by Todd Borg
I gestured at the chairs in front of my desk. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
The man struggled to stand up. He did a slow gyration of his hips to unkink his back, then pulled one of the chairs back a bit and sat down. “What do you need in order to find her? You do find missing people, right?”
“Sometimes,” I said in my most reassuring voice. People run away. Those who are left can’t bear to consider that not only did their loved one voluntarily leave, but it may have happened because the person leaving could no longer stand to be with the person remaining.
“Let’s start with where you’re from,” I said.
“I’m from Las Vegas.”
“Douglas Fairbanks from Vegas,” I said as I wrote on a yellow pad.
Fairbanks nodded. He unzipped a blue belt pack I hadn’t noticed against the riotous backdrop of his cycling uniform, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. It said, ‘Fairbanks Insurance Brokerage.’
“Your girlfriend?” I said. “What is her name?”
“Isadore. With an E.” Fairbanks pronounced it with a hard A sound like Isadoray.
“And her last name?”
“It’s just Isadore. One word. She says that in Greece, it’s mostly a man’s name, and they pronounce it differently. But her mother liked the French version.”
“Where is Isadore from?”
Fairbanks hesitated. “I don’t actually know. Part of our relationship has been based on the idea that we are free spirits not tied down by our pasts. We are future focused.”
As I looked at Fairbanks, all nervous energy trussed into an elastic outfit that was much like a full-body, day-glo, advertising banner, I couldn’t quite see him as a free spirit. He looked captive to the branding concept of a bicycling sports conglomerate.
“If you had to guess at Isadore’s home location?” I said.
“I’d guess the Bay Area. She’s got that worldly sophistication. She even mentioned going to see obscure plays in little upstairs theaters. We don’t do stuff like that in Vegas. We see floor shows. Big, grand spectacles. We like stars in gold lamé attacking the stage with relish, backed up by big bands and backup singers in matching costume. But plays are so, you know… small and arty and intellectual. So San Francisco.”
I wondered at his ability to praise Vegas shows when his girlfriend was missing. And I wondered where Tahoe was on the spectrum. We didn’t watch much in the way of gaudy shows or arty plays. We mostly just went hiking and biking and skiing and kayaking.
I said, “Where were you when Isadore went missing?”
“We were having lunch at the Sunnyside restaurant on the West Shore. She went outside for a smoke. She had to go out to the parking lot.” He sounded irritated.
“Because the rules are strict,” I said.
“Yes. Isadore says you can’t even smoke outdoors in most parts of Tahoe because of forest fire danger. So she went out, but never came back.” In addition to his sadness, he sounded angry.
In the window light, Fairbanks’s face looked florid. The skin of his scalp shone rust-pink through a sparse forest of gray hair, each stiff fiber a relatively thick tree trunk cut off an inch above the forest floor. There was a measurable distance between each hair. His head made me think of a pink scrub brush.
“Is Isadore a mountain biker?” I asked.
“Yes. She’s signed up for the Black Diamond Downhill Sprint.”
“Yet she smokes.”
Fairbanks looked embarrassed. “I know. It doesn’t make much sense. But I think her cigarette smoking was mostly for show. I don’t think she inhaled.”
“Part of her sophistication?”
“Yes. Or no. I don’t know. But when I saw her puff on her cigarette, I never saw her take a deep inhalation.”
“Is it possible that feigning smoking allowed her to step away at odd moments? To be by herself or make a phone call or check email in private?”
Fairbanks frowned, a deep network of worry lines across his forehead. He seemed to be looking inward, making reassessments. He didn’t answer.
“What was Isadore wearing?” I asked.
He thought about it. “She had on dress sandals and a black skirt that was all swishy-like, very sexy. And a white men’s shirt with the bow-tie collar. Only she wasn’t wearing a tie. I guess it’s some new fashion thing, women wearing formal men’s shirts. Over the shirt was a red coat. Medium length. Like a smoking jacket that Douglas Fairbanks the actor would have worn.”
“How old is Isadore?” I asked.
“She’s twenty-nine years and eleven months. I know because I’ve been planning a special birthday gift for her thirtieth.” Fairbanks paused, then said, “I know what you’re thinking. A beautiful young woman and an older man with some money. But really, Isadore is very devoted to me. I don’t think it would be too much to say that she loves me.”
“Has she said that?”
“You mean, has she come right out and said, ‘I love you?’”
“Right,” I said.
“Well, no. But in my experience, women don’t just say ‘I love you.’ Especially sophisticated women. It’s not, you know...”
“No, I don’t.”
He paused. “Isadore is tamped down. It’s part of her sophistication. Telling me personal thoughts would be much too gushy. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love it if she loved me. Even more if she told me. But I respect that she is staying true to her style. I wouldn’t want her to fake gushiness.”
“No, fake gushiness wouldn’t be sophisticated.”
Fairbanks narrowed his eyes. “You’re mocking me. You think that a young woman wouldn’t spend time with an older man unless there was a financial arrangement that benefited her.”
“Is there a financial benefit for her?”
Fairbanks looked incensed. “No.” He took a deep breath. “Well, yes. Not in the sense that I pay her to spend time with me. She spends time with me because she thinks I’m... that I know stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Well, I know how to make money.”
“In insurance,” I said.
“Yes. That’s no small thing. It’s hard to make money in insurance. In anything. A man who can do that has valuable skills. And women appreciate a man who can make money.”
For a brief moment I flashed on the times that Street Casey had told me that she didn’t care about my smallish income as an investigator. With her Ph.D. and her growing reputation in entomology, she often pulled down hourly consulting fees that exceeded my per diem charges. “And men appreciate women who can make money, too,” I said.
“Yes, of course. But I don’t think Isadore makes much money.”
“Did she ever tell you her occupation?”
Fairbanks looked uncomfortable. “I asked her once. She said she worked in finance. But when I later talked to her about stocks and bonds and real estate investment trusts, it seemed like she didn’t really know much.”
“So you think she was spinning her background to make it look more substantial than it really was?”
Fairbanks paused. “Let’s just say that Isadore is probably not an investment banker or anything like that.”
I nodded. “Could she have voluntarily run away?”
“No. Something happened. Some kind of accident or something. Like she ran out into the road to rescue a kitten and got hit by a car and was thrown into the ditch.”
The image Fairbanks painted was more vivid and striking than anything any potential client had ever told me.
“Did you look in the nearby ditches?”
“Yes. I mean, no. There aren’t really ditches next to the street where the restaurant is. But I ran along the road, shouting her name.”
“So you think she had an accident of some kind.”
“Of course.” Fairbanks seemed shocked that I could be so dense. “What else could have happened?”
I paused.
I said, “Maybe someone intended to harm her.”
&nbs
p; TWO
F airbanks looked horrified at my suggestion. “No one would want to harm Isadore. People love Isadore.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
Fairbanks shook his head. “No, she has a thing against pictures. She told me that the essence of a person is degraded when the person is reduced to pixels. I said that there were video cams everywhere you go. But she said that still pictures, posed and all, are the worst kind.”
“If you have no pictures, can you describe her?”
“She has hair like dark chocolate, shoulder length, set in big waves. Hazel eyes. She’s about five-seven, almost as tall as me, and maybe one hundred forty pounds. The most noticeable thing about her is her beauty. She could be a model. Although she’s not skinny like most models. She has actual curves like a real woman.”
“Does Isadore have any identifying marks?”
“Yes, a tattoo of three red roses on the outside of her left ankle. She got it because it symbolizes love, the most important thing there is.”
“Can you think of any reason that Isadore would disappear of her own volition?”
“You mean, just leave me without any notice? No. Emphatically no.” Fairbanks studied me as if wondering if he should find another investigator.
“Anything unusual in Isadore’s life recently? Problems? Financial troubles. Depression?”
“No. Certainly not depression. Isadore is very happy. She always has a good attitude. As for finances, I’ve solved those questions for her. She knows she can ask me for anything.”
“Do you give her an allowance?”
He looked shocked. “Absolutely not. We don’t have that kind of a relationship. We are just close. But she knows she could ask for anything.”
“How does she know that?” I asked.
“I told her. One night, I said, ‘If you ever have financial concerns, just tell me. I’ll give you whatever you need.’”
“Has she mentioned any disagreements with other people?”
Fairbanks shook his head. “Everyone likes Isadore. She’s the life of the party. She’s the girl people want around if they’re after a good time. She knows how to make people laugh. And she even sings and plays the piano. Jazz standards. I can’t imagine anyone having any serious differences with her.”
“What about non-serious differences.”
More head shaking. “Again, people love Isadore. The only possible issues could be ones of envy. Let’s face it, there are probably people who resent her beauty and charm. Her piano playing, too, I suppose.”
“But not enough to make her suddenly disappear?” I said.
Fairbanks looked shocked. “Of course not! You’re talking kidnapping? That’s not possible. What would be the point? Ransom? I suppose someone could send me a ransom demand. But no one has contacted me. If she has family somewhere, someone could demand that they pay a ransom. But I don’t believe she was kidnapped. I can’t bear to think it.”
“You said you don’t think that Isadore is working in high finance. What do you think she might do for a living?” I asked.
“I’m guessing that she doesn’t have a regular job. I wondered if she could maybe earn a living as a lounge singer. But even though she’s good on the piano and such, she’s private-party-good, not professional-good. My guess is she probably manages investments of some kind. Maybe rental properties.”
“You think she owns houses or apartments in San Francisco? Wouldn’t that take a fortune?”
“She once mentioned something about one of those online rental agencies. If you are clever and focused, you can take a tiny, rented, studio apartment and decorate it very nicely and then re-rent it out night by night for a good profit. It doesn’t take any more capital than a rental deposit to rent more apartments. I don’t imagine it’s easy, but she’s very smart. She could do well.”
“It sounds like you’re not sure of her financial situation.”
“That’s true. I’m not. But she drives an Infinity. She wears nice clothes. She talks of vacations in many places. She has a top-model mountain bike. I get the sense that she’s comfortable.”
“How long have you known Isadore?”
“We met at a party in my condo six months ago during the Christmas holidays. I’d invited several friends from Vegas. They brought other people I didn’t know. The crowd was something.”
Fairbanks said it with pride as if having a crowd of strangers come to a party was a mark of achievement.
“Anyway, there was a group of young women who showed up. I felt like the avuncular host, and I kept my distance. The truth is, I’m not actually interested in much of what young women talk about. You know, music and movies and fashion and celebrities and restaurant trends and weddings. Not one of them talked about poetry, which is my interest. But Isadore singled me out and spent some time asking me about my experience in Tahoe. We hit it off immediately. That was practically the best day of my life. William Butler Yeats wrote about how it’s the eyes that perceive love. Well Isadore was a striking sight in her little black dress, which I learned that night is called an LBD. We had a drink together, and she looked into my eyes, and said she could tell I had soul. I mean, Isadore could have had any man at the party, and instead she chose me. How lucky is that? No woman had ever told me that I have soul.”
I decided not to ask if the other men at the party had condos in Tahoe and knew how to make money.
Fairbanks went on to tell me about how Isadore ended up playing the piano, and then later, with the music system playing ’80s’ hits, they danced, and then they went out on the deck and looked across the lake at the lights on the far shore. Fairbanks said the night “shimmered with romance.”
I didn’t hear all of the words, so distracted was I by the never-ending gullibility of older people who are set upon by younger, beautiful sharks cruising for prey. Otherwise sensible, intelligent people are so desperate to hear words of affection that they believe them. Their heartbeats get erratic, and their breath gets short. And it only takes one magical evening before they upend their lives, open their bank accounts, and sleep with a smile because some gorgeous youth has spoken tenderly to them.
There are many variations. But the most common version is the wealthy older man smitten with a young woman.
The predators are sometimes calculating and sometimes operating instinctively, having learned from adolescence that they have a certain magic with older, unhappy, and often homely introverts. The predators frequently turn to high-end prostitution and live well off a few clients. But the cleverest ones aim for the highest prize of all. They cull a rich mark out of the pack and, using technique no less strategic than that of a champion chess player, they move in together for a time. Whether it’s a standard marriage or what the courts consider a civil union, if the relationship dissolves, it can bring them an astonishingly lucrative separation agreement.
The problem with my musings was that it didn’t explain why Fairbanks’s young girlfriend had gone AWOL.
“Where was Isadore staying in Tahoe?”
“My place. My condo has two bedrooms.”
“She stayed in a separate bedroom?”
“Yes. I already told you that I’m, you know… respecting her space.”
“Have you filed a missing persons report with the Placer County Sheriff’s Office?”
“You mean the police in Tahoe City? Yes. Tahoe law enforcement is a complicated subject. The sergeant said that Tahoe has five counties. You want help from the cops, you have to do a research project first. Anyway, I went to them first thing yesterday. They said I should wait. So I was back there at one today. Then a cop named Santiago suggested that because I have my place on the South Shore, maybe I should contact you.”
“How did Isadore get around?”
“She drove up in her Infinity. But she mostly leaves it at my condo and rides with me.”
“Was she riding with you yesterday when you went to lunch in Tahoe City?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”<
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“Where is her car now?”
“In the parking lot at my condo.”
“Do you have a key for it?”
“I remember her tossing her key into the ceramic bowl by the door where I keep my keys. It was kind of like a symbolic gesture. Like, hey, I’m living here. So when in Rome…”
“Where is her mountain bike?”
“Still strapped to the roof rack on her car.”
“What do you drive?”
“I have a BMW. Orange. Like California Poppies. The color’s a little loud, but it makes it easy to find in a big parking lot. And it’s often got my bike on the roof rack, too.”
“But you rode your bike here today.”
“Yes. I was so stressed when I got home from Tahoe City. I’ve learned that when I’m really bent out of shape, the only thing that helps is going for a ride. So I put on my gear when I got home from Tahoe City and rode over here.”
“Was it your plan to participate in the Tahoe Mountain Bike for Charity events?”
“Yes. I was thinking of signing up for three events. Not the Black Diamond races, of course. That’s for the young people. I’m fifty-five. But they have events for all age levels.”
“I saw that you have a mountain bike. You’re also into road racing?”
“No. Just mountain biking. I’m pursuing a training regimen. My goal is to eventually get into good enough shape to enter the more difficult competitions. I figure that, because I’m in the older age group, I might have a chance. Why do you ask about road racing? You think I should try that, too?”
“I thought you were into road biking because of the threads you’re wearing.”
Fairbanks frowned. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I only commented because the mountain bikers I know are more like snowboarders. Looser gear, not the tight style or the bright colors, either. Your gear is more for road racing, right?”
Fairbanks looked down at his clothes. His face got pink.
“You okay?” I said.
“Now I understand some things. I… This is embarrassing. A friend in Vegas said his roommate had moved out and left his biking stuff and did I want it. I said sure. It fit great. But every time I go mountain biking, I get these looks. I’m not very with it when it comes to fashion. And Isadore… That explains why she seemed uncomfortable one day. Oh, wow, I’m such a loser. I’ve been wearing the wrong thing. Isadore probably thought...” he broke off in distress.
