

“I’m sorry I was so abrupt when you called this morning,” Joanna said.

“Suspicion is not a bad thing these days.”

“It wasn’t suspicion.” She picked up the Bloody Mary and started to take a drink but then set it down. “It’s just, this whole thing with Mel, it’s just so unbelievable. Outside of getting a ticket once, I’ve never had to deal with the police. But Owen says you can be trusted and that you are very good at what you do.”

“I get results,” Buchanan said.

She nodded slowly. Buchanan wondered how much her husband had told her about how he worked. He decided she was probably like many of his clients who didn’t want to know the dirty stuff.

The waiter brought his coffee. He poured in some cream and stirred in two sugars.

“Mrs. McCall,” he began.

“Call me Joanna, please.”

He took a sip of the coffee, considering his approach. Might as well go right for the jugular because she wouldn’t be expecting it.

“Do you know where Amelia is?”

Her green eyes locked on his. “No. Why would you ask that?”

“Has she contacted you?”

“No. I would have told Alex if she had.”

“Not if she wanted to get away from him.”

Joanna’s eyes were steady on his for a moment and then she looked away, taking a drink.

“You’re her friend,” Buchanan said. “Her only one here in Fort Lauderdale, from what I can tell. Do you know where she is?”

When Joanna looked back at him, her eyes were brimming. “No,” she said softly. “I wish to God I did.”

If she was lying, she was good at it, Buchanan thought. But her
jizz
was telling him that she was telling the truth.

Buchanan knew people were staring at them, probably wondering who was this guy who was making Owen McCall’s wife cry. With his rumpled khakis and blue blazer he wasn’t fooling anybody into thinking he belonged there.

“Mom? You okay?”

Buchanan looked up. A young woman had come to the table. She was wearing a short white tennis dress and carrying a racket. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail with little wet tendrils around her neck.

“Oh, hello, honey,” Joanna said, smiling quickly.

“What’s wrong?” the young woman asked.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just have some business to talk about here.”

The young woman’s gaze moved to Buchanan. Her lips were pink pillows, and her wide-set eyes were a compelling hazel green flecked with gold. She was, Buchanan imagined, what Joanna McCall had looked like thirty years ago.

Joanna touched the woman’s arm. “Are you and Elaine done with your game?”

“She had to leave early, and I don’t have my car. Can Jack drive me home?”

“Not right now. I won’t be finished here for a while. Why don’t you go get showered and changed and—”

“I’ll wait here with you.”

Before Joanna could object, the young woman sat down. Joanna’s eyes carried a hint of apology as she glanced at Buchanan. “Megan, this is Clay Buchanan,” she said softly. “He’s a private investigator looking into Amelia’s disappearance.”

Joanna reached up to gently push a strand of hair from the young woman’s face but Megan eased away from her touch.

“This is my daughter, Megan, Mr. Buchanan,” Joanna said.

“My pleasure,” Buchanan said.

The young woman’s eyes frosted over. She held Buchanan’s stare for a moment and then turned back to her mother. As she did, he caught a slight movement of her chair as she scooted it farther away from him.

“Do you have to meet him here?” Megan asked softly, leaning close to Joanna.

Buchanan wanted to say something—like he didn’t have a disease she could catch across a linen tablecloth—but he kept his mouth shut. He needed to keep Joanna relaxed, and insulting her daughter probably wasn’t the best move.

“Yes, I do,” Joanna said. “You don’t have to stay.”

Megan gave a small sigh and settled back in her chair. She crossed her legs and laid the tennis racket across her knees. “So they haven’t found her yet?” she asked.

“You know about Mrs. Tobias?” Buchanan asked.

“Of course,” Megan said.

Joanna’s eyes were steady on Buchanan’s. “Alex is trying to keep this quiet, as you can imagine. But Megan knew something was bothering me. I had to tell her.” She shook her head slowly. “I still can’t believe this is happening. I keep thinking about Amelia wandering around out there somewhere, alone and hurting.”

She took a sip of the Bloody Mary.

“Mrs. McCall—”

“Joanna.”

“Joanna . . . In my experience I’ve found that people who go missing always end up making contact. So if she contacts you, I need to know, okay? You won’t be betraying her. You’ll be helping her.”

Joanna nodded slowly. “So that’s all I can do? Just sit back and hope she calls?”

“No, of course not. For now, I need you to tell me anything you can think of about Amelia that might be useful to me.”

“Like what?”

“Tell me about her and Alex.”

Joanna glanced at Megan. The young woman was playing with something on her wrist, a red plastic stretch band with a locker-room key attached, but Buchanan knew she was listening intently to every word.

“I think it’s best if you excuse us now, dear,” Joanna said.

Megan let out a sigh. “Fine,” she said. She rose but made no move to leave. “But if you ask me, this whole situation is just ridiculous.”

“How do you mean?” Buchanan asked.

“Megan, please.”

“Amelia ran away,” Megan said, ignoring her mother. “Wives do that all the time, don’t they? I don’t understand why everyone’s so bent out of shape about it.”

“Megan, that’s enough,” Joanna said.

The young woman didn’t look at her mother. Her eyes stayed steady on Buchanan’s, as if daring him to ask her more, but finally she picked up her tennis racket. “I’m going to shower,” she said. “I’ll find someone to take me home.”

Megan sauntered off toward the door. Buchanan watched her and then looked back at Joanna.

“I must apologize for my daughter,” she said. “She can be a little immature sometimes.”

“So tell me about Alex,” Buchanan said.

Joanna kept her eyes lowered, and Buchanan had the feeling she was remembering something she wasn’t going to share.

Let them fill the silence.

Joanna finally exhaled a deep sigh and looked up. “Alex . . . Where do I start?”

“How did they meet?”

“It was at a ballet gala.”

“Yes, I know. But details are important and Amelia’s husband isn’t very good at details.”

Joanna gave him a sad smile. “No, he’s not.” She took another sip of her drink before she went on. “Owen and I have been Miami City Ballet patrons for years now. One night, just after Owen and Alex started their own firm, Owen wanted Alex to come along, to get him to meet the right people. It was Christmas and it was
The Nutcracker
, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Well, Alex was bored, and at intermission, he wanted to leave. He’s like a hummingbird, can’t sit in one spot very long.” Joanna paused, her expression turning distant, almost dreamy.

“But then, Amelia came onstage,” she said. “She was Coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“It’s a solo. Amelia is very tall, and they always give the Coffee solo to the tall girls. She was wearing a harem costume, and the music is very slow and sensual, the movements very seductive.” Joanna paused, smiling slightly. “You can imagine what it was like. The men in the audience—well, the straight men at least—they always sit up a little when Coffee comes on.”

“Did Alex?”

She nodded. “The solo ends with the dancer doing a split and then sort of slithering across the stage toward the audience. Alex was spellbound. When Amelia crawled across that stage, it was like she was crawling to him.”

Buchanan made a mental note to find the ballet on YouTube when he got back to his room.

Joanna sat back in her chair. “After the ballet, we went to the gala. There was a fundraiser thing where you could buy the pointe shoes of the dancers. Alex bid five hundred dollars for one of Amelia’s old shoes.”

Buchanan almost laughed. He picked up his coffee and took a long drink instead.

“Alex asked her out that same night,” Joanna said. “He was relentless once he decided he wanted her. He wanted to get married right away but Amelia had just been promoted to soloist. It was two years before she finally said yes. It happened very quickly, just time for a little ceremony at the Church by the Sea before they were off to France on the honeymoon. Alex didn’t even get her a real diamond until later.”

“Was Amelia a good dancer?” he asked.

“Oh yes. She got a scholarship to study in New York and then was hired into the corps of the New York City Ballet when she was just a teenager. And in Miami, Mel had wonderful reviews.”

Reviews? They would have popped up in a simple Google search. Why hadn’t he found them? Then he knew.

“Did Amelia use a stage name?”

Joanna nodded. “Yes, there was a soloist in the New York City Ballet with a very similar name, so to avoid confusion they told Amelia she had to come up with a stage name. She was Melia Worth.”

Amelia Bloodworth.

Melia Worth.

Mel Tobias.

“How did she end up down here?” Buchanan asked.

Joanna gave him a long stare. “The Miami City Ballet is a world-class company.”

Okay, he had offended her somehow, maybe because she had forked over a lot of money to the ballet. But to his mind, Miami was Vegas South, a place people went when someone was chasing them or their options had dried up. Or when they wanted to reinvent themselves.

“I only meant that New York is a bigger arena,” he said. “Why do you think she came down here?”

“I don’t really know. Mel never told me anything about her years in New York. I know she got the scholarship when she was only sixteen and had to go live in New York. They have dorms for the younger dancers and people to watch over them. But it couldn’t have been easy. And the New York City Ballet . . . well, it’s huge and terribly competitive. It’s not uncommon for dancers to leave there if they feel they can get better roles at a smaller company.”

“You said she had great reviews in Miami. Why did she quit?” Buchanan asked.

“She got injured,” Joanna said. “She took a really bad fall during a performance and broke her hip. It was bad enough that she couldn’t dance anymore.”

Buchanan wondered why Tobias had neglected to mention the injury. He remembered that the guy had turned pretty morose for a while during their interview, and Buchanan had assumed it was because they hadn’t been able to have children. But there were obviously more currents flowing under the surface of this marriage. There always were.

And it explained why Amelia had finally given in to Alex. Dancers didn’t make much money, and Alex Tobias had to have looked like a pretty good exit ramp after she got injured.

“Did Amelia ever mention a friend she had named Carol Fairfield?” he asked.

Joanna nodded. “Yes, they were in the corps together in New York. Amelia used to visit her every summer. I think Carol lived in Chicago.”

“Minneapolis.”

“Yes, that’s it. I never met her. But Amelia used to really look forward to seeing her.”

“What about other friends, maybe someone from her childhood?”