SAVANNAH GONE (3 page)

Back on the sidewalk, my cell phone rang. I fished it from my pocket and pressed it to my ear. “Mister Fontaine, this is Dr. Robertson. I’m Claire’s father. Sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I just got out of surgery.”

“I’m standing in front of Claire’s townhouse,” I said. “Do you know if she has a security alarm?”

“I...why do you ask?”

“Because I plan on getting inside to see if she’s there.” I worked a number of robbery cases when I was a CID agent, and I’m pretty good at picking a lock. But electronic security is an entirely different bowl of chili.

“You’re not planning on breaking in are you?” he asked me.

I like asking questions not answering them...so I ignored his. “Times wasting doc.” I raised my voice. “Does she have a security alarm?”

“I don’t know.”

“Call your wife and ask her if she knows, then call me right back.” I hung up before he could ask any more questions.

Heart surgery or not, on a deep visceral level it pissed me off that the good doctor was working while his daughter was missing. Plus I was still a little steamed about the refusal to involve the media. Besides, Cavanaugh made it clear I was working for him. You see why I like understanding the chain of command? And if Claire was inside, in whatever capacity, the time to find out was now.

I loped around back to where a small brick alleyway ran the length of the building. A wrought iron fence separated the alley from Claire’s rear patio. I scaled the fence and made my way to her back door. I twisted the knob, but it was locked. Next to the door was a narrow sash window. I shaded my face from the sun and peered inside to a narrow mud room. There was an umbrella in the corner, and a light blue nylon jacket hung from a hook on the wall.

“I’m calling the police,” said a voice off to my right.

I swiveled my head in time to glimpse a retreating bonnet of gray hair. It was Claire’s next door neighbor. She’d been home all along.

“Hang on a second,” I shouted. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for Claire.”

That stopped her short. She poked her head outside and eyed me suspiciously. Late fifties to early seventies, with a walnut, two-pack-a-day, face.

“My name’s Ray Fontaine.” I extracted a card from my wallet and held it up for her to see. “I just got off the phone with Claire’s father.”

She put one hesitant foot outside the door, and then the other. She shambled over and took my card. Her eyes were kind of bloodshot, and I smelled whiskey on her breath. In a voice just above a whisper, she asked, “Has something happened to Claire?” A sudden flash of fear crept across her face.

“She’s missing,” I said. “Have you seen her?”

“Not since a week ago Sunday.” She arched a penciled eyebrow. “Are you trying to get inside?”

I nodded. “I’m worried Claire might be inside, unable to call for help. Her father should be calling me back any minute. Before I try to break in, I need to know if she’s got an alarm system.”

“You don’t need to break in,” she informed me. “I’ve got a spare key. I collect Claire’s mail during the week while she’s away. Give me just a minute.”

She trundled back to her place, emerging minutes later clutching a gold key and a small slip of paper. “As many times as I’ve done this, you’d think I’d remember the alarm code.” She scrunched her face up and studied the slip of paper, then muttered, “Seven-five-eight-six-star.” She turned and looked at me. “We don’t want to trip the alarm. I’ve done it a few times, and it’s loud as hell.”

She unlocked the door, and I followed her inside to the mud room. The security keypad was on the far wall, and it was beeping. Claire’s neighbor marched right over to it, punched in the code and disarmed the system. No sweat.

I tried to figure a way to get her out the door so I could nose around, but she stuck to me like flypaper, fogging my brain with stale, one hundred proof breath.

So with her trailing behind me, we did a cursory search of all four floors. Unfortunately, Claire wasn’t home sick in bed, or hiding out avoiding the phone. And the townhouse looked clean and undisturbed. We finished going through the place, then made our way back down to the first floor.

Claire’s neighbor reset the alarm, locked up and pocketed the key.

Standing in the shade on the back patio, I asked her, “How well do you know Claire?”

She waggled her hand back and forth. “So-so. Mostly because she’s not here during the week.”

“And you’re sure Claire wasn’t home this past weekend?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m not an idiot. One of the first things Claire does when she gets home is stop by and pick up her mail. Never had a Friday when she didn’t.”

Before I could ask anything else, my phone rang again. I checked the number. “It’s Claire’s father,” I said to her. “Give me a second.”

I wandered out of earshot with the phone pressed to my ear. “Thanks for calling me back Doctor Robertson. I managed to get inside with a key from Claire’s neighbor. We just locked up.”

“Oh. OK. Did you—?”

“Claire’s not here. I didn’t see any sign of violence either.”

I heard him exhale. “Thank God. Now what?”

“Now I need to talk with you and your wife. As soon as possible, and preferably face-to-face. I could drive up to Charleston, but I think it’d be best if the two of you came to Savannah.”

“We’re driving down this afternoon. We should be there between four-thirty and five o’clock.”

“Let’s meet in front of Claire’s townhouse. Call me when you get close.”

“I will,” he said. And this time he hung up on me.

I stuffed the phone into my pocket and hightailed it back to Claire’s neighbor. “I didn’t get your name,” I said to her.

She eyed me for a long moment, then said, “Lydia Baker. Is everything going to be all right?”

“Let’s hope so Lydia. Since Claire didn’t stop by to collect her mail last week, you still have it. Correct?”

She hesitated before giving me a tentative nod.

“I need you get it for me.”

“I’m not sure I—.”

“Lydia, listen to me. This is important. Claire’s counting on
us
.” Us is a great word. It gets the folks you’re trying to coerce to buy in and join the team. Continuing, I said, “It’s a long-shot, but there might be something in her mail that can help
us
find her. Now please, go and get it for me.”

She wavered for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. Then she looked at me and muttered, “I’ll be right back.”

She tottered over to her back door and disappeared inside, returning a few minutes later with a large stack of mail. She handed it to me, then watched as I leafed through it. There was a fitness magazine, a bill from the cable company, the usual cadre of junk solicitations, and a hand addressed envelope made out to Claire. The postmark read Darien, Georgia, and it was dated last Friday, the day Claire disappeared. I noticed there was no return address. Curious.

“Lydia, I hate to impose. But would you mind getting me a glass of water? My throat’s a little scratchy. I think it’s the pollen.”

She put her hands on her hips and gave me an indignant look. “You’re a lot of work, you know that. First, it’s the mail. Now you want water. What’s next
, a turkey sandwich?”

The only thing worse than a cranky drunk is an old cranky drunk. In my most soothing tone, I said, “Just the water Lydia. Please.”

“Oh, all right.”

When she was out of sight, I slipped the Darien envelope inside my waistband.

She made it back with my glass of water. “Lydia, you’ve been a big help,” I said, handing her the bundle of mail. “I’ve gotta run, but I may need to talk with you again. Would you mind giving me your phone number?”

“I guess that’ll be OK.”

She gave me her number, and I punched it into my phone. I said, “If Claire happens to come home, please call me as soon as you can. And if you see anything that looks suspicious, anything at all, I need to know about it. You have my card. Please don’t lose it.”

As I walked away, Lydia called out, “What about the water?”

Sitting in the car, I slid the envelope out of my pants. I flipped it over a couple of times, shook it, smelled it, then slit it open with my ignition key. Inside was a handwritten note on a sheet of pricey-looking statione
ry. The note was some kind of poem or limerick. It said:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

Hidden in Bourbon Field

Beneath the largest tree just like Sam McGee

Three hundred pounds concealed

Strange things done in the midnight sun...what the hell was that all about? I’ve been known to do some strange things myself, and I could certainly be accused of hiding out in a bottle of scotch from time to time, but this made absolutely no sense. And what exactly is a field of bourbon? I know bourbon is made from fermented corn. I read the poem a couple more times, but the damn thing didn’t seem to have any relevance to the case. Frustrated, I slid the poem back in the envelope and locked it in my glove box.

I still had a few hours before I met Caroline for lunch. When a person goes missing, the clues are often hidden within the hours and days that preceded their disappearance. My mind turned to Sapelo. Claire worked there, and it was the first thing Cavanaugh mentioned. Was the key to finding her located out on the island?

I knew I wouldn’t get out there today. I needed to start calling hospitals. I cranked the motor and sat listening to it idle for a moment, then peeled out.

~ ~ ~

The 5 Spot was packed, which didn’t surprise me. It’s a popular eatery, particularly with the locals. It’s located in the Habersham Village shopping center, about a ten-minute drive from downtown.

I looked around and didn’t see Caroline. This didn’t surprise me either. While I waited for her to show, I took a seat at the bar, nursed a beer, and munched on some pretzels.

Earlier, I’d phoned every hospital between Brunswick, a small city south of Sapelo Island, to Charleston. But I found no trace of Claire. Next I swung by The Book Lady Bookstore. I picked up two books, one on Sapelo, the other on R.J. Reynolds. And in addition to the books, I bought an aerial map of coastal Georgia. The map was laminated, which is a good thing if you had it sitting on top of a bar like I did.

Printed on the back of the map were all kinds of interesting facts. Officially, Georgia has seventeen barrier islands, sometimes referred to as the Golden Isles. And only four of the seventeen can be reached by car: Tybee, Jekyll, St. Simons and Sea Island. The rest, including Sapelo, must be reached by boat. This has left Georgia’s coast unspoiled and undeveloped. Lucky us. How many Hilton Heads do we need anyway? Am I right?

Here’s another map fact: at the dawn of the twentieth century, tycoons, robber barons and captains of industry escaped the cold winters of the north by flocking to the Georgia coast for the mild, sub-tropical weather. I read their names: Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Ford, Pulitzer, Rockefeller, DuPont, Goodyear, and Morgan.

According to the map, in 1910, under the tutelage of Wall Street king J.P. Morgan, The Federal Reserve was secretly conceived on Jekyll Island. Who knew?

Looking at the map, I noticed Sapelo sat smack in the middle of Georgia’s coastline. Directly to the North, separated by a small tidal creek, was Blackbeard Island, where, according to legend, the famed pirate buried treasure that’s never been found.

Anyway, there I was, hunkered in at the bar with my new map when I felt fingers trailing lightly across the back of my neck.

“Sorry I’m late,” Caroline said. “Hey, what’s with the map, blowing town without telling me, Fontaine?”

“Just getting my bearings. Hungry?”

“Starved. Pressed for time too. Mind if we eat at the bar?”

“You sure?”

She answered by sliding onto the stool next to me. My kind of girl.

Here’s the thing about Caroline. She’s a cop and a damn good one. But she’s also a real head-turner, tall and striking, with Cherokee blood on her father’s side, and a taut, gym-honed body. Filling out the rest of the details: age, thirty-eight; hair, medium length, dark brown; eyes, blue-green; nice mouth, full lips, flawless skin, and impossibly high cheekbones.

In an effort to be taken seriously in the male-dominated world of law enforcement, Caroline deliberately tries to downplay her looks. That means zero makeup or jewelry while on the job, and a wardrobe that reveals as little as possible. Today’s entry in the cover-up sweepstakes: a mid-length linen blazer and a pair of flare leg pants. Not bad, but I’d have preferred a black mini skirt.

After she settled in, I turned toward her and impressed her with one of my new map facts. “Did you know the first transcontinental phone call was made from Jekyll Island?”

Caroline gazed at me with wide-eyed wonder. Well, not exactly. She leaned back, crossed her arms and said, “Have you lost your mind?”

I shrugged, put the map away, and returned to my beer. I guess some people just aren’t into history.

We made small talk for a few minutes. The bartender wandered over and dropped off a couple menus. “My name is Jeff,” he said to us. “I’ll be taking care of you today.” He took Caroline’s drink order, a glass of sweet tea, then made his way toward the other end of the bar.

Caroline leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “I’ve got the missing persons report in the car. I asked a few questions for you too. We’re trying to track Claire’s cell phone location.”

I took a sip of my beer. “Thanks for grabbing it, Caroline. I owe you.”

“I looked it over Fontaine, and it’s pretty thin. You realize it was filed late yesterday, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Might turn out to be useful to me though. I still haven’t met her parents.”

Caroline looked surprised. “No? Who hired you then?”

“Some old codger named Edward Cavanaugh. He’s got an outfit called Coastal Capital.” I popped a pretzel into my mouth. “Know him?”

“He’s not just some old codger Fontaine. He’s one of the wealthiest men in Savannah, probably in the entire state. Ever heard of a family office?”