Gone

THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, IDLING MY SKIFF ALONG THE BACK side of Captiva Island, I was telling my bodybuilder friend Nathan Pace, “Olivia’s uncle thinks she’s living on a boat somewhere on the west coast of Florida. Olivia didn’t date much. She was practically a recluse, he says. But then she got involved with a guy the estate hired to build a stone seawall. Big guy with an attitude, Texas accent and a belt buckle-that type. For three weeks, he lived behind her house in some kind of cabin cruiser. I’m not sure of the make, but the guy knows boats, I was told.

“Three weeks ago, he finished the seawall, took his pay, and pulled out. Olivia left a note and disappeared a couple days later. But not actually disappeared because she stays in touch by phone, which is why her family can’t get law enforcement involved-she’s not actually a missing person. Plus, I don’t think they would anyway. They’re real private. People with money don’t like seeing their names in the paper.”

“What do you mean, ‘the estate’ hired him?” Nathan asked, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, which caused my boat to tilt. The man is two hundred fifty pounds of muscle, kindness, and childhood scars.

I said, “Olivia lived in Naples-her father’s house before he died. A gated community called Port Royal. Mr. Seasons is executor of the trust, but his attorney-Martha Calder-Shaun, the one I told you about-is the one who actually looks after things.”

My friend was nodding. “I know who she is; seen her around the island. She’s so freakin’ beautiful-drives a white Bentley convertible. All business and style.”

“That’s her,” I agreed. “She hires managers to take care of the family properties, so it was one of the managers who had the seawall built. She didn’t hire the guy. She’s mad as can be because the manager didn’t run a background check. In Port Royal, that’s required of workers.”

Nathan made a whistling sound. “Bavarian castles on the sea. I made a delivery to Port Royal once when I was working at the furniture store. Properties start at around five mil.”

I filed the information away before adding, “There’s a chance you might know the guy who built the seawall, too, Nate. Or know someone who knows him. He’s a gym rat like you. Lots of muscles. And he supposedly lived in this area for a while.”

“On Captiva or near Fort Myers? Half a million people live in this county, for cripes’ sake.”

I was about to explain, but then we rounded a bend in Roosevelt Channel, and I said, “There it is”-meaning Mr. Seasons’s dock, where his yacht floated blue and solid on a turquoise slate that was speckled with mangrove shadows and sunlight.

Nathan was with me because I needed his help and also because, coincidentally, he’d just finished at the fitness center as I was leaving my apartment early that morning. He wanted to pick up some things from a friend’s house, which was easier by boat, and it didn’t take me out of my way much. There’s a famous photographer who lives on Captiva, and he and Nathan had been close for a year or so. How close, I’d never asked, because I suspected my oversized friend would’ve had fun providing more details than I wanted to know.

Nathan is considered shy by most. Some even wonder if the man can speak English, that’s how quiet he is. Around me, though, he jabbers and jokes, and tries his best to embarrass me whenever he can. Always privately, though. Never in front of others, which makes it okay. As Nate says, “People didn’t include us when they had the chance. Why include them now that we’re old enough to relax a little and have fun?”

If you’re thinking neither one of us enjoyed high school, you are right.

Nathan wasn’t joking now, though, as he gazed at Mr. Seasons’s thirty-seven-foot yacht and said, “He’s going to let you live aboard that for a year? It’s too small, for one thing. And you can’t dock on Captiva because of zoning. My God, Hannah, you’d have to live in some crappy backwater marina full of mullet fishermen and crabbers.”

It wasn’t like my friend to be so negative, and I was a little hurt, which the man noticed, so became instantly remorseful. “That was a bitchy thing to say, I’m sorry. Truth is, Four, I’m worried I won’t see you as much if you move away from the gym.”

“Four” was his pet name for me, as in Hannah Four, which made me feel better. I said, “I’ve got an SUV and a road map, so don’t worry about me finding you. And it is a pretty boat, isn’t it?”

The big man grinned, which was something he didn’t often do because of a crooked front tooth. “Pretty? Are you kidding? It’s drop-dead gorgeous! So I guess I’m jealous, too. Does it have a galley and a full shower?”

I was happy to have a chance to talk about the boat’s appointments, especially the kitchen area. “It’s got two burners, even a little oven and a stainless Sub-Zero mini-fridge. Originally, the stove was propane, but Mr. Seasons had it replaced with electric.”

Nathan liked that. “Propane’s dangerous. Remember the sailboat that blew up a few years back?” He took another look at the yacht, nodding. “A freakin’ awesome place to live-especially for a single woman who doesn’t date.”

I ignored the barb by reminding him, “It’s not a done deal yet. And I’d have to do all the maintenance work, of course. The boat needs a bottom job and a good cleaning. The bilge is a mess. It’s a Marlow Prowler, built in Palmetto, which is near Tampa, I think. If I owned a boat like that, there’d never be a drop of oil on it. Or a spot of mildew.”

I couldn’t pull my eyes off the Marlow even when Nathan asked me, “No strings attached? You can’t be serious.”

“Not the sort of strings you’re talking about,” I replied, giving him a look.

“Gezzus, even if it’s true, the least you can do is surprise the man with something special. He’ll expect it no matter what he says.”

I replied, “He’s not the type to appreciate a thank-you card. And I couldn’t afford much of a present.”

“No! I’m thinking more along the lines of giving him a peek. Just a quick look-that’s a hell of a lot better than a card.”

I didn’t understand what Nathan was talking about, which he could tell from my expression.

“A peek,” he repeated. “You know, as in flashing the man-but in a tasteful way, of course. A quick look at your breasts at the very least. You have an incredible body, Hannah-not that anyone suspects, the way you dress.”

“Quit,” I told him, but I was smiling. Probably a hundred times I had idled past that midnight blue boat on my way to South Seas Plantation or the Green Flash Restaurant, carrying clients, and I’d never given the vessel a second glance. Now, though, looking at the Marlow’s lean, old-timey lines, her sparkling stainless work, gave me the pleasantest feeling in my chest. Like Mr. Seasons had said, even though a thing is right in front of our eyes we sometimes don’t see the truth of it until the light shifts in just the right way or the unexpected happens.

In this case, the unexpected was that I had agreed to search for Olivia Tatum Seasons. In return, I would be paid expenses, a flat fee that was more than I made in two months of fishing, a bonus if I found her, and I would also be allowed to live aboard the Marlow for a year-but only after I had delivered a sheaf of legal documents into Olivia’s hands. Whether or not she also had to sign the documents, I was still unsure and, frankly, was afraid to ask. I’d never experienced such a sudden change in fortunes and I was reluctant to risk the happiness I felt.

Accepting the job meant canceling my fishing charters for the next two weeks and e-mailing the necessary documents to Ms. Calder-Shaun to confirm my uncle’s investigation agency was still licensed and state-bonded. All of which I’d accomplished before midnight, but I’d still found it hard to sleep.

Mr. Seasons had given me an incomplete dossier on his niece, Olivia. A leather-bound scrapbook sort of thing that I’d stayed up until two reading. Then I stayed awake another hour, sitting at the computer, researching everything from stone seawalls to steroids. I was being honest when I told Mr. Seasons I wasn’t qualified for the job. Now that I had accepted, though, I was by God going to do everything I could to fulfill my end of the bargain.

Probably because the memory of the way Mr. Seasons had stared at me was still fresh, my ears warmed a tad as Nathan continued to chide me, saying, “Seriously, Hannah. Don’t be obvious about it, but you owe the guy something special. The man’s an art lover, you said.”

“Lots of paintings in his house,” I agreed. “The classic-looking kind you see in museums and books.”

“There you go. And your body is as classic as any Hollywood actress. All the right curves, just taller-although you’re too stubborn to believe it. I’ve never opened a Playboy magazine in my life, but, I swear, Hannah, even I love your tits.”

I shot back, “You’ve never seen me that way and you know it,” trying my best not to sound flattered. Nathan has no interest in women in a physical way, but compliments of that sort have been scarce in my life, so I wanted him to stop exaggerating-but not drop the subject entirely.

“Have too seen ’em. The day you took me snook fishing and you had to go overboard to cut a crab line off the propeller. You were wearing a white T-shirt and a lacy bra. Same thing.”

The man grinned and leaned to look shoreward, which caused me to hold the steering wheel so as not to lose my balance. “Is that his house through the trees?”

Both of our heads were turned as far as they could go, so I clicked the throttle lever into neutral so we could take our time. From the channel, forty yards away, Mr. Seasons’s estate was five acres of tropic foliage and vines, landscaped neatly as a pineapple plantation. You couldn’t see much of the house. Just a wedge of gray wood and a chunk of chimney framed by hibiscus and coconut palms with leaves as green as parrots’ wings.

I’d already told Nathan that Mr. Seasons said I could hire a part-time researcher, so I decided to get back to business. “You haven’t said you’d take the job. It would mostly be computer stuff, just a few hours in the morning when I’m traveling. Mr. Seasons thinks it would be smart for me to work my way down the coast by boat, talking to people at marinas. It wouldn’t interfere with your job at Sanibel Rum Bar, but you’d have to sign a contract of confidentiality. I found blank contracts in my uncle’s files and brought one along just in case.”

“Why down the coast?” Nathan asked. “If his niece is on a boat, they could have headed north just as easy. Or taken the river to Lake Okeechobee, across to Lauderdale. She could be anywhere.”

I replied, “A friend thinks he saw Olivia on Marco Island, getting into a boat,” while I opened the console locker and brought out a computer bag, aware my skiff was drifting toward Mr. Seasons’s dock. Nathan was still looking toward the house, standing on tiptoes to get a better view. “Is there a pool?”

“Big one with a black tile bottom,” I answered. “I like black tile in a pool a lot better than blue. You don’t see that many. If I had the money, that’s what I’d pick.”

Nathan looked at me, using his hands like a filmmaker, wanting me to imagine something. “Okay, here’s how you do it. You’re out lounging by his swimming pool, getting a tan. No… it’s dark, with a big full moon. Which is when you notice the great man standing at the window. But a very lonely man because his wife’s a bitch and she doesn’t like Florida. Or sex, or fishing-or anything else that’s fun. Poor bastard hasn’t seen a fine pair of young breasts in years. With me so far?”

I said, “My God, you’re something,” which didn’t stop Nathan, of course.

“That’s when you and the great man make eye contact. When he’s at the window-only for a second, though. It’s an electric moment-for him, at least-then you turn so you’re in profile. That’s when you let your bikini top drop to your feet. Don’t even look at it-your top, I mean. Like it’s all accidental, but he knows it’s your private way of thanking him. A personal gift to a lonely old man who has too much money to count.”

Nathan was grinning again, but then the grin faded because of what he saw in my face. “Oh, now you’re mad. What’d I say? Usually, you like it when I talk dirty. Lord knows, it’s the only sex thrills either one of us gets.”

“I am not mad,” I replied, my tone formal, pretending to concentrate on what was inside the computer bag. “It’s not professional to speak ill of clients, that’s all.”

“Speak ill? Christ, Hannah, all I said was you should let the old guy have a peek at your goodies. There’s nothing bad about that-unless you think it might give him a heart attack or something.”

I was tempted to point out that Nathan was thirty years younger than his famous photographer friend but didn’t. “That’s not the way you talk about a person who’s paying for your livelihood,” I told him sternly. “Besides, Mr. Seasons can’t be much more than forty-five or… or so. A lot of people consider that middle-aged.”

Nathan was looking at me like I was nuts. “Sure-if we lived to a hundred. I wait on Mr. Seasons sometimes when he comes into the bar. That’s how I know he’s unhappy and his wife’s a bitch. Trust me, the man’s closer to sixty than forty.”

“He is not.”

“You can’t be serious. I know grandfathers younger than him. And a lot happier, too.”

I snapped, “Lawrence Seasons is not a sad old man!” raising my voice and turning-which is when I noticed that Mr. Seasons was inside the cabin of the Marlow, door open now, looking at us from only thirty yards away.

I whispered, “Shit,” a word I seldom use. It was because I know how sound carries across water, so the man had definitely heard me. I shoved the computer bag into Nathan’s hands, then slammed my boat into gear, eyes locked straight ahead. Because I’d surprised Nathan, though, the bag dropped to the deck, which caused the sheaf of papers to spill around our feet.

I didn’t care. Putting distance between us, that beautiful boat, and Mr. Seasons was all I could think about. Even when Nathan knelt to gather the papers, asking me over and over, “What’s wrong? Hey, what’s the problem?” I ignored him and drove.

A couple of minutes later, though, when he said, “Does this guy have anything to do with the missing girl?” I had calmed enough to stop behaving like a statue, so I turned and gave him my attention. Nathan had gathered the papers Mr. Seasons had given me and was looking at a photo. I recognized the photo easily enough. I had spent time memorizing it the night before.

“He’s the man they hired to build the seawall,” I said. “They can’t be sure Olivia went off with him, but it’s what they suspect. His name’s Ricky Meeks.”

Nathan was still examining the picture but was now pursing his lips. “His name’s not Ricky. Or maybe it is, but Mrs. Whitney called him something else. Mike… Matt… it began with an M.”

“You know him?” I said, startled but also pleased because Mr. Seasons put a lot of stock in the value of local knowledge. Maybe I was already earning my money.

“Mick,” Nathan said. “Yeah… Mick, I’m pretty sure that’s it. A woman named Mrs. Whitney used to bring him to the restaurant sometimes. This was back around New Year’s. For a week or so, those two came almost every night, usually just drinks. She always paid, of course, because she’s a lot older-and she’s rich.” Nathan looked at the photo again. “Or Mickey, maybe. Which at least rhymes with Ricky, so it’s the sort of fake name a guy would use.”

I said, “You can’t be sure from just looking at one picture,” which I didn’t believe but, suddenly, I felt uneasy because so much good luck was piling on me all at once.

“Nope, it’s him all right.” Nathan turned to me. “You’re doing some kind of reverse jinx thing, right? Hannah, how can someone smart as you be so damn superstitious?”

I replied, “I just want you to be sure, that’s all. Plus, you have to sign that confidentiality form before I can even let you see those papers.”

Captiva Island, less than five miles long, isn’t much more than an ancient sandbar built up over centuries, shaped by current and waves. Now it’s rooted to the Gulf of Mexico by multimillion-dollar properties, sea oats, palms, and a couple of bayside marinas. We were approaching Jensen’s Marina now. Nathan’s photographer friend, Darren, lived to my right in a house with a pool and studio so beautifully designed, they blended into the island’s foliage like elegant, storm-tossed shells.

Darren had gotten famous in New York, photographing rock stars and actors, but now he mostly lived and worked on the island. He was a handsome man, willowy as a fashion model, and always had a whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. We’d spoken only a few times, but Nathan liked Darren a lot, and his self-confidence had improved a bunch since they’d met. My friend seemed happy, and that’s all I cared about. When we were close enough to Darren’s dock, I reversed my engine… popped it into forward, spinning the wheel… then I switched off the key, and let my skiff drift itself to a stop, nudging the pilings as if it belonged there.

That’s when Nathan, his shyness showing, patted my shoulder and assured me, “I might be wrong about the guy’s name. But not about him and Mrs. Whitney. I remember ’cause the dude’s so mean-looking. He, uhh… it made my hands shake sometimes when I waited on their table. Nervous, you know?”

Nate is the size of a pro wrestler, but he’s timid as a bird, so I tried not to smile as I stepped out and tied the boat.

Ricky Meeks-the name I associated with the photo after studying it-was indeed a scary-looking man. The photo had been taken outdoors at a place where there was snow and a parking lot, possibly backdropped by a bar or strip club. Nothing in the picture to prove it, just a feeling I got. The man’s sleeves were rolled tight, biker’s tats and muscles on display like trophies, a deliberate spit curl calling attention to a face that leered at the camera as if he’d just insulted the photographer and knew the guy was too scared to fight.

“He has kind of a dirty redneck look,” Nathan said, handing me the photo. “You think? And smelled bad, too. Sweat and cigarettes, but mostly this terrible, cheap aftershave. The dollar-a-gallon stuff you buy at Walgreens. Like limes mixed with cough syrup.”

I asked, “What in the world was Mrs. Whitney doing with a man like him? I’ve never met her, but I know she’s wealthy. It’s the same family that started the cereal company, right? That’s what I’ve heard, anyway… and they own a place-”

“Right there,” Nathan said, pointing toward a screen of hedges a hundred yards down the seawall where there was a dock that was boatless, some busted planks hanging in the water. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Whitney for a while. Months, probably. A lot of the owners are seasonal, so maybe she went north for the summer. I can ask Darren.”

In my head, my courage was having an argument with my brain, saying it was too early to begin questioning people and that I hadn’t done the proper research. But then my eyes swiveled toward Mr. Seasons’s dock, a quarter mile away, where the Marlow Prowler was a pretty black blossom that glittered in the heat.

“Don’t bother Darren yet,” I told Nathan.

“Still intimidated because he’s famous?” my friend chided. “Darren likes you, Four. His feelings are hurt because you never come up for a drink. My God, a few weeks ago the man practically begged to photograph you! That doesn’t tell you something?”

It was all true, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to ask Darren. I said, “Later, I’ll stop and say hello, sure. But first I’m going to walk down to Mrs. Whitney’s place. You know, find out for myself if she recognizes the photo.”

“If she’s still on the island,” Nathan replied, sounding like he hoped she wasn’t. Even so, he fell into step. We followed the bike path toward Blind Pass, past three driveways to a wrought-iron gate the size of a mall entrance. A bronze plaque read Battle Creek Bay-N-Beach, which was the sort of clever name owners call their estates on Captiva Island. I guessed it referred to the cereal town in Michigan.

“Gate’s locked,” Nathan said, rattling the bars, “unless you know the code.”

“That’s for people with cars,” I replied. I paused to check for traffic, then slid between the gate and a hedge, onto Mrs. Whitney’s property. “You going to let me trespass all by myself?” I asked. “Or you coming along?”