Randy White: Gone

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?”

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.”