by Mark Stone
Jack laughed loudly and threw his head back like he was a little kid, practically howling with joy.
“Don’t get all serious on me,” he said, grinning as he looked at me. “Boomer definitely had it right when he said you had a stick up your ass.”
I blanched. “He said what now?”
“Don’t worry, Detective Storm,” Jack said, mocking my name with an overly official tone. “You came to hear about what happened to Victoria Sands, right? Lucky for you, I’m something of an expert on the matter.” He reached for that horrific looking tea. “Just let me get lubricated first.” He took a long swallow and, when he was done, three quarters of the contents of the bottle had disappeared. “There we go,” he said, wiping his mouth again.
“Can we get this over with?” I asked. “Lubrication or not.”
Hell, if Boomer was going to go around telling people I had sticks shoved in places they shouldn’t be, I might as well live up to the reputation.
“Of course,” he answered. “You want to know what I learned during the initial investigation or what I’ve figured out on my own since then?”
My eyes instinctively narrowed. “You’ve been working on this case on your own?”
“Not just this one,” he said, hopping up and walking toward a tiny hall. He disappeared into it, and soon reappeared holding a red binder with oversized pages sticking out of it. “Back when I was in the service, I saved a lot of people. I felt like it was my calling actually, to find people, to save them.” He dropped the binder on the table and it banged loudly in front of me. “Life takes you in weird places though. Turns out what I was meant to do was get drunk ninety percent of the time and pretend the life I used to have was just a foggy dream I sometimes have trouble remembering.”
I thought about what Boomer said, about what my grandfather said. This man had lost both his wife and son. It was undoubtedly a shame, but I couldn’t afford to be soft or to pull up now.
“That doesn’t explain the binder,” I said, my voice firm.
“I said I do that stuff ninety percent of the time,” he said, sitting down. “The other ten percent, I do this.” He pushed the binder toward me.
“And what is this?” I asked, opening it up and finding page after page of clipped newspaper articles, handwritten notes, and scribbled on maps.
“These are the people I couldn’t save,” he answered, nodding. “And the people other people couldn’t save. These are the lost, Detective Storm.” He nodded again. “The people who need finding.”
“Is that why your boat is named The Finder?” I asked, thumbing through the pages of missing persons articles.
Looking up, I saw something distant in Jack’s eyes. “I’m not the person who named it,” he said, before reaching over and pulling the binder from me. “Victoria Sands disappeared in the middle of the night. Her boat was found in the middle of the Gulf. By the time they called me out here, she had been missing for a few days. Something about the photos of the scene didn’t look right though.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, glaring at him.
“There were no signs of anything,” he answered simply. “Usually, when someone is taken from their vessel, there are signs of a struggle. Even when a person is thrown overboard, there’s often other signs of distress to the boat. Judging from the photos, this boat was in perfect condition, nothing touched. It was like someone beamed her out.” He looked over at me. “Or she walked out. There was a life set missing, but no damage to the boat itself.”
“You think she ran off?” I asked. “Faked her death?”
“It was the people on the land who decided she was dead,” he answered. “But yeah I think she left of her own volition. Either someone picked her up right there, or she swam to a nearby buoy and watched for a partner to come by.” He turned the binder back over to me. “And I think I know why she did it.”
He pointed to a photograph in the binder. It was of a middle-aged man and a younger woman at a restaurant. Whoever had taken the photo had used a telescopic lens and done it from far enough away that the subjects had no idea the picture was being taken.
“What am I looking at?” I asked, looking from the picture to Jack and back again. “Other than a couple trying to eat.”
Jack chuckled again. “You know, people think that finding someone is as simple as looking. The truth is, to really find someone - especially someone who doesn’t want to be found - you have to know them. You have to get inside their head. You have to know what they want more than anything else in the world and what they fear more than anything else. That’s the only way you know where to look.”
“Would you cut the fortune cookie talk,” I huffed, rolling my eyes. “You obviously don’t know all these things. Otherwise, you would have found her and I wouldn’t have had to pull the poor woman from the gulf.”
“About that poor woman,” Jack started, pointing to the woman in the photo. “Think you’d recognize her if you saw her again?”
I peered closer at the photograph, following Jack’s finger. She looked different than before, with black bangs and a warmer complexion. Still, it was Victoria. I could see it in her eyes.
“When was this taken?” I asked, not tearing my eyes away from the photo.
“Her husband Ethan had hired a private investigator, looking for evidence of cheating. Obviously, he found it.”
“Ethan told me this already,” I answered. “He said they had some marital problems and they had worked through it.”
“Except this was after that,” Jack said. “And that thing on her head, it’s a wig. She was still seeing the person she was cheating with when she disappeared, and her husband obviously knew about it.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“I’m not saying anything,” he answered. “Like you pointed out, if I knew the end of this story, I’d have been the one to find her. All I know for sure is this woman was cheating on her husband when she disappeared with one of the richest businessmen in town.”
“And who is that?” I asked, looking down at the photo again.
“Him?” Jack asked, shaking his head. “That bastard is so wealthy that his name is actually Rich Cash.”
Chapter 13
Debbie Anderson met me at her door with a smile as big as the Florida sun. I’d have gone in for a hug as she invited me in, but she was wearing her apron and I wasn’t sure how much of the pot roast I’d have come away wearing if I’d have gotten too close.
“You’re a sight, Dillon,” she said as I walked through her doorway and into the living room. “I swear, I didn’t think you were going to show up. We were about to start without you.”
It was true. I was more than a few minutes late, which wasn’t like me. Still, after hearing what Jack Lacey had to say about Victoria and her extracurricular activities leading up to her disappearance, I decided to do a little digging on Richard Cash and his connection to things. Luckily for me, Google is a hell of a thing. A trip into the information superhighway taught me that Richard Cash came to Naples ten years ago with his wife Isabel from the colder climate of the Colorado Rockies. He had made a name for himself as a freestyle skier back in the nineties and had parlayed that into an empire of sporting goods and instructional videos. They moved down to Florida, selling that business after their son died in a plane crash. A decade later, they were fixtures in Naples society as well as huge stock owners in Storm Inc, second only to my brother and his wife.
Of course, digging into that took more time than I had and, before I knew it, I was splashing water on my face and changing into something with less sweat stains as I rushed off The Good Storm and headed to Boomer’s for dinner.
“You know how work is,” I answered, shrugging and handing her a bottle of red wine I’d bought earlier in the week as a gift for inviting me over.
“See,” she chuckled, taking it. “Now I’m glad we didn’t start without you.”
“Thank God for grapes,” I answered, nodd
ing at her and following her toward the dining room.
Debbie and Boomer had been together for years now. They started dating back in high school, almost the same time Charlotte and I became an item. Unlike Charlotte and I though, these two stuck it out, and they had a beautiful home, two daughters, and nearly a decade of marriage under their belts for the trouble. It was inspiring, even if it did put a ribbon on how little I had accomplished myself in that area.
“I’m surprised you agreed to come,” Debbie admitted, looking at me from over her shoulder.
“Really?” I asked, shaking my head. “You shouldn’t be. You’re the best cook in Collier County. They sure don’t have pot roasts like yours up North.”
She stopped and turned to me, setting the wine bottle on a nearby counter.
“He didn’t tell you about the other part, did he?” she asked, blowing a strand of blond hair out of her eyes.
“Mashed potatoes?” I asked.
“Of course, he didn’t,” Debbie sighed, looking me up and down. She leaned in, taking her hands to my head and fixing up my hair. “Just remember that Boomer loves you, Dillon. He just wants to see you happy. We both do.”
“Oh God,” I muttered, my heart lurching as I realized what was going on here. “Debbie,” I said, grabbing her hands and moving them away from my hair, which was fine, by the way. “Tell me that your idiot husband didn’t do what I think he did.”
“It’s not that bad, Dillon,” Debbie assured me, suppressing a smile.
“The hell it isn’t,” I balked. “I didn’t sign up for some blind date, Deb. If I wanted to make small talk with a woman I barely know, I’d have gone to Rocco’s at happy hour.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe he’d set me up without even running it past me.”
“Really?” she asked, unable to suppress the smile anymore. “You’ve known each other since the two of you were in practically in the womb. Can you really not believe he’d do this? Frankly, I surprised it’s taken him this long. If it wasn’t for the fact that he thought you were probably going to get back together with Charlotte, he’d have probably done this the first night you got here.”
My heart skipped a nervous beat. “Charlotte and I haven’t been together in over ten years. We’re friends, that’s all.”
I wasn’t sure I really believed that. I couldn’t deny the spark that still existed (at least on my part) whenever Charlotte and I were in the same place. Still, that wasn’t anybody’s business, and it had nothing to do with what was going on here tonight.
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Debbie answered. “I never liked the two of you together. That girl was like the tide. She kept pushing you out just to pull you back in.”
My eyes narrowed. I wasn’t sure that was a fair description of Charlotte or what our relationship had been. Still, this wasn’t the time to unpack that.
“Deb,” I sighed. “I don’t know if--”
“Well I do,” Debbie said, cutting me off and grabbing my arm. “And I’m smarter than you, Dillon. More than that though, I’m more stubborn, and to top it off, I’m the one with the pot roast. So you might as well listen to me.” She shook her head. “It’s really gonna be okay. She’s a great person, Dillon. She’s my best friend in the whole world these days, and I’m sure you’ll get along. If you don’t though, then what’s the harm? You still had a good meal with old friends.”
“I want a cake,” I said flatly.
“What?” she asked, her head tilting to the side curiously.
“You heard me,” I answered. “You want me to go along with this and play nice with your best friend, whoever that is, I want your seven-layer chocolate cake.”
The truth was, I’d have been cordial and polite to Debbie’s friend for no payment at all. I was enough of a Southern gentleman for that. It had been forever since I’d had a slice of Debbie’s cake, and given that it was basically the closest thing I was gonna get to Heaven between now and the grave, I decided to go for it.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Storm,” she answered.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” I answered, giving Debbie a closed mouth smile and allowing her to drag me through the living room and into the dining area. Boomer’s house was a might bit nicer than mine had been growing up. While he wasn’t wealthy by any means, he had more than we did. Not that anything like that mattered between us. Still, as I took stock of his house now, it felt good to know that I was able to keep up with him, so to speak.
As we made our way into the dining room, the first thing I saw was the grub. Debbie always knew how to lay out a spread. Pot roast, carrots, homemade breads. And yes, there were even mashed potatoes. You didn’t get food like this up North and, if you did, it was a pale carbon copy of the what they had down here; where they know enough to put sugar in their tea and flour on their chicken. My mouth watered the instant I caught a whiff of the delicious scents wafting toward me.
Still, I turned my eyes to Boomer, glaring at him as he sat at the head of the table, a napkin stuffed into the front of his front as he cackled like a madman at whatever Debbie’s best friend had said right before we’d entered the room.
He caught my eyes and winked at me. He knew I was too polite to back out now. I grimaced at him, just slightly though. I didn’t want to give my “date” the wrong impression.
Looking over, I wasn’t quite sure who to expect. I had known Debbie ever since high school, but it wasn’t like I talked to her on the phone much and, though we’d kept up reasonably well while I was in Chicago, I wasn’t exactly asking Boomer questions about who was and was not in his wife’s social circle.
So, when I looked over, I could have been drowned with a cup of water when I looked over to see that I recognized the person sitting at the other end.
Dr. Rebecca Day, the woman in charge of my grandfather’s care even since our interaction at the hospital after my stabbing, looked over at me.
“I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up,” she said, nodding at me as I made my way toward the table.
“Natalie Wood with sea foam eyes,” I muttered, remembering the way my grandfather had described her the first day I met her back in the hospital.
“Lord,” she chuckled, rolling those very sea foam eyes at me. “Don’t tell me you’re going to start that too.”
I felt Debbie’s hand tighten on my arm as we settled in front of the table. “That’s right. You two probably already know each other.”
“We’ve bounced around the same room a time or two,” Rebecca said. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Storm?”
“Call him Dilly,” Boomer said, smiling at me.
“Call me Dillon,” I corrected, pulling loose of Debbie’s grasp and sitting down. “And yes. We know each other. Dr. Da-Rebecca,” I said, looking at her to make sure I could use her given name too. She nodded her consent. “She’s taking care of my grandfather.”
“That’s fantastic,” Debbie said as she rounded the table. Boomer hopped out of his seat and pulled her chair out for her. It was a instinctual action, as though they had done it every day of their decade together. “I’m afraid we’re not going to be talking about that though,” Debbie said as she sat. “There are two rules at my dinner table. Number one, absolutely no cell phones. I don’t care what anybody says, they’re the ruination of this country.” She looked from Rebecca to me and back again. “The second rule, and Boomer can attest to this, I don’t allow shop talk during dinner. That means no murder from you two,” she looked at Boomer and I, “and no sickness from you.” She turned back to Rebecca. “I have had a rough day and I’m not talking about dead people tonight. I don’t care how they got that way.” She smiled and held her hands out. “Now let’s say grace so we can all eat. What do you say?”
Chapter 14
Over the course of the dinner, I learned that Rebecca was originally from New York, that she was divorced after an ill-advised marriage in medical school, and that she spent two years overseas as a m
edic in the Army.
I also learned that Debbie’s pot roast was as good as ever, which made me believe the cake I’d scored earlier would follow suit.
I stepped out onto the porch after dinner, taking a deep breath of air that smelled of salt and basking in the relative coolness of the night. Boomer had a fantastic front yard that stretched out into in the distance, but I had always preferred his backyard, which dropped off into unattended swampland a few hundred yards past his backdoor. So, I stepped off the porch and walked around the house, chugging on a can of beer Boomer had gotten me from his fridge just minutes earlier.
I turned the corner of the house, taking another large swallow and looking out into the distance. Trees lined the distance, a rickety bridge - leftover from the last property owners - disappeared into a thicket of dark vines and greenery at the end of the yard.
“Are you following me?” a voice said from beside me.
Looking over, I saw Rebecca standing by the backdoor, a glass of the red wine I’d brought in her hand. Now that she was standing and away from the dinner table, I could take a real look at her. A slight, short woman with dark hair and bright green-grey eyes, her presence spoke to much more than a waif. She wore a black dress and high heels, though her face was nearly free of makeup.
“Should I be?” I asked, settling next to her. “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you out of your scrubs.” I looked her up and down again. “You look nice all dressed up.”
“Don’t get excited. It’s not for you,” she said, smiling and taking a sip of wine. “At least, not entirely. It’s been weeks since I’ve had enough free time to go anywhere. I’d have gotten dolled up to go to the grocery store at this point.”
“And here I thought you were just happy to see me,” I said, smiling and trying not to feel wounded by her comment.
