He’s not giving up any details.
“Nothing more? Mom will want me to report so she can write something for the papers.”
“Rumor on the street has it there’s a missing cocaine shipment and people are getting killed. But that is absolutely not for publication, Pratt.”
He changes the subject. “Are you interested in a job?”
“Depends on what it is.” Yes. Especially if I get to work with you.
“This is a little different. Come with me.” He leads to his desk, in the middle of a room full of desks. A small pile of papers fills the IN box, a coffee mug holds pens and pencils; there’s a calendar desk pad and a phone. A computer screen and keyboard occupy the extension. The rest of the desk is clean, the neatest desk in the room. How can he work like that? Papers are everywhere on my desk at home.
He grabs an extra chair for me and sits behind the desk. “A woman from Boston is here looking for her brother. He’s missing, but we can’t give her much help. Young men partying at the beach who don’t call home are not our top priority. I told her I might know someone who could help.”
He takes a folder from his desk drawer and opens it. I slide my chair next to his, so I can see. It gives me a chance to brush shoulders with him. A little electric shock passes between us. Thorpe looks at his arm, then at me, and smiles. He turns to the folder and pulls out a photo of a couple, teens, or early twenties, smiling at each other, clean cut, dark hair and eyes. They look alike.
“Is this the brother and sister?” This is exciting. My first real case. All I’ve done as a PI ’til now is computer searches and some insurance work.
“Yup. Taken two years ago, she said. He’s twenty-two now, graduated from college last year. Here’s all the information I have.” He hands me the folder.
I stare at the picture. “Where’s the rest of the family?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t ask.”
Men have no curiosity. “Can I use your computers to search?”
“Nothing there to find, at least not under his name. I did a search, trying to find an address. The woman, Allison Martinelli, is staying at the Sanibel Harbour Marriott. Here’s her card with her mobile number.”
He pulls a card from his pocket and holds it out. When I take the card, another spark passes between us.
This time he smiles. “Static electricity, or is it you?”
Now I know I’m blushing. I stand to leave.
“Maybe we should do something about that spark, Pratt. When are you going to let me take you to dinner?” He acts like I’ve turned him down a thousand times, but he’s never asked before. A little flirting now and then, but no invites. It’s not a real invitation this time, either.
I back up and bump into the corner of his desk. Why am I acting like a teenager? Say yes or no, Pratt. Yes, yes, of course yes. “So call me,” I mumble. Tripping over my feet, I turn to make my escape.
“You taking the case, Pratt?” Thorpe calls after me.
“Yes.” Why wouldn’t I? It’s my first real case, looking for a real person.
“You might need this.” He’s holding the folder I left behind.
It’s all I can do not to run from the building.
#
In the car, I finally start thinking straight. Damn! I should have asked to use the telephone. How can I call Allison Martinelli? The Phone Booth, a store that sells everything connected with cell phones and more, is on my way to her hotel. Time to get a new one. Let’s see how good my powers of persuasion are this morning.
A gorilla is manning the counter, waiting on a little old lady with a walker. He has one bushy eyebrow over both eyes, broken only by creases in the middle that form a permanent frown. He growls at the blue-haired lady. “You can’t turn in your phone every five minutes because you don’t know how to use them.”
She’s no slouch, talking back to him. “Young man, if you can’t give me decent instructions or show me how to use it, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
“What good is a different phone? They’re all the same.” His growl gets louder.
“At least explain to me why, when I push the button for messages, it gives me a wrong number. You must have set it up wrong.” She waves her phone in his face.
He grabs it and punches a button, puts it to his ear, and hands it back. “Messages. See?”
I wander around the store, snooping, checking all the electronic toys, while they argue, voices getting louder. Two more clerks wait on customers. Hopefully, one of them will return to the counter. Finally, the blue-haired woman stomps from the store. Did you know you could stomp with a walker? The gorilla runs after her. This I have to see.
I open the door to see gorilla pounding on a van that is backing from a parking spot.
“You have my phone,” he screams. “Stop!”
The van continues to back up, as Gorilla scurries to keep from getting hit. He kicks the side of the van as it passes. Brakes squeal. A scrunched-up, white-haired man opens the driver’s door and steps down to check for damage. The blue-haired lady pokes her head out after him. Lots of yelling with arms windmilling, until cells are swapped and the gorilla heads back toward the store. I slip inside and wait at the counter.
“Whatcha want?” Gorilla growls at me. His face is red and a pulse pounds in his forehead.
“I would like to exchange this.” I smile at him as I hand him my mobile.
“Have you picked a new one?”
“The same model will be fine. Or maybe it needs a new battery.”
Gorilla pushes some buttons. Nothing happens. “How old is the battery?”
“One week.”
“Did you charge it all the way before using it?” He shakes the phone.
“Yes, it was working fine until yesterday. I charged it the night before, too.”
He hands me a new battery, sealed in a package. The pulse has quit pounding in his forehead and his face is not as red.
“Would you mind putting it in for me? I want to make sure it works. It might not be the battery, you know. It showed a full charge before it quit working.”
“We don’t do that.” He rings up the battery. Fifty-six bucks!
“I don’t think it’s the battery. Aren’t these things guaranteed?” I smile at him again. Don’t want to set him off; he’s had a bad morning already.
“How long you had it, lady?” The growl is getting lower and louder. “Did you buy our extended warranty?”
“Only three months. I seem to have a problem with them. They’re always dying on me.” I don’t tell him the last one I ran over with my car, or that I spilled coffee on the one before that.
Another clerk approaches. I recognize him. I’ve done business with him a few times. What’s his name? Frank? “Hi, Frank.”
“Oh hello, Ms. Pratt.” Frank’s a shorty. He smiles up at me. I’m surprised he remembers my name. Or maybe not so surprised—as many times as I’ve been in here. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Phone died again.” I shrug.
“She expects me to replace her battery to see if it works. We don’t do that.” Gorilla is looking for backup.
“You can do it. It’s okay,” Frank says.
“Well, you do it.” Gorilla walks away. Good! Frank likes me.
Frank opens the package and puts in the new battery. He pushes buttons and shakes it, same as the gorilla. Nothing. He opens it to take out the battery.
“It looks a little damp in here.”
“Well, I live on an island, you know. I do take it with me on my boat.” I give him my sweetest smile. “Aren’t they made to withstand a little wear and tear?”
Frank rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling. “I don’t think we can give you another one like this. Maybe one we’re giving away free with new service.”
“Can you show me?” Don’t bat your eyes at him, Ernie. That’s a bit too much.
At the display, he shows me a little plastic thing that looks like it would last about a min
ute in my hands. “This is nice.”
“How about this?” I point to a thin, black, sleek-looking model.
“Oh no. That costs two-fifty.”
“Two dollars and fifty cents?”
Frank lets out a wheezy laugh that ends in a cough. When he’s finished choking, he shows me a flip phone that doesn’t look too bad.
“I’ll take it. Can you reprogram it from my old one?”
“I’ll try.” He goes to the counter and plugs everything in. No luck with my old phone. He opens it and removes the SIM card, installs it in the new model. Nothing. Damn!
“So what does it take to be transferred? I guess I lost my contacts.”
“Can you leave it?” Frank’s smile is gone. Tiny creases show between his eyebrows. At least he has two, not one shaggy unibrow like gorilla.
“How about this afternoon?”
“Maybe. Call before you come back.”
Now I laugh. “How can I call? No phone.”
This gets a smile and a chuckle.
I leave with no means of communication. Guess I’ll have to drop in live on Ms. Martinelli. Hope she’s at the hotel.
#
The Marriott is right before the Sanibel Causeway and close to my friend Charlie’s house where I keep my boat. I ask the guy at the desk to put me through to Ms. Martinelli.
“Hello?” It’s like a tentative question when she answers. At least she’s in.
“Ms. Martinelli, this is Ernie Pratt. Sheriff’s Deputy Thorpe gave me your name. He thought I might be able to help you find your brother.”
“Oh yes. I’d like to talk to you. Where can I meet you?”
“I’m in the lobby of your hotel right now. If it’s not convenient, I can come back.”
“No, it’s fine. Come to my room.”
#
“Ms. Martinelli?” Her room is like a small apartment: living room, bedroom, bath, kitchenette. Must cost a fortune this time of year, January is full tourist season. I see dollar signs in front of my eyes. Could I charge her double or triple and get away with it? Nah! I’d feel guilty.
“Please, call me Allison.” She offers her hand. A nice firm grip. She’s wearing a wedding band and a big fat diamond on her other hand. Dressed in light blue pants and matching blouse. Silk? I’m not an expert on clothes, but I’d guess expensive. I’m glad I’m not wearing my usual grubbies.
“Okay, and I’m Ernie.”
She’s graceful, slim, olive-skinned, medium height, with dark brown eyes and long straight brunette hair. Dark circles show under her eyes. She probably hasn’t been sleeping much.
“I tried to call you,” she says. “I left messages.”
“I’m sorry, my phone died.” No sense going into detail. “I should have a new one this afternoon, but if not, try calling this number.” I write Mom’s number on the back a Pratt Investigations card.
Allison invites me to sit on the overstuffed couch. This room looks like it belongs in New England, not Florida. I open the folder and spread the contents on the coffee table. The photo of Allison and her brother, the printout of the search Thorpe did, some handwritten notes. That’s it. The brother’s name is Alexander Rodgers, not Martinelli. The Martinelli name must go with the rock on Allison’s finger. Wonder where the husband is?
“When did your brother come to Florida?”
“He came here last summer after graduation and my wedding. He wanted to visit a friend and maybe find a job.”
“Do you have the friend’s name?”
“Yes, it’s in my notes. George Stark.” Allison points at the handwritten papers.
I find the name. No address or phone number for George—only Fort Myers, Florida. “Have you talked to Mr. Stark?”
“I can’t find him. Neither can Deputy Thorpe.”
“How long since you heard from your brother?”
“When he reached Fort Myers in July. Nothing since.”
“Had he met with George Stark?”
“No, he only called when he got off the plane. I tried to call—hundreds of times—no answer. Finally, his mobile went out of service. That was in September.” Her eyes glisten. Hope she’s not going to cry.
“Were you close to your brother?”
“Yes, very close. We were like this.” She holds up her hands with the fingers intertwined. If they were that close, why has she waited this long to come looking?
She answers my unasked question. “I’ve tried looking for him since he disappeared. Police won’t listen. They don’t see him as missing. He left on his own. They think he moved on or changed his name—that he wanted to lose contact. Deputy Thorpe is the first to pay any attention at all.” A lone tear escapes Allison’s right eye and hangs on her long lashes. I can understand why Thorpe listened. The damsel in distress.
“I had a Boston detective search for him in August. I came down once before, in September, when Alex’s cell quit answering. Other than that, I kept calling and emailing everyone I could think of who might have heard from him.”
Keep your mouth shut, Pratt. Don’t want to say the wrong thing or the tears will flow.
She stares at the picture on the table. “We’re twins.” Now a few tears leak onto her cheeks. She ignores them, not sobbing, not wiping them away. “We always felt connected. I’ve lost the connection. But I don’t think he’s dead.” Now she sobs. Just one sob before she catches herself.
“Excuse me.” She runs into the bathroom.
Well, Pratt, the silent treatment didn’t work. I’ll look at her notes. Her own name and address are at the top. The name of the detective agency in Boston next, then names of friends, all in Massachusetts except George Stark. That’s about it. No parents or relatives listed. There’s no information on Deputy Thorpe’s printout, either, except from Boston. It shows some credit cards that haven’t been used in months, Harvard college records, driver’s license, social security—all Boston.
Allison returns with dry eyes and fresh makeup. The dark circles are covered. “Would you like to go to lunch? I need some fresh air.”
“That would be good. But first, may I ask if there’s any other family?”
She sits down hard on the couch, bouncing me. “No. There isn’t.”
I guess she isn’t going to explain. I gather the folder and stand, ready to leave.
“My parents were killed in the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania on 9/11.” It escapes in a gush.
Damn! A huge lump forms in my throat and I think I’m the one who’s going to cry.
“We have some cousins and aunts and uncles, but none are close. I’ve talked to them and no one has heard from Alex.” She wipes her eyes with her hands and smears the mascara she carefully applied a minute ago.
“Fix your makeup and let’s get out of here.” My voice croaks. Can’t stand all this maudlin stuff.
“You like Mexican?” I call after her as she heads for the bath again. Nothing like spicy food to cheer you up. And it’s a good excuse for tears.
Chapter 5
La Casita is a funky little place with a few tables and a bar. It’s a purple building in front of the strip mall that holds The Phone Booth. The food is good, ’specially the nachos. Have you ever heard of potato tamales? It’s the only place I’ve ever seen them. We order a plate of nachos and a couple of Coronas.
“Find any leads at all on your bother?” I ask between crunchy bites, loaded with salsa and guacamole. “Anyone who knew either Alex or George here in Florida?”
“I found nothing. It’s as if Alex vanished as soon as he arrived and George never existed.” Allison gobbles the nachos; food is a wonderful cure for stress. She should weigh two hundred pounds the way she eats.
“Do you want something else?”
She shakes her head. I order another plate, since I ate two chips, maybe three, from the first order. Allison asks for another Corona.
“What happened to the Boston detective’s report? I didn’t see it in Deputy Thorpe’s folder.”
&n
bsp; “I threw it away. It cost me a few thousand and told me nothing.” She looks directly at me, anger shows in her eyes. Good, no tears.
I can call and get a copy. She’s probably right, but I might find something to go on. Where to start? There’s been no sign of her brother for six months.
“What are your rates?” I guess the talk of wasted money makes her ask.
I give her the spiel. Hourly rates, expenses. My rates are reasonable, a little lower than most, because I’m new to the game. She surprises the hell out of me when she writes me a check for ten thousand bucks.
I choke on a nacho. “That’s way too much. I might not even rack up that much if I keep searching forever.”
“I don’t want you to give up.”
I take the money. I can always return some, if there’s anything in the bank when I do give up. That’s not the right attitude, Pratt. You’re going to find him. Your first real missing person.
Noise at the bar catches my attention. Some hulk of a guy with his back to us is arguing. I recognize that growl. It’s the gorilla from The Phone Booth. He turns, and with two big bags of takeout, heads for the door, right past our table. He recognizes me and lowers his bushy brows. Not watching where he’s going, he trips over a chair. He manages to keep the bags in his clutches.
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. Gorilla leans over me, his face purple. The bags drip salsa on my blouse. The bartender appears.
“Everything all right?” Bartender is taller than Gorilla but about fifty pounds lighter.
Gorilla looks at him, growls, and lumbers off. At the door he stops and yells. “Bitch!”
I’m still laughing. I know it’s not nice to laugh at people’s troubles, even if they are mean and nasty, but I can’t stop. Now Allison starts. A chuckle at first and then she lets it out. A huge har, har, har... The bartender grins. The other diners in La Casita are staring. I manage to control my hilarity and excuse myself to go clean the salsa out of my blouse. Back at the table, the second plate of nachos is empty. I guess I wasn’t that hungry.
Allison signals the bartender. “I’ll have another...”
“We need the check.” I interrupt. “Things to do, places to go.” I explain to Allison. “Do you know anyone here? How long are you staying?”
Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1) Page 3