by DOUG KEELER
“The only other person I’m sure about is Frank Chambers.”
We were now across the street from the Mansion on Forsyth Park, located at the corner of Drayton and E Hall. The fashionable hotel used to be a funeral home, but these days the only people dying to get in are the well-heeled. If you’ve got a few extra quid, I highly recommend it for your next visit. Better yet, stay home or vacation somewhere else.
I asked Olivia, “Who’s Frank Chambers?”
“He’s a well-connected real estate developer,” she said, glancing my way. “Ever heard of Liberty Island?”
I didn’t recall seeing it on my coastal Georgia map. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I replied.
“It’s an ultra-luxury residential development about forty miles south of Savannah. It’s really not one island, but a series of marsh islands connected by small wooden bridges along the Newport River. There are over three hundred residential lots, a golf course, a deep-water marina, an equestrian center, and an aquatic landing strip for seaplanes. We were supposed to have the exclusive contract to sell the homes.”
“What happened?”
We turned the corner at Drayton and Gaston, continuing west toward the Whitaker Street side of the Park.
“I wasn’t one of the on-site agents,” she replied, “but apparently Chambers and my broker had differences. He pulled the contract and formed his own real estate sales company, which is certainly his right. In fact, many developers use their own agents.”
“Why would Claire have trouble with Chambers?”
“He’s done a number of shady things.”
I waited for her to elaborate, but she stayed quiet, lost in her thoughts. We passed Bull Street to our right. “What kind of shady things?” I asked.
“Well, for starters he significantly increased the density of Liberty Island after the development had been approved by the county. Originally it was designed to be a very low density, eco-friendly type development, somewhere along the order of one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty homes. And there was supposed to be a tremendous amount of dedicated green space that could never be developed. I’m not sure of the particulars, but he must have paid off some county officials because the density almost tripled.”
“He’s not the first developer to pull that.”
“No. That’s true, but there’s more to it than that. Frank Chambers wasn’t Liberty Island’s original developer. Wayne Kendall brought him on board after the real estate market collapsed. Banks were failing, and those that weren't refused to turn any money loose. Wayne’s funding dried up, and the development almost went bankrupt.”
I still didn’t understand what this had to do with Claire. I asked Olivia, “Does Claire hold a grudge against Wayne? As Chambers’ partner, isn’t he partially responsible for the increased density?”
“They’re no longer partners. Somewhere along the line they had a falling out. There were suits and counter-suits. It went all the way to the Georgia Supreme Court. Supposedly the judge who heard the case is Chambers’ hunting buddy, so of course he decided in his favor. A lot of people think Frank Chambers stole Liberty Island from Wayne.” She shot me a sidelong glance, then added, “Wayne grew up in Charleston. He and Claire have known each other for years.”
“Are they ever romantically involved?”
“Not a chance,” Olivia said, giggling. “Wayne’s gay. He’s been in a committed relationship for years.”
“Where’s Wayne these days?” I asked.
“Right back where he started fifteen years ago, hanging sheetrock and roofing houses. He lost almost everything when the court ruled against him. He and his partner rent a house in Thunderbolt.” Thunderbolt is a small town that about five miles outside Savannah. Olivia continued, “After Wayne lost the court case, Frank Chambers did a poor job maintaining the silt fences. After a hard rain, sediment poured into the River and the surrounding tidal creeks. The silt fouled the watershed pretty significantly. For a marine biologist like Claire, that was the final straw.”
Circling back to the Savannah harbor, I asked, “Does Chambers have anything to do with the harbor project?”
“He’s not directly involved. But in addition to Liberty Island, he owns the last large undeveloped tract of land near the port. He’s in the rezoning process right now and wants the zoning changed from rural to industrial so he can develop the site. He’s sitting on a potential gold mine. Not only that, but over the last couple years he snapped up thousands of marsh acres along both sides of the Savannah River.”
“Why would Chambers want to own marsh land? It’s in the flood zone and can’t be developed.”
“You’re right, the marsh can’t be developed. But he figured out long before anyone else that part of the harbor expansion approval process entailed pacifying the environmental organizations that opposed it. One of the ways you do that is by increasing the size of the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge. But in order to expand the refuge, the state needs to purchase additional acreage of wetlands. And he’s sitting there with thousands of available marsh acres he picked up for a pittance. He’ll sell the marsh for a profit…”
I finished her sentence. “And Georgia will thank him by guaranteeing the rezoning of his land near the port. You’ve got to hand it to him. That’s pretty slick.”
Olivia nodded. “Oh, he’s way beyond slick. Anyway, Claire’s been a vocal opponent of the rezoning. She got into it with Chambers at one of the land use meetings. She’s pissed because he fouled the water while developing Liberty Island, and wants everyone to know about it. She’s also angry because of what happened to Wayne. But you know Wayne isn't the only one Frank Chambers did dirty. Claire told me he also slow-paid or flat out refused to pay a number of the subcontractors that worked on the development. He’s hurt a lot of people. Many of them were ruined and had to declare personal bankruptcy.”
“Did you tell any of this to the police?”
She shook her head. “They never asked. And, to be honest, I didn’t think to mention it. Do you think there’s a connection?”
I shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out. How do I get in touch with Wayne?”
“His company is called Kendall Construction. I’ve got his number saved in my phone. I try to use him when my clients need to renovate.”
She gave me Wayne’s phone number, then glanced at her watch. “I need to run soon. I’ve got an afternoon appointment up in Beaufort.”
I asked, “Do you happen to know which bank provided funding for Chambers when he became a Liberty Island partner?”
“Not off hand,” she said, shaking her head. “Is it important?”
“I’m not sure, but it might be. I’d also like to know which bank funded his site near the port.”
“Let me see what I can do. I’ll check with my broker and send you a text as soon as I have an answer.”
“Thanks. How’s the market by the way?”
“Making a comeback.” She looked at me and asked, “Do you need to buy or sell a house?”
“I’m all set,” I replied. “But thanks.”
She handed me a card. “If you have any more questions—.”
“I do have one more. Claire’s ex, Bill Taylor mentioned she’d met someone new. Would you happen to know who that is?”
“Claire never said a word to me about a new man in her life. But I can tell you this, Bill Taylor’s an idiot.” A sad look flitted across her face. “Call me if you have any more questions. I’ll do anything I can to help you find Claire.”
“I will. And thanks again. You’ve been a big help.”
Chapter Nine
I grabbed lunch at The Crystal Beer Parlor on W. Jones, a hamburger topped with bleu cheese, a side of German potato salad, and an ice cold draft if you’re keeping score. When I finished eating I pulled up Wayne Kendall’s phone number and punched in the numbers. He picked up on the second ring. “This is Wayne.” I could hear pneumatic nail guns firing in
the background.
“Wayne, my name’s Ray Fontaine. I’m a private investigator trying to locate Claire Robertson. I’d like to talk with you if you have some free time.”
“What happened to Claire?” he asked, sounding alarmed. He covered the phone, and I heard him yell something in Spanish. The nail guns stopped and he came back on the line. “Sorry about that, I’m at a job site. What do you mean you’re trying to locate Claire?”
“She’s missing. I’d like to drop by and talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, of course. Listen, I’m up on a roof. The address is 1323 E. 50th Street. It’s a couple of blocks behind Daffin Park.”
“I’ll see you in ten to fifteen minutes.”
I settled my tab and headed out. Midday traffic wasn’t bad, and I made it in just under ten minutes. I turned down E. 50th and pulled to the curb. The house was a modest wood-framed bungalow, with a small, well-kept front yard.
A sandy-haired guy in his mid-forties sat on the front stoop talking on the phone, and a couple of Hispanics were walking around scooping up old roof shingles, tossing them into a trash dumpster.
I climbed out of the car. The guy on the stoop hung up and met me on the sidewalk.
“Wayne?”
“How long has Claire been missing?” he asked in a strangled voice.
I glanced at the guys in the yard. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“I don’t have a key to the place.”
“Why don’t we take a walk?”
Wayne spoke some rapid Spanish to his workers, then said to me, “Let’s go.”
We started down the block. A malignant silence hung in the air. I turned my head and looked at him. “A friend of Claire’s father hired me to find her. She hasn’t shown up for work this week. No one has seen her since last Friday”
“Have you spoken with Bill Taylor? He and Claire were supposed to get married last month. When Claire called off the wedding, he belted her.”
“I spoke with Taylor this morning. I want to talk with you about Frank Chambers.”
“You think Frank had something to do with Claire’s disappearance?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“At this point, I don’t know what to think. For all I know, the pressure of calling off the wedding may have gotten to Claire, and she’s gone off for a few days to be alone and sort out her feelings.” I looked over at him and asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”
“I saw her a week ago Sunday. We had lunch at Vic’s.”
“How did she seem?”
“The same as always, happy, upbeat. I’ve known Claire a long time. I can usually tell when something’s bothering her.”
“I heard from Bill Taylor she met someone new.”
He nodded. “I knew about that. Claire told me about it a couple weeks ago, right after they met. He paused and glanced in my direction. “She wouldn’t tell me his name though. Said she didn’t want to jinx the relationship.”
“Tell me about Bill Taylor?”
“He’s a controlling son of a bitch. Always giving Claire a hard time, wanting to know where she went and what she did.”
“Fill me in on Liberty Island.”
“What’s there to tell?” he replied, staring at his shoes. “I thought it was going to be my legacy. But I got caught by the real estate recession and lost it to Frank Chambers.”
“What’s Chambers like?”
“He’s a thief,” he said, sounding angry and shaking his head. “Seduced me into thinking we’d be a great team. But from the moment Frank got involved, he schemed behind my back for a way to steal Liberty Island. And he did...it’s his baby now.” We walked in silence for a while, then Wayne added, “Lots of builders and developers have lost projects in the last couple of years. I’m not the only one. But in addition to screwing me, Frank ruined the lives of some good people. I’m talking about our subcontractors. After the recession hit, everyone was desperate for work. Frank knew this of course, so he’d get some of the guys to do work on spec, then refuse to pay. He also cut a bunch of safety corners so he could save a couple of bucks.” We stopped walking and Wayne looked at me. “One of my best subs, a guy named Hector Menendez, almost lost his life when a poorly designed retaining wall collapsed on him. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
“Why didn’t the county shut him down after the accident?”
“One, they probably never heard about it. And two, even if they did, Frank has the county commission in his back pocket. He paid Hector off and sent him back to Mexico.”
I said, “I heard Claire’s been an outspoken critic of Chambers. Supposedly she spoke out against the rezoning of some land he owns near the port because silt seeped into the river at Liberty Island and fouled the water. Is that true”
“Claire never mentioned that to me, but I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a force when it comes to the environment.” He stayed silent for some time, then continued. “I hate to admit it, but a part of her grudge against Frank is because she’s pissed about what happened to me. Claire’s true blue.”
“Is there anything you can think of that can help me find her?”
“Keep your eye on Bill Taylor,” he replied. “If anything’s happened to Claire, he had something to do with it.”
“One other thing,” I said. “How the hell is Chambers keeping Liberty Island afloat? From what I’ve read, high-end second home developments still haven’t recovered from the recession. Even the Sea Island Company went down the drain.”
“Frank comes from money, and he’s had a very successful career. But you’re right; it costs a tremendous amount of money to keep Liberty Island going. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s hanging on by a thread.”
I gave him my card and asked him to call me if he thought of anything else, or if he heard from Claire.
Chapter Ten
I decided to drop in on Daddy Warbucks to bring him up to speed. While I drove, I placed a call to Caroline. I needed the police to track Bill Taylor’s movements. Now that I had his cell number, that shouldn’t be a problem.
In addition to Taylor, I wanted to ask Caroline if the cops had made any progress tracking Claire’s cell.
Cell phone tracking can be accomplished two different ways: triangulation, which covers all cell phones, and GPS, which is standard in almost every smart-phone.
With triangulation, three cell towers are used to approximate the location of the phone. Cell towers constantly ping cell phones to provide service. That makes a user’s location and path of travel easily traceable. The potential problem of using triangulation is the accuracy depends on the density of the tower’s population. This can be an issue in an urban setting like downtown Savannah, particularly when you factor in all the out of town visitors and their cell phones. The more phones that ping off cell towers, the harder it is to determine an exact location using triangulation.
GPS, on the other hand, is able to pinpoint a cell phone’s exact location, regardless of how many phones are in the area. Most smart-phones have a GPS device embedded in them. Location data for either tracking method resides with the wireless provider, and police departments can access it if they are able to show just cause.
Caroline answered her phone and said, “You must miss me...either that or you want something else. But I’ve gotta run so make it quick Fontaine. I’m half way out the door. We’ve got a floater.”
“I’ll be quick. One, any luck tracking Claire’s cell? And two, I need you to track someone else’s phone, Claire’s ex-fiancé. I like him as a suspect. His name’s Bill Taylor. She dumped him last month, two weeks before their wedding. He got rough with her, plus he was having dinner five minutes from her home last Friday night. You ready for the number?”
“Shoot me a text. I’ll call you later.” She hung up without giving me an update on tracking Claire’s cell. When I stopped for a red light at Drayton and Liberty, I sent her the text with Taylor’
s information.
The traffic light turned green. I hit the gas and continued north along Drayton. Minutes later, I parked at the curb in front of Cavanaugh’s building.
When I stepped inside, the security guard looked up and smiled. I glanced at his copy of the New York Times. “Looks like you’re keeping that mind sharp.”
“Not as sharp as I’d like,” he said, frowning “I’m stumped. Stuck on a six letter word for gold Ends in a T.
“That’s an easy one,” I told him. “Nugget.”
“Shee-it. Two for two...what are you the puzzle whisperer?”
I shrugged. “Some days you got it.”
“Amen to that,” he said, sliding the registration sheet toward me.
When I exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor, Jennifer was planted behind her desk, gabbing away into the headset. She finished up on the phone, then looked at me and smiled. “Mr. Fontaine, how are you today?”
“If I were any better, I’d be twins. Is Mister Cavanaugh in?”
“Is he expecting you?”
I hate it when people answer my question with a question, but I let it slide. “He’s not, but if he is in, would you mind letting him know I’m here.”
“Let me see what I can do.” She punched a button on her phone, then spoke into the headset. “Leslie, Mr. Fontaine is here to see Mr. Cavanaugh.” She nodded her head. “I know, but would you mind letting him know anyway...thanks, Leslie.” Apparently, Cavanaugh didn’t have many drop-ins. Jennifer said to me, “Why don’t you have a seat. Mr. Cavanaugh’s assistant is checking to see if he’s available.” She punched a button on her phone and took another call.
I walked over to the window and checked out the river. The only activity I saw was a tug boat heading downstream.
I stood there watching the water until I heard a gruff voice behind me. “Mr. Fontaine?”
I turned and was accosted by Cavanaugh’s assistant. She was a woman of an indeterminate vintage, but definitely north of forty, and rather severe looking, which was putting it mildly. Pale skin, dour expression, somber Mortuary clothing. She had thin bloodless lips and these weird unwavering eyes. The kicker, though, was the bolt of gray that ran through her coarse dark hair. Spooky. “My name’s Leslie,” she said in a chilly tone. “Mr. Cavanaugh will see you now.” I checked her feet to make sure she wasn’t levitating.