Finding David Chandler

by Charles Ayer

  “I came over here to say hello to you, of course,” she said. “You’re my brother and all that, but we’re basically strangers, and I want to make sure we keep working to fix that.”

  “So do I.”

  “That’s good to hear. But you know what? I did come over to talk to you about your job.”

  “What about it?” I said, afraid that she might ask me for professional help. What was it this time, I wondered?

  “Don’t worry,” she said, reading my expression, “It’s nothing about me. It’s about how you’re going to fail unless you let me help you.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said. The last thing I needed was someone to help me confirm my already prodigious self-doubts.

  “Look, I’m not questioning your competence as an investigator, Matt, but being a private detective is just like anything else: It’s a business. It’s like being a plumber, you know? Even if you’re the world’s best plumber, you’re bound to go broke unless you know how to run a business.”

  “Okay, but what makes you think I don’t know how to run a business?”

  “Well, first of all, I heard about your law practice.”

  “That’s not a fair comparison,” I said, but feeling the arrow hit home. “I sucked as a lawyer. It had nothing to do with my ability as a businessman.”

  “I heard that, too,” said Lacey, with a trace of humor. She’d been through too much to waste time worrying about people’s feelings.

  “Thanks,” I said, but I was smiling when I said it. “But then how did you conclude that I’m a lousy businessman?”

  “Because, like I said, rumor had it that you’d become a private eye, so I got online before I came over.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “I think you can still find me there if you Google me,” I said.

  “Yeah, in an old article about a trial you testified at when you were still a cop. Matt, you have no website; you’re not in the online Yellow Pages; you’re not even on Facebook, for God’s sake. How will anybody even know to call you?”

  “I guess I was kind of thinking word of mouth.”

  “Whose mouths? What words?”

  “You probably have a point, Lace, but I don’t know anything about that stuff.”

  “Well I do, Matt. That’s why I came over. I want to help.”

  “But what can you do?”

  “Let me get you on Yellow Pages, and let me create a website for you. In case you haven’t noticed yet, big shot, you’re still pretty well known around here. A decent website would be dynamite for you. I’m good at this, Matt. Let me help.”

  I wasn’t about to say no. She spent a few minutes taking down some basic information about me.

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.”

  “Thanks, Lacey.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. She looked at her watch. It was a Mickey Mouse model from the Disney Store. She stood up and said, “Time to go.”

  “What, you don’t want to watch the rest of the Mets game with me?”

  “You’re joking, right?” she said, but then she hesitated and her expression turned serious. “But all kidding aside, Matt, take care of yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just don’t like the feeling I’m getting about this case you’re handling for your friend.”

  I didn’t want to ask her where she got her bad feeling, but I wasn’t about to question it either. “Lace,” I said, “I was an NYPD cop. I can take care of myself.”

  “New York City’s a big place, Matt. This isn’t. This is your hometown, and these are the people you grew up with. I was gone a long time, but I’ve been back here longer than you have, and there’s something in the air that doesn’t smell right about this. This could get really close to home, and I don’t want you getting hurt, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” I said, but the way she was talking gave me a shiver. Lacey was clean now, but she’d survived for a long time in a very bad world on her wits and her instincts, and those antennae just don’t retract. If she was concerned, that meant that I should be too. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Okay,” she said. She gave me a quick kiss back and slipped into the night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I DON’T LIKE BANKS, and I’m almost certain the feeling is mutual. We’re probably both justified in our opinions.

  The Orange County Bank and Trust’s main branch and corporate headquarters are located in Newburgh, New York, a city with a rich past, a troubled present, and an iffy future. But like a lot of aging cities it still has good bones, including the building on Broadway, a wide avenue sloping scenically down to the Hudson River, which housed the bank. It was one of those massive piles of gray stone built in the 19th century with no consideration given to architectural grace or subtlety of style. But its stolid bearing conveyed a timeless sense of soundness, financial prudence, and permanence that more than compensated for any outward lack of refinement.

  It was another perfect June morning, the bright yellow sun against the deep blue sky making the Hudson sparkle and giving the town a fresh look, like a touch of makeup on an aging woman. I walked into the building trying at least to look confident.

  The interior of the building hadn’t managed to withstand the depredations of time quite as resolutely as the exterior. The marble floors and the vaulted ceiling still remained, but the once magnificent open atrium on the ground floor had been divided up into small, noisy cubicles by hastily constructed particle board partitions that stripped the space of its former dignity, leaving in its place the impression that Occupy Wall Street had perhaps encamped there.

  I’d called before I drove over and had been instructed to go to the second floor and turn left into the “executive suite.” I had done so and was standing at the desk of the receptionist, an attractive young woman apparently named “Joanne.” She gave me a warm smile that lingered as I gave her my card. When you’ve been utterly rejected by your life partner it’s always nice to receive some kind of signal that you are still attractive to the opposite sex, so I gave her what I hoped was a winning smile in return.

  “You look just like your picture,” she said. Her reddish-brown hair was cut short and fell in ringlets around her ears, and it bounced as she talked.

  “What picture?”

  “You know, the big one hanging on Mr. Chandler’s wall.”

  “Oh,” I said, perhaps sounding a little crestfallen.

  “I mean, you don’t look as old as I thought you would,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said, deciding that I had no choice but to take that as a compliment. “I’m here to see the President, Mr. Martin Shoemaker. I called earlier.”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, I’m sorry,” said Joanne, somehow managing to sound perky as she apologized.

  “Is there a problem?” I said.

  “No, no,” said Joanne, “well, perhaps just a little one.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Well, you see, Mr. Shoemaker had to make an unexpected visit to another branch this morning, that’s all.”

  “Why didn’t someone call me to reschedule?”

  “Well, of course, someone should have, I guess,” said Joanne, her lips pursing slightly as she looked down at my card. Her hair wasn’t bouncing anymore. “But, you know, I wouldn’t really know. I’m just, like, the receptionist, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “So, do I need to reschedule?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Hunter,” she said, regaining some of her cheer. “Ms. Forrester, our Senior Vice President of Customer Relations has agreed to meet with you in Mr. Shoemaker’s place.”

  “That’s very kind of her,” I said.

  “Well, actually, it is,” said Joanne. “She, like, really had to make some like, serious changes to her schedule to fit you in.”

  “Then I will make sure to thank her profusely when I see
her.”

  “What? Oh.”

  “Perhaps you should call Ms. Forrester.”

  Joanne mercifully picked up the phone, and in less time than it took me to make sure I didn’t have any stains on my tie, a tall, dark-haired woman in a charcoal gray pinstriped business suit over a honey-colored silk blouse came striding down the hall, walked up to me, and offered a handshake.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hunter,” she said, in a surprisingly high voice that nevertheless rang with authority as she shook my hand with a grip that caught me off guard. “I’m Evangeline Forrester, Senior Vice President of Customer Relations. Please call me Angie. I find it impossible to compete with the other Evangeline.”

  A vague memory from 12th grade English class flickered in my mind just in time for my face to assume an expression of recognition.

  “Well, this isn’t the forest primeval anyway, right?”

  Her face lit up with surprise and admiration. It was a good face if not a beautiful one. Her nose was too large and too sharp, but her prominent cheekbones, and enormous brown eyes that emanated wit and intelligence more than made up for it. It was a face I thought I should recognize.

  “Let’s go to my office. I can get you a cup of coffee if you’d like, and we can talk.” She headed back down the hallway. I caught up with her and walked beside her.

  I’m six-one, but as we walked down the hallway I noticed that she was, if anything, a little taller than me in her low heels, and that’s when it hit me.

  “You’re Angie Tailor,” I said. “The name threw me off, but now I recognize you.”

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Hunter,” said Angie.

  “You’re tough to forget. Between you and Rebecca Lobo, you guys redefined women’s basketball. I remember you tearing it up at Newburgh Free Academy the same time I was in high school.”

  “Although, with you and David and Kenny Cooper sucking up all the oxygen in Orange County, I think we could’ve played naked and no one would have noticed.”

  Judging by the view from where I was standing, I think I would have noticed, but I bit my tongue. “Then you went to Cornell, right?”

  “Syracuse. I went on a full basketball scholarship. But please, don’t put me in the same league with Becky Lobo. I was good, but that woman was just plain awesome.”

  She poured coffee from a drip coffee maker into two identical blue mugs with “OCB&T” stenciled on the side in a stylized logo. “Cream or sugar?” she said.

  “No thanks.”

  “Good, because I don’t have any,” she said with a grin that I liked.

  I laughed.

  “So am I to understand that David Chandler has gone missing?” she said, getting down to business.

  “Yes,” I said. “The last time his wife, Doreen, saw him was last Thursday morning when he left for work.”

  “That’s funny,” said Angie.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because David never came to work on Thursday morning.”

  “He didn’t? Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Did he call in or anything?”

  “Actually, he stopped by my office on Wednesday evening and said that he apologized for the short notice, but that he was going to be taking some vacation time.”

  “Did he say where he was going or what he was doing?”

  “No. He just said he had some personal business to catch up on, and he’d probably be out about a week.”

  “Was that unusual for him?”

  “Yes, it was. David is the kind of guy who takes the same two weeks off every summer and the same week off every spring.”

  “So he gets three weeks of vacation a year?”

  “Four,” said Angie. “He always takes the fourth week between Christmas and New Year’s.”

  “Did you ask him what he was doing, or where he was going?”

  “No, I didn’t. David and I don’t have that type of relationship.”

  “You mean you don’t get along?”

  “We get along just fine. It’s just that David’s the kind of person who keeps to himself. I never took it personally; he’s like that with everybody. Does that surprise you? You and he go way back, and people usually don’t change.”

  “I guess I never gave it that much thought,” I said, thinking about how little I had ever given anything much thought. “When David was on the football field he was an incredibly take charge guy. Always talking, always barking out the plays, always encouraging the other guys. He was kind of quiet off the field, but I always assumed that in his professional life he’d be what he was like on the field. Especially since he’s a vice president and all that.”

  Angie paused for a few uncomfortable seconds before saying, “Not really. My impression of David is that he is a guy who wants to put in his eight hours and then get home to his wife and his kids. You have to admire that.”

  It was my turn to hesitate for a few uncomfortable seconds before I said, “He’s good at his job, right? I mean, he’d have to be to become a vice president, right?”

  “We are not unsatisfied with David’s performance, Mr. Hunter, but beyond that, I’m not sure how relevant his job performance is to your investigation. David Chandler is a perfectly satisfactory employee and I can think of no job related reason for his disappearance.”

  Something bothered me about that comment. Something was starting to bother me about this whole conversation, but since I couldn’t put my finger on anything specific, I decided to move on.

  “Would it be possible to see if there’s anything on his computer that might be helpful? I don’t want to see any proprietary bank information. I’m just thinking that he may have sent someone an email, or someone may have emailed him with some information that may be helpful. Or maybe he keeps an electronic calendar.”

  “I can guarantee you that he didn’t have any proprietary bank information on his computer, Mr. Hunter, but I don’t have his password in any event. But we can go down to his office and take a look around if you think it might be helpful.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  We left Angie’s office and walked two offices down to a door that had “David M. Chandler, Vice President, Customer Relations” stenciled on it in black lettering. Angie opened the door, which wasn’t locked, and walked in. I followed.

  As I suspected, there was a large print of The Picture on the wall, along with other photos of his football career. There were also some photos of David smiling next to other smiling men and women who I assumed were important clients or local bigwigs.

  His desk, however, was clean, with the exception of a computer monitor, a docking station and a keyboard. The docking station was empty. I guess I’d been hoping to find a note, or something jotted on a calendar, but there was nothing of the sort. I tried a drawer on his desk. It was locked, and the look that Angie gave me said, “Don’t ask me to open it.”

  “Not much to see here, I guess,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Angie. “David’s a clean desk kind of guy. He never left his office with any clutter on it. I wish my desk looked like this.”

  “Did he usually take his laptop home with him?”

  “I never really noticed, but I think he did; most of us do.”

  “So you don’t see anything unusual here,” I said.

  “Nothing,” said Angie. “This is how he left his office every night, without fail.”

  We left the office and walked back down the hall. On the way I noticed that the office between David’s office and Angie’s was occupied by “Emerson Baker, Executive Vice President, Customer Relations.” Emerson was sitting at his desk, on the phone, with his feet up. I noticed that he sat up and put his feet back on the floor when he saw Angie go by.

  When we got back to Angie’s office I was struck by the fact that, unlike David’s office, there were no photographs or memorabilia from her basketball days, only a few obligatory pictures with clients an
d dignitaries. I was pretty sure I spotted a picture of her with the current governor. It also struck me how much larger her office was than David’s.

  “Look,” she said as she sat back down at her desk, “if you don’t mind, please keep me up to date with your investigation. Like I said, David and I aren’t close, but he’s a longtime employee of the bank and he’s a nice guy. I’d hate to think that he’s in any kind of trouble. I’m very sorry that we can’t be of more help to you.”

  “I most certainly will,” I said, taking that as a dismissal. “And if you can think of anything that might be helpful, please contact me.” I handed her one of my cards on which I had penciled in my telephone number and email address. She looked at it a little dubiously, but didn’t say anything.

  “I sure will,” she said, giving me a friendly smile.

  Joanne seemed to be busy filing a nail when I walked by her desk, and she didn’t look up.

  I let myself out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO MY HOUSE Lacey was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee from McDonald’s. There was also a cup waiting for me. She was wearing what looked like the same pair of faded jeans as the last time she was over, but this time her tee shirt said, “Red Dog Saloon, Juneau, Alaska” on the front. There were a lot of things about Lacey’s life that would always be a mystery, perhaps for the best. Her eyes were focused intently on her laptop, which was open in front of her, and she looked up casually as I walked in.

  “How did you get in?” I said.

  “The door was unlocked,” said Lacey. “Some cop.”

  “It’s not like there’s anything in here anybody would want to steal.”

  “You do have a point there,” she said, looking around. “Even I live better than this.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee, which was still hot. I sat down across from her. “So, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be at work.”

  She gave me a look that was just about halfway between patient and condescending. “This is the twenty-first century, Matt. I work from home or wherever I want to work from. I stop by the office once or twice a week, but that’s about it.”