Ron Base - Sanibel Sunset Detective 01 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

  There was an edge to Savannah’s voice. “Are you sure you can’t tell us where your client is?”

  “No, in fact, I can’t. I’ve tried to reassure him that my wife and I are on his side, that he would be safer with us or with the police. But he’s scared. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “That’s the point, Mr. Callister. We want to help the boy. Running loose the way he is, not only endangers Marcello but you and your wife as well.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  Savannah Trask rose to her feet, coming into sharper focus, reminding Tree how age can sometimes fail badly when it sets out to defeat beauty.

  “If Marcello shows up again, would you let us know?” She handed him a card. “This has my cell phone number.”

  Her fingers touched his arm. He would like to have said he felt no electrical surge. But he would have been lying.

  “We want what’s best for the boy, we really do,” she said. “Please try to assure him of that if you talk to him. Tell him that he doesn’t have anything to fear from us. We can make him safe.”

  Agent Shawn Lazenby didn’t offer a card. Just his hand and a cold smile. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

  22

  A new dynamic was at work in their marriage. Previously, everything revolved around Freddie and her job—Freddie’s relocation to Sanibel, Freddie’s clashes with Ray Dayton, Freddie arguing for new computer systems, fighting for best practices, wrestling with inventory, staff problems.

  All that changed overnight. A job that a week ago was a joke, had, to Tree’s amazement, taken center stage. In the evening, Freddie showed scant interest in discussing her day. Instead, she devoured Tree’s news, the two of them on the terrace outlined in the gold and crimson of the waning sun, sifting and dissecting what they knew about the case—she called it the case—analyzing the latest intelligence, debating what should be done next.

  The case.

  He admitted to himself that the case had the effect of making him more duplicitous. It was not that he lied as such; he simply found it easier to withhold certain things. For example, he did not tell Freddie about his interview with the two FBI agents. That is, he did not say anything until he got a telephone call after he’d been home for an hour.

  “It’s Savannah Trask,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  That caused Tree’s heart to jolt. It should not have. But it did.

  “Are you busy?”

  “Well, I’m home.” Stupid. Of course he was home.

  “Can you get away? I’d like to have a word with you.”

  “When?”

  “Now. I’m at the South Seas Resort. Suite 5-1-9.”

  The line went dead. He hung up and turned to find Freddie leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him expectantly.

  “That was the FBI agent I was just going to tell you about,” he said.

  “The FBI?” Freddie frowned.

  “They interviewed me this morning.”

  “About what?”

  “About Marcello.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I was honest with them,” he said trying to head off any discussion around the degree of his honesty. “The good news is they want to find Marcello as badly as we do, and protect him.”

  “Protect him from what exactly?”

  “They don’t mind me telling them things, but they don’t say much back. Anyway, that was one of the agents. They want to talk to me again.”

  “Tonight?”

  “They’re staying at the South Seas.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  He hesitated. “I’d better do this alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Not really, he thought. He really wasn’t sure of anything, least of all how he was going to handle this.

  ____

  Driving to the South Seas Resort, Tree imagined Savannah Trask answering the door in lingerie. Exactly what kind of lingerie he couldn’t decide. Possibly something in line with the Gold Medal paperback novels he devoured as a teenager. Their covers invariably featured beautiful women spilling out of scanty underwear. The thought left him unexpectedly short of breath and feeling a little guilty. Did he want to be seduced? Ridiculous. He was going over there to get the meeting over with and get back home.

  Tree turned through the South Seas entrance gate and parked in the lot. Savannah opened her door as soon as he knocked. No lingerie. He felt curiously and ridiculously relieved. Savannah wore sensible shorts and an oversize T-shirt with FBI in big letters—in case Tree forgot who she was, and the potential danger she represented.

  “Come in,” she said in that clipped, professional manner of hers.

  A large travel bag lay open on a king-size bed. Business clothes hung neatly in the louvered closets. An Apple notebook was set up on the desk. The new Michael Lewis book was on a night table beside the bed, right next to her copy of The Economist. Savannah Trask looked as though she was planning to stay a while.

  “Can I call to get you something?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Why don’t we sit at the table over there?”

  A delicate white table on dainty legs was flanked by two wrought-iron chairs. He sat across from her, settling back, trying to get comfortable and failing.

  She smiled. “So what did you think when you saw me this morning?”

  He tried a casual smile back but couldn’t quite make his mouth work. What did he think? “I’m not quite sure,” he said truthfully. “Surprised, I suppose.”

  To say the least.

  “Meeting my ex-boyfriend after all these years, I must say I didn’t know what to expect.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  “The white bread Chicago newspaperman and the naïve young African American law student. That was us, wasn’t it?”

  “So now the law student is an FBI agent,” he said.

  “That surprises you?”

  “I thought you’d end up as a partner in a high-powered law firm in either Chicago or New York.”

  “Well, you can imagine my shock to discover my old roommate, the veteran newspaperman, is out of the business entirely, and married yet again—although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the married part. You always did like being married, Tree.”

  “Or maybe I didn’t like it at all,” he said. “Why I kept failing at it.”

  “Are you failing this time? What number is this? Four? Five?”

  “Four,” he said. “And the answer is no, not this time.”

  “Good for you. So here you are on Sanibel Island, a private detective of all things.”

  She paused to give him a chance to respond. When he didn’t she leaned forward, those grey eyes bright with—what?—inquisitiveness? Challenge?

  “I mean, come on Tree, are you really serious about this detective stuff?”

  “Savannah, let’s get to the point of why I’m here, okay? My wife’s waiting for me at home.”

  She sat back in her chair, darkness descending. If past history was any indication, the time for trying to manipulate the situation was over. Time to administer the blunt instrument.

  “All right, the point is two murders have been committed. The Sanibel Island police do not rule you out as a possible suspect in both cases. Are you aware of that?”

  He tried not to look shocked. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “They don’t believe you’re telling them everything you know about either case. What’s more, they believe you are keeping the whereabouts of the boy from them.”

  “What do you think, Savannah?”

  She leaned forward, face intense. “Do I think you’re being completely honest? No, I don’t.”

  He did not recall honesty being one of Savannah’s strong points, either.

  “How can I be honest with you?”

  “Tell me where Marcello is.”

  “I told you before, I don’t know. I said it to the poli
ce. I said it to the people who broke into my house the other night. No one seems to believe me, but I keep saying the same thing over and over again.”

  “Maybe because everyone has a hard time imagining that a twelve-year-old boy can stay hidden without some adult help.”

  “Why is the FBI so interested in him?”

  “He’s an important part of an ongoing investigation.”

  “And you’re investigating what, exactly?”

  “I’m part of a probe into the activities of a man named Brand Traven.”

  Now that really did surprise him.

  “You think Marcello and these murders are somehow connected to Brand Traven?”

  “That’s what Agent Lazenby and myself are here to find out.”

  “What about the woman I found on Barrington Court?”

  “What about her?”

  “Has she been identified? If I’m out there knocking people off, I’d at least like to know who they are.”

  She hesitated before she said, “The woman’s name is Dara Rait. But I believe you already know that.”

  “I know what I told the police, that she bought a bike for Marcello.”

  “Supposedly, she’s an artist. Runs a little shop in Fort Myers Beach. But that’s probably a front.”

  “A front for what?”

  “Dara was a former sex trade worker who supplied young women from South America and Mexico to various escort services along the West Coast. We think that’s how she became involved with Reno O’Hara.”

  “Who stands a lot better chance of being Dara’s killer than I do.”

  “As we say, the investigation is still ongoing.”

  “What was she doing at that house?”

  “Dara rented the place about a month ago. We’re not sure why. Maybe to house the women she brought up from the South. She never lived there.”

  “Only died.”

  “That’s right,” Savannah said.

  “Like I said, Dara bought a bike for Marcello,” Tree said. “I tracked her to an address at the Bon Air Mobile Park in Fort Myers Beach. I thought she might be Marcello’s mother.”

  “But she isn’t.”

  “Marcello says she isn’t.”

  “The police think they were using the Bon Air to house women. How did you end up at the house on Barrington? And don’t tell me you thought it was up for sale.”

  “I was looking for Mickey Crowley.”

  “A call girl from Naples.”

  “I thought she was a waitress.”

  “Briefly. She’s quit her job and disappeared. Who wants to know the whereabouts of Mickey Crowley?”

  “My client wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “Your client does, huh? You know, Tree, I’ve ended up telling you a quite a bit this evening. You haven’t told me much of anything.”

  She got to her feet. The FBI letters on her T-shirt looked ten-feet tall. “Think over what we’ve talked about,” she said in that tight, clipped voice she probably used arresting drug lords. “Give me a call if you think of anything or Marcello shows up.”

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  He stood. She reached out her hand to him. “Good to see you, Tree.”

  For one wild moment, he thought they would kiss. The moment passed. He shook her hand.

  He went to the door and opened it. She called after him. “Tree.”

  He turned.

  “Did you tell your wife?”

  He looked back at her.

  “About us. Did you tell your wife about the two of us?”

  “What about you, Savannah? Did you ever marry?”

  “I never made that mistake, Tree. You were a good role model for me.”

  Cheshire cat grin. Savannah had the moment.

  As she always did.

  23

  She was the only woman who ever wrote him a love letter. Handwritten, composed after a spat. He couldn’t remember the details of the fight. But he always remembered the letter. Four wives and none of them ever wrote him a love letter, not even Freddie. But Savannah had. What had he done with it, anyway? Must be around some place.

  There was only one problem with the love letter.

  Its author did not love him.

  They had met on a local current affairs television show. Student lawyers confronting seasoned law enforcement officers and journalists about what they did and how they did it.

  Savannah was bright, intelligent, charming, extremely attractive. He was between marriages, but good grief, he told himself, she was twenty years younger. He made himself forget any stupid ideas about getting involved with her. Not that she’d be interested in a million years.

  A couple of weeks later, she called. She had some follow-up questions in connection with a project she was doing for one of her courses. Could they get together for a drink?

  He could and they did. How had they ended up living together? Crazy. She was too young and just beginning. He was too old and even then suspecting that journalism, in one way or another, was coming to an end.

  She had broken up with her boyfriend, a crazed character who threatened her life and might have been a local hoodlum. Or maybe not, depending on her mood. The point was, she needed a place to stay. That’s all it was, right? He wasn’ t going to sleep with her. And then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Or maybe they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  He deluded himself into thinking they were a couple—until he found out she was seeing a local news anchor. Rex tipped him off. He didn’t want to see Tree hurt. He had met Savannah, thought her deceitful and manipulative, not a woman to trust. Rex pointed out that the anchor guy had perfect hair. Tree couldn’t compete with perfect hair—Rex’s conclusion. He was probably right.

  Tree thought he knew what was in store dating someone so much younger, but he wasn’t prepared for the emotional toll. He didn’t care, but he did. One final encounter: the two of them tearing at each other extracting some kind of sexual revenge. He never saw her again after that. She was gone without a trace. He didn’t even have a photograph. It was as though she never existed.

  Except she did.

  Tree had long since gotten over her. Hadn’t he? Maybe it was the damned love letter. What was in it, anyway? He would have to find it and reread its contents. No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have to do anything like that. He reminded himself again: she had not loved him; she still did not love him.

  Instead of worrying about an old flame seducing him—a notion that now seemed particularly ludicrous—he should concern himself with a threatening federal agent who strongly suggested he was a prime suspect in two murder cases.

  “Hey!”

  He turned to see Agent Shawn Lazenby walking-running toward him, fists clenched. He came to a threatening stop inches away from Tree. He was in shirtsleeves, his spiky hair disheveled, face drawn and tense.

  “What’s up?” he demanded. His eyes spun in their sockets.

  “Just getting into my car,” Tree managed to say. “Going home.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What do you mean?” Tree said. “What are you talking about?”

  In response, Shawn slammed him back against the Beetle. “Don’t screw with me. Okay? Okay?”

  Part of Tree’s brain insisted this had to be a joke. Yet the force of Shawn’s presence, the overpowering physical sense of him, screamed it wasn’t.

  “What’s wrong?” Tree tried to keep his voice calm, reasonable.

  “What’s wrong?” The notion of right and wrong appeared to further agitate Shawn. “I tell you what’s wrong, as opposed to what’s right. You and Savannah, that’s what’s wrong. That’s what’s so goddamn wrong!”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “I know about you, okay? I know where you’re coming from, okay? You can’t fool me, mister. You can’t do it. So don’t even try.”

  “I’m not trying to do anything,” Tree said.

  The agent gave him another hard shove.
“Don’t let me catch you around her again, man. I mean it. Otherwise, it’s a sea of trouble. I’m not fooling. Okay? A sea of trouble.”

  He turned, and as suddenly as he had arrived, Shawn departed, streaking across the parking lot, leaving Tree slumped against his car.

  ____

  Driving back along Captiva Road, he began to calm down, get his mind off Shawn Lazenby’s intimidation—what was that all about? A lovesick cop?— and his unsatisfactory performance with Savannah; intimidation of another kind. He focused instead on what he had learned: Reno O’Hara was part of an ongoing FBI investigation into the affairs of Brand Traven.

  Savannah had refused to say how Reno was involved with Traven but the pivotal figure appeared to be twelve-year-old Marcello. The police, the intruders at his house and now the FBI, everyone wanted Marcello. What’s more, everyone thought Tree knew where he was. Thus everyone threatened him. He should have been scared, he supposed. Instead, he was rather pleased at being invested with a craftiness and deceit that he doubted he possessed. He had no more idea where Marcello was than anyone else.

  His cell phone rang. He slowed to fish it out of his pocket, thinking it was Freddie. However, it wasn’t Freddie.

  “I need to see you, Mr. Callister,” Elizabeth Traven said.

  24

  An American eagle, said to be a replica of the one in the Oval Office, glared down at Tree from atop the sitting room fireplace inside the Sanctuary Golf Club, as though it feared Tree might desire to become a member and therefore must be torn apart.

  Elizabeth Traven, crisp and efficient in a canary-yellow summer dress, was seated in the dining room by one of the picture windows. She did not look any happier to see Tree than the eagle as he seated himself across from her.

  “Every time I look at a newspaper, Mr. Callister, there you are on the front page.”

  “Someone broke into my house,” he said.

  “So I understand. Are you and your wife all right?”

  “A little shaken up, that’s all.”

  “Any idea who was responsible?”

  “Let’s say I have my suspicions.” He decided not to say that he thought one of those responsible was Mickey Crowley. He would save that for later.