Gone (5 page)

I did, but I let him talk.

“It has to do with taking responsible steps to gather information in an accountable way. If for some reason I had to go to court or to my insurance agency, I couldn’t just tell them, ‘Well, I hired my old buddy Captain Jake to do the background check because he’s an ex-cop and a great guy.’ It would be meaningless. But if I hired a licensed, bonded professional by the name of Jake Smith, I would have fulfilled my responsibilities regarding due diligence. Same person, same talents, but entirely different in a legal sense. We could then pursue the matter through whatever legal avenues available. Opening that little agency was my idea, not your uncle’s. I suspect you didn’t know that either. Understand now why I’m asking personal questions?”

Mr. Seasons was looking at me in a kindly way, but there was also an underlying bedrock seriousness that is not uncommon in my successful clients.

I decided to open up a little. “Jake was always after me to better myself any way I could. I got my captain’s license because of him. Never thought I’d need it, but he gave me the books and helped me study. Same with the private investigator thing. In Florida, a person with two years’ experience at an agency can apply for a Class C license, which my uncle insisted I do. Then when Jake got sick, he had me upgrade to a Class M license so I could sign paperwork that needed taking care of.”

“Have you kept your license current?”

“No need,” I replied. “It hasn’t expired.”

Mr. Seasons was pleased, I could see it. Because I didn’t want to mislead him, though, I felt obligated to add, “But I won’t renew it when the time comes. There’s a fee, and I have no interest in doing that sort of work. For one thing, I quit college before I got my degree, so I’m not qualified—aside from doing the computer stuff. I’m sorry your niece is missing, but if that’s why you asked me to lunch, I’ve got enough charters booked to last me through the first week of—”

Lawrence Seasons was searching around for the maid, still perturbed about his melted ice. As he stood, not looking at me, he interrupted, “Just a few seconds ago, didn’t you say you never thought you’d need your captain’s license either?”

“That’s different,” I told him. “Finding fish is something that comes natural. And I
like
my clients. It always irks me when I hear some guide talking about his anglers like they’re idiots. Why in the world would someone go into the business if that’s the way they feel? The main thing, though, is—and I don’t mean to be blunt—agency work, the investigating part, is
boring
. Hunched over a computer for hours, calling strangers on the phone. Jake offered me the business, maybe you know that, too. But we were only billing about two or three hours a month, which didn’t even pay utilities. So we closed it officially a few weeks before he went into Hope Hospice. Now I’ve converted the space into a sort of apartment, and that’s where—” I hesitated because it was embarrassing to admit I was living in a parking lot next to a 7-Eleven and a fitness club. So I left that part out, saying, “—and that’s what happened to the little building you helped Jake buy.”

Maybe Mr. Seasons heard me, maybe he didn’t. I got the impression what I was saying didn’t matter much, anyway, because the man had already made up his mind. I found that irritating. He had invited me to his home, the least he could do is listen respectfully.

Instead, though, he said, “Excuse me,” turned on his heels, and carried his empty glass into the house before I could finish what I was saying.

Loretta accuses me of having a temper, which might be true, but only when someone is unfair or treating others like they’re not worth the time of day. That’s the way I felt now, so I got up, exited the pool area, and walked toward the dock, telling myself I should hop in my skiff and go home—although I knew I wouldn’t do it. Then, a moment later, I heard Mr. Seasons calling, “Hannah—hold on there!” then turned to watch him maneuver through the lanai door, trying not to spill his fresh drink in one hand and carrying what looked like an old leather briefcase in his other.

“Needed to check on my boat,” I told him, then waited for him to join me on the dock.

“Here,” he said, handing me the briefcase. “These are some things Jake asked me to hang on to but I kept forgetting to return. You can look at them later. Let’s get our business settled first, okay?”

Too late. I had unsnapped the case, which was heavier than expected, and saw that it contained two oversized books, one of them on Florida history that I remembered seeing as a girl. As I stowed the briefcase beneath my skiff’s steering console, I couldn’t help but stare up at the yacht moored a few yards away, which he noticed. His expression suddenly warmed as if he’d just had a good idea.

“A beauty, isn’t she?” His eyes were tracing the vessel’s clean lines, all teak, tempered glass, and stainless steel. “I had her built in Palmetto almost . . . my God, more than fifteen years ago. It’s a shame, really. Sits here at the dock like a yard decoration. Only used the thing once in the last two years. My wife hates Florida—I’ve probably mentioned that. So I have one of the Jensen brothers stop every week or so, when I’m traveling or in New York, just to start the engines. She’s a real work of art, don’t you think?”

Actually, I’d been thinking what a pain in the backside it would be to maintain a vessel that size, but I complimented the craft anyway by saying, “I’ve always favored boats with midnight blue hulls and white upper decks. Yacht-sized boats, anyway.” I gestured to my skiff, which is twenty-one feet long, flat as an iron, and overmuscled at the stern with a 220-horsepower outboard. “In a fishing skiff, though, I like light blue. Or gray. Makes it harder for other fishermen to see me and steal my spots.”

Mr. Seasons enjoyed that kind of talk and it showed. He asked a few questions about my boat, then about how chartering was going—a money question, which I dodged—then got back to business.

“Let me ask you something. You helped with Jake’s P.I. work, so you know I was one of his few clients. Maybe his only client. Which means you probably did some of the background checks I ordered. You and I have fished together for, what, almost two years? Yet you’ve never mentioned it. And a few minutes ago when I asked about my dealings with Jake, you avoided telling me. Why?”

I started to answer, but he stopped me, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “You have character, Hannah Smith, that’s why. Character and local knowledge. You don’t gossip and you don’t risk compromising your clients by opening your mouth. Same with people you care about. Am I right? Plus, you know how to handle a boat, which I think is a must in this case.”

I could feel my ears warming, but not because of what Mr. Seasons was saying. It was the way he was looking at me suddenly, his eyes liquid blue in the sun, moving over my jeans and blouse as if I were a freshly framed canvas. There was a pleased expression on his face that showed a hint of surprise.

I asked, “What’s wrong? Is . . . something on my—?” My fingers automatically confirmed my blouse hadn’t come open, then wiped at my cheek, expecting to find a streak of that damn orange paint.

Mr. Seasons made a dismissive motion with his hand, his expression now telling me
Relax
. “Sorry if I was staring. It was something the sun did for a moment . . . the way the light hit your face just now.”

I cleared my throat, and said, “I should be wearing a hat, I guess. I usually do.” As I spoke, my eyes sought the safety of the bay and found it, focusing on a hedge of mangroves where pelicans roosted heavy as bricks on guano-streaked limbs.

“That’s not what I meant, dear. It’s an odd sort of experience, maybe it’s happened to you. You meet a man, or a woman, and that first impression sticks in your brain for years. Then you run into them at some unexpected place—an airport, maybe . . . or the light changes, like it did just now—and you’re surprised to find out the person looks nothing like the picture that’s stuck in your brain. Especially if you don’t see the person very often.”

“Why don’t you tell me about your niece, Mr. Seasons,” I said to ease the awkwardness we were both feeling. Then I glanced at the sun to remind him the temperature was already in the eighties on this June afternoon.

He got the hint. “Let me show you around the boat. Would you like that? It’s not really big enough to call a yacht, but it’s a damn fine day cruiser. Or at least it was.”

“It runs twin Yanmar diesels?” I asked. “The lines sort of remind me of a Hinckley.”

The man interpreted my interest as assent.

He said, “Come aboard. If I can get the air to work, and if the mildew’s not too bad, we’ll talk business inside. Someone with local knowledge, that’s exactly who I need to track down my niece. Martha agrees—it was her idea, in fact. Martha’s not easily impressed, but she’s sold on you. The woman kept me on the phone half an hour last night, which is a marathon session for someone like her.”

I didn’t know how to reply to such a compliment, so I didn’t, which must have caused Mr. Seasons to think I was being stubborn again. “I know, I know, talk is cheap. So give me a few minutes to outline what we think is a very solid proposition. For you, possibly even career changing. Then we’ll have lunch—and I’ll even book another charter as thanks no matter what you decide.”

“There’s no need for that,” I said, watching him undo the chain to the boarding ramp. “I’ve got no interest in changing careers. And . . . well, I’m just going to come out and say it. What if your niece doesn’t
want
you to find her?”

Mr. Seasons glanced over his shoulder at me, his eyes suddenly hard. “If ninety million dollars were transferred into your account the instant you signed a legal document, would you want to stay missing, Hannah? Or would you want to be found?”

THREE

T
HE 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.