SAVANNAH GONE (2 page)

“Have Claire’s parents thought about contacting the media?” I asked.

He cocked his head, then fixed me with his cold blue eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Robertson have absolutely no intention of being part of a media circus Mr. Fontaine. Like most of my clients, they value their privacy above almost everything else. If you decide to take this on, I have one ironclad requirement: the highest level of discretion must be used. I will not have the media involved.”

This didn’t add up. One of the best ways to increase the odds of finding a missing person is to involve the news media. Like oxygen to a fire, the media keeps the story burning in the public’s mind. I filed Cavanaugh’s need for secrecy away for the time being. “Is Claire married?” I asked him.

“No, she’s single. I know she was engaged because I received a wedding invitation, but the wedding was called off.”

“Who called it off?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, shrugging indifferently.

“Romantically involved with anyone else?”

“I know very little about her private life Mr. Fontaine.”

As I sat watching Cavanaugh, I noticed he had this sort of imperial thing going on. It was nothing obvious, nor overt. He was far too refined for that. Instead, it was his aloof manner and the condescending tone of his replies. And he seemed to bristle when I questioned him. No two ways about it, this was a guy who liked things done his way.

Looking at him, I realized he reminded me of a Roman emperor in the coliseum. In my mind, I could see him giving the thumbs up or thumbs down to a fallen gladiator while snacking on a bunch of grapes hand fed to him by some hottie in a toga.

I asked, “Have her parents tried reaching any of her friends?”

“I would assume so, but I can’t be certain.”

“You mentioned she has a townhouse.”

He gave me a regal nod. “That’s right. It’s located on Whitaker Street across from Forsyth Park. The address is in a file I’ve prepared for you.”

“Roommates?”

“I don’t know that either, but her parents will.” Cavanaugh sat there silently ruminating, then looked at me and said,
“I’m not being much help am I?”

No, I thought, you’re not being much help at all. But since I didn’t feel like being lunch meat for a lion, I put up with Nero’s lack of help...at least for the time being. “You’re doing fine,” I said, reassuring him. “What about her car, is it missing?”

“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Monday through Friday, Claire parks at the Sapelo visitor center. I called them this morning and her car isn’t there. It’s not at her townhouse either. The police have checked.”

I studied him for a moment. “All area hospitals need to be checked Mr. Cavanaugh. It’s possible Claire’s been in an auto accident. And I hate to mention this, but the morgue needs to be checked as well.”

Some of the vitality drained from his face. Suddenly he looked older, diminished. “If you’re interested in pursuing this,” he said, “I’m prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars plus expenses. All I ask is that you keep me apprised of your progress.”

Fifty grand…what’s the catch
? “That’s way too much money, Mr. Cavanaugh. Plus, there’s no guarantee I can find her.”

“As far as the money, my offer stands. And I’m not asking for a guarantee. Just promise me you’ll make this your highest priority.”

I took my time in answering. “I have a daughter myself; she’s my highest priority. If Megan went missing, I’d blaze a trail through hell to find her. If I agree to search for Claire, I’ll do the same for her.”

Cavanaugh leaned forward, icy eyes boring holes into me. “Imagine
how hard this must be for Claire’s parents.”

But I didn’t think about Claire’s parents. And I didn’t think about the fifty thousand dollars. Instead, I thought about Megan. How ruined I’d be if she disappeared. They say burying a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent. Having one vanish might be even worse.

“I’ll do what I can to find her,” I replied. “But I need as much information as you can give me, starting with her parents contact information.”

“How soon can you begin?” he asked.

“I’m not working on anything else currently. I can start right away.”

I watched him reach inside his suit coat. He extracted a plain white envelope, then slid it across the table toward me. I slit it open. Inside it was a business check made out to me for fifty thousand dollars.

“That should be enough to get you going,” he said. “As you incur expenses, submit them directly to me. I’ll see that you’re reimbursed straight away. I’ve prepared a file with as much pertinent information as I could think of, including her father’s cell number. I know you have questions only Dr. Robertson and his wife can answer. Jennifer, our receptionist, has the file. You can pick it up from her on your way out.”

Not so fast Nero. “One other thing,” I said. “Who am I working for?”

“What do you mean?”

“That check you just handed me is a Coastal Capital business check. Coastal Capital is an entity I’m not familiar with. Before I take my clothes off, I like to know who I’m hopping in bed with.”

Cavanaugh didn’t care much for my little analogy. His eyes flared, and his lips pressed into a tight seam. We held eye contact, and I thought the old goat might take a swing at me.

“You’ve got a way with words Mister Fontaine. I’ll give you that.” He paused and stared at me, then said, “I suppose that’s why you became a journalist.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Have you given any thought to returning to it?”

“To journalism?”

He nodded but didn’t reply.

“It’s been more than six years since I was canned. Too much time has passed, and the newspaper business will soon be extinct. I think I got out at the right time. Plus, I didn’t just burn my bridges. I nuked ‘em.”

“Six years is a long time,” he replied, nodding once again. “You still carry a chip on your shoulder though.”

“Two of ‘
em. One on each shoulder...better balance that way.”

He gave me a wintry smile. “Fair enough. Coastal Capital is what’s known as a family office. We provide financial and tax planning, investment management, wealth transfer, philanthropy, family governance, lifestyle management, and other important services for our clients. My grandfather founded the firm in 1912. I run it now, so I suppose that means you're working for me. Does that make a difference?”

“It does to me. I like understanding the chain of command.”

“That’s right. You were a military man.”

Cavanaugh had certainly done his homework on yours truly, and I wondered exactly how much he knew about me.

I said to him, “You mentioned wealth transfer a moment ago. Has Claire’s family transferred some of their money to her?”

He pursed his lips. “I don’t discuss my client’s finances with people outside this firm Mister Fontaine. I have a fiduciary responsibility to uphold.”

“If you want to jerk me around,” I said, tossing the envelope on the table, “find somebody else.” I pushed my chair back and stood, ready to walk out on this pompous ass.

“Sit down, please,” he said, holding up his hand. “I can tell you this. For tax purposes, Claire’s parents have gifted a small portion of their wealth to her.”

I lowered myself into the chair. “How much is a small portion?” Before he could answer, I clarified. “I’m not looking for an exact dollar figure Mr. Cavanaugh. But I need to know if it’s enough to live on for the rest of her life.” If a person with a big enough bankroll decides to take a walk, finding them could be next to impossible.

He considering the question. “If she invested correctly and didn’t spend extravagantly, then yes it is.”

“Do you manage her money?”

“No. Only her parents.”

Claire obviously was well off, and I needed to know who stood to gain in the event something tragic had happened to her. Cops call it Cui bono, a Latin term that literally means “who benefits?”

I asked him, “What about a will?”

“Yes. She has a will. We make sure all our clients and their family members have one.”

“Who is Claire’s beneficiary?”

“I don’t have that information at my fingertips, but I can have it for you shortly.” He paused, seemed deep in thought for a full minute or more. “By the way,” he said at last, “I read several of the articles you wrote.”

I gave him a nod but stayed silent, waiting.

“I thought you were very talented,” he said, blowing smoke up my ass.

“Thanks. But talent’s the most overrated commodity I know of. The only things that matters is pig-headed perseverance. Anything anyone’s willing to practice long enough and hard enough at, they can do fairly well. Especially if they refuse to give up.”

He eyed me once again. “I’m not sure if I agree with you. Anyway, if you have no further questions, please forgive me for not seeing you out.”

We both stood and shook hands. I wandered back toward the reception area, and as Cavanaugh indicated, Jennifer had a file
folder waiting for me.

While the elevator made its way up to me, I was thinking about Cavanaugh. He’d forked over the fifty thousand dollar check like he was flipping peanuts to a circus elephant. My mind moved back to the way he reacted when I questioned him, and I decided I’d need to watch my back around him.

Back outside, the sun had risen higher in a cobalt sky. The day had warmed, and a breeze off the river combed the city. I heard the slow staccato of hooves, as a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped into the distance.

I beelined it back to my parking spot, fed four more quarters into the meter, then headed off on foot to Starbucks. The coffee shop was located a couple blocks away at the corner of Broughton and Bull. I think better with a beverage in hand. Plus, I wanted to go through the file Cavanaugh had prepared before calling Claire’s father.

The time was now close to 10:00
A.M.
Since most of the stores along Broughton had yet to open, foot traffic was light. Starbucks, though, looked ready to pop: a sea of customers queuing up for their morning caffeine fix. Art students, business types, tourists, and retirees were scattered throughout the store. They sat reading the paper, tapping away on laptops, playing with their phones, and talking.

I stood in line and secured my coffee, then found a seat toward the back and began to familiarize myself with Claire Robertson.

Banging back the coffee, I leafed through the information Cavanaugh's receptionist had given me. According to the file, Claire’s father was a heart surgeon at Charleston’s University Medical Hospital. I dialed his cell number but got his voicemail. I left him a message, told him who I was, and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as possible.

Next I called my friend Caroline Ross. Caroline’s a Savannah metro detective in the violent crimes division, and this time I had better luck; she answered on the third ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked.

“Do I need an excuse to call? I woke up thinking about you Caroline. That’s all.”

I heard her chuckle. “Charming. But you’re more full of shit than my ex ever was Fontaine. So what gives?”

Caroline’s ex-husband, an oily ambulance chaser named Lionel Callaway, advertises his legal services from the back of Savannah buses. If you’ve spent any time in town, you’ve probably seen his pasty face, along with his signature tagline: “When you’ve been hurt in an accident, I make them pay.” Caroline once told me, “At least the asshole’s face is on the ass-end of a bus, instead of on a pillow next to me in bed.”

I said to her, “I need a couple favors.”

“Typical. The only time you call is when you need something. It’s gonna cost you buddy-boy. Buy a girl some lunch?”

“Love to. But here’s what I need. I’ve been hired to find a missing woman. Her name’s Claire Robertson. A missing persons report was filed yesterday. I need a copy of that report.”

“That’s a big ask, and strictly against department policy. You could get me fired...now it’s gonna cost you lunch and dinner. None of those crappy dumps you typically take me to either. Plus, you said a couple of favors. What else?”

“I need to know if she’s in the morgue.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

We agreed to meet at The 5 Spot, a popular midtown eatery, and set a time for one o’clock.

~ ~ ~

By the time I made it back to my car the meter had expired, and a pale yellow parking ticket sat fluttering beneath my driver-side windshield wiper. I crumpled it up and chucked it on the floorboard. Maybe I can hit Caroline up for another favor and get her to take care of the ticket.

Anyway, Claire’s place wasn't far. So I rolled the motor over, threw it in first, and pulled out. A few blocks later I swung left onto Whitaker, a major thoroughfare through the Historic District. As I drove, I thought about Cavanaugh again, and his little ‘need for discretion’ tirade. To my way of thinking, this made absolutely no sense. What kind of people value privacy over the safety of their own daughter? Not only that, the need for secrecy would make my job of finding Claire that much tougher. But fifty grand was way more than my usual fee, so I couldn’t complain.

I got my head out of the clouds and tried to formulate a plan of action. I passed the northern entrance to Forsyth Park on my left. Moments later, I pulled to a stop in front of Claire’s building and almost got rear-ended by an irate driver blaring his horn and giving me the finger. So much for the genteel citizenry. Before someone actually piled into me, I parked around the corner on West Bolton, climbed out and slammed the door.

Claire’s townhouse, a four-story end unit, was constructed of pale gray stucco. Ten granite steps led from the sidewalk to the second story front stoop.

I took the steps two at a time, pounded away on her door with my fist, and waited. I put my ear to the door but didn’t hear a thing.

Retreating to the street, I checked the unit next door and noticed the interior lights were on. Up the neighbor’s steps I went. Same drill. I whacked the door and waited. I thought I heard someone moving around inside. So I smacked the door a couple more times with the palm of my hand, then listened quietly. Nothing.