“I’m assuming you’re going to have waivers—or possibly pay people,” Kristi said, looking over at Claire and Murray.
“Oh, you bet,” Claire answered for Carl.
Carl just shook his head and shrugged at Kristi, implying he trusted his manager would look after those things.
“Speak with Mr. Wicker, and then let me know.” She rose and looked around her, suddenly feeling the need to be out of her own house.
“Kristi?” Jonah called to her.
“Back soon,” she said.
“Where are you going?” Jonah asked her.
“Out.”
* * *
“You see what I mean?” Joe Dunhill asked. “My superiors are good at their jobs—we have good cops here. Busy cops. We’re a good city, but we’re also not without our violent crime. It’s beautiful here—and it can also be deadly. We’ve a mix of locals and tourists, we have old hatreds and new crimes. When you have assaults, rapes and active murders to solve, an old man jumping out a window and a young one dying on a curb go the way of what seems most evident. But there’s something wrong, something just not right.”
“I agree with you—and I understand that any agency can only go as far as the investigation will lead—and in a big city, they have to move on,” Dallas said, taking a long sip of coffee. They had stopped for a quick bite to eat at a counter-service restaurant on the riverfront. “It’s often where we come in,” he said gently.
“Are you really a licensed PI?” Dunhill asked him.
“Yes. I got my license before I went into the academy,” Dallas said. “Adam Harrison sticks to the truth—and when you went to his unit for help, he thought of me.”
“Because you’re a PI?”
Dallas hesitated. Others in the Krewe had also been licensed as investigators—he just happened to know Savannah, as well.
Dallas shrugged. “All right. The police are still actively working the disappearance of Simon Drake. Who vanished in the same way as Eliza Malone two years ago—from the Johnson Square area.”
“Of course. The investigation into the disappearance of Mrs. Malone is still ongoing, as well. It’s just grown very...cold. Naturally, we’re all afraid of the same with Simon Drake.”
“So, by all appearances, Simon Drake was a politician hell-bent on lowering the crime rate in the Savannah area.”
“Yes.”
“And Eliza Malone was instrumental in forming a ‘fighting crime is big business’ coalition among the business owners and operators in the city.”
“Exactly. She had major chain hotels and restaurants and shops—as well as locals, you know, bed-and-breakfast inns, boutique owners and so on—all involved.”
“How might they relate to a young fitness expert and an old man dying of cancer?”
Dunhill shook his head, frustrated. “Hell if I know. And all of it going on in the heart of the city—right around Johnson Square. I can’t figure, but I know there’s something, and it’s just bugging the hell out of me that I can’t quite put my finger on it. Okay, I can’t get my finger close to it! But my gut is telling me that something is going on.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a business card.
Dallas already knew the name on it from the endless files that Adam Harrison had provided him—Brenda Nunez. She had been a volunteer campaign worker for Simon Drake. She’d been interviewed by the police, having been at the rally for Simon Drake on the riverfront before he had disappeared. She wasn’t a family member, and she hadn’t been a major player in his campaign; she had loved his politics.
“She’ll meet you at four o’clock at the Colonial Park Cemetery,” Dunhill told him. He rose, balling the remnants of his sandwich into the paper on which it had been served and tossing it into the trash. “Call me. I’m available anytime. Nothing official, but my superiors really know exactly what I’m doing. It’s just not—”
“On the books. Gotcha. I’ll be in touch.”
Dallas watched Dunhill leave and then stood. He threw out his own trash, and started out.
What was the thread that connected the incidents?
Or was it that there was no thread?
It was there. Somewhere. The logic of it all seemed to be missing, but... Joe Dunhill’s gut instinct was right. Something was there, simmering beneath the surface.
Dallas had a little time. He started to wander the streets, remembering that he did love the old architecture, that there was much about the city to enjoy. History entwined with more history, and the beautiful pulse of life today.
Two people hard on crime vanished. Two other people dead, bodies left where their “accidental death and suicide” had taken place.
Dallas paused, staring at the unending flow of the river.
Because the two known deaths could be given the appearance of accident and suicide...while the others could not?
He didn’t like to be a defeatist—but Simon Drake and Eliza Malone were most probably among the dead.
If they could just find the remains...
But this was a city where the Savannah River snaked through, and dense swamps were not far from the bustle and heart of the action. Lots of places to dispose of a body.
And yet this killer was possibly hiding murder in plain sight.
4
Kristi found herself wandering down Drayton Street, away from the river. She turned down East York, and then on to Abercorn, finding she’d walked to the Colonial Park Cemetery. She hadn’t particularly planned on coming this way, at least not consciously, but she did love to visit here.
The old cemetery—right in the heart of the city—was a park now. About six hundred or so old stones and tombs remained, while it was estimated that ten thousand were buried there. The cemetery had been opened in 1750 by the British and closed to burials by 1853. A yellow fever epidemic had swept through the city in 1820, bringing around seven hundred souls to rest there. It had a section specifically for “duelists,” and many a Revolutionary War soldier had come to find eternity at the cemetery, as well. A handsome arch had been erected by the Daughters of the American Revolution in the early years of the twentieth century and dedicated to the Patriots of the American Revolution, and a long, curving path made its way through the old stones and offered benches for sitting, relaxing, enjoying the sway of the moss that dripped from the trees.
She found an empty bench and sat. It was peaceful, though the cemetery was seldom empty of visitors, since tour groups came to sightsee, and locals like herself loved to wander through. Today, it seemed very relaxed. She looked up at the sun, filtering through the trees, and then closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she wasn’t alone.
This time, she didn’t scream.
The man at her side was in a military uniform, complete with wig and tricorn, and she wondered for a moment if he might have wandered over from a historic presentation or if he might be a tour guide.
But then she realized he was one of the dead.
Great. Now they were coming out of the woodwork.
“I’ve seen you so many times before,” he said softly. “And by the way you’re looking at me now, you can finally see me, too. Begging your pardon, miss, I am Lieutenant Max Hudson, and it is an extreme pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She smiled weakly. There were other people around, studying the old headstones. She didn’t speak.
“I’m glad they’ve made such a lovely place here—those gone are not all remembered by monuments, but in a strange way, as a park, this gives us life.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Ah, well! The dead have not always been respected! I watched during the War Between the States. The Union soldiers and their horses were camped here—men burned and weary from fighting. Sad affair—all praying to the same God, and yet bitter, of course, for the very losses they brought upon themselves. But the
soldiers thought it fun to re-chisel stones, to break and move some, having very little respect for the dead. But then, war is such that you see your friends pile high atop one another in mountains of bloodied flesh, and so, playing with the stones of men and women long gone seemed like no evil at the time.” He shrugged thoughtfully. “Even if Sherman did give the City of Savannah to Lincoln as a Christmas present in 1864. A little cemetery destruction was as nothing.”
Kristi just nodded slightly.
“I must say, I did have some fun of my own with those destructive fellows. Oh, nothing too evil—they’d been fighting too long. I moved a few food tins, disposed of a bit of their libations and walked about knocking and wailing and freezing the old boys. Made them see the error of their ways now and then!” He was smiling. “One must do what one can, you know.”
The other visitors had moved far enough away that Kristi felt she could speak without looking like she was talking to herself.
“I’m glad you were able to make them think twice about wanton destruction,” she said. “But I know my history, and I love Savannah. You could haunt someone who doesn’t know much about the city,” she added hopefully.
“But you see me,” he said. “Today, you see me. It is as if you have opened your eyes.” He turned to her.
“Lucky me,” she murmured.
“Not luck,” he said. “Something very special. You never know, my dear, when the dead may prove themselves to be of some assistance.”
His words disturbed her; she couldn’t help but wonder just what was happening, causing her world to fly into chaos in so swift a manner.
He patted her hand; she didn’t feel a touch, just a brush of cold air. “We’ll talk again,” he said, and rising, he moved on. He strode over to where a teen girl, obviously growing bored as her parents read a stone, tapped away on her cell phone, head down.
Lieutenant Hudson walked through her; the girl suddenly straightened, shivered as if chilled. She looked around anxiously, and pocketed her phone.
The cemetery wasn’t providing the respite Kristi had wanted. Standing, she wandered over to the Graham tomb. It wasn’t a tomb or vault such as those found in Louisiana or even in other cemeteries where families had large handsome vaults. It was brick and low to the ground. She stood reading the plaque on the tomb, although she could have recited the facts from memory.
It was then she realized that someone among the living was standing at her side. Tall, bronzed and blond, Dallas Wicker still struck her as someone who should have been a lifeguard down on a beach somewhere, not an investigator.
“Nathanael Greene rested here until his remains were moved to his monument—on Johnson Square,” he said smiling at her. “Ah, death! Why would such a hero lie in the tomb of another? Died of heatstroke or exhaustion in the state and came here—and that wily turncoat Graham had run on back to England when the Patriot cause was willing, and thus his tomb was empty.”
“You know Savannah,” she said.
“Somewhat,” he said. “You like to come here?”
“Um, yes.” She took a deep breath. “Are you sightseeing?”
He laughed. “I’ve been out and about in the city, and wandered here, getting ready for my next move. I saw you at the tomb. Thought I’d say hi.”
She smiled. “Hi. By the way, Carl Brentwood is going to be talking to you. He wants to film a séance. Friday night. I’ve told him that you are also a guest, and that he must get your permission.”
“He wants to film a séance?”
She nodded. “His own production—for social media, to sell an idea... I’m not sure. He swears it will be good for the house. I’ve told him that if you object...”
For a moment, she thought he would. She realized then that there was a steel in his eyes, and he’d never be a man to be taken lightly.
“A séance,” he said. “On film. Could be interesting. I don’t want to be on camera, but I’d love to observe from the wings, so to speak.” He shrugged. “It’s fine with me. And very courteous of you to say my permission was required.”
She flushed, looking away. “Well, I’m sure you’re busy. And I do need to get back to work.”
He nodded, but he was still studying her. She felt the heat rising to her cheeks; he was a very attractive man.
She could still feel the iron strength of his body and arms as he had caught her.
“Uh, have to go,” she said, trying a small smile.
“See you back at the house,” he said.
She was ridiculously afraid she would trip as she walked away.
She didn’t trip, but he called her back.
“Miss Stewart.”
She turned to face him again, just a few feet further away.
“I’d love to talk sometime.”
“Of course. I’m available,” she said weakly. “I’m pretty good with history, but this city is teeming with excellent historians.”
“Everyone’s history is a bit different, isn’t it?” he asked. “There are just so many different...perspectives one can take.”
Something about his words chilled her.
He was an investigator. He was looking into a suspicious death.
Lachlan had just fallen, that’s what they had said, a tragic accident...
Not far from her house...
Kristi suddenly had the feeling Dallas was there for much more than a deeper investigation into an accidental death.
She waved and hurried out of the cemetery.
* * *
Brenda Nunez was a bright young woman with long black hair and flashing dark eyes—eyes that saddened when she talked about Simon Drake.
She leaned back in her café chair and sipped her tea.
“He was the nicest man,” she said, and then her eyes widened as she looked at Dallas. “Is the nicest man—he has to be okay!”
“I understand you were one of the last people to see him after the rally,” Dallas said.
She nodded. “I was handing out pamphlets—you know, on what he wanted to accomplish, about him, his family... He’d spoken to a small crowd on the riverfront. He didn’t plan a big rally or anything. He was just answering questions and people gathered, and they lingered, and he was generous with his time—wanted to answer everyone. He didn’t have bodyguards, or anything—maybe he should have, but, oh, Mr. Drake really just loved people and wanted the best for everyone.”
“So, he was on the riverfront, surrounded by people. And then what?”
“I guess I rather hero-worshipped him. I stayed while he talked to everyone. Hours. I think he gave his speech at noon, and then it was at least four o’clock or so when the crowd began to thin. He came up to me and thanked me for staying until the end—even his campaign manager had moved to the closest restaurant. With Mr. Drake’s blessing—he said, ‘Henry, you go on, get something to eat. We’ll meet back up at the hotel later.’ You see, Mr. Drake was listening to a man who hadn’t gotten any justice—his son had been murdered ten years ago, and the case had just gone cold. Mr. Drake assured him he was going to fight to have every case solved, no matter how old. He would have people work with the police and dig and investigate—all the way back to the days when Oglethorpe founded the city, if need be. People were asking him how he could manage that, and he was outlining a way of enlisting help from librarians, retired police and investigators... He had answers!”
“Interesting. And when did he leave? What did he say to you?”
“He excused himself from a group of people and came over to me and asked me specifically to give the last people a few pamphlets. He said he had an appointment at Johnson Square. And then...then he walked away. It’s the last time I saw him.”
“The riverfront was busy. Johnson Square is right off the riverfront...surrounded by city hall, Christ Episcopal Church, banks, houses, businesses.”
She
nodded solemnly. “The riverfront was busy, and I’m sure the whole area was. It was a Saturday, so banks were closed...but I think there would have been services at the church...and there are homes and...someone else should have seen him,” she whispered. “He was headed to Johnson Square. Just about every tourist in the city winds up there...” She paused indignantly. “How could he disappear from that area?” she finished. “How could it be that no one saw anything?”
“Someone saw something,” he assured her. “But possibly they don’t understand what they saw.”
“The police have asked for help,” she said. “No one has come forward—not that I know about.”
“Maybe someone still will,” Dallas said. “Brenda, can you tell me anything else about Simon Drake? He was a widower,” he added—more information he had received from Adam’s files. “Was he seeing anyone?”
She shook her head. “Not that I knew about—he carried a picture of his wife. He really loved her. They never had children, but from everything I’ve heard—and from people who were always around him, not just local like me—he was a devoted husband. When she died, he threw himself into his work, to right things that had gone wrong, and to hopefully maybe make a real difference. Educated people are less likely to resort to crime to survive—he wanted to work on all kinds of education issues. He wanted to press for work programs so people wouldn’t wind up on drugs or stealing because they couldn’t get jobs.”
“Did he have any enemies? In all of this, he might have slighted someone. Or maybe someone was against his agenda?”
“He was a politician. People disagreed with him sometimes. But he didn’t attack other people in his speeches or ads or anything else. He was amazing—he said what he would do instead of tearing down what others had or hadn’t done. He was...he was what I believe a lot of our founding fathers to be—really ruled by idealism. I mean, did you know that, years ago, our congressmen served their terms and then went back to work? Imagine! The taxpayers didn’t support them forever and ever.”
The Summoning Page 7