The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

by Otto Penzler

  “A good friend?” I repeated.

  “For about the last year,” he said, “Miriam has been seeing a psychiatrist, nothing major, problems to be worked out about her childhood, her relationship to her parents. The psychiatrist’s name is Gerald Bermeister. He’s got a practice over one of those antique stores on Palm Avenue. I’m not a young man. I am not immune to jealousy. Gerald Bermeister is both young and good looking. There were times when I could not determine whether my suspicions were simply that of an older man afraid of losing his beautiful young wife or were valid concerns.”

  “I’ll check it out,” I said.

  “Miriam was a bit of a loner,” he went on. “But because of business connections we belong to a wide variety of organizations, Selby Gardens, Asolo Angels, charity groups, and we’re seen at balls and dances. Miriam said that in three years we had been on the Herald-Tribunes society page eleven times. In spite of this, Miriam had no really close friends with one possible exception, Caroline Wilker-son, the widow of my late partner.”

  “And what do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Find her, of course,” Sebastian said turning from the painting to look at me.

  “Has she committed a crime?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” he said.

  “So, she’s free to go where she wants to go, even to leave her husband, take money out of your joint accounts and wander away. It may be a boyfriend. It may be a lot of things.”

  “I just want you to find her,” he said. “I just want to talk to her. I just want to find out what happened and if there is anything I can do to get her back.”

  “She could be half way to Singapore by now,” I said.

  ‘Your expense account is unlimited,” he answered. “I will want you to keep me informed if you leave town in search of Miriam and I would expect you would, as a professional, keep expenses to a minimum and give me a full accounting of all such expenses when you find her.”

  “If I find her,” I said. “I’ll do my best to find out why she left. I’ll have to ask her if she’s willing to talk to you. I’ll tell you where she is if she gives me permission to tell you.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  He moved again. I followed into an office where he moved to a desk and picked something up next to a computer.

  “Here’s a check in advance,” he said. “Larry said your fee was negotiable. Consider this expenses and, if anything is left, part of your payment. I propose one hundred and twenty dollars a day plus expenses.”

  I nodded to show it was fair and took the check. It was made out to me for five hundred dollars. He had been ready and expecting that I’d take the job.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “How long?”

  “Do I keep looking before I give up? I expect to find her, but it may be hard or easy. It may, if she’s really smart, be impossible.”

  “Let’s say we re-evaluate after two week*s if it goes that long,” he said. “But I want her back if it’s at all possible. I’m too old to start again and I love Miriam. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, tucked the folder under my arm after dropping the check into it and asked him for the numbers of any credit cards they shared, the tag number and make of her car and various other things that would make my job easier.

  While he found what I asked for he admitted, “I tried going to the police first, but they said they really had no reason to look for Miriam unless I thought she might be dangerous to herself or had been taken against her will. They also said I could file a missing persons report but there was little they could do even if they found her other than inform me that she was alive and well, unless she had committed a crime, which she hadn’t. I’m talking too much.”

  “It’s understandable,” I said as he ushered me to the door and handed me an embossed business card, tasteful, easily readable black script: Raymond Sebastian, Investments, Real Estate. There was an office address and phone number in the lower left-hand corner. He had written his home phone number on the back of the card but I already had that.

  “Keep me informed,” he said taking my hand. “Call any time. As often as you like.”

  He waited with me at the elevator. His was the only apartment on the floor, but he was on the twelfth floor and the elevator took a few minutes.

  “Anything else I can tell you?” he asked.

  “She have any living relatives?”

  “No, it’s all in the material I’ve given you,” he said. ‘Just me. I don’t think she’s gone far. We’ve traveled all around the world, but she considers the Gulf Coast her home. I could be wrong.”

  “I’m going to start with her friend Mrs. Wilkerson,” I said.

  “Good idea though I don’t know what Caroline can tell you that I haven’t. Yet, maybe there was something said, some ... I don’t know.” .

  The elevator bell rang and the doors opened. I stepped in and smiled confidently at Raymond Sebastian who now looked a little older than he had on his balcony.

  When I’m not working, I bike. Not a motorcycle. A bike. Sarasota isn’t that big and it has a good cheap bus system that not enough people use. When I’m on a case, I rent a car and charge it to my client. I had left my bike, an old one-speed, chained to a tree. No one had taken my battered bike pack. It wasn’t worth the effort and besides, we were a little off the regular haunts of Sarasota’s downtown homeless. I put the folder in the bike pack, took off the chain and dropped it into the second pouch of the pack. I biked. It was summer, the day was hot. I pedaled to my place behind the Dairy Queen on 301. I pedaled slowly. I was wearing my best clothes — sport jacket, pressed pants, white shirt — and I didn’t want to get them sweat drenched if I could help it.

  When I got back to my office, I made three calls. First, I called the little independent car rental company I used and we agreed on our usual deal. I said I’d be over to pick up a Toyota Tercel within the hour. Then I called Caroline Wilkerson, who was in the phone book, and made an appointment with her that afternoon. She said she was worried about Miriam and Raymond and would be happy to talk to me. I called Dr. Gerald Bermeister, got a typical he’ll-call-you-back. I told her it was urgent, about Miriam Sebastian. The woman put me on hold for a minute so I could listen to the Beach Boys and then came back on to say Dr. Bermeister could see me for fifteen minutes at four-forty-five. I said I’d be there.

  I put on my jeans and a black pull-over tee shirt, washed my face and went down to the DQ where I had a burger and a Blizzard and talked to Dave who owned the place. Dave was probably about my age but years of working in the sun on his boat had turned his skin to dark leather. I’m a sucker for junk food and I’ve got no one to tell me to eat well. Dave doesn’t eat his own food, but I knew he kept the place clean. I worked out every day at the YMCA where I biked every day and told myself that covered the burgers, fried chicken, ribs and hot dogs. I could tell myself lies. Who was there to contradict me?

  I walked to the car rental office about a mile and a half north on 301, past antique shops, a girlie bar, a pawn shop, some offices and restaurants, a rebuilt and new tire garage and a Popeye’s chicken. I had worked up a sweat when I got the car. I turned on the air conditioning and headed for Sebastian’s bank where I cashed the check for five hundred. Then I drove back to my office and my room to wash and change into my good clothes.

  Caroline Wilkerson met me at the Cafe Kaldi on Main Street. I had no trouble finding her even though the coffee house tables were almost full in spite of the absence of the winter tourists. She sat alone, an open notebook in front of her, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was writing. A cup of coffee rested nearby. I recognized her from the society pages of the Herald-Tribune. When I sat across from her, she looked at me over her glasses, took them off, folded her hands on the table and gave me her attention.

  The widow Caroline was a beauty, better in person than in the papers. She was probably in her late forties, short, straight silver ha
ir, a seemingly wrinkle-free face with full red lips that reminded me of Joan Fontaine. She wore a pink silky blouse with a pearl necklace and pearl earrings and a light-weight white jacket.

  “Would you like to order a coffee?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve had my quota for the day.”

  She nodded, understanding^, and took a sip of her coffee.

  “Miriam Sebastian,” I said. ‘You know she’s apparently left her husband?”

  “Raymond told me,” she said. “Called. Frantic. Almost in tears. I couldn’t help him. She hasn’t contacted me. I would have thought, as Raymond did, that if Miriam did something like this, she’d get in touch with me, but...”

  Caroline Wilkerson shrugged.

  “Did they have a fight?”

  A trio of young women suddenly laughed loudly a few tables behind me. When they stopped, Caroline Wilkerson closed her notebook.

  to

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I can’t be certain. But Raymond said nothing about a fight and I don’t recall ever seeing them fight or hearing from Miriam that they had fought. Frankly, I’m worried about her.”

  “Any idea of where she might have gone?” I asked.

  The pause was long. She bit her lower lip, made up her mind, sighed. “Gerry Bermeister,” she said softly meeting my eyes. “He’s her analyst and ... I think that’s all I can say.”

  “Mr. Sebastian thinks his wife and Dr. Bermeister might have had an affair, that she may have left to be with him.”

  She shrugged again. I handed her one of my cards, asked her to get in touch with me if she heard from Miriam Sebastian, and said that she should tell her friend that her husband simply wanted to know what happened and if he could talk to her.

  She took the card and I stood up.

  “I hope you find her,” she said. “Miriam has had problems recently, depression. One of her relatives, her only close relative, a cousin I think, recently died. That’s hardly a reason for what she’s done, but... I frankly don’t know what to make of it.”

  At the moment, that made two of us.

  “Are you permitted to let me know if you find out anything about where Miriam is and why she’s .. .”

  I must have been shaking my head “no” because she stopped. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to get that from her or from Mr. Sebastian. Whatever I find is between me and my client.”

  “I understand,” she said with a sad smile showing perfect white teeth. “That’s what I would expect if you were working for me.” When I got to the coffee house door, I looked back at Caroline

  Wilkerson. Her half glasses were back on and her notebook was open.

  One of the criminal attorneys I did some work for had access to computer networks, very sophisticated access. An individual in his office did the computer work and was well paid. Since some of what he did on the network was on the borderline of illegal, the attorney never acknowledged his access to information the police, credit agencies, banks and almost every major corporation had. I had some time before I saw Bermeister so I dropped by the attorney’s office. He was with a client but he gave me permission through his secretary to talk to Harvey, the computer whiz. I found Harvey in his small windowless office in front of his computer. Harvey looked more like an ex-movie star than a computer hacker. He was tall, dark, wearing a suit and sporting shot hair of gold. Harvey was MIT. Harvey was also a convicted cocaine user and former alcoholic.

  It took Harvey ten minutes to determine that Miriam Sebastian had not used any of her credit cards during the past four days. Nor had she, at least under her own name, rented a car or taken a plane out of Sarasota, Clearwater, St. Petersburg, Tampa or Fort Meyers.

  “You want me to keep checking every day to see if I can find her?” he said.

  “I’ll bill my client,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” said Harvey showing capped teeth. “I like a challenge like this, pay or no pay. Me against her. She hides. I find her.”

  “You want her Social Security number?” I asked.

  Harvey smiled.

  “That I can get and access to bank accounts and credit cards. You want that?”

  “Sure. I’ll call you later.”

  I made it to Dr. Bermeister’s office with ten minutes to spare. The matronly receptionist took my name and asked me to have a seat. The only other person in the waiting area was a nervous young woman, about twenty, who hadn’t done much to look her best. Her hair was short and dark. Her brown skirt didn’t really go with her gray blouse. She ruffled through a magazine.

  I was reading an article about Clint Eastwood in People magazine when Bermeister’s door opened. He was in his thirties, dark suit, dark hair and ruggedly good looking.

  “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Audrey,” he said to the nervous Audrey who nodded frowning.

  “Mr. Fonesca?” he said looking at me. “Please come in.”

  I followed him into his office. He opened his drapes and let in the sun and a view of Ringling Boulevard. The office wasn’t overly large, room for a desk and chair, a small sofa and two armchairs. The colors were all subdued blues. A painting on the wall showed a woman standing on a hill looking into a valley beyond at the ruins of a castle. Her face wasn’t visible.

  “Like it?” Bermeister said sitting behind his desk and offering me the couch or one of the chairs. I took a chair so I could face him. “The painting? Yes,” I said.

  “One of my patients did it,” he said. “An artist. A man. We spent a lot of time talking about that painting.”

  “Haunting,” I said.

  “Gothic,” he said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fonesca, but I’m going to have to get right to your questions.”

  “I understand. Miriam Latham Sebastian,” I said.

  “I can’t give you any information about why she was seeing me, what was said.”

  “I know,” I said feeling comfortable in the chair. “Do you know where Mrs. Sebastian is?”

  “No,” he said.

  The answer had come slowly.

  “Any ideas?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Want to share them?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “This one will probably get me kicked out, but you’re in a hurry. Mr. Sebastian, and he’s not the only one, thinks you and Miriam Sebastian were having an affair.”

  Bermeister cocked his head and looked interested.

  “And if we were?”

  “Or are,” I amended. “Well, it might suggest that she would come to you. Her husband just wants to talk to her.”

  “And you just want to find her for him?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “First,” he said getting up from his desk chair. “I am not and have not been having an affair with Miriam Sebastian. In fact, Mr. Fonesca, I can offer more than ample proof that I am gay. It is a relatively open secret which, in fact, hasn’t hurt my practice at all. I get the gay clients, men and women, and I get women who feel more comfortable talking to me. What I don’t get are many straight men.”

  “Mrs. Sebastian,” I said.

  “She doesn’t want to see her husband,” he said sitting on the sofa and crossing his legs. “She doesn’t want him to know where she is.” “I told Sebastian that I planned to talk to her if I found her and that I wouldn’t tell her husband where she was if she told me she wouldn’t talk to him under any circumstances.”

  “Which,” said Bermeister, “is what she would say.”

  “I want to hear it from her,” I said. “Until I do, she can’t use a credit card, can’t cash a check in her own name, can’t use her Social Security number without my finding her. My job is finding people, doctor. I do a good job. If you want references. ...”

  His right hand was up indicating that I should stop. He looked up at the painting of the woman looking down at the ruins.

  “I made some calls about you after I scheduled this appointment,” he said. “Ac
tually, Doreen, my secretary, made the calls. You haven’t been here long, but your reputation is very good.”

  “Small city,” I said.

  “Big enough,” he said taking a pad out of his pocket and writing something. He tore the page out and looked at it.

  “I have your word,” he said.

  “I talk to her. Try to talk her into at least a phone call and then I drop it if she wants to be left alone.”

  He handed me the sheet of paper. It had two words on it: Harrington House. I folded the sheet and put it in my jacket pocket.

  “I don’t want people hounding Miriam,” he said. “She ... she can tell you why if she wants to. By the way, I plan to call her the instant you leave. She may choose to pack and leave before you get there.” “I think it would be a good idea if she just talked to me.”

  “I think you may be right,” he said. “I’ll suggest that she do so.” He ushered me to the door and shook my hand.

  “I’m trusting you,” he said.

  I nodded and he turned to the nervous young woman.

  “I have to make one quick call, Audrey,” he said smiling at her. She had no response and he disappeared back into his office.

  I was parked in front of the hardware store on Main. I stopped at an outdoor phone booth where there was a complete phone book and had no trouble finding Harrington House. It was in Holmes

  Beach, a Bed and Breakfast. That was on Anna Maria Island. I’d been there to try to find the house where Georges Simenon had lived for a while. The house was gone. I called Harvey the computer whiz.

  “Miriam Latham Sebastian has been turning her investments into cash and emptying her joint bank accounts,” he said happily. “I’ve got a feeling there’s more.”

  “Keep at it,” I said.

  I hung up and wondered why Dr. Gerald Bermeister had been so cooperative. I considered calling Harvey back and asking him to check on the good doctor, but decided that could wait.

  I got into my rented car, flipped on the air conditioner and eased back through a break in traffic. I made a left and then another left and then another which brought me right back to Bermeister’s office building. I got out fast, ran into the office building, rode the elevator up to Bermeister’s floor and then rode back down again and got into my car.