SAVANNAH GONE

by DOUG KEELER

  Not so fast Nero. “One other thing,” I said. “Who am I working for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That check you just handed me is a Coastal Capital business check. Coastal Capital is an entity I’m not familiar with. Before I take my clothes off, I like to know who I’m hopping in bed with.”

  Cavanaugh didn’t care much for my little analogy. His eyes flared, and his lips pressed into a tight seam. We held eye contact, and I thought the old goat might take a swing at me.

  “You’ve got a way with words Mister Fontaine. I’ll give you that.” He paused and stared at me, then said, “I suppose that’s why you became a journalist.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Have you given any thought to returning to it?”

  “To journalism?”

  He nodded but didn’t reply.

  “It’s been more than six years since I was canned. Too much time has passed, and the newspaper business will soon be extinct. I think I got out at the right time. Plus, I didn’t just burn my bridges. I nuked ‘em.”

  “Six years is a long time,” he replied, nodding once again. “You still carry a chip on your shoulder though.”

  “Two of ‘em. One on each shoulder...better balance that way.”

  He gave me a wintry smile. “Fair enough. Coastal Capital is what’s known as a family office. We provide financial and tax planning, investment management, wealth transfer, philanthropy, family governance, lifestyle management, and other important services for our clients. My grandfather founded the firm in 1912. I run it now, so I suppose that means you're working for me. Does that make a difference?”

  “It does to me. I like understanding the chain of command.”

  “That’s right. You were a military man.”

  Cavanaugh had certainly done his homework on yours truly, and I wondered exactly how much he knew about me.

  I said to him, “You mentioned wealth transfer a moment ago. Has Claire’s family transferred some of their money to her?”

  He pursed his lips. “I don’t discuss my client’s finances with people outside this firm Mister Fontaine. I have a fiduciary responsibility to uphold.”

  “If you want to jerk me around,” I said, tossing the envelope on the table, “find somebody else.” I pushed my chair back and stood, ready to walk out on this pompous ass.

  “Sit down, please,” he said, holding up his hand. “I can tell you this. For tax purposes, Claire’s parents have gifted a small portion of their wealth to her.”

  I lowered myself into the chair. “How much is a small portion?” Before he could answer, I clarified. “I’m not looking for an exact dollar figure Mr. Cavanaugh. But I need to know if it’s enough to live on for the rest of her life.” If a person with a big enough bankroll decides to take a walk, finding them could be next to impossible.

  He considering the question. “If she invested correctly and didn’t spend extravagantly, then yes it is.”

  “Do you manage her money?”

  “No. Only her parents.”

  Claire obviously was well off, and I needed to know who stood to gain in the event something tragic had happened to her. Cops call it Cui bono, a Latin term that literally means “who benefits?”

  I asked him, “What about a will?”

  “Yes. She has a will. We make sure all our clients and their family members have one.”

  “Who is Claire’s beneficiary?”

  “I don’t have that information at my fingertips, but I can have it for you shortly.” He paused, seemed deep in thought for a full minute or more. “By the way,” he said at last, “I read several of the articles you wrote.”

  I gave him a nod but stayed silent, waiting.

  “I thought you were very talented,” he said, blowing smoke up my ass.

  “Thanks. But talent’s the most overrated commodity I know of. The only things that matters is pig-headed perseverance. Anything anyone’s willing to practice long enough and hard enough at, they can do fairly well. Especially if they refuse to give up.”

  He eyed me once again. “I’m not sure if I agree with you. Anyway, if you have no further questions, please forgive me for not seeing you out.”

  We both stood and shook hands. I wandered back toward the reception area, and as Cavanaugh indicated, Jennifer had a file folder waiting for me.

  While the elevator made its way up to me, I was thinking about Cavanaugh. He’d forked over the fifty thousand dollar check like he was flipping peanuts to a circus elephant. My mind moved back to the way he reacted when I questioned him, and I decided I’d need to watch my back around him.

  Chapter Two

  Back outside, the sun had risen higher in a cobalt sky. The day had warmed, and a breeze off the river combed the city. I heard the slow staccato of hooves, as a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped into the distance.

  I beelined it back to my parking spot, fed four more quarters into the meter, then headed off on foot to Starbucks. The coffee shop was located a couple blocks away at the corner of Broughton and Bull. I think better with a beverage in hand. Plus, I wanted to go through the file Cavanaugh had prepared before calling Claire’s father.

  The time was now close to 10:00 A.M. Since most of the stores along Broughton had yet to open, foot traffic was light. Starbucks, though, looked ready to pop: a sea of customers queuing up for their morning caffeine fix. Art students, business types, tourists, and retirees were scattered throughout the store. They sat reading the paper, tapping away on laptops, playing with their phones, and talking.

  I stood in line and secured my coffee, then found a seat toward the back and began to familiarize myself with Claire Robertson.

  Banging back the coffee, I leafed through the information Cavanaugh's receptionist had given me. According to the file, Claire’s father was a heart surgeon at Charleston’s University Medical Hospital. I dialed his cell number but got his voicemail. I left him a message, told him who I was, and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as possible.

  Next I called my friend Caroline Ross. Caroline’s a Savannah metro detective in the violent crimes division, and this time I had better luck; she answered on the third ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.

  “Do I need an excuse to call? I woke up thinking about you Caroline. That’s all.”

  I heard her chuckle. “Charming. But you’re more full of shit than my ex ever was Fontaine. So what gives?”

  Caroline’s ex-husband, an oily ambulance chaser named Lionel Callaway, advertises his legal services from the back of Savannah buses. If you’ve spent any time in town, you’ve probably seen his pasty face, along with his signature tagline: “When you’ve been hurt in an accident, I make them pay.” Caroline once told me, “At least the asshole’s face is on the ass-end of a bus, instead of on a pillow next to me in bed.”

  I said to her, “I need a couple favors.”

  “Typical. The only time you call is when you need something. It’s gonna cost you buddy-boy. Buy a girl some lunch?”

  “Love to. But here’s what I need. I’ve been hired to find a missing woman. Her name’s Claire Robertson. A missing persons report was filed yesterday. I need a copy of that report.”

  “That’s a big ask, and strictly against department policy. You could get me fired...now it’s gonna cost you lunch and dinner. None of those crappy dumps you typically take me to either. Plus, you said a couple of favors. What else?”

  “I need to know if she’s in the morgue.”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  We agreed to meet at The 5 Spot, a popular midtown eatery, and set a time for one o’clock.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time I made it back to my car the meter had expired, and a pale yellow parking ticket sat fluttering beneath my driver-side windshield wiper. I crumpled it up and chucked it on the floorboard. Maybe I can hit Caroline up for another favor and get her to take care of the t
icket.

  Anyway, Claire’s place wasn't far. So I rolled the motor over, threw it in first, and pulled out. A few blocks later I swung left onto Whitaker, a major thoroughfare through the Historic District. As I drove, I thought about Cavanaugh again, and his little ‘need for discretion’ tirade. To my way of thinking, this made absolutely no sense. What kind of people value privacy over the safety of their own daughter? Not only that, the need for secrecy would make my job of finding Claire that much tougher. But fifty grand was way more than my usual fee, so I couldn’t complain.

  I got my head out of the clouds and tried to formulate a plan of action. I passed the northern entrance to Forsyth Park on my left. Moments later, I pulled to a stop in front of Claire’s building and almost got rear-ended by an irate driver blaring his horn and giving me the finger. So much for the genteel citizenry. Before someone actually piled into me, I parked around the corner on West Bolton, climbed out and slammed the door.

  Claire’s townhouse, a four-story end unit, was constructed of pale gray stucco. Ten granite steps led from the sidewalk to the second story front stoop.

  I took the steps two at a time, pounded away on her door with my fist, and waited. I put my ear to the door but didn’t hear a thing.

  Retreating to the street, I checked the unit next door and noticed the interior lights were on. Up the neighbor’s steps I went. Same drill. I whacked the door and waited. I thought I heard someone moving around inside. So I smacked the door a couple more times with the palm of my hand, then listened quietly. Nothing.

  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 sai
d, “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?”