by Kendel Lynn
“Yes, most likely,” I said. “Her cell phone pinged on the island, or nearby, right before eleven. Turned off about an hour later. It’s a silver Camry.”
“Last flights of the day already landed by that time,” he said. “Nothing departing.”
Took three minutes to get the feeds up on the screens and another five to locate the proper timeframe for each. The sergeant made calls while I watched streaming video race by.
The quality was outstanding. Not the grainy footage one saw when watching reality crime shows replaying liquor store robbery films. This was state-of-the-art. Crisp, high-def digital material, and in color.
It was late night. Tall high-pressure sodium lights cast shadows against the wide leafy branches spread throughout the lot. Like the sergeant said, because of the late hour, the last flight had already landed. Its crew and the airport’s staff, along with two remaining passengers, straggled from the building entrance to various parked cars. The officer manning the video sped through the images, stopping when oncoming headlights entered the frame.
Daphne’s Camry stopped at the ticket booth at 23:37, according to the timestamp. Almost midnight. An arm reached out the driver’s side window, pulled the ticket from the dispenser. The security arm lifted. Switching screens, I watched as the Camry circled, then slid into a space next to a planter, where it was still parked. The car’s front end was partially obscured by low-hanging branches and billowing Spanish moss. Strategic parking choice or happenstance?
A figure wearing a hoodie ducked from the driver’s side and jogged away—from the lot and from the camera. No other cars entered or exited. The leaves rustled and the shadows danced in the quiet night.
The officer repeatedly replayed the footage on a loop.
“I can’t tell who it is,” I said. “It’s dark and there are a million trees.”
The officer’s fingers flew along the keyboard. “I’ll grab stills. Might help with traffic cams.”
“I’ll call Sheriff Hill,” I said.
“Already did,” Sergeant Whistler said, heading for the door. “Probably arriving about now. We’ll go meet him.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We left the command center, quickly making time to the sliding exit doors in the terminal near baggage claim. We stepped into the warm sunlight. It was early afternoon as we continued walking through the lot to the second to last row.
By the time we arrived, three police black and whites were approaching the barrier arm at the parking lot entrance. It lifted automatically. Close behind them, as if in a processional, I recognized cars. Juliette’s, Millie Poppy’s, several from the search party at the Cake & Shake.
“Clarence,” Sheriff Hill said, his hand extended to the sergeant.
“Will,” he said in return. “Thanks for getting here so quick.”
“I’d checked every flight departing through Sea Pine, Savannah, hell, even Charleston and Jacksonville. She wasn’t booked on a single one.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Because whoever drove this car here, left it and jogged away.”
“That so?” Sheriff Hill said.
“We watched the footage,” Sergeant Whistler said. “Got some stills we’re printing. I’ll email ’em to you, too.”
“Footage of what?” Zanna said. “Oh my God, that’s her car.” She stopped as if her soles had been superglued to the asphalt. She seemed to be experiencing the second half of fight or flight. Freeze or faint.
“What’s happening?” Juliette said, running up quick to grab my arm. “Is she here? What did you find?”
Tucker, Alex, Millie Poppy, and Sam jogged up behind them. Zanna stood firm, refusing to come closer.
Tucker reached for the driver’s door. He’d nearly touched the handle before an officer stopped him. He whipped his hand back. “What are you doing? Open the door.”
Juliette peered inside the passenger window. An officer approached her. “I’m not touching, just looking. It’s locked. That’s good, right? I have keys.”
“You have her keys?” Tucker asked.
“Ma’am, how is it you possess her car keys?” Sheriff Hill said.
“I mean, her spare key, obviously,” Juliette said. “We swapped, like, forever ago. But I’ve kept it on me since Sunday. In case she calls. You know, from the side of the road with a flat.”
“May I have the key?” Sheriff Hill asked.
Juliette handed it to him, and Zanna found her voice along with her feet. She marched over to the passenger side. “You better hand me that key,” she said. “I’ll know if something’s missing. I’m her mother.”
“You can’t know what’s missing,” Juliette said. “You haven’t been in her car in, well, ever? I mean, you never come down here.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t know something when I see it.”
“Well, I can see inside, Zanna,” Juliette said. “There’s nothing in there, so back off already. We’ll handle this.”
Sheriff Hill kept the key in his hand and spoke calmly. “Law enforcement will be the only ones inspecting the car. We’ll need full access, and it’s best if you all wait on the walkway up near the entrance.”
I noticed two officers standing at the ready near the trunk. Sheriff Hill didn’t want to inspect the car as much he needed to check the trunk.
“I’m not leaving,” Zanna said.
“No one’s leaving,” Juliette said. “Look, wait, there,” she pointed to a small dent near the rear bumper. An officer semi-blocked her from getting closer. “Open the trunk,” she said. Her voice shook slightly as her face paled.
Zanna seemed to realize what the Sheriff was really waiting for. “You think she’s in the trunk? Oh my word.” She stepped backward onto Sam’s foot and nearly stumbled over.
“Sweetie,” Millie Poppy said. “Let’s go on up and sit in a rocker. These gentlemen need to handle this.”
“If my daughter is here, then I need to be, too,” Zanna said.
“Me, too,” Juliette said. “We can’t abandon her.”
“Zanna, Juliette,” I said. “Millie Poppy is right. Let’s give them space.” I turned to Tucker and lowered my voice. “They will never open that trunk with the family standing here. Convince them to wait up on the walk.”
Four more cars pulled into short-term. The occupants spilled into the lot wearing Find Daphne shirts.
“Folks, really, I know you want to find her,” Sheriff Hill said. “But we’re going to consider this an active crime scene, and we need you waiting on the walkway.”
“Come on, Jules,” Tucker said. “You know it’s right.” He held her hand and gently pulled her away.
Millie Poppy looped her arm through Zanna’s. “It’ll be okay. We’ll just wait up there. We can see the car from the rockers.”
The crowd around the Camry slowly thinned until the only person next to it not in uniform was me.
“Oh, I’m staying,” I said to Sheriff Hill.
“She has credentials,” Parker said wryly.
I hadn’t seen her arrive, but having her close somehow reassured me. Because I did not want to see them open that trunk. With Daphne missing a solid three days, the scales had tipped in favor of her being in that trunk.
The officers, both Sea Pine and Sheriff’s Office, started their search with the main interior. They wore gloves, carefully touching as little as possible. It was as tidy as her bedroom. Not a tossed wrapper or crumpled anything, and the manuals were neatly stacked in the glovebox.
An officer clicked the trunk button on the key fob. The latch released and the lid slowly rose. The officer shook his head quickly.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it came out in a swoosh. I stepped over to peer inside. It was spic and span and practically empty. A red first aid bag on the left. A spare tire beneath the gray carpet. Hard to tell
if it had been freshly vacuumed immediately before being parked here, or if Daphne simply kept it that way.
A tow truck rambled up to the security arm, which lifted automatically.
“We’ll finish processing the car here, then take it to the main station,” Sheriff Hill said. “We’ll take possession, as it’s our case. But keep Sea Pine involved. The lab will start analyzing today.”
“I’ll tell the family,” I said.
He returned to his deputies and Parker, calmly giving orders, while I walked to the friends and family on the sidewalk.
“The trunk’s clean and empty, like the rest of the car,” I said. “The evidence team will analyze it taillight to headlight this afternoon in Summerton.”
Zanna stared straight toward the Camry. A thousand-yard stare. Tears streamed down both cheeks. “She didn’t drive to Sedona. I thought for sure.”
“Finding her car doesn’t mean anything,” Alex said. “Maybe she Uber’d.”
“To Arizona?” Juliette said.
Parker eventually joined us. We numbered close to twenty-five. She encouraged the teams, both search and flyer-hangers, to return to their zones. With a squeeze to my arm, she left.
I spent the long afternoon hours with Zanna and Juliette and Millie Poppy. The four of us waiting and watching. The evidence team arrived. Uniformed technicians collected and swabbed and sealed the tiniest bits into bags. The entire Sea Pine Island Airport’s lot was thoroughly examined. It gave up its own selection of random detritus. Hard to know what would be important. Better to simply collect it all.
As the sun’s rays faded, the tow truck driver loaded the Camry onto the truck’s flatbed. Loud clanging of metal and cables, along with the officers’ soft murmurs, floated across the lot to accompany our silence. No one spoke. There wasn’t much to say, and I’m sure we were all thinking the same thing.
What the hell was Daphne’s car doing at the airport without her?
It only meant one thing. The shift in urgency had picked a side.
Daphne Fischer was truly missing now. Not missing on purpose, but missing in danger.
SEVEN
(Day #5: Wednesday Morning)
A pair of bright red fire engines, one a ladder truck, the other search and rescue, were parked in the circular drive of the Big House. Three police cruisers, two belonging to the Summerton Sheriff’s office and the other Sea Pine Island Police, were street side, all facing the Oyster Cove Plantation security gates.
Tod, Carla, Jane, and I had met late the night before to discuss using the Big House as the search base headquarters. It was a quick discussion with nary a complaint nor objection from any of us. Nor a recrimination about the timing. As in, why wasn’t this done three days ago? At least, none of us said it out loud.
By the time I arrived Wednesday morning, more than fifty people filled the foyer. Zibby manned a makeshift registration station. She’d converted the antique sofa table into a provisional desk and positioned it at the bottom of the wide staircase. After people registered with Zibby, they moved to the library where Find Daphne tees were folded and stacked according to size. Then the line streamed down the hall, past my office, to the sunroom for search instructions and zone assignments.
I slipped my messenger bag into the bottom drawer of my desk just as Tate Keating slipped into my office.
“Ballantyne To The Rescue, Three Days Late,” he said. “Great headline. A real catcher. You know I always do right by you.”
“Right by us? Pot Luck Means Bad Luck at the Ballantyne is not right by anyone’s measure, and most assuredly not mine.”
Tate Keating, the Islander Post’s top columnist, fancied himself a cross between Walter Cronkite and Edward R. Murrow. He was more like Walter Winchell meets Hedda Hopper. His jaunty newsboy cap, askew no less, proved it. “Let’s talk Alex Sanders,” he said. “Will the search focus on his apartment now? Ballantyne Beau Becomes Prime Perpetrator. Such an alliterational ring!”
“That’s not a word, and what are you talking about?”
“Mr. Sanders stopped cooperating. Do I need to spell it out? Innocent people cooperate with the authorities in times of crisis. What? Am I breaking news to you, the Ballantyne’s very own Trixie Belden?”
This was indeed news to me. “It’s not news to me. I’m simply surprised you heard. And so we’re on the same page, exactly how did Alex stop cooperating, according to your unrevealed sources?”
“His phone is off-limits. Privacy concerns, he says, but more importantly,” Tate dramatically waved an arm through the doorway, “do you see him here? One doesn’t need a source to use their own eyeballs. But alas, he’s not at the police station either. Probably at his attorney’s office. And for that, I did use a source.”
That was not good.
“Ta-ta,” Tate said. “Unless you have a comm—”
“I have no comment.”
“Then you shall read about it like everyone else on the morrow.”
I waited two minutes, giving him time to ta-ta out of the Big House, then went in search of Sheriff Hill. His lead investigator was briefing volunteers in the sunroom, and Parker was assisting Zibby at her makeshift desk. Registration was vital to this investigation. The police needed to track who showed up to search and who didn’t. Something I should’ve already done myself. I hadn’t realized I’d need a gossip columnist to tell me what I should’ve noticed in my own house.
“Alex Sanders check-in today?” I asked softly over Parker’s shoulder.
She shook her head. “Sheriff Hill isn’t here either.”
I peered into the library, then the sunroom. I recognized many of the faces, but not one belonged to Alex Sanders. I returned to my office, closed the door, then dialed Sheriff Keep It All To Himself.
“What’s going on with Alex Sanders?” I said when he answered on the second ring. “I’ve been informed by a reliable source that he’s stopped cooperating and won’t let you look at his phone. Also, you’re not here leading the ground search. Tell me what’s happening.”
“Elliott, always nice to hear from you,” he said.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” I said. “I’m feeling a little left out. How about you share some of the most vital bits of your investigation?”
“You calling from the Big House? How’s it going there?”
“Daphne’s still missing,” I said. “Alex is noticeably absent. As are you. You almost here? Perhaps we could chat. You can catch me up.”
“Not today,” he said.
Silence stretched as I waited for him to explain why he wasn’t participating in a search he arranged. Apparently, he was waiting for me to figure out he wasn’t going to answer me.
“What did you find?” I asked. “Or more specifically, what did you find, and how does it connect to Alex? Something with Daphne’s car? We agreed to cooperate with one another, remember? I’m the family’s liaison, and we’d appreciate an update.”
“Some things can’t be shared, you know that. But you’re a smart one, Elliott Lisbon. I have no doubt you figure it out soon enough.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t it be sooner if you told me?” The question turned out to be rhetorical, as he’d already disconnected.
I called Ransom. If I wanted a police detective to keep things from me, I had my own.
“It’s always the boyfriend,” I said.
“Ah, you heard about Sanders,” he said. “You already at the Big House? It’s like eight thirty. A bit early for you.”
“Yes, I’m here. And it’s a good thing, because the second I turnaround, something happens. I’m telling you, it’s always the boyfriend. Or husband.”
“Or girlfriend. Or wife. But El, ask yourself this: Has that always been your experience?”
I thought about my cases. The first serious one, the murder of Leo Hirschorn, was eighteen months earlier. I’d investiga
ted three additional major cases in the intervening months. It certainly wasn’t always the spouse. “I concede the point.”
“See, your own investigative history pokes holes in your boyfriend theory. You may be barking up the wrong tree.”
“But the Sheriff knows more than he’s sharing.”
“You think?”
Tod and Carla walked in with a tray of food. “I gotta go,” I said to Ransom. “Priority is being given to those who know me best.”
“Carla brought food?” he said.
“Exactly.”
The three of us ate warm raspberry white chocolate scones with sweet clotted cream and homemade jam. I sipped Pepsi while they gulped coffee.
“I made fifty to-go bags with scones,” Carla said. “Ran out in the first thirty minutes.”
“Yeah, cars spilled out into the auxiliary valet lot first thing this morning,” Tod said. “Girl has some friends.”
“That she does,” I said. “I peeked at her phone bill, and she made at least a dozen calls a day. That’s more than I make. But she had two odd ones. They were nearly consecutive numbers. Off by like two digits.”
“Maybe she was calling a help center or something?” Carla said. “Those calls roll.”
“These calls were both incoming and outgoing,” I said. “And when I called the voicemails, there were identical, non-committal messages for each. Identical. Message verbiage and voice.”
“Sounds like Burner,” Tod said.
“A burner phone?” I said. “I Googled the numbers and checked every database I could find. The carriers weren’t listed. It’s as if they don’t exist. Burner phones would at least have a carrier attached.”
“Not a burner phone, Burner the app,” Tod said. “Or maybe HushHush or Cover Me. You download the app and use your own phone to make secret calls and texts. That way you don’t need a second phone.”
“Like FaceTime?” Carla asked.
“What’s FaceTime?” I asked.
