Randy White - Gone

“Her check bounced,” Martha continued. “That’s why the minister called our office. It was written on a personal account we didn’t know she’d opened. Larry hasn’t been able to confirm exactly how much she’d deposited, but it was a money market account that required a minimum balance of fifty thousand.”

Several seconds later, I was still staring at what lay at my feet when the woman asked for what was, I realized, the second time, “Hannah… are you still there?”

“Ricky… he cleaned out Olivia’s account,” I replied, struggling to refocus, which required some effort. The book had spilled open when it landed, ejecting a semiautomatic pistol that was like no handgun I’d ever seen. The barrel and slide were stainless steel, which isn’t unusual, but the trigger guard was a customized hook, and the handgrips had transparent windows that showed the magazine was loaded with a stack of hollow-point cartridges. Nine-millimeter, it looked like, although I wasn’t expert enough to be sure at a glance.

Martha said, “It’s all coming together now, kiddo. I think you’re right. I think you found that son of a bitch.”

Kneeling to retrieve the weapon, I replied, “Fifty thousand dollars missing, that ought to be enough to convince the police, don’t you think? Have them waiting when the guy shows up in Caxambas day after tomorrow.”

“To question Ricky Meeks, you mean. We don’t have enough for an arrest warrant, but shake him a little and see what falls out. Yeah, I agree.” The woman sounded excited.

I said, “I’d want to be there, Martha. I feel like I know Olivia already and I won’t feel right until I’m sure she’s safe.” Which was true, but I was also worried. I feared the girl wouldn’t want to be rescued unless someone who understood her predicament was there to help-and I was the only person who knew the truth. Some of it, anyway. I hadn’t been able to decipher all of Olivia’s shorthand entries in the missing pages, but I’d read enough to know that Meeks had seduced her the same way he had taken control of Mrs. Whitney’s life. At first, he’d all but forced Olivia, then he’d kept her so dizzy in the bedroom that a strange, unhealthy bond had formed. Maybe the girl was still under the man’s spell, which was an upsetting possibility. I probably should have shared the information with Martha right then, but I felt too protective of Olivia to reveal such an embarrassing secret. Plus, I was rattled by what my Uncle Jake had kept hidden inside this old book that lay open on the floor.

Jake and I had been closer than some fathers and daughters, so my ego was bruised. He had given this unusual gun to Lawrence Seasons to protect instead of someone of his own blood.

Why? Why hadn’t my uncle trusted me ?

–

I HADN’T PUT the phone on speaker but now I did so I could use both hands to unload the pistol. Thumb on the release button, I ejected the magazine while I listened to Martha tell me, “If the sheriff’s department tries to ignore this, I’ve got contacts at the governor’s office through friends in D.C. They haven’t helped much yet, but now that we know where the asshole is-you know, show them the bad check, the envelope and postmark. The least they can do is loan us a couple of deputies to…”

While the woman continued talking, my phone chimed again with another call. Gabby Corrales. Her earlier phone message had asked me to call about the party, but party talk could wait. I shucked the pistol’s slide and with my left hand caught the cartridge before it hit the table. Yes, a nine-millimeter hollow-point. What I thought was the slide lock was actually a decocking lever. Still listening to the attorney, I gripped the pistol in both hands and swung its weight toward the door, eyes open, index finger parallel the barrel, my feet automatically moving into combat stance just as my uncle had drilled into me as a teenager-and also later when I took a concealed weapons class he said might be useful if I pursued law enforcement. The pistol was shorter, lighter, better balanced than any I’d ever held. Jake had been a sheriff’s detective in Tampa before retiring on disability, but this was not the sort of weapon an underpaid cop carried. No cop I’d ever met, anyway. I placed the gun on the desk, then picked up the book where it had been concealed. On the leather cover, embossed in gold, was a one-word title: Negotiators .

My phone chimed a third time: Elka Whitney . I couldn’t remember getting so many calls in such a short space of time. I’d called Elka earlier and left a message, asking how she was doing. I was worried about the woman and determined to help see her through this. But Elka was a talker who required a lot of time, so I refused the call and put the phone to my ear.

Martha was saying, “I’ve got to be honest about something. You’ve impressed the hell out of me, Hannah dear. My instincts told me you might be good, but, my God, in less than forty-eight hours you’ve accomplished more than what our so-called professional from Miami did in ten days. Let me ask you something. The investigator I’m talking about-according to his reports, anyway-interviewed people in Caxambas last week. At the post office and the marina, and they didn’t tell him a damn thing. But you found out exactly what we needed to know with just a few phone calls. How? ”

A private investigator was already working on the case? It was news to me, although I didn’t let my surprise show. Tracking Ricky Meeks had taken a lot more than a couple of phone calls, of course, but I didn’t want to rebuff Martha’s compliment after refusing this powerful woman’s advances in the swimming pool.

“Day before yesterday,” I replied, “when Lawrence invited me to lunch, he said something really smart, but I wasn’t smart enough to understand. Not at the time, anyway. Lawrence said-I won’t get the words exactly right-he said, ‘Never underestimate the importance of local knowledge.’ Which makes sense when it comes to fishing, but I’d never thought of it in a bigger way. My family’s lived on these islands forever, so I know a lot of people. They trust me, I guess, so they were willing to talk. And they know I won’t-”

Martha interrupted, “Reveal their names to a nosy New York attorney?” She said it with a smile but also a hint of irritation.

I had opened the book titled Negotiators , which, in fact, wasn’t a book. It was a leather box with enough real pages to be convincing. The inside was black velvet and contained a formfitting depression that matched the shape of the pistol exactly. There were also a couple of other unusual items the box had been built to hide-a steel dagger among them-but I would take a closer look later. Right now, I had to concentrate on Martha, who could set subtle traps and knew how to use words like they were weapons. She was being nice, sure, but her tone also warned that she was being tricky.

“Something like that,” I replied, trying to turn the tables on her. “What I’m wondering is, why didn’t you tell me about the other investigator? We could have pooled information and helped each other.”

“You didn’t need his help, kiddo!” Martha shot back. “Besides, that guy wasn’t much of a professional. He was an oddball from the start, then dropped off the radar a few days before we hired you.”

That struck me as more than just odd. “The man disappeared, you mean?”

“At some bar on South Beach probably,” Martha answered. “But at least he didn’t balk at giving names to the people paying his salary.”

The woman was a ball breaker, just as Nathan had described. I stayed calm, determined to promote my innocence by playing innocent. “Since I don’t know all the rules about ethics-what clients have a right to expect, that sort of thing-I don’t fault myself for protecting the people who helped me. Martha…?” I paused as if not sure how to ask what I wanted to ask. “… There is something on my mind you might be able to help with.”