Gone (14 page)

FIFTEEN

S
OUNDING BUSINESSLIKE AND EFFICIENT, NOTHING AT ALL
like the party girl who at three a.m. had invited me to swim naked with her in the pool, Martha Calder-Shaun said, “Do you mind telling me again how you know this? I want to make sure we have all the information straight. In fact, I should record it.” There was the bong
of a digital button being pushed before she added, “For the investigation time line, it’ll help. Do I have your permission?”

“Not if you expect me to use names,” I replied. “Later, depending how it goes, it might be okay. But it’ll have to wait.” I was in my apartment, pacing, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, feeling jittery now that the cloudiness of marijuana had worn off. It was an hour before sunset but felt earlier, despite my busy day.

Because of what had happened the night before, I had been dreading this call to Mrs. Calder-Shaun but had finally summoned the nerve. Up until now, though, things had gone okay. I’d told her about the party I’d been invited to in Port Royal, about what I’d found at Olivia’s house (minus a few details kept private for Olivia’s sake), but had saved the best for last—new information about where to find Ricky Meeks. So far, there’d been no hint of embarrassment from the New York attorney, no references to what she probably considered my prudish ways or my stern reaction to her behavior in the swimming pool last night.

Martha used a long silence to communicate her displeasure at my refusing to name names but finally stopped the recorder, saying, “Fine, Hannah, have it your way. But don’t go so fast this time, I’m taking notes.”

I repeated what I’d just said but added more information. On a tip from a friend at Fishermans Wharf (Mr. Pallet), I had phoned a pompano fisherman, who told me that for the last three Monday afternoons a boater who fit Meeks’s description had tied up at a marina south of Marco Island. The man always left the marina on foot, then returned about an hour later loaded down with bags from a nearby 7-Eleven. If there was a woman aboard, no one at the marina had seen her, although it was possible a passenger could have stayed below in the boat’s cabin. The man bought fuel, filled up his tank with water, and always paid in cash using hundred-dollar bills.

“Interesting,”
Martha said, not missing the significance.

“The boat’s a thirty-foot Skipjack cruiser,” I added. “An older model, with twin Mercruiser engines. White hull with blue canvas, no name on the stern—exactly the way Ricky’s boat was described to me by my friend at the shrimp docks. His physical description matches, too. A little over six feet, lean, lots of muscles, dark wavy hair, probably two hundred pounds. At least, that’s the way I picture the guy from the only photo Lawrence gave me.”

Using first names, Lawrence and Martha, had become easier for me after what I’d heard and experienced the night before.

“The name of the marina,” the woman said, “say it again. I’ve heard it before, I’m sure I have—a strange name, but I forget where.”

“Caxambas Fisherman’s Co-op,” I repeated, then spelled it for her while my phone chimed with an incoming call—
Lawrence Seasons
—which I ignored, explaining to Martha, “It’s a little village south of Marco. There used to be a clam-processing plant in the old days. And there’s still a tiny little post office but not more than a couple of stores, if you count a tiki bar. If it hasn’t gone bust. When I was a girl, my uncle usually stopped at Caxambas on our way back from camping in the Ten Thousand Islands.”

“A
post office
,” Martha said in a way that meant something. “Now I know why the name’s familiar. Put your phone on speaker if you want. It may take me a minute to call up the right file on my computer.”

I crossed the room to the desk where my own laptop was open, the DVDs I’d found in Olivia’s office already neatly logged into a notebook, and also noted in a folder I’d created to store documents regarding the case. Later, I would decide whether to erase those entries or not. There was a reason. The DVD labeled
Orchid House
, as I already knew, contained nothing personal unless you counted Olivia’s preference for the mildest sort of romantic sex scenes—some from the
Red Shoe Diaries
and other short videos she had downloaded from the Internet.

The same with the other DVDs, although I hadn’t had time to make a thorough check. Instead, I had fast-forwarded through snippets of couples making love, one man, one woman usually, but sometimes a pair of classy-looking women kissing or fondling, which had caused me to feel uncomfortable even though they contained nothing graphic. As I drifted past the desk, I wondered if I would have reacted the same if Martha Calder-Shaun hadn’t tried to seduce me after talking me into swimming with just bra and panties. Something like that had never happened to me before—although there
might
have been two incidents in college I was too naïve or disinterested to recognize.

“Are you there, kiddo? I found it.” Martha had returned to the phone.

“This has to do with Caxambas, right?” I asked. I was leafing through the old history book I had taken from the briefcase Lawrence Seasons had been keeping for my Uncle Jake but had forgot to return. Why my uncle would ask a fishing client to “keep” something as innocent as a book made no sense unless it was because the binding was of much finer quality than the reprinted version I’d seen at Darren’s. The same was true of the second book, which was leather-bound, embossed in gold, and the size of a family Bible. Maybe they were valuable and Jake hadn’t wanted them around during his nasty divorce from Mary.

Martha said, “A week after she disappeared, Olivia mailed a donation she’d promised to a church but had apparently forgotten to send. The minister contacted our office when he couldn’t get in touch with Olivia. I’ve got a photo of the envelope right here. The postmark is Caxambas. It was a check for a thousand dollars sent June sixth, a Monday. That was . . . twelve days ago.”

“Then it
is
Ricky Meeks!” I said, so excited I shoved the history book away, which knocked the second book off the desk. The thing landed with a heavy thud, then an unexpected metallic clatter.

“Her check bounced,” Martha continued. “That’s why the minister called our office. It was written on a personal account we didn’t know she’d opened. Larry hasn’t been able to confirm exactly how much she’d deposited, but it was a money market account that required a minimum balance of fifty thousand.”

Several seconds later, I was still staring at what lay at my feet when the woman asked for what was, I realized, the second time, “Hannah . . . are you still there?”

“Ricky . . . he cleaned out Olivia’s account,” I replied, struggling to refocus, which required some effort. The book had spilled open when it landed, ejecting a semiautomatic pistol that was like no handgun I’d ever seen. The barrel and slide were stainless steel, which isn’t unusual, but the trigger guard was a customized hook, and the handgrips had transparent windows that showed the magazine was loaded with a stack of hollow-point cartridges. Nine-millimeter, it looked like, although I wasn’t expert enough to be sure at a glance.

Martha said, “It’s all coming together now, kiddo. I think you’re right. I think you found that son of a bitch.”

Kneeling to retrieve the weapon, I replied, “Fifty thousand dollars missing, that ought to be enough to convince the police, don’t you think? Have them waiting when the guy shows up in Caxambas day after tomorrow.”

“To question Ricky Meeks, you mean. We don’t have enough for an arrest warrant, but shake him a little and see what falls out. Yeah, I agree.” The woman sounded excited.

I said, “I’d want to be there, Martha. I feel like I know Olivia already and I won’t feel right until I’m sure she’s safe.” Which was true, but I was also worried. I feared the girl wouldn’t want to be rescued unless someone who understood her predicament was there to help—and I was the only person who knew the truth. Some of it, anyway. I hadn’t been able to decipher all of Olivia’s shorthand entries in the missing pages, but I’d read enough to know that Meeks had seduced her the same way he had taken control of Mrs. Whitney’s life. At first, he’d all but forced Olivia, then he’d kept her so dizzy in the bedroom that a strange, unhealthy bond had formed. Maybe the girl was still under the man’s spell, which was an upsetting possibility. I probably should have shared the information with Martha right then, but I felt too protective of Olivia to reveal such an embarrassing secret. Plus, I was rattled by what my Uncle Jake had kept hidden inside this old book that lay open on the floor.

Jake and I had been closer than some fathers and daughters, so my ego was bruised. He had given this unusual gun to Lawrence Seasons to protect instead of someone of his own blood.

Why? Why hadn’t my uncle trusted
me
?

—

I
HADN’T PUT
the phone on speaker but now I did so I could use both hands to unload the pistol. Thumb on the release button, I ejected the magazine while I listened to Martha tell me, “If the sheriff’s department tries to ignore this, I’ve got contacts at the governor’s office through friends in D.C. They haven’t helped much yet, but now that we know where the asshole is—you know, show them the bad check, the envelope and postmark. The least they can do is loan us a couple of deputies to . . .”

While the woman continued talking, my phone chimed again with another call.
Gabby Corrales.
Her earlier phone message had asked me to call about the party, but party talk could wait. I shucked the pistol’s slide and with my left hand caught the cartridge before it hit the table. Yes, a nine-millimeter hollow-point. What I thought was the slide lock was actually a decocking lever. Still listening to the attorney, I gripped the pistol in both hands and swung its weight toward the door, eyes open, index finger parallel the barrel, my feet automatically moving into combat stance just as my uncle had drilled into me as a teenager—and also later when I took a concealed weapons class he said might be useful if I pursued law enforcement. The pistol was shorter, lighter, better balanced than any I’d ever held. Jake had been a sheriff’s detective in Tampa before retiring on disability, but this was not the sort of weapon an underpaid cop carried. No cop I’d ever met, anyway. I placed the gun on the desk, then picked up the book where it had been concealed. On the leather cover, embossed in gold, was a one-word title:
Negotiators
.

My phone chimed a third time:
Elka Whitney
. I couldn’t remember getting so many calls in such a short space of time. I’d called Elka earlier and left a message, asking how she was doing. I was worried about the woman and determined to help see her through this. But Elka was a talker who required a lot of time, so I refused the call and put the phone to my ear.

Martha was saying, “I’ve got to be honest about something. You’ve impressed the hell out of me, Hannah dear. My instincts told me you might be good, but, my God, in less than forty-eight hours you’ve accomplished more than what our so-called professional from Miami did in ten days. Let me ask you something. The investigator I’m talking about—according to his reports, anyway—interviewed people in Caxambas last week. At the post office
and
the marina, and they didn’t tell him a damn thing. But you found out exactly what we needed to know with just a few phone calls.
How?
”

A private investigator was already working on the case? It was news to me, although I didn’t let my surprise show. Tracking Ricky Meeks had taken a lot more than a couple of phone calls, of course, but I didn’t want to rebuff Martha’s compliment after refusing this powerful woman’s advances in the swimming pool.

“Day before yesterday,” I replied, “when Lawrence invited me to lunch, he said something really smart, but I wasn’t smart enough to understand. Not at the time, anyway. Lawrence said—I won’t get the words exactly right—he said, ‘Never underestimate the importance of local knowledge.’ Which makes sense when it comes to fishing, but I’d never thought of it in a bigger way. My family’s lived on these islands forever, so I know a lot of people. They trust me, I guess, so they were willing to talk. And they know I won’t—”

Martha interrupted, “Reveal their names to a nosy New York attorney?” She said it with a smile but also a hint of irritation.

I had opened the book titled
Negotiators
, which, in fact, wasn’t a book. It was a leather box with enough real pages to be convincing. The inside was black velvet and contained a formfitting depression that matched the shape of the pistol exactly. There were also a couple of other unusual items the box had been built to hide—a steel dagger among them—but I would take a closer look later. Right now, I had to concentrate on Martha, who could set subtle traps and knew how to use words like they were weapons. She was being nice, sure, but her tone also warned that she was being tricky.

“Something like that,” I replied, trying to turn the tables on her. “What I’m wondering is, why didn’t you tell me about the other investigator? We could have pooled information and helped each other.”

“You didn’t need his help, kiddo!” Martha shot back. “Besides, that guy wasn’t much of a professional. He was an oddball from the start, then dropped off the radar a few days before we hired you.”

That struck me as more than just odd. “The man disappeared, you mean?”