The Missing Taylor

by R C Cameron

  “Excellent, if you don’t mind, I will need access to the storage locker and whatever documents you have in your possession such as mail which you can send here, to my attention.”

  “Not a problem, Mister Tanner, I will have the documents delivered to you tomorrow.”

  (--)

  The sun was disappearing from the horizon, and I stepped inside a minute to turn on some lights. I also picked up a standard retainer document to present to my new customer. I laid it on the table and invited her to come in and discuss it.

  “Take a seat Mrs. Taylor,” as I showed her the sofa. I sat next to her, and I placed the retainer in front.

  “I require some administrative effort to launch the investigation. This is a standard retainer for a Private Investigator in the state of Florida. Please review it. My fees are $500 per day plus expenses, and I will ask for a $2,500 retainer in advance. I will send an invoice biweekly if I can. Don’t worry if I don’t, it could be because I’m too busy. If you could write your name and address, this is where I will send my bill. I can also work with an e-mail address.”

  She read the document, filled in the blanks, signed it and handed it back. She pulled her checkbook from her purse and wrote one, leaving it on the table.

  “I will need more information which you can fax to this number as I handed her my business card. You can also secure a file by e-mail by using the password PRIVATE-EYE, that’s the name of my boat. I will need Mark’s home address, social security number, any credit or debit card he may possess. I will also need names and phone numbers of girlfriends, surfing buddies and places you know he worked at, both bars and technology firms. If you don’t find all the phone numbers, don’t worry, I can manage.”

  “Fine.”

  I asked for her father’s phone number which I jotted in my notebook.

  Nadine got up and looked me in the eyes: “I hope you find my brother, Mr. Tanner, I wish you luck. I will make certain the storage space is accessible tomorrow, wait for my e-mail to confirm.”

  She turned around and exited the yacht with caution, uncertain of her footing on a moving platform. When she reached the shore, she opened the passenger door of a white SUV as the engine roared into life. Strange, I thought, her husband was present, but he did not come aboard with her. I closed the transom doors and went inside to plan my newest case.

  (--)

  It was too late to call captain Russell now and thank him for the referral. It would have to wait until tomorrow. I closed the lights, locked the doors and headed to my stateroom. It’s an impressive name for a bedroom with a single bed taking much of the space in the bow of the ship.

  The following morning, I awoke around 6 am, the sun still coming up at this time of the season. I prepared a coffee and headed to my all-in-one lunch, dinner, office and work table, the main attraction in the salon. I turned the TV on and listened to the local news with one ear as I read the rest of the news on my tablet. An hour later, after a quick breakfast, I was out the door for my morning march around the neighborhood. After a good hour’s walk, I sat at Starbuck’s on Federal Highway for my second coffee. I got my phone out and noticed Nadine had already forwarded the information we discussed the night before.

  Back on PRIVATE-EYE, I showered in my mini-stall, dressed and opened my MacBook to review Nadine's communication. She had compressed several documents into a single file protected by a password, smart woman I thought.

  In law enforcement, I learned thru experience you needed several tools to combat organized crime or even regular criminals. You needed information. I had developed, over the years, a special tie with an individual able to provide data on just about anybody. How he did this, I was clueless, but impressed. I paid him his due whenever he sent me the info I requested. Hank Hackman, no kidding, from New Jersey, was efficient and expeditious. I grabbed the phone.

  “Yes.”

  “Hank, it’s Jason, how are you?”

  “I’m fine Mister Tanner. I heard you now enjoy living in Florida?”

  “You heard correctly, I purchased a yacht and live aboard now. I passed my PI license a few months ago and I work on the odd case. I want to keep my brain functioning instead of frying if you know what I mean.”

  “Mister Tanner, I understand. What can I do for you?”

  I explained the case and told him I was looking for information on a male subject, Mark Taylor. I would transfer Nadine’s file after the call. He should examine telephone records going back a year, if he could. I was also seeking financial information from his bank and transactions from his credit and debit cards, for the last 6 months. He should also search for any arrests in the subject’s history, court filings, the works. I confirmed the standard pricing for this request, and I ended the call.

  I then buzzed John Russell. Not wanting to discuss the case over the phone, but I was planning to sail to Miami tomorrow, it would be nice to see John and chat. He suggested we meet for lunch near his office. Given I needed a few hours on the water and additional time to visit the storage locker, I asked him if I could setup a 5 pm meeting, my treat. Perfect, he said. So I filled the diesel and water tanks of PRIVATE-EYE, ready for an early departure.

  Looking at Nadine’s file on her brother, I noticed the names of what looked like companies, not bars. I called the first one and asked for the personnel office. Directed to a young voice, I used my private investigator persona to ask questions about the activities Mark Taylor performed at their firm. They told me he worked part-time over a six-month period for a customer revamping their website to add online transaction processing, whatever that was. I asked which company, they could not provide that information, it was confidential. They also mentioned it was the only contract with Mark they agreed upon. Other opportunities came along but Mark refused to join the newer projects.

  The second business also provided similar info; a fix-term contract for a third party looking to revamp a website. It seemed like Mark specialized in this area. Again, other occasions appeared but Mark turned them down. He seemed to lack interest on these projects although both employers recommended his work. I put that data aside for now.

  (--)

  I turned on the single diesel engine ten minutes to 7 am to benefit from the raise of the Atlantic Bridge on the hour. It was already 80 degrees on the intercostal. Being one foot too tall for this bridge, I had to wait. When I use the northern Lighthouse Point exit, with its 21-foot clearance, I need not wait. But travelling southbound, I preferred the Intracoastal Waterway up to the 17th Street Bridge and then due south towards Miami. If I wanted to, I could use the Waterway all the way to Miami, but it’s slower with added traffic.

  Once I hit the ocean, I relaxed and used the automatic pilot to get me to my destination. But because of the heavy traffic in the area, I stayed at the helm. When it got warmer, I moved onto the flybridge upstairs to run the yacht, enjoy the view as I brought up a fresh cup of coffee. If my new career included these kinds of moments, I masterminded a great move. I put my feet up, put on some Neil Young music, happy to sail with a purpose.

  I missed my daughter being far from me. She loves her new environment, but I would prefer she was closer. She said she would come and see me soon. I was looking forward to her visit.

  I had called the night before, but now I confirmed my arrival at the Miami Beach marina using my VHF radio. They require reservations even for a short stay. Winter is a busy time for the marine industry. On my way over to Miami, I received an email from Nadine informing me the storage facility had approved my access to the unit. Once moored, I walked to the marina office and concluded the registration. I then headed for the closest main street to grab a cab. I did not wear my sidearm, as I saw no use for it at this point.

  At the storage facility, I made my way to the main office and presented my new Florida Private Investigator ID credentials with pride. Without the key to access the locker, the young service desk clerk called an employee to accompany me. A key opened the front access which rose just
like a garage door. It was a common locker, about 10 feet by 15 feet. Inside, an odor of mildew. From the size of the locker, I figured dear Mark got an unfurnished apartment, and he bought furniture at Rooms-to-go upon his arrival. A mattress and box spring rested on the wall. A nightstand, a dresser, a kitchen table with chairs, a sofa with a recliner and half a dozen cardboard boxes filled the space.

  The boxes interested me the most. I pulled the dining room table and picked the first box I saw and opened it: mainly clothes. I used my magic marker to initial the box showing I had examined it. Old habits from the FBI never die. The second box was identical, another set of initials went on.

  The third box must have been the top drawer of the dresser, smaller belongings; a few rings, a nail clipper, old and expired credit cards, a set of keys opening God knows what. One of them got my attention. It looked like a safe deposit box. I pocketed the set of keys.

  A pile of pay stubs clipped together. I photographed them to get an idea of where he’d worked in the past few years. I noticed a small life insurance policy where Nadine was the beneficiary, uncertain she was aware of this. Maybe it was for his funeral service, who knows.

  The rest of the cardboard boxes yielded no treasure. I was wondering where his passport was, unseen yet. With no more card board boxes, I examined the furniture. Tables, chairs, dressers, not much there. I looked front and back, underneath, nothing.

  A large sofa topped by cushions, hidden in the back, got my attention. I had to displace several boxes and other items to get at it. Since it was the biggest piece of furniture, it was the first one to enter the space, that’s why it was located all the way to the back of the storage unit. I looked at the sofa, front and back, nothing extraordinary. When I lifted the two cushions, dirt and chips and other sofa excrement appeared. I noticed a small plastic bag, about one inch by two inches, empty, well almost. A closer look showed small white grains. I put the bag in a zip lock container I had brought. Before, I used to call this an evidence bag. I replaced everything and closed the front door of the storage unit. I informed the manager, and I left the premises.

  Back on the yacht, I called Nadine on her mobile phone hoping I could catch her during her dinner break; it was a little past noon already.

  “Hello.”

  “Nadine, good day, it’s Jason, how are you?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Thank you for the information, I received it this morning, it’s what I was looking for. But I have another question for you if you don’t mind. Did your brother have a safe deposit box by any chance?”

  Seconds later, she said: “Yes, he did. He told me a few years ago that he had named me a joint renter. If anything happened to him, I would find his important papers there. I never thought of that. But I don’t have a key.”

  “I believe I do Nadine.”

  (--)

  At 4:30, seated at The Melting Pot, a well-known sports bar and grill near the Miami-Dade police headquarters, I waited for John or JR as folks called him. Not expecting him before 5 pm, I ordered a beer and got news updates from my cell phone. Dozens of TV screens encircled the bar, either showing basketball or pre-season baseball games.

  I worked with John several years ago and always kept in touch. The first case I consulted on, as an FBI Special Agent, was the disappearance of a Cuban family, mother, father and two kids living in Miami’s little Havana District. Neighbors placed the first call when strangely the family, missed a get-together on a Sunday. When someone approached the family’s house, no one answered the door even if their car sat right out front. We discovered a Cuban gang kidnapped the family because the father owed money. They murdered the entire group including two innocent children. They discovered their bodies in a gravesite close to the Everglades, all shot in the head.

  Other opportunities to work with John appeared later on the radar. I was reminiscing these other cases when I heard “Hey buddy!” John was extending his arm from his over six feet frame. Standing up, I looked at his smiling face.

  “I am doing well, oh tall one.”

  “And your daughter?” he asked.

  “Cynthia is well, still living in Denver. I hope she’ll be able to visit soon. She has not seen my new living arrangements.”

  “And how do you like it on the water?” he continued.

  “So far so good. It’s small but comfortable. I had to come to Miami today, so I moved the entire house. The best thing is the lack of traffic compared to I-95.”

  “For sure my friend. I live in Miami Lakes, so I don’t use the interstate but still, there’s a tremendous amount of traffic in the area. The city of Miami may hold only 460,000 residents but when you add in the metro area, we are close to 5.6 million people. It’s not small by any means.”

  “I saw that on my way over this afternoon.” I added.

  “And how is the new business going?” John asked.

  “Well, since I got my license, I had three or four cases already. I am working on a few including the Taylor investigation which you referred, I thank you for that.”

  “The case is not cold yet, my detectives are still working on it, but no investigative leads appeared recently. New detectives should examine the case, but I have no one available. We manage a limited staff as you know.”

  I informed him of my search this morning at the storage facility and the discovery of a key to a safe deposit box. My plan was to access it Monday. Could I reach out to the detectives and get a copy of the case documentation, I asked John.

  “I’ll have someone at the office copy the case file and the detectives can bring it to you when you meet.”

  “That would be perfect, thank you.” I reached inside my pocket and retrieved a zip lock containing another plastic bag. “I also found this. There’s a white powder inside, do you think you can get it analyzed? I don’t have access to the FBI labs anymore.”

  “Sure buddy.”

  “One thing is puzzling me John from my search this morning. It’s something I did not find.”

  “And what’s that?” he asked.

  “Mark Taylor’s passport.”

  “Does he have one?”

  “He should, his sister told me he flew to South America a few years back. He may have it with him that’s also a possibility. Do you think you can ask the Homeland Security boys to see if Mark had a passport issued and whether he used it recently?”

  John would ask Freeman to issue the demand to Homeland Security and we continued talking for another hour of people we knew in common and cases we worked together. We concluded by my invitation to go fishing once things were quiet. He happily accepted, and we both left the bar early, knowing John had to rejoin his family in Miami Lakes.

  I returned to the Miami Beach Marina, had dinner and opened my notebook to update my investigation. At the FBI, we had all kinds of applications to document our progress. As a PI, I limited myself to a notebook. I opened the laptop and accessed my small business accounting program to record my time and expenses of the day. If I didn’t do it every night, I would forget it.

  I went to the flybridge with a cup of tea to enjoy the setting sun. I had a special thought about Laura. I wonder if she would have treasured life on the water like I did. She liked the sea and the beach but trying to get her aboard a ship for a small excursion was impossible. If she was alive, we would be close to the sea, but not right on it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE NEXT MORNING, I got up at my usual time and took in the morning activities around the marina. Saturday, a period when most owners have time to take their boat to sea, work on it or just stay aboard for a while.

  I walk the docks trying to find someone who would at least look like a fisherman. It was difficult, people mostly arrived in bathing suits.

  I found an elderly man, bringing out fishing rods and setting them in holders on the aft deck, so I approached him. “Pardon me sir, with all the rods I see aboard, I guess you are familiar with the good fishing spots in the area.”

&n
bsp; He looked at me. “Are you a new resident of the marina?” he asked. “Temporary,” I replied. He shook his head. His grey hair was showing even if he wore a baseball cap, the oldest cap I ever saw. His hair matched the white beard surrounding a mouth with a few holes and yellow teeth.

  “What kind of fish do you want to catch?”

  “I like to eat pompano, grouper and yellowtail tuna. Any of those around here?”

  “Pompano, you can catch at the fishing pier just like any tourist in the area. Grouper and tuna, you need to outsmart them, like I do. Why don’t you come with me, I’ll show you a few spots?”

  “You are serious? I was planning on taking my boat but your invitation sounds better. I’ll share in the expenses.”

  “Fine. Go get your gear, meet me here in 30 minutes, or less if you can.”

  “Count on me,” as I rushed to PRIVATE EYE to gather a few essentials elements like food, water, sun protection, rods, reels, a hat and a few colds beers. I was back on his boat within 15 minutes and realized I ignored his name.

  William Tudor, he told me after I introduced myself. The diesel engine was already humming, I handled the mooring lines as per his instructions directed from the flybridge up above. He had an old, 1980s, Tiara 33-foot boat with a light-green hull while the rest was a perfect white. He seemed to maintain his boat real well.

  I joined him on the upper deck and after an hour, I knew a lot about the man.

  William is a 73-year-old history teacher who enjoys tree-shaping, gardening and relaxing. He’s British and defines himself as a calm person. He got a postgraduate degree in European history and sails because of a severe phobia of flying. After the Second World War he reached the United States on a cruise ship at a young age.

  He grew up in an upper-class neighbourhoods in Columbus, Ohio. Raised by his mother, his father died when he was young. He is single. William’s best friend is a personal trainer called Neal Walsh. They have a fiery friendship. They enjoy working in the garden together. When he wants to relax, he comes aboard his ship named Rock Steady. Neal hates the waves, he gets seasick so he rarely shows up aboard, unless the boat stays attached to the marina.