Gone

EIGHTEEN

MORE THAN AN HOUR BEFORE SUNSET, I TIED MY BOAT AT Fishermans Wharf, dressed for the party aboard Sybarite, but I was not in a party mood. As I crossed the bay from Sanibel, my cell phone had buzzed, so I had shut the engine off and drifted so I could hear Lawrence Seasons.

“Hannah! I’ve got something important.” In contrast to the man’s urgent tone, a few yards from my skiff a pod of dolphins rolled in slow unison, their blowholes spraying a genie mist into a silver June sky.

“You found Olivia?” I asked. Part of me hoped it was true, part of me felt guilty because of my disappointment.

“Listen closely,” Lawrence replied. “The P.I. from Miami we hired, the first guy on this case? He’s just been listed as a missing person. Officially. His agency called, state police are looking. I had a feeling something was wrong-that’s why I was so tough on you today.”

I replied, “Martha told me the guy was an alcoholic. Said he was probably barhopping on South Beach.” As I spoke, gulls hovered above the dolphins, bickering about who owned the rights to any bait that was flushed. Watching the birds, I recalled how odd the news about the investigator had struck me earlier, yet Martha hadn’t seemed bothered.

“That’s what the agency manager told her. The guy has a history of binge drinking, so they were giving him a last chance-and probably time to surface. But it’s been a week. They found his dog half starved. Even his family hasn’t heard a word. According to the logs, he planned to rent a boat in Everglades City but hasn’t been heard from since. How far’s that from where Ricky Meeks buys fuel?”

Everglades City was only a short drive from Marco Island, which I told Mr. Seasons, but didn’t mention it was ten very complicated miles by water to Dismal Key, plus a few miles more if the investigator had actually gotten a boat and tried to find Cape Romano.

“Understand now why I couldn’t let you do it?” Lawrence was explaining again why he’d refused to authorize the expense of renting a boat in Caxambas. I’d been so disappointed, I would have paid the money myself if Nate and I could have pooled the five-hundred-dollar cash deposit required. It was because of what Eugene Schneider had told us-or hadn’t told us. After listening to the surly man, my hopes and fears for Olivia were more mixed than ever, and I wanted to find out the truth with my own eyes. Was Ricky Meeks still anchored near Cape Romano, hidden in a bay formed by the Drake Keys? Or had he really moved his Skipjack cruiser to Dismal Key, where there was a dock, as I remembered, and the remains of a shack? More important, was Olivia still with him?

Maybe Schneider actually believed the girl had left the area two weeks before, maybe he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter. Ricky Meeks could have lied to him about Olivia being gone, hoping the rumor would spread among the Caxambas fishing community. If Ricky had done something bad to Olivia-a crime even worse than the way he had treated Mrs. Whitney-it was a way of buying time. I didn’t want to wait another twenty-four hours before joining sheriff’s deputies on the docks, hoping Ricky Meeks would bring his cruiser and the truth to Caxambas.

Lawrence Seasons, though, was a stubborn man when he’d made up his mind. In the conference call I’d made from Nathan’s truck, I had shared Schneider’s claims with him and Martha as well, but neither would budge. “I don’t want you anywhere near Meeks,” Lawrence had told me for the second or third time. “We’re paying you to find Olivia, not some con artist who might be dangerous. Until tomorrow, at least, we’re assuming the drunk you talked to was telling the truth. Olivia is free, finally. She’s safe.”

When I tried to argue, the man had cut me off, saying, “Think about it, Hannah-his story fits with Olivia’s credit card records. Two weeks ago, she started using the Centurion card again. Why? Because she’s traveling alone. Without Meeks looking over her shoulder, she doesn’t need to be so careful about covering her tracks. Your theory had merit, but you were wrong. Is that what this is about? If that’s the problem, get over it. It’s time to shift your focus and move ahead.”

To Lawrence Seasons, that meant calling the list of Olivia’s friends he had sent by e-mail. To Martha, it meant sticking with my plan to attend the party, where I might run into someone from Port Royal who had seen or spoken to Olivia recently.

I wasn’t convinced. First, Olivia disappears, then a trained private investigator? The possibilities my imagination conjured up gave me a shaky feeling in my legs, made it impossible to focus on anything but what the girl might be suffering now… this instant. I’m not the sort of person who can force a fake smile and pretend to have fun when someone I care about needs help-help I might be able to provide.

Which is why I wasn’t in a party mood as I strode along the seawall toward the dock where Sybarite was moored, its sleek hull and black windows glowing like molten metal, caught in the spotlight of a west-setting sun. On the vessel’s top deck, a few elegant-looking couples were already lounging against the rail, sipping drinks, while another half dozen guests made their way up the boarding ramp. Greeting them was a lean, busty woman in a white summer uniform consisting of slacks and a collared blouse.

It was Gabrielle Corrales, who had phoned me four times that afternoon, she was so excited about the party.

–

“HANNAH?” GABBY CALLED when she spotted me. “Hannah!” Soon the girl was galloping down the ramp, saying, “¡Mi mejor amiga! So glad to see you, honey!”

I didn’t expect my old classmate to fall into my arms so I could swing her around, but that’s what happened, which wouldn’t have bothered me if I wasn’t in such a sour mood. Worse, couples on the top deck were pointing at us and whispering, probably guessing that Gabby was either stoned or drunk.

I pulled away and blocked a second bear hug by stepping back to inspect the girl, saying, “You told me you weren’t wearing a uniform-not that you don’t look sharp. ’Cause you do.”

“It’s just temporary,” Gabby confided, but without much confidence. “Only until all the guests are aboard-I hope. Then I’ll change. It’s because most of the crew’s been invited, and Robert’s pissed off he’s so shorthanded.” The powdery smell of marijuana on the girl’s breath, I noticed, was as mild as her perfume.

Gabby was embarrassed about being dressed like hired help, not a guest, so I tried to reassure her, saying, “If I looked as nice, I wouldn’t bother changing. White’s such a good color on you.” The compliment had a purpose, but it was also true.

Gabby had been right about Sybarite’stailored clothing. Creased slacks, crisp cotton blouse, sleeves the perfect length, and a firm starched collar that framed the girl’s pretty face. Buttons on the blouse, I noticed, had been spaced in such a way that it was impossible not to show cleavage-particularly on someone like Gabby, who was proud of the way success had improved her body.

“Aren’t they awesome?” she said, just a touch of Cuban accent. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about her uniform or her breasts until she explained, “I’ve got my formal blues in the crew quarters. Later, after we’ve had a few drinks, I want to watch you try them on just to prove how hot you’ll look. My slacks’ll be too short, but-” The girl hesitated, seeming to look at me for the first time. “Hey… why aren’t you wearing your cocktail dress?”

In my apartment, I’d spent twenty minutes admiring how the sheer black dress transformed me into a shapely woman who had taste but wasn’t afraid to show off a little or hint she might look even better naked, taking a bubble bath, or in some strong man’s bed. But I had decided against it. The fact I was traveling to Fishermans Wharf by boat wasn’t a problem-I almost always wear a dress to church. Problem was, the cocktail dress had a carefree look to it, which was the opposite of how I felt.

Instead, the photo of Barbara Stanwyck, in its brushed-aluminum frame, had told me what to wear. I’d chosen low-cut jeans tapered at the calves enough so as not to hide my Laredo boots of maple brown. The closest I could come to the actress’s wrangler blouse was a cross-dye shirt with Navaho patterns, copper and desert primrose, I’d bought with Uncle Jake at the Clewiston Rodeo, which is a big affair in Central Florida. I seldom wore the shirt because of its Western pockets and buttons, so I had forgotten how soft the material felt against my skin and how the Arizona earth tones and ancient symbols added a gloss to my black hair.

I couldn’t wear boots on my skiff, of course. Dark soles scuff white fiberglass. So I had carried them, changing out of my Top-Siders only after I’d reached the dock. Gabby was eyeing my boots now, but I was wrong about her reasons.

“I’ve got boat shoes,” I offered, “if you’re worried about those varnished decks.”

The woman laughed, hooked her arm around my waist, and walked us toward the dock. “We’re going to have so much fun together, honey. I was admiring your outfit, that’s all. Envious, really. I wish I had the balls to dress so butch. And I would if I thought I could pull it off. But I can’t-not like you. Think we could go shopping maybe Wednesday or Thursday? Weekends are bad for me, but I could sure use your help doing the jeans-and-boots thing because…”

As Gabby talked on about clothing, then switched to the wealthy guests we were about to meet, I felt her hand squeeze my waist, then slide to my ribs, which caused a moment of tenseness that my mind instantly blamed on Martha Calder-Shaun. My uneasiness didn’t last, though. What did Gabby’s intentions matter if I had my own thoughts under control? Besides, I liked her. She was a tad wild, true, but the woman was making her own way in a hard world, and she had proved herself fair-minded when it came to judging people.

Even when Gabby gave me a soft pat on the butt, it was okay. It felt comfortable to be with a girl I knew, especially with so many well-dressed strangers filing out of the parking lot toward Sybarite. I had never seen so many attractive couples in one small space-nor so many expensive cars. There were Bentleys, a bunch of BMWs, a Rolls or two, plus a few makes I couldn’t identify. Sleek luxury rockets as shiny as trophies, designed to impress, or as bedroom lures, not meant for practical transportation.

“They make my ’Vette seem sorta plain,” Gabby said when she noticed where I was looking.

“My legs wouldn’t fit into that little maroon job,” I observed. “Never mind fishing rods or grocery bags after shopping. How much you think it cost?”

“A Ferrari Testarossa?” The girl raised her eyebrows in a way that told me it was better not to know.

“I’ve got a Ford Explorer with a hundred thousand miles, so I’ve been thinking about a truck,” I said. “You seen the new GMC short beds?”

Laughing, Gabby squeezed me closer, which felt natural. Her family had been just as hard-up for money as mine back in school, so it was a sisterly bond we shared. “Robert gets his rocks off strutting through that lot before a cruise,” she smiled. “Just watch him! He does it every time. That’s why he makes the crew park way the hell down there.” She motioned toward a chain-link fence separating the marina from the road. A moment later, though, because I hadn’t responded, Gabby pulled away and asked, “What’s wrong? Hannah…? Hannah!”

A rusty old pickup truck that I recognized was turning in to the marina, that’s what was wrong. A red truck I’d seen earlier that day in Caxambas, a lone man behind the steering wheel. Even from a distance, I could tell it wasn’t Eugene Schneider.

I took Gabby by the elbow. “Did anyone call this afternoon and ask if I was on the guest list?”

Flustered, the girl stammered, “I don’t know… and what’s it matter? You’re my date, no one’s going to care.”

“It matters, Gabrielle. Or I wouldn’t ask.”

On the shell road, the truck was kicking dust, the driver indifferent to speed signs, one hand on the wheel, the other holding what might have been a cigar.

Gabby said, “This is a private party, so I’m not even sure there is a guest list.” A moment later, she grunted. “Hannah, you’re hurting me!” then yanked her arm free. “Honey, who’s in that truck? What in the hell is going on?”

Ricky Meeks was driving the truck, which Gabby confirmed after watching him park among the expensive cars. “Oh, because of that creep. Now I get it. And… my God”-Gabby was staring at me-“you’re afraid of him, honey. Why?”

She said it because I had pulled her closer to an aluminum storage shed so we could watch Ricky without being noticed. “I’ve never seen him before,” I replied. “Just that picture I showed you.” For some reason, my chest had tightened. It felt harder to breathe.

Hands on hips, Gabrielle studied me for a moment. “Chica, tell me the truth. He scares the hell out of you-it’s on your face.”

“Not really-not for myself, anyway,” I replied, which wasn’t true, and Gabby knew it.

“That son of a bitch! He hurt you somehow, didn’t he? You weren’t snooping because he owes a friend of yours money. Ricky did something to you. What? Don’t lie to me anymore, Hannah. We can’t be friends if you lie.”

My eyes were fixed on Meeks, thirty yards away, as he banged the truck door closed, flicked his cigar aside after a last puff, then used the side mirror to comb his hair. The smoke reached us seconds later and caused me to flinch-not just the stink, but because it had come from Ricky’s mouth.

“Some of what I said was true,” I replied, “but you’re right. Mostly, I lied.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t sure I could trust you. Even if I was sure, I probably would’ve lied anyway. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Safe side, hah! You intentionally fed me a line of bullshit.”

“Sorry. I don’t blame you for being mad.”

“Don’t blame me, why… you two-faced little chinga!” Gabby sputtered but kept her voice down. “I saved your ass, erasing that security tape before Robert saw it. You’ve had a dozen chances to tell me the truth, all the times we’ve talked on the phone. Hey”-she began backing away-“you are a cop, aren’t you? Hannah, if you’re trying to trap me into some kind of shitty sting operation, I’ll… I’ll…”

The girl shrugged my arm away when I tried to wrap it around her shoulder, but calmed a bit when I took her hand and pressed it between my hands. “This is serious, Gabrielle. I need your help. Please? At least let me explain.”

Gabby glanced over her shoulder toward Sybarite, heaved a sigh of frustration, then steered me behind the storage shed. “This better be good, sister! If I lose my job because of you-”

Ricky Meeks was walking toward the dock, straightening the collar of his gray dress shirt, checking the buttons of a navy blazer, as I interrupted, saying, “I’m not a cop. That man kidnapped the niece of a friend of mine. Probably raped her, then kept her drugged somehow. So drugged up, she might be waiting for him on your boat right now.”

Gabby shot back, “Aboard Sybarite? A private party… a party that friends of mine are hosting?” Her tone accused You’ve got to be kidding.

“You said yourself the guy’s trash. That’s the only way he can get aboard-if some rich woman invites him. Do you remember a passenger named Olivia Seasons?”

Gabby was muttering, “This is insanity,” not wanting to believe it but still listening.

“Olivia’s a tall, thin girl about our age. She’s worth millions, and her uncle is”-I hesitated, reluctant to tell this smart woman another lie-“he’s my employer. And he’s a friend, too. Olivia is either aboard your boat, or Ricky Meeks has come here looking for me. That’s why I asked if someone called about the guest list.”

Gabby’s expression changed. “He knows you’re looking for… what’s her name? Olivia?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

The girl stood taller to get a better look at Meeks, who was sliding through people to get to the boarding ramp. “No wonder you’re afraid. That guy’s a sicko, you ask me. Olivia’s tall and thin, you said? What color’s her hair?”

As I did my best to describe the missing heiress, Gabby was shaking her head. “I haven’t seen her. But I got here a little late, so maybe she’s somewhere on the boat and I missed her. I doubt it, though.”

“I have to find out for sure,” I said. “If she’s here, I need time alone so we can talk. I think the guy’s screwed up her mind so much, it’s like she’s under a spell. She’s in bad trouble, Gabrielle. Will you help?”

Gabby thought for a moment. “There’s another possibility, honey. Because of the party, Robert’s so short on crew, maybe he’s paying the guy to handle lines and stuff at the dock. As a sort of first mate. That would explain his ugly damn blazer. Or… could be one of Ricky’s other teaser pony ladies wants him around. My friends sure as hell didn’t invite that bastard-you’re right about that.”

I was watching Meeks move toward the boat’s sleek, wide stern, astonished at how smoothly guests snubbed him without making a show, turning their backs at just the right moment or staring past him as if he were invisible. Their behavior validated my loathing for a man I’d never met but also made me apprehensive. I, too, was an outsider. Would they treat me as coldly?

Gabby threaded her arm through mine, a serious look on her face as she gave a pull, then walked me toward Sybarite. “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll look after you. But don’t lie to me ever again. That’s what my last girl did-plus she was screwing my boyfriend behind my back. Now we don’t even talk anymore. See what happens when best friends don’t trust each other?”

I replied, “If Olivia’s not on the boat, I need your help even more. I’m so nervous, maybe we should talk about it now so we don’t get confused later.” My mind was flipping through options, gauging the minutes until sunset, while my eyes moved from Eugene Schneider’s old truck… to Sybarite… then to my fast boat only a hundred yards away. If Olivia wasn’t here, waiting for Meeks, he might have left her alone on his Skipjack cruiser somewhere in the Ten Thousand Islands.

“That’s what worries me,” Gabby said. “Let’s go straight to the crew lounge and smoke a joint. You’re way, way too uptight, honey. Once we’re away from the dock, how will you handle it if Ricky tries to make small talk? I don’t want you freaking out on me. Or he starts hitting on you?”

That’s when I shared with Gabby a decision I’d just made. If we didn’t find Olivia, I was getting off the boat before Sybarite left the dock and headed for open water.

“Without him noticing,” I added, meaning Ricky Meeks. “Can you help me do that?”

“You’ll miss the party!” she said.

“If it were you, Gabrielle, in real trouble, would you want me to stay here having fun? Or expect a friend to do something?”

“And if Olivia is aboard?”

“Keep Ricky busy while I take her somewhere private to talk. I’ll keep it all real quiet even if she agrees to go home with me. We’ll sneak her off somehow-you know, figure it out later. I won’t embarrass you, though. Promise.”

I liked the look on my friend’s face and her fierce reaction. “¡Es tan sencillo, cariño!” she nodded, then offered a loose translation. “Honey, you just leave that white trash loser to me.”