Missing

by Bill Noel

  Chester added, “Beauty and brains. You’ve got it all.”

  Two hours later, bolstered by alcohol, Melinda’s high spirits, and Heather’s impromptu reading of Chester’s palm, we had become the loudest, most festive group in Blu. Chester also regaled us with stories of ghosts on Folly Beach, his years growing up on the small island, and stories he had heard about various politicians who came to convince Folly voters that they were the greatest thing since sliced fudge. He said the residents would listen, smile, and ignore whatever was said. I didn’t think it was much different now.

  It was nice getting my mind off murder, a hostile mayor, code enforcement, Melinda’s cancer, and worrying about Charles and Samuel. Melinda said it was the best meal she had had since husband number two, or maybe it was number three, took her to a ritzy steakhouse in Chicago. I was sorry that Karen didn’t make it. I was also sorry to get stuck with the check, which was more than I had paid for my first car.

  CHAPTER 46

  ONLY TWO RESTAURANTS ON THE BARRIER ISLAND were beachfront. Blu had provided me with a fantastic evening, and now I was entering the other beachfront restaurant, Locklear’s, to meet the mayor. I had no illusions that the experience would come close to the last night’s gathering. Storm clouds blanketed the sky, and it wouldn’t stretch the imagination to foresee a torrential rain ruining a morning at the beach for hundreds of vacationers.

  Mayor Lally’s first words reinforced my fears; the storm had moved indoors. “Mr. Landrum,” he snarled, “I thought I had been clear about your butting in my city’s business.”

  Lally was at the same table where we’d had our earlier “pleasant” conversation. He still looked as out of place as an elephant at a funeral. His dark-gray suit and heavily starched white dress shirt looked identical to what he had worn the first time we had met. The bright red tie was different, and he had a glass of water in front of him instead of iced tea. It had two slices of lemon. I hoped that the waiter had gotten it right the first time.

  “I most certainly—”

  He lifted his glass and clicked it back on the table. “I’m not done,” he said. “You were warned, and now I hear that you and your beachcombing, straggly bum of a friend, Fowler, are continuing to harass my fine citizens—passing out those handouts with pictures of the dead girls, pestering shop owners about whether they’ve seen the poor dead souls.” He pounded his fist on the table. The waiter heard the noise and started to the table but saw the look on the mayor’s face and retreated. “I thought asking you nicely the last time to refrain from such behavior would be enough. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

  Clearly, I’d missed the asking me nicely part. “Mr. Mayor, my friend is trying to help the police by asking the people if they had contact with the deceased women. He is concerned and wants to help.”

  I chose not to mention that neither Charles nor I believed that the police had taken the murders seriously at first and that we thought the lead detective had little chance of solving the horrific crimes. I also chose not to mention that I thought the mayor was a pompous, bullying ass who didn’t know how to dress at the beach.

  “Mr. Landrum, I’m being patient, but make no mistake: this is your final warning. If you or your friend chooses to foolishly continue meddling, I promise I will find a way to run you out of town. Your friend, Fowler, is a bum. I have little clout over him. God knows, if I could run all the bums off my island, it would have happened long ago.”

  A bolt of lightning over the pier illuminated the room. A loud clap of thunder vibrated the large window overlooking the beach. Lally looked toward the pier and then back at me. “You, on the other hand, are a businessman and come under several city regulations—regulations I control.” He lifted his glass, and I thought he was going to use it again like a hammer. Instead he calmly took a sip and slowly lowered it back to the table. “Is that clear? Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Quite,” I said.

  “One more thing,” he continued. “Don’t waste your time running to your buddy, Newman.” He paused, took another sip, and then grinned. “He’s wiser than I thought.” Lally nodded. “He slinked out, tail between his legs, rather than having his ass canned.” He sat back in the chair and smiled like he had just taken the pot with a pair of deuces.

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  He tilted his head. “Too bad for you.”

  What would he have said if he had known that Charles was canvassing members of the council to see if they would support keeping the chief? I wondered it but didn’t dare ask.

  A heavy downpour began to pelt the pier, and several fishermen scrambled to get their gear to cover. A lone surfer continued to sit on his board, oblivious to the rain. Water was water, and he knew the perfect wave would be along any second. And Mayor Lally stood, picked up the umbrella that he had leaned against the window, and walked toward the entrance without saying another word. I remained seated and stared at the two lemon slices in his glass.

  For the first time I wondered if Mayor Lally was simply a total jerk or if he could possibly have other reasons for wanting Charles to butt out. I knew he was close to Officer O’Hara, our top suspect.

  So, butt out? Not Charles. Not me. Not a chance. But unless we stopped the killer soon, the chance of something terrible happening to Charles or Samuel was too high to contemplate. Sorry, Mr. Mayor, your threats were a waste of time.

  CHAPTER 47

  I WAITED TO WALK HOME UNTIL THE SEASONAL thunderstorm took its rain and lightning and rumbled out to sea. I called Charles to see if he’d heard from Melinda. He said that he had just left her apartment and that she was exhausted from last night. Charles said he’d teased her about sneaking off with Chester after supper and suggested that was why she was tired. He said Melinda told him that he had a dirty mind—and besides, Chester couldn’t keep up with her. She was afraid she’d give him a heart attack.

  I gave Charles an abridged version of my conversation with the mayor and asked if he’d talked to any of the council members about Chief Newman. I waited while he ranted and raved about Lally being the worst mayor “in the history of mayorhood.” He then calmed down enough to say that he’d talked to three council members and learned that two were strongly in the chief’s corner. I asked what the chances were of one of the remaining three standing behind the chief. “Hell if I know,” was his in-depth, highly honed political analysis.

  Charles wasn’t a fan of telephone conversations. He often said that people communicated more with their gestures and expressions than with words. He started to say something else and then stopped. “I hate phones. I’m on my way over. Don’t run away.” The line went dead before I could say whether I’d run away or not.

  The temperature had dropped drastically with the passing storm, and I was sitting on the front step when Charles rode his classic Schwinn bicycle up to the door and then leaned it against the porch. He loosened the bungee cord that held his cane to the rear fender and set it by the step. He wore a green, long-sleeved T-shirt with “Delta State” on the front under something that looked like—well, looked like something wearing boxing gloves. I usually bit my tongue before asking but threw my rule to the wind this time.

  I pointed to the shirt. “What’s that?”

  He looked down and pulled the shirt away from his body. “A fighting okra, of course.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “I don’t kid about college mascots,” he said. “Think it’s a Mississippi thing.”

  I’d already gone too far with the conversation and asked if he wanted a drink. He said that he not only wanted a drink but also thought we ought to call for a pizza. “We’ve had way too few pizza parties this summer.”

  Neither of us needed pizza, but he pointed out that we weren’t spring chicks and most likely something other than pizza would do us in. Considering recent events, I agreed. We went in, and he grabbed a beer and a poured a
glass of wine for me in one of my finest plastic wine glasses. I called for a pizza.

  “Something Aunt M. said last night got me thinking,” he said and then sipped his beer. “Remember she said—”

  A loud knock on the door interrupted Charles. It was too soon for the pizza, and we looked at each other.

  “Hello, hello! Anyone in there? Mr. Landrum, you there?”

  I opened the door, and Samuel nearly fell inside. “Come in,” I said, needlessly.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I saw the car and Mr. Fowler’s bike, so I figured you had to be around.”

  “How come you’re not in school?” I asked.

  He looked sheepishly at the floor. “I cut school today to tell you what I saw.”

  “Must be important,” said Charles. Want a soft drink?”

  Samuel nodded, and Charles went to the refrigerator for a Pepsi.

  “Mr. Landrum,” said Samuel as Charles gave him the drink, “can you come with me?”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “I saw him again,” said Samuel. He looked back at the door.

  “The abductor?” said Charles.

  “Yeah … um, the killer,” said Samuel. It was still cool outside and about the same in the house, but Samuel had sweat on his forehead.

  “Where?” I asked again.

  “Behind Rita’s,” he said. “Will you go with me?”

  “Did you just see him?” I asked.

  “No, last night,” he said. “Will you go?”

  “Under one condition,” said Charles. “We have a pizza coming. You stay and help us eat it and then we’ll go wherever you want.”

  The pizza arrived fifteen minutes later. Charles and I ate half while Samuel wolfed down the other half. We asked about last night, but he said he would rather wait until we could see exactly where he was and what he saw. He wanted to make sure that he wasn’t accused of being somewhere where he couldn’t see the person—once burned, and all that. Samuel was an excellent student who wouldn’t cut school unless it was for a good reason.

  * * *

  “I’d been out on the pier watching two friends of mine fishing. I caught as much without a pole as they did with big ol’ expensive rods.” He grinned and looked toward the step that led up to the pier. We had walked the three blocks from the house and were on the sidewalk across the street from Rita’s. The large gravel lot behind it was crammed with cars in season, but only a dozen or so were there now.

  “And?” said impatient Charles.

  Samuel looked at my friend. “Sorry. It was after eight, sun heading down.” He nodded toward the west. “I had to get home and do homework before bed, so I was in a hurry.” He hesitated. “Then this big car came around Dude’s surf shop and right across the lot there.” He pointed to the rear corner of the lot.

  “It was the man from the abduction?” I asked.

  “Think so,” he said. “From the angle I was to the car, it looked sort of like him.”

  “Sort of?” said Charles.

  “Said I couldn’t be sure. I thought it was, but something looked different.”

  “Same car?” I asked.

  “Think so,” said Samuel.

  “Ford Crown Vic? Like a cop car?” said Charles.

  “Pretty sure,” said Samuel, who then lowered his head. “Pretty sure.”

  “Could it have been a Chrysler?” asked Charles.

  Where’d that come from? I wondered.

  “Umm, maybe,” said Samuel. “I’m not a big expert on cars. I really wasn’t paying that much attention. I was trying to see the driver.”

  Then it struck me. Bob had told me that Alexander Bishop, his young associate, drove a black Chrysler 300. I must have told Charles, but I didn’t remember.

  “Did the driver see you?” I asked.

  “Let me think,” said Samuel. He looked to the empty spot where he had seen the car and then back toward the pier, toward Rita’s, and back at me. “Don’t know for sure. If he did, he didn’t let on.”

  Samuel asked if we thought he should tell the police. Experience from our previous trip to the police station and my current relationship with the mayor told me it would be one of the worst things he could do. I said that I would share the information with them. He finally said that he wanted me to see where he had been so I’d believe him and indicated that he felt terrible about lying to me the first time. I told him not to worry.

  He thanked us for going to the lot with him and said he’d taken enough of our time and should be going. He then asked if we thought he was in danger. I said that I didn’t think so but that he needed to be careful. My fingers were crossed.

  We were already on the street where Samuel had allegedly seen the abduction, so I convinced Charles to walk with me to the site. I didn’t expect any significant findings, but I had nothing else to do.

  “Why did you ask him about a Chrysler?” I asked as we passed Loggerheads.

  Charles looked at a Doberman and its owner on the other side of the street and growled at the dog. Yes, Charles growled. I grinned, thinking of Melinda’s story about Charles acting like a collie. The dog stopped and looked at my friend and tilted its head like it couldn’t decide whether to bark at Charles or run away as fast as its four strong legs would carry it.

  Charles smiled and then turned back to me. “I was awake at four o’clock thinking about the killings.” He hesitated. “Hard to sleep when someone’s out to kill you.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, anyway,” he said, “I was thinking that the only person we know for certain who’d talked to more than one of the ladies was Alexander, Bob Howard’s understudy, or whatever you call the person who has to put up with Bob.”

  “True,” I said.

  Charles stopped in the middle of the lightly travelled road and made a fist with his right hand. He extended his thumb. “First, he would know that they were staying here alone, and with a little innocent questioning, would know that no one else knew where they were.” He extended his forefinger. “Second, the guy we saw and the one Samuel thinks he saw had dark hair. So does Alexander.” The middle finger popped out. “Third, he drives a big, dark-colored car. Unless you know cars, there’s not that much difference between the big Ford and the Chrysler.” He looked at his hand and then extended his ring finger. “Fourth, umm … I think I fell asleep when I got to four. Anyway, three’s enough. While you were goofing off at four this morning, I was figuring that the killer is Mr. Alexander Bishop.”

  I couldn’t find any obvious faults with his reasoning. “Those three things could also be true about Officer O’Hara,” I said. We had reached the spot where Samuel said he had stood.

  “Yeah,” said Charles. “But we know they’re true about Alexander. You want it to be O’Hara because you don’t like him.” He looked at the sandy berm as if there would be a telltale clue waiting to be discovered.

  Partially true, I’d concede. “What were you going to tell me that Melinda said last night before Samuel knocked?”

  “Umm, I forgot,” he said and shook his head. “Brian’s checking if O’Hara was on duty when the rebar swinger visited the apartment and when Samuel saw whatever he saw here?”

  “He should know soon,” I said.

  “Yep,” said Charles. “So how are we going to find out where Alexander was those two times and when the Nikon killer attacked?” He shook his head and then turned back toward town.

  “Good question,” I said and followed my friend. The walk to Samuel’s crime scene produced a minimal amount of exercise and little else.

  “Have a good answer?” asked Charles.

  “Seldom.”

  CHAPTER 48

  CHARLES NEEDED TO MAKE A DELIVERY FOR DUDE AND rolled off. Delivering small packages for the surf shop was another source of his limited income. Deliveries, of course,
had to be within bicycle range. I walked to Bert’s to bum a cup of coffee and pick up the Charleston newspaper. On the way out, Brian Newman’s unmarked car pulled into a space on the side of the building. He waved me over.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  I walked around the passenger side and slid onto the front seat. He didn’t say anything but pulled on Ashley Avenue and headed toward the old coast guard station.

  “Aren’t you afraid the mayor will see you colluding with the enemy?” I asked as he stepped on the accelerator.

  He glanced over at me. “I’ve resigned,” he said. “What’s he going to do?”

  “Where’re we going?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Just riding around; that’s what cops do.”

  “And I’m riding around with you why?”

  “You’re playing cop all the time, so I thought you’d like the ride.” He smirked in my direction.

  “You know I don’t want to meddle in your business,” I said.

  He laughed. “Just teasing. I wanted to tell you something and didn’t want everyone around Bert’s to hear.”

  We were passing the quarter-mile-long Washout section where surfers were parked along the right side of the road. Two of them saluted as the car passed. So much for an unmarked car.

  “You can wipe lover boy off your list,” he said.

  “O’Hara?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” said Brian. “He was working when someone almost knocked some sense into Charles.”

  “You sure?”

  “Afraid so.” He shook his head. “I wanted it to be him too. The roster showed he was on duty.” He waved to the left. “For what it’s worth, although not much, he was off when Samuel said he saw the abduction. You already knew he wasn’t working when someone assassinated Charles’s camera.”

  “It was worth a try,” I said. It would have been almost perfect if it’d been him. Not only would a dangerous person be taken off the street but it would also have been a welcomed slap in the face of the mayor.

  We turned around at the east end of the street and headed back toward town. Brian pulled off the pavement at the beginning of the Washout. He put the car in park and looked in the rearview mirror and then turned toward me. The smile had disappeared.