
Savannah Gone

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

# Chapter One

_We know the worth of water when the well is dry _

Chinese Proverb

Claire Robertson had it all. She was young and beautiful, brilliant and wealthy. Her life sprinkled with good fortune and kissed by destiny. At least it seemed that way until she disappeared.

My name's Ray Fontaine. I'm a private investigator. For the past six years, I've called the coastal city of Savannah home. If you're one of the twelve people on the planet who haven't read "The Book," and aren't familiar with the environs, Savannah's a damn fine place to live. Good food, warm weather, and access to the best stretch of coastline found anywhere in the lower forty-eight.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't Emerald City. We get far too many tourists stopping by to see the sights, but that's just one old dog's opinion.

Anyway, it all began on a mild spring Wednesday in April. I was in my third-floor home office, and at my desk when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the displayed number, then picked up.

"Mister Fontaine," said a voice like charcoaled whiskey. "My name is Edward Cavanaugh. I have a problem I'd like to discuss with you."

I grabbed a pen and slid a yellow legal pad toward me. "What type of problem are you having Mr. Cavanaugh?"

He stayed silent for several long moments. But instead of filling that quiet void, I waited. "I need your help finding a missing woman," he said at last. "Do you have any free time this morning?"

After assuring Cavanaugh I had plenty of time, I jotted down his address and told him I'd be there as soon as I could.

~ ~ ~

Cavanaugh's office was housed on the fifteenth floor of the Johnson Square Business Center, the tallest building in the downtown corridor. Built in 1911, it lorded over the corner of Bull and Bryant like a benevolent king.

I locked up, hopped into my Smart-Car, checked the mirrors, then carefully pulled away from the curb. Just kidding. I drive a midnight black, 1965 Pontiac GTO. And while cruising around in a gas guzzling muscle car may not make me smart, it's a whole lot more fun than strapping myself inside one of those pygmy sized clown-cars.

I fired the motor and the GTO roared to life, a small measure of contentment coursing through my veins. I engaged the clutch, threw it in first, and headed west on Gaston for a couple blocks. I banked a right on Drayton, then rumbled north through the Historic District.

I should mention I haven't spent my entire career as a P.I. In a former life, I was as an investigative journalist for the Atlanta newspaper. Prior to that, I was a special agent in the Army's CID, the Criminal Investigation Division. But former lives, just like ex-wives, are best left in the past.

I should also tell you one of the things I like best about my adopted town is how quickly I can get from point A to point B. With that in mind, ten minutes after walking out my front door, I shoehorned the GTO into a parking spot, stuffed the meter with a fist full of quarters, and double-timed it to the front of Cavanaugh's building.

I pushed my way through the revolving door, taking a moment to let my eyes adjust to the indoor light. The security guard was a beefy, barrel-chested black guy. He stood behind a podium, working The USA Today crossword puzzle, a look of intense concentration plastered across his broad face. "Morning," he said, looking up and smiling.

"How's that puzzle treating you?" I asked, signing my name in the building's registration book.

"I'm flummoxed. Stuck on a four letter word for money. Starts with a B."

I thought about it for a couple seconds, then it hit me. "Buck," I said.

"Not bad. You like working the puzzles?"

"Nah. Beginner's luck."

"Give it a try," he said, tapping his forehead with his index finger. "Keeps the mind sharp."

I promised him I would, and then rode up to the 15th floor in a small bronze elevator. The doors opened, and I found myself deposited directly inside a well-appointed reception area: imported marble, polished brass, lustrous blonde oak. A couple of leather club chairs and a richly upholstered sofa surrounded a smoked glass coffee table. Behind the furniture, floor to ceiling windows framed a sweeping view of the Savannah River.

The receptionist, Jennifer according to her nameplate, was an attractive blonde with magnificent pouty lips. She sat perched behind her desk, chattering into one of those headset telephones. She aimed a ninety-watt smile at me, then silently mouthed, "Be with you in a minute."

I nodded, wandered over to one of the windows, and caught a glimpse of a deeply laden container ship riding low in the water. It slid beneath the silhouette of the Talmadge Bridge, heading upstream to the Savannah port.

Moments later, Jennifer finished up on the phone. "Welcome to Coastal Capital," she said to me. "How can I help you?"

I turned from the window and approached. "I'm Ray Fontaine. I'm here to see Edward Cavanaugh."

"Mr. Cavanaugh's been expecting you," she said, coming around from behind the desk. "Right this way."

She led me down an L-shaped corridor, then into a windowless conference room reeking of lemon polish and old money. Ten foot coffered ceiling. Walls spackled with ornately framed original artwork. A boardroom table burnished to a high gloss.

"If you'd like to take a seat," Jennifer said, "I'll let Mr. Cavanaugh know you're here." She started out, then turned and asked, "Can I get you something to drink while you wait?"

"Water would be great," I replied.

She smiled, then closed the door quietly behind her. When she was gone, I opened my battered old briefcase and pulled out a steno pad and pen.

A few minutes later, a CEO straight out of central casting strode through the door. A youthful seventy or so, Cavanaugh was tall, tan and fit, with craggy good looks: creased face, ice blue eyes, and a thick shock of silvered hair. He was clad in a dove gray, custom tailored suit. He crackled with an energy that belied his age, and on his off days I could picture him standing at the helm of a schooner, squinting into the sun, barking out orders.

He extended a manicured paw and we shook. "Edward Cavanaugh," he said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Cavanaugh gestured toward the table, then folded his lanky frame into the chair at the head of it. I sat immediately to his left. But before we began, Jennifer knocked quietly, then entered with a pitcher of water and a cut glass tumbler. She filled my glass, then glanced toward Cavanaugh. He gave a slight, imperceptible shake of the head. She closed the door and left without a word.

"What can I do for you Mr. Cavanaugh?"

He pinched the crease of his pants and crossed his legs, dangling a calfskin loafer in midair. "Tell me," he began, "are you familiar with Sapelo Island?"

"Somewhat," I replied, nodding. "I attended a friend's wedding at the Reynolds Mansion several years ago. I've also read some of the newspaper articles about the property tax issues the residents are facing."

Sapelo, one of Georgia's sparsely populated Sea Islands, is located approximately fifty miles south of Savannah. The majority of the island was once owned by tobacco magnate R.J. Reynolds.

Reynolds lived on the island in an opulent mansion straight out of The Great Gatsby. After his death, his widow sold the island holdings, including the mansion, to the state. These days, the mansion can be rented for business conferences, social engagements, family reunions, and the like. If you and twenty-five of your closest friends ever want to get away, Reynolds' former digs is the ticket.

The island also contains the last, intact, Gullah-Geechee community left on the east coast. Sapelo's scant sixty or so Geechee people are direct descendants of West Africa slaves. They live in a tiny hamlet known as Hog Hammock. In recent years, a few of the Hog Hammock residents have sold property to white mainlanders. The new owners have constructed much larger homes, which is certainly their right. But the rising property taxes have made it tough for the ancestral islanders to stay on their land.

There's no bridge connecting Sapelo to the mainland, which adds to its otherworldly sense of isolation. To get there, you hop on a public ferry that runs a couple of times a day.

I asked Cavanaugh, "What does Sapelo have to do with the missing woman?"

"Her name's Claire Robertson. She's a marine biologist that works on the island."

"What's your connection?" I asked, jotting down her name.

"To Sapelo?"

"To the island, but more importantly to Claire Robertson."

"Claire's the daughter of a client," he said. "I've known her family for over twenty years. Her parents live in Charleston, and they asked if I knew anyone that could assist in finding her."

"How are you connected to Sapelo?"

Cavanaugh stirred restlessly, recrossing his legs, getting the razor sharp crease just right. "My grandfather was a close friend of Howard Coffin. Mr. Coffin owned most of the island in the early part of the twentieth century, before selling it to R.J. Reynolds in 1934."

"How well do you know Claire?"

"Fairly well. As I mentioned, she's the daughter of a client. But I also know her because our paths often cross because of the work she does. I sit on an advisory board of an organization called The Coastal Sea Grant. The Sea Grant awards funding to scientists, academics, and non-profit organizations doing important work along the Georgia coast. The Sapelo Marine Institute, where Claire works, is one of our beneficiaries."

I took all this down, then asked, "How long has she been missing?"

"I can't be certain, but my best guess is since last Friday. That's when she departed the island." He paused to flick an invisible speck of dust from his knee, then continued. "She missed a dinner appointment with her parents Saturday evening and didn't show up for work on Monday, Tuesday, or this morning."

"Didn't call in sick on any of those days?"

"No. Which is very unlike her."

"Has a missing person report been filed?"

"Her father filed one yesterday afternoon with the Savannah police department." He paused for a beat, then added, "But since being missing isn't a crime, there's only so much the police can do."

"Sapelo's forty-five minutes south of here Mr. Cavanaugh. Why would her father file the report with Savannah PD?"

"Claire owns a townhouse here in Savannah. That's where she stays on the weekends."

"Where does she live Monday through Friday?"

Cavanaugh eyed me levelly beneath his tangled thatch of eyebrows. "She stays out on Sapelo in one of the Marine Institute's apartments. There are several of them that house the staff, and there's also a dorm facility for visiting scientists."

"Has anyone checked her apartment?"

"Yes," he replied, sounding slightly irritated. "Trevor Hopkins did. He's the Institute's facility manager. He has keys to all the apartments. He checked Claire's unit. She wasn't there."

I thought for a moment, then said to him, "When I attended the wedding at the Reynolds Mansion, guests arrived and departed on the public ferry. Does the Marine Institute's staff use the same ferry boat?"

"They do. The Institute has several research vessels, but they're not used to transport workers to and from the island."

"Did anyone see Claire depart the island on Friday?"

"Several of her coworkers were on the 4:30 ferry with her."

"Who told you she's missing?"

"Claire's father. He called me yesterday after contacting the police. After he and I spoke, I placed a call to the Island and spoke with a colleague of Claire's named Tim Jenkins. I talked with him again this morning. No one has seen or heard from Claire since Friday afternoon. She apparently walked off the ferry, got in her car, drove off and vanished."

People disappear all the time, for a wide variety of reasons: financial problems, emotional issues, a simple desire for a new life, and, of course, foul play. That's why it was crucial for me to understand what was going on in Claire's life before she went missing.

"Have Claire's parents thought about contacting the media?" I asked.

He cocked his head, then fixed me with his cold blue eyes. "Mr. and Mrs. Robertson have absolutely no intention of being part of a media circus Mr. Fontaine. Like most of my clients, they value their privacy above almost everything else. If you decide to take this on, I have one ironclad requirement: the highest level of discretion must be used. I will not have the media involved."

This didn't add up. One of the best ways to increase the odds of finding a missing person is to involve the news media. Like oxygen to a fire, the media keeps the story burning in the public's mind. I filed Cavanaugh's need for secrecy away for the time being. "Is Claire married?" I asked him.

"No, she's single. I know she was engaged because I received a wedding invitation, but the wedding was called off."

"Who called it off?"

"I'm not sure," he said, shrugging indifferently.

"Romantically involved with anyone else?"

"I know very little about her private life Mr. Fontaine."

As I sat watching Cavanaugh, I noticed he had this sort of imperial thing going on. It was nothing obvious, nor overt. He was far too refined for that. Instead, it was his aloof manner and the condescending tone of his replies. And he seemed to bristle when I questioned him. No two ways about it, this was a guy who liked things done his way.

Looking at him, I realized he reminded me of a Roman emperor in the coliseum. In my mind, I could see him giving the thumbs up or thumbs down to a fallen gladiator while snacking on a bunch of grapes hand fed to him by some hottie in a toga.

I asked, "Have her parents tried reaching any of her friends?"

"I would assume so, but I can't be certain."

"You mentioned she has a townhouse."

He gave me a regal nod. "That's right. It's located on Whitaker Street across from Forsyth Park. The address is in a file I've prepared for you."

"Roommates?"

"I don't know that either, but her parents will." Cavanaugh sat there silently ruminating, then looked at me and said, "I'm not being much help am I?"

No, I thought, you're not being much help at all. But since I didn't feel like being lunch meat for a lion, I put up with Nero's lack of help...at least for the time being. "You're doing fine," I said, reassuring him. "What about her car, is it missing?"

"Yes, it is," he replied. "Monday through Friday, Claire parks at the Sapelo visitor center. I called them this morning and her car isn't there. It's not at her townhouse either. The police have checked."

I studied him for a moment. "All area hospitals need to be checked Mr. Cavanaugh. It's possible Claire's been in an auto accident. And I hate to mention this, but the morgue needs to be checked as well."

Some of the vitality drained from his face. Suddenly he looked older, diminished. "If you're interested in pursuing this," he said, "I'm prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars plus expenses. All I ask is that you keep me apprised of your progress."

_Fifty grand...what's the catch_? "That's way too much money, Mr. Cavanaugh. Plus, there's no guarantee I can find her."

"As far as the money, my offer stands. And I'm not asking for a guarantee. Just promise me you'll make this your highest priority."

I took my time in answering. "I have a daughter myself; she's my highest priority. If Megan went missing, I'd blaze a trail through hell to find her. If I agree to search for Claire, I'll do the same for her."

Cavanaugh leaned forward, icy eyes boring holes into me. "Imagine how hard this must be for Claire's parents."

But I didn't think about Claire's parents. And I didn't think about the fifty thousand dollars. Instead, I thought about Megan. How ruined I'd be if she disappeared. They say burying a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent. Having one vanish might be even worse.

"I'll do what I can to find her," I replied. "But I need as much information as you can give me, starting with her parents contact information."

"How soon can you begin?" he asked.

"I'm not working on anything else currently. I can start right away."

I watched him reach inside his suit coat. He extracted a plain white envelope, then slid it across the table toward me. I slit it open. Inside it was a business check made out to me for fifty thousand dollars.

"That should be enough to get you going," he said. "As you incur expenses, submit them directly to me. I'll see that you're reimbursed straight away. I've prepared a file with as much pertinent information as I could think of, including her father's cell number. I know you have questions only Dr. Robertson and his wife can answer. Jennifer, our receptionist, has the file. You can pick it up from her on your way out."

Not so fast Nero. "One other thing," I said. "Who am I working for?"

"What do you mean?"

"That check you just handed me is a Coastal Capital business check. Coastal Capital is an entity I'm not familiar with. Before I take my clothes off, I like to know who I'm hopping in bed with."

Cavanaugh didn't care much for my little analogy. His eyes flared, and his lips pressed into a tight seam. We held eye contact, and I thought the old goat might take a swing at me.

"You've got a way with words Mister Fontaine. I'll give you that." He paused and stared at me, then said, "I suppose that's why you became a journalist."

"I suppose you're right."

"Have you given any thought to returning to it?"

"To journalism?"

He nodded but didn't reply.

"It's been more than six years since I was canned. Too much time has passed, and the newspaper business will soon be extinct. I think I got out at the right time. Plus, I didn't just burn my bridges. I nuked 'em."

"Six years is a long time," he replied, nodding once again. "You still carry a chip on your shoulder though."

"Two of 'em. One on each shoulder...better balance that way."

He gave me a wintry smile. "Fair enough. Coastal Capital is what's known as a family office. We provide financial and tax planning, investment management, wealth transfer, philanthropy, family governance, lifestyle management, and other important services for our clients. My grandfather founded the firm in 1912. I run it now, so I suppose that means you're working for me. Does that make a difference?"

"It does to me. I like understanding the chain of command."

"That's right. You were a military man."

Cavanaugh had certainly done his homework on yours truly, and I wondered exactly how much he knew about me.

I said to him, "You mentioned wealth transfer a moment ago. Has Claire's family transferred some of their money to her?"

He pursed his lips. "I don't discuss my client's finances with people outside this firm Mister Fontaine. I have a fiduciary responsibility to uphold."

"If you want to jerk me around," I said, tossing the envelope on the table, "find somebody else." I pushed my chair back and stood, ready to walk out on this pompous ass.

"Sit down, please," he said, holding up his hand. "I can tell you this. For tax purposes, Claire's parents have gifted a small portion of their wealth to her."

I lowered myself into the chair. "How much is a small portion?" Before he could answer, I clarified. "I'm not looking for an exact dollar figure Mr. Cavanaugh. But I need to know if it's enough to live on for the rest of her life." If a person with a big enough bankroll decides to take a walk, finding them could be next to impossible.

He considering the question. "If she invested correctly and didn't spend extravagantly, then yes it is."

"Do you manage her money?"

"No. Only her parents."

Claire obviously was well off, and I needed to know who stood to gain in the event something tragic had happened to her. Cops call it Cui bono, a Latin term that literally means "who benefits?"

I asked him, "What about a will?"

"Yes. She has a will. We make sure all our clients and their family members have one."

"Who is Claire's beneficiary?"

"I don't have that information at my fingertips, but I can have it for you shortly." He paused, seemed deep in thought for a full minute or more. "By the way," he said at last, "I read several of the articles you wrote."

I gave him a nod but stayed silent, waiting.

"I thought you were very talented," he said, blowing smoke up my ass.

"Thanks. But talent's the most overrated commodity I know of. The only things that matters is pig-headed perseverance. Anything anyone's willing to practice long enough and hard enough at, they can do fairly well. Especially if they refuse to give up."

He eyed me once again. "I'm not sure if I agree with you. Anyway, if you have no further questions, please forgive me for not seeing you out."

We both stood and shook hands. I wandered back toward the reception area, and as Cavanaugh indicated, Jennifer had a file folder waiting for me.

While the elevator made its way up to me, I was thinking about Cavanaugh. He'd forked over the fifty thousand dollar check like he was flipping peanuts to a circus elephant. My mind moved back to the way he reacted when I questioned him, and I decided I'd need to watch my back around him. 

# Chapter Two

Back outside, the sun had risen higher in a cobalt sky. The day had warmed, and a breeze off the river combed the city. I heard the slow staccato of hooves, as a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopped into the distance.

I beelined it back to my parking spot, fed four more quarters into the meter, then headed off on foot to Starbucks. The coffee shop was located a couple blocks away at the corner of Broughton and Bull. I think better with a beverage in hand. Plus, I wanted to go through the file Cavanaugh had prepared before calling Claire's father.

The time was now close to 10:00 A.M. Since most of the stores along Broughton had yet to open, foot traffic was light. Starbucks, though, looked ready to pop: a sea of customers queuing up for their morning caffeine fix. Art students, business types, tourists, and retirees were scattered throughout the store. They sat reading the paper, tapping away on laptops, playing with their phones, and talking.

I stood in line and secured my coffee, then found a seat toward the back and began to familiarize myself with Claire Robertson.

Banging back the coffee, I leafed through the information Cavanaugh's receptionist had given me. According to the file, Claire's father was a heart surgeon at Charleston's University Medical Hospital. I dialed his cell number but got his voicemail. I left him a message, told him who I was, and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as possible.

Next I called my friend Caroline Ross. Caroline's a Savannah metro detective in the violent crimes division, and this time I had better luck; she answered on the third ring. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" she asked.

"Do I need an excuse to call? I woke up thinking about you Caroline. That's all."

I heard her chuckle. "Charming. But you're more full of shit than my ex ever was Fontaine. So what gives?"

Caroline's ex-husband, an oily ambulance chaser named Lionel Callaway, advertises his legal services from the back of Savannah buses. If you've spent any time in town, you've probably seen his pasty face, along with his signature tagline: "When you've been hurt in an accident, I make them pay." Caroline once told me, "At least the asshole's face is on the ass-end of a bus, instead of on a pillow next to me in bed."

I said to her, "I need a couple favors."

"Typical. The only time you call is when you need something. It's gonna cost you buddy-boy. Buy a girl some lunch?"

"Love to. But here's what I need. I've been hired to find a missing woman. Her name's Claire Robertson. A missing persons report was filed yesterday. I need a copy of that report."

"That's a big ask, and strictly against department policy. You could get me fired...now it's gonna cost you lunch and dinner. None of those crappy dumps you typically take me to either. Plus, you said a couple of favors. What else?"

"I need to know if she's in the morgue."

"Let me see what I can do."

We agreed to meet at The 5 Spot, a popular midtown eatery, and set a time for one o'clock.

~ ~ ~

By the time I made it back to my car the meter had expired, and a pale yellow parking ticket sat fluttering beneath my driver-side windshield wiper. I crumpled it up and chucked it on the floorboard. Maybe I can hit Caroline up for another favor and get her to take care of the ticket.

Anyway, Claire's place wasn't far. So I rolled the motor over, threw it in first, and pulled out. A few blocks later I swung left onto Whitaker, a major thoroughfare through the Historic District. As I drove, I thought about Cavanaugh again, and his little 'need for discretion' tirade. To my way of thinking, this made absolutely no sense. What kind of people value privacy over the safety of their own daughter? Not only that, the need for secrecy would make my job of finding Claire that much tougher. But fifty grand was way more than my usual fee, so I couldn't complain.

I got my head out of the clouds and tried to formulate a plan of action. I passed the northern entrance to Forsyth Park on my left. Moments later, I pulled to a stop in front of Claire's building and almost got rear-ended by an irate driver blaring his horn and giving me the finger. So much for the genteel citizenry. Before someone actually piled into me, I parked around the corner on West Bolton, climbed out and slammed the door.

Claire's townhouse, a four-story end unit, was constructed of pale gray stucco. Ten granite steps led from the sidewalk to the second story front stoop.

I took the steps two at a time, pounded away on her door with my fist, and waited. I put my ear to the door but didn't hear a thing.

Retreating to the street, I checked the unit next door and noticed the interior lights were on. Up the neighbor's steps I went. Same drill. I whacked the door and waited. I thought I heard someone moving around inside. So I smacked the door a couple more times with the palm of my hand, then listened quietly. Nothing.

Back on the sidewalk, my cell phone rang. I fished it from my pocket and pressed it to my ear. "Mister Fontaine, this is Dr. Robertson. I'm Claire's father. Sorry I didn't call sooner, but I just got out of surgery."

"I'm standing in front of Claire's townhouse," I said. "Do you know if she has a security alarm?"

"I...why do you ask?"

"Because I plan on getting inside to see if she's there." I worked a number of robbery cases when I was a CID agent, and I'm pretty good at picking a lock. But electronic security is an entirely different bowl of chili.

"You're not planning on breaking in are you?" he asked me.

I like asking questions not answering them...so I ignored his. "Times wasting doc." I raised my voice. "Does she have a security alarm?"

"I don't know."

"Call your wife and ask her if she knows, then call me right back." I hung up before he could ask any more questions.

Heart surgery or not, on a deep visceral level it pissed me off that the good doctor was working while his daughter was missing. Plus I was still a little steamed about the refusal to involve the media. Besides, Cavanaugh made it clear I was working for him. You see why I like understanding the chain of command? And if Claire was inside, in whatever capacity, the time to find out was now.

I loped around back to where a small brick alleyway ran the length of the building. A wrought iron fence separated the alley from Claire's rear patio. I scaled the fence and made my way to her back door. I twisted the knob, but it was locked. Next to the door was a narrow sash window. I shaded my face from the sun and peered inside to a narrow mud room. There was an umbrella in the corner, and a light blue nylon jacket hung from a hook on the wall.

"I'm calling the police," said a voice off to my right.

I swiveled my head in time to glimpse a retreating bonnet of gray hair. It was Claire's next door neighbor. She'd been home all along.

"Hang on a second," I shouted. "I'm a private investigator. I'm looking for Claire."

That stopped her short. She poked her head outside and eyed me suspiciously. Late fifties to early seventies, with a walnut, two-pack-a-day, face.

"My name's Ray Fontaine." I extracted a card from my wallet and held it up for her to see. "I just got off the phone with Claire's father."

She put one hesitant foot outside the door, and then the other. She shambled over and took my card. Her eyes were kind of bloodshot, and I smelled whiskey on her breath. In a voice just above a whisper, she asked, "Has something happened to Claire?" A sudden flash of fear crept across her face.

"She's missing," I said. "Have you seen her?"

"Not since a week ago Sunday." She arched a penciled eyebrow. "Are you trying to get inside?"

I nodded. "I'm worried Claire might be inside, unable to call for help. Her father should be calling me back any minute. Before I try to break in, I need to know if she's got an alarm system."

"You don't need to break in," she informed me. "I've got a spare key. I collect Claire's mail during the week while she's away. Give me just a minute."

She trundled back to her place, emerging minutes later clutching a gold key and a small slip of paper. "As many times as I've done this, you'd think I'd remember the alarm code." She scrunched her face up and studied the slip of paper, then muttered, "Seven-five-eight-six-star." She turned and looked at me. "We don't want to trip the alarm. I've done it a few times, and it's loud as hell."

She unlocked the door, and I followed her inside to the mud room. The security keypad was on the far wall, and it was beeping. Claire's neighbor marched right over to it, punched in the code and disarmed the system. No sweat.

I tried to figure a way to get her out the door so I could nose around, but she stuck to me like flypaper, fogging my brain with stale, one hundred proof breath.

So with her trailing behind me, we did a cursory search of all four floors. Unfortunately, Claire wasn't home sick in bed, or hiding out avoiding the phone. And the townhouse looked clean and undisturbed. We finished going through the place, then made our way back down to the first floor.

Claire's neighbor reset the alarm, locked up and pocketed the key.

Standing in the shade on the back patio, I asked her, "How well do you know Claire?"

She waggled her hand back and forth. "So-so. Mostly because she's not here during the week."

"And you're sure Claire wasn't home this past weekend?"

"Of course I'm sure. I'm not an idiot. One of the first things Claire does when she gets home is stop by and pick up her mail. Never had a Friday when she didn't."

Before I could ask anything else, my phone rang again. I checked the number. "It's Claire's father," I said to her. "Give me a second."

I wandered out of earshot with the phone pressed to my ear. "Thanks for calling me back Doctor Robertson. I managed to get inside with a key from Claire's neighbor. We just locked up."

"Oh. OK. Did you—?"

"Claire's not here. I didn't see any sign of violence either."

I heard him exhale. "Thank God. Now what?"

"Now I need to talk with you and your wife. As soon as possible, and preferably face-to-face. I could drive up to Charleston, but I think it'd be best if the two of you came to Savannah."

"We're driving down this afternoon. We should be there between four-thirty and five o'clock."

"Let's meet in front of Claire's townhouse. Call me when you get close."

"I will," he said. And this time he hung up on me.

I stuffed the phone into my pocket and hightailed it back to Claire's neighbor. "I didn't get your name," I said to her.

She eyed me for a long moment, then said, "Lydia Baker. Is everything going to be all right?"

"Let's hope so Lydia. Since Claire didn't stop by to collect her mail last week, you still have it. Correct?"

She hesitated before giving me a tentative nod.

"I need you get it for me."

"I'm not sure I—."

"Lydia, listen to me. This is important. Claire's counting on _us_." Us is a great word. It gets the folks you're trying to coerce to buy in and join the team. Continuing, I said, "It's a long-shot, but there might be something in her mail that can help _us_ find her. Now please, go and get it for me."

She wavered for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. Then she looked at me and muttered, "I'll be right back."

She tottered over to her back door and disappeared inside, returning a few minutes later with a large stack of mail. She handed it to me, then watched as I leafed through it. There was a fitness magazine, a bill from the cable company, the usual cadre of junk solicitations, and a hand addressed envelope made out to Claire. The postmark read Darien, Georgia, and it was dated last Friday, the day Claire disappeared. I noticed there was no return address. Curious.

"Lydia, I hate to impose. But would you mind getting me a glass of water? My throat's a little scratchy. I think it's the pollen."

She put her hands on her hips and gave me an indignant look. "You're a lot of work, you know that. First, it's the mail. Now you want water. What's next, a turkey sandwich?"

The only thing worse than a cranky drunk is an old cranky drunk. In my most soothing tone, I said, "Just the water Lydia. Please."

"Oh, all right."

When she was out of sight, I slipped the Darien envelope inside my waistband.

She made it back with my glass of water. "Lydia, you've been a big help," I said, handing her the bundle of mail. "I've gotta run, but I may need to talk with you again. Would you mind giving me your phone number?"

"I guess that'll be OK."

She gave me her number, and I punched it into my phone. I said, "If Claire happens to come home, please call me as soon as you can. And if you see anything that looks suspicious, anything at all, I need to know about it. You have my card. Please don't lose it."

As I walked away, Lydia called out, "What about the water?" 

# Chapter Three

Sitting in the car, I slid the envelope out of my pants. I flipped it over a couple of times, shook it, smelled it, then slit it open with my ignition key. Inside was a handwritten note on a sheet of pricey-looking stationery. The note was some kind of poem or limerick. It said:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

Hidden in Bourbon Field

Beneath the largest tree just like Sam McGee

Three hundred pounds concealed

Strange things done in the midnight sun...what the hell was that all about? I've been known to do some strange things myself, and I could certainly be accused of hiding out in a bottle of scotch from time to time, but this made absolutely no sense. And what exactly is a field of bourbon? I know bourbon is made from fermented corn. I read the poem a couple more times, but the damn thing didn't seem to have any relevance to the case. Frustrated, I slid the poem back in the envelope and locked it in my glove box.

I still had a few hours before I met Caroline for lunch. When a person goes missing, the clues are often hidden within the hours and days that preceded their disappearance. My mind turned to Sapelo. Claire worked there, and it was the first thing Cavanaugh mentioned. Was the key to finding her located out on the island?

I knew I wouldn't get out there today. I needed to start calling hospitals. I cranked the motor and sat listening to it idle for a moment, then peeled out.

~ ~ ~

The 5 Spot was packed, which didn't surprise me. It's a popular eatery, particularly with the locals. It's located in the Habersham Village shopping center, about a ten-minute drive from downtown.

I looked around and didn't see Caroline. This didn't surprise me either. While I waited for her to show, I took a seat at the bar, nursed a beer, and munched on some pretzels.

Earlier, I'd phoned every hospital between Brunswick, a small city south of Sapelo Island, to Charleston. But I found no trace of Claire. Next I swung by The Book Lady Bookstore. I picked up two books, one on Sapelo, the other on R.J. Reynolds. And in addition to the books, I bought an aerial map of coastal Georgia. The map was laminated, which is a good thing if you had it sitting on top of a bar like I did.

Printed on the back of the map were all kinds of interesting facts. Officially, Georgia has seventeen barrier islands, sometimes referred to as the Golden Isles. And only four of the seventeen can be reached by car: Tybee, Jekyll, St. Simons and Sea Island. The rest, including Sapelo, must be reached by boat. This has left Georgia's coast unspoiled and undeveloped. Lucky us. How many Hilton Heads do we need anyway? Am I right?

Here's another map fact: at the dawn of the twentieth century, tycoons, robber barons and captains of industry escaped the cold winters of the north by flocking to the Georgia coast for the mild, sub-tropical weather. I read their names: Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Ford, Pulitzer, Rockefeller, DuPont, Goodyear, and Morgan.

According to the map, in 1910, under the tutelage of Wall Street king J.P. Morgan, The Federal Reserve was secretly conceived on Jekyll Island. Who knew?

Looking at the map, I noticed Sapelo sat smack in the middle of Georgia's coastline. Directly to the North, separated by a small tidal creek, was Blackbeard Island, where, according to legend, the famed pirate buried treasure that's never been found.

Anyway, there I was, hunkered in at the bar with my new map when I felt fingers trailing lightly across the back of my neck.

"Sorry I'm late," Caroline said. "Hey, what's with the map, blowing town without telling me, Fontaine?"

"Just getting my bearings. Hungry?"

"Starved. Pressed for time too. Mind if we eat at the bar?"

"You sure?"

She answered by sliding onto the stool next to me. My kind of girl.

Here's the thing about Caroline. She's a cop and a damn good one. But she's also a real head-turner, tall and striking, with Cherokee blood on her father's side, and a taut, gym-honed body. Filling out the rest of the details: age, thirty-eight; hair, medium length, dark brown; eyes, blue-green; nice mouth, full lips, flawless skin, and impossibly high cheekbones.

In an effort to be taken seriously in the male-dominated world of law enforcement, Caroline deliberately tries to downplay her looks. That means zero makeup or jewelry while on the job, and a wardrobe that reveals as little as possible. Today's entry in the cover-up sweepstakes: a mid-length linen blazer and a pair of flare leg pants. Not bad, but I'd have preferred a black mini skirt.

After she settled in, I turned toward her and impressed her with one of my new map facts. "Did you know the first transcontinental phone call was made from Jekyll Island?"

Caroline gazed at me with wide-eyed wonder. Well, not exactly. She leaned back, crossed her arms and said, "Have you lost your mind?"

I shrugged, put the map away, and returned to my beer. I guess some people just aren't into history.

We made small talk for a few minutes. The bartender wandered over and dropped off a couple menus. "My name is Jeff," he said to us. "I'll be taking care of you today." He took Caroline's drink order, a glass of sweet tea, then made his way toward the other end of the bar.

Caroline leaned toward me and lowered her voice. "I've got the missing persons report in the car. I asked a few questions for you too. We're trying to track Claire's cell phone location."

I took a sip of my beer. "Thanks for grabbing it, Caroline. I owe you."

"I looked it over Fontaine, and it's pretty thin. You realize it was filed late yesterday, don't you?"

I nodded. "Might turn out to be useful to me though. I still haven't met her parents."

Caroline looked surprised. "No? Who hired you then?"

"Some old codger named Edward Cavanaugh. He's got an outfit called Coastal Capital." I popped a pretzel into my mouth. "Know him?"

"He's not just some old codger Fontaine. He's one of the wealthiest men in Savannah, probably in the entire state. Ever heard of a family office?"

Actually, I knew what a family office was even before Cavanaugh's spiel this morning. But I played along and said, "Isn't that a TV show?"

She laughed. "A family office manages the money of the super wealthy. If I'm not mistaken, John D. Rockefeller was the first to set one up to handle his vast fortune." She looked at me and said, "Oprah uses one."

"Oprah huh?" I chomped another pretzel.

"I read that in Forbes a couple months ago."

"Forbes, my ass. You read that in People magazine."

Caroline laughed again. "What's Cavanaugh connection?"

"Claire's father is one of his clients."

"That means he's got money. What's he do for a living?"

"Heart surgeon. He and his wife are driving down from Charleston. I'm meeting 'em this afternoon at Claire's townhouse." I left out the part about hanging up on him.

"Mind if we order?" she asked, laying her menu on the bar. "I need to get back to work."

The bartender glanced our way. "Hey Steve," I called out. "I think we're ready to order."

"His name's Jeff," Caroline said, elbowing me in the ribs.

"Used to be Steve," I replied. "Witness protection program."

She rolled her eyes and said to the bartender, "I'll have a cup of French onion soup and a Caesar salad. And please don't mind my friend. He's been hit on the head more times than I can count."

I looked at Jeff, or Steve, or whatever the hell his name was. "I'll have the fish tacos with a side of fries."

After he left to turn in our order, Caroline asked, "Why do I put up with you?"

"Because my wit is razor sharp, and you find me sexy and irresistible." I added, "Plus I buy you lunch."

"You're a moderately attractive imbecile, and quite easy to resist."

"Must be my dancing then."

"You're giving me a headache." She shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. "Here's a freebie for you. Make sure you check Claire's Facebook page."

I shook my head and groaned.

The entire self-absorbed, social media thing baffles me. It's like a never-ending nightmare scenario of looking at your neighbors boring vacation photos. Who cares? I just don't understand the need to share every minute detail of my life. I don't like to share anything.

"Climb down off your stegosaurus," Caroline said. "It's the twenty-first century. Claire might've posted a clue about what's going on in her life that could help you find her."

"Don't tell me you're into that nonsense." I knew she was right, but I like being obstinate.

"I'm a modern woman," she said. "You, on the other hand, are a Cro-Magnon. You drive an old car, listen to ancient music, you hate technology. Hell, you'd be communicating with smoke signals if you could get away with it."

"What can I say? I'm old school."

The reality is everything's disposable these days. But I say fuck newfangled, and to hell with the latest-greatest. The numbskulls who stand in line for days in order to score the latest iPhone, then act like they've won the lottery, piss me off. I like things with permanence, things that will last and stand the test of time: historic homes, cars made of steel, music from the legends, my divorce. I could go on, but you know where I'm coming from.

"Old school my ass," she said, smiling. "You're an old fool."

"I'm three years older than you."

"Quiet. I'm making a point. And the point is this...in life you keep up or get left behind. Now that I think about it, you're probably the only guy in his forties left on the planet who doesn't use Facebook. Even the department has a page."

"Thanks for the rant," I said. "Facebook it is."

A few minutes later, what's-his-name brought our lunch. As we ate, Caroline and I slipped into an easy and companionable silence. The food, as usual, was good, and so was spending a little time with her.

Halfway through the meal, Caroline started stealing my french fries.

"Why you?" she asked, nibbling on a fry.

Like most men, I listen fifty percent of the time...maybe. So I did what I usually do when I'm tuned out...I nodded my head and kept on chewing. Caroline must not have heard me nod because she asked it again. "Why you?"

I looked at her. "What the hell are you doing, speaking Mandarin?"

"No knucklehead. I'm asking you this...why you?"

"Why me, what? And stop stealing all my french fries."

She snatched another one. "Why you, as in why did Cavanaugh hire you?"

"Didn't ask him."

"Yeah?" She studied me. "Well, maybe you should."

"I'll think about it." I slid my plate just beyond her grasp.

"I'm serious," she said, straining for another french fry. "You're a skeptic, a cynic, a wiseass, a hard-ass, and most of all, a royal pain in the ass. You piss everybody off. You break all the rules and half the laws. You, my friend, are not a team player."

"Teamwork's overrated, but I appreciate the pep talk." I knocked back some of my beer and looked at her. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll flop on the floor, curl up in a ball, and suck my thumb."

"Think about it," she said, sounding serious. "Cavanaugh can afford to hire anyone. The man has more money than Midas."

"The muffler shop?"

She laughed once again. I was on fire. I could do no wrong. "King Midas. You know...as in Greek mythology. Everything he touched turned to gold. It was known as the Midas touch." She swiveled her stool and looked at me. "Let me ask you something. How much time did you spend with Cavanaugh this morning?"

"I don't know. Thirty, forty-five minutes, maybe."

"And how many times did you piss him off?"

"Not once." Unless you counted the time he looked like he wanted to slug me.

"Look," she said. "All I'm saying is keep your eyes wide open. He may, and I stress may, want something else from you."

"Maybe he wants my business." I mean my eyes are always wide open, but now they were ready to pop out of my head.

Caroline smiled. "I know you won a pile when you sued for unlawful termination, but his firm probably has a twenty million buy-in. You didn't win that much, did you?"

"Not even close."

The Atlanta paper where I toiled for ten years is owned by a large media conglomerate. Cable, internet, newspaper and magazine publishing...the whole enchilada. Angie, my ex, is a mid-level vice president with the cable division. In fact, that's sort of how we met. It was the holiday season. Good cheer, and all the warm and fuzzies. Anyway, in an effort to save a couple bucks, the skinflints at corporate decided on one big Christmas party instead allowing each division to hold their own.

I made a cursory appearance, shook some hands, slapped a couple backs, and was about to blow out of there. On my way out the door, I noticed a good-looking blonde standing by the bar. Long story short, we hit it off pretty good and tied the knot a year later. After a four year run, Angie got pregnant. And just like that, it was Angie, Megan, and me.

So one day, not long after Megan's second birthday, I came home from work around lunchtime. I needed to pick up some notes on a story I was working on. To my surprise, there was a car I didn't recognize parked in the driveway, a black Mercedes convertible.

I stepped inside the house and heard voices emanating from the guest bedroom. You know where this is going: I found Angie and the number two man in the organization, a schmuck named Troy Holden, in bed sharing a post-coital moment. Talk about awkward.

So there I was, standing at the foot of the bed, looking at my naked wife and her paramour. And the strangest thing happened. In my darkest hour, I found enlightenment. Like a blind man with his vision restored, I had a moment of clarity beyond anything I'd ever experienced. My past fell by the wayside. The sham of a life I'd been leading no longer mattered. I felt at peace. I was free.

Of course, none of that actually happened. Instead, I went certifiable. I dragged Holden's flabby ass out of the sack and flung him through the window. Then I stomped outside, helped him to his feet, and broke his jaw with a sweet little roundhouse right. To make sure I got my point across, I finished up with a half dozen well-placed kicks to his balls. What's more, the jerk made no attempt to defend himself. He just laid there in the grass whimpering, while I pummeled him.

Next, I gathered their clothes from the bedroom floor, took them to the garage, and soaked them with gasoline. Then I had myself a mini bonfire on the front seat of Troy's car. You should've seen it; roiling flames leaped six feet into the air.

Someone in the neighborhood must've called the fire department because a big red hook and ladder unit came whizzing down the street, sirens blaring. The firefighters managed to extinguish the blaze, but the Mercedes was a smoldering heap by that point.

Anyway, Holden spent a week at Piedmont Hospital. The surgeons wired his mouth shut, plucked countless glass shards from his carcass, and basically put him back together again...except Humpty Dumpty was humping my wife.

Fate is fickle; it can be kind, it can be cruel, or it can be completely indifferent. But whatever the case may be, my own personal fate wasn't finished with me just yet. A day after Holden was released from the hospital, I was fired. In the span of a week, I lost my family, and then my career.

Dead man walking. Shuffling to the gallows. But I cheated the hangman and refused to go quietly. Instead, I hired a combative lawyer who specializes in workplace grievances named Roy Goldfarb. Stubby, sawed off, and permanently pissed, Roy lives to topple the big guy. And like a modern day David flinging rocks at Goliath, he brought the bastards to their knees.

In the end, wounds scab over, scar tissue forms, and the world keeps right on spinning whether we want it to or not. Time heals, but cash is the best salve of all. We settled out of court for just under two million. A month later I moved to Savannah and hit the reset button on my life. The rest, as Nabokov put it, is rust and stardust.

"Besides," I said to her, "after the IRS and my attorney took their cut, I had to set up a college fund for Megan, my child support payments are ridiculous, and private school costs a fortune. I'm a working stiff just like you."

"Sure you are," she said. "Tell me the truth Fontaine. Why do you keep working? If it were me, I'd never work another day in my life."

"I am telling you telling you the truth Caroline. I have nowhere near enough money to retire. But even if I did, what would I do? I hate golf, I don't garden, and I'm too young to sail off into the sunset. If all I did was rattle around the house all day, I'd go fucking crazy."

My father, a man I despised till the day he died, retired soon after reaching his sixty-fifth birthday. He was ready to enjoy his golden years...kicking the dog and belittling my poor mother. Six months to the day he stopped working, the abusive tyrant dropped dead from a massive heart attack. But I think what really put him in the ground was the thought of having nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Caroline gave me a coy smile. "You're already crazy. Now stop hogging all the French fries."

When we finished eating, I settled up and left Steve a fifty dollar tip. I made sure I got a receipt, so I could stick King Midas with the bill...c' est la vie.

We stepped outside and I walked Caroline to her car, an unmarked Ford Interceptor. She opened the front door and bent over to retrieve the missing persons file. I busied myself by admiring her shapely, spin-class ass. "Take your time," I said, enjoying the view.

"I checked the morgue," she said, rising back up and handing me the file. "They don't have anyone that meets Claire's description." She climbed in the car, and I shut her door. She slid the window down and winked. "Don't forget, you owe me dinner."

I smiled and watched her drive off, not realizing the next time I saw her the circumstances would be far more dire.

# Chapter Four

The time was now 3:00 P.M., and I was nose-to-tail in a line of cars waiting on Megan. She was out of school on spring break, spending the week with me while attending a tennis camp. Megan is eight by the way, and since the divorce I've worked extra hard to ensure she doesn't get shortchanged. At this still tender age, I'd prefer she wasn't screwed up like her parents...there's plenty of time for that later.

When I drove up to Atlanta last week to pick her up, she gave me a big hug and a belated birthday present, a T-shirt with Chinese proverbs printed all over it. Why Chinese proverbs? Who knows? But each night before I put her to bed, we pull the shirt out and take turns reading some of the more interesting sayings to each other.

Anyway, a couple minutes later camp let out, and torrents of kids poured out the tennis center's front door. I spotted Megan bounding down the steps with two of her friends, Vicki and Valerie, fraternal twins I can never keep straight. They live around the corner from me, and Megan loves hanging out with them when she's in town.

I pushed my door open, stepped into the chaos, and the three of them came skipping toward me.

"How was tennis girls?"

Megan gave me a mischievous smile, blue eyes atwinkle. "Tommy Hendricks barfed all over the court. It was so gross." The three of them looked at each other and squealed at the thought of gross Tommy, spewing a fountain of vomit like an ancient volcano raining lava on the fleeing natives. When they calmed down, Megan asked, "Can I have a playdate? Val and Vicki invited me over...please Daddy?"

"I don't know Sweetie. I'm not sure how their mom feels about it."

One of the twins said to me, "She doesn't mind. Let's go ask?"

Megan dropped her racket at my feet, and the girls took off running. I watched as they weaved in and out of the loosely assembled pack of kids. They disappeared into the throng, and I found them moments later hopping up and down in front of Bev McCauley, the twin's mother.

Bev, as usual, was dressed in workout togs. She's been trying to lose the same fifteen pounds for the last six years ago. Her husband Dave, a fellow I share a beer with from time to time, started an internet advertising agency called Creative-Cranberry. Dave's a smart guy, and his company has exploded over the last couple of years. But no matter how many new faces he brings on board, he stays on the road at least three days a week.

"Hey Bev, how are you and Dave these days?"

"We're good," she said, smiling, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Dave's in Seattle on business till Friday. How's everything with you?"

"Can't complain." I glanced at the girls. "Listen, sorry about you getting waylaid like that."

She waved me off. "It's not a problem. Megan's always welcome."

"You sure you don't mind? I don't want to put you out."

"Don't worry about it. We don't have anything special going on. Besides, when Megan's with us the girls don't argue as much."

"What time should I pick her up?"

"How does seven thirty sound? She can stay for supper."

"Thanks Bev, I owe you." I turned to Megan and bent down so we were at eye level. "Give me a hug ladybug." I gathered her in my arms and nuzzled her neck. "Make sure you listen to Mrs. McCauley."

"I will Daddy. I love you."

"I love you too." Then I said, "Bye girls. Thanks again Bev...I'll see you at seven thirty."

After they drove off, I called and canceled the sitter I'd arranged to watch Megan while I met with the Robertsons.

~ ~ ~

The Sentient Bean is a funky Savannah coffee shop located not far from Claire's townhouse, near the southern border of Forsyth Park. It does a brisk business with the SCAD crowd, but most important of all, it has a wifi signal. SCAD, by the way, is the Savannah College of Art and Design, our local art college. Their campus is dispersed throughout the city, and the college has played a pivotal role in restoring Savannah's Historic District.

Anyway, with coffee in hand, I stepped outside, parked myself in an empty wrought iron chair, and booted up my laptop. I pulled up the main Facebook page. But the damn thing wouldn't allow me to search for Claire until I signed up for an account. What a racket.

After signing up and plugging in a password I'd never remember, I got down to the task at hand. I hit the browse button and typed in Claire's name. The search returned seven Claire Robertsons. I found the correct one, then clicked on it.

She was pretty, beautiful in fact. Oval shaped face. Full lips, sexy mouth. Shoulder length brown hair streaked blonde from the sun. But it was her eyes that held my attention. Deep green and cat-like. Mesmerizing.

Claire's face stared out at me. I studied her photo, naively willing it to tell me something. Anything. The picture was taken on a deserted beach with a rolling surf, and I wondered if it was Sapelo.

Next I scrolled through an additional eleven photographs. There were several of Claire and some girlfriends eating in a restaurant, one of her standing beneath a live oak tree, and some landscape photos of Yosemite National Park from a vacation she'd taken. Not much help.

I went back to her profile page and noticed that her cover photo had been changed three weeks prior. Interesting. I saw she had six hundred and twelve Facebook friends. Seriously, six hundred and twelve friends? That's not fucking possible, but I digress.

At the top of her friends page, there was a link that said, "To see what she shares with friends, send her a friend's request." I clicked the link and read that my request was sent. How in the world had I managed to miss out on all this fun?

As I sat there, getting into the whole digital Sherlock routine, my phone rang. I checked the display, and it was Claire's father, Doctor Robertson.

"We're running a little early," he said. "We should be there by there by four o'clock."

"I'm right around the corner," I replied. "I'll be waiting for you and your wife in front of Claire's townhouse at four sharp."

# Chapter Five

In a broken nest, there are few whole eggs

Chinese Proverb

At five till four, I parked on East Bolton for the second time that day. I double-timed it to the front of Claire's building and waited on the Robertsons. Ten minutes later a midnight blue BMW sedan slowed in front of the townhouse. Before it turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of the couple inside the car and noticed the pained expression painted on the woman's face.

Dr. Robertson and his wife rounded the corner holding hands. They were an attractive couple in their early sixties, stylishly dressed on what had to be one of the worst days of their lives. They walked up Whitaker to where I stood waiting. Dr. Robertson released his wife's hand. He looked at me and said, "Mister Fontaine?"

I nodded. "Call me Ray."

He extended his hand and we shook. "Hugh Robertson. This is my wife Jane."

"I'm sorry we're meeting under such difficult circumstances," I said to them. "Why don't we step inside?"

I trailed them up the steps and stood on the stoop while Claire's father keyed the door. He turned to his wife. "Do you have the alarm code?"

She rooted around inside her over-sized purse, looking flustered. "It's in here somewhere."

"I believe it's seven-five-eight-six-star," I said.

Robertson swiveled his head and stared, clearly miffed. He continued staring, then turned back around and pushed on the door.

He disabled the alarm system, and we made our way into Claire's living room. It was just as I remembered. The walls were painted in bottle-glass green, a sisal rug partially covered the hardwood floor, and a pale yellow sectional sofa surrounded a steamer chest converted into a coffee table. Above the fireplace, a large flat screen TV was anchored to the wall.

The Robertsons sat close together on one side of the sofa, and I took a seat on the opposite side of them. I placed my steno pad on top of the chest and looked at both of them. "I need to know as much as you can tell me about Claire," I began. "Edward Cavanaugh provided some basic information already, and I have a copy of the missing person's report you filed with the police."

"How'd you manage that?" Robertson asked.

"That's not important," I replied.

His face hardened, and he bolted out of his seat. He looked down at me and glared. "You were incredibly rude to me on the phone. You even had the gall to hang up on me."

"For God's sake Hugh," Mrs. Robertson said, looking up at her husband, "this man is trying to help us find Claire. Now please sit down and let him do his job."

He stood there staring and seething, then heeded his wife and sat back down. When a family tragedy occurs, a couple either comes together or pulls apart. And cracks were starting to show in the house of Robertson.

Jane Robertson looked at me. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," I said. "I know you both are worried beyond belief about Claire." I paused and looked at them both. "I'll do everything possible to bring her home safe, but you're gonna have to help me. I need to know as much as I can about Claire. Things like the names of her friends, how she spends her spare time, romantic involvements, her state of mind, causes she cared about. I want you to paint a picture of Claire for me. I need to know her, inside and out."

Mrs. Robertson glanced sidelong at her husband, then looked at me and said, "Where would you like us to start?"

"Why don't you start with the canceled wedding?"

She nodded. "Claire was supposed to get married on March twentieth. We'd been planning the ceremony for almost a year. But two weeks before the big day, Claire called me crying. She said she wanted to call it off. I thought she was just having last minute jitters. You know how it is."

"Did she give you a reason for wanting to call it off?"

"No, and I didn't push. I know Bill, that's her ex-fiancé, wanted her to quit her job. But you have to understand Claire. She's very headstrong and extremely independent. Once she decides something, it's almost impossible to get her to change her mind."

"And Bill's last name is?"

"Taylor. Bill Taylor. He's the president of a bank his father founded, and at first they seemed like a good fit. He's ambitious, comes from a good family—."

"How did he take it when she called off the wedding?" I asked.

Dr. Robertson's eyes blazed. "The bastard hit her. When I found out about it, I wanted to shoot him." His hands clenched, and neck cords tight as steel cables stood out.

"She told you he struck her?" I asked.

This time Mrs. Robertson answered. "She told me, and I told Hugh."

"Did Claire report it to the police?"

"We begged her to report him," she said, shaking her head. "Claire refused."

"And did she have any further contact with him after that?"

"I don't know."

"What else can you tell me about him?"

Dr. Robertson blurted, "He's involved in that God awful proposed gambling casino."

"The one in Jasper County? How is he involved?"

Jasper County, which is located across the river from Savannah, is one of the poorest counties in South Carolina. It's been in the news lately because of a desire to bring a massive gambling casino to the lowcountry. Since gambling is illegal in South Carolina, this would be accomplished by getting an Indian tribe in Oklahoma to do what's known as off-reservation gaming.

In a nutshell, the Indians buy land they probably once owned, build a casino and open a gambling palace. Then they scalp the suckers out of their money and send them home crying. When you stop to think about it, it's kind of like the trail of tears in reverse. Perhaps a slightly less insensitive way of putting it is, the Native Americans are just getting even for all the misdeeds we've done to them. What goes around comes around. Yeah, right.

Sounding disgusted, Dr. Robertson replied, "Bill Taylor owns a large portion of the land where the proposed casino will be built, if and when it gets approved."

I made a mental note to follow up on the casino. "What's Claire passionate about? Does she have any hobbies, and if not, how does she spend her time away from work?"

Dr. R. said, "More than anything else, she's an advocate for the environment. I know she's worried about bringing those large container ships up the river and into Savannah Port, and the impact the river dredging will have on the coastal ecosystem."

After a fight that's lasted fourteen years, the Savannah harbor expansion has finally gained approval. The Panama Canal is currently being widened to accommodate massive container ships known as Post Panamax, and ports up and down the East Coast are in a race to deepen their harbors. Savannah needs to dredge an additional seven or eight feet from the river to allow the new ships into the port.

Georgia politicians from both sides of the aisle view the expanded harbor as the most important economic engine for the future of the state. In addition to being approved, the project has finally gotten the necessary funding from the federal government, and the river dredging should begin sometime later this year.

I asked, "Was Claire involved with any of the environmental organizations that opposed the dredging?"

"It's possible," Dr. R. replied. "But if she was, Claire never told us about it."

I filed the harbor project away in my head for the time being. "Do you know if Claire's car had any sort of GPS device in it?"

A GPS is great for finding directions without the hassle of fumbling around with a map, but it can also be used to track a car's location.

"The police asked us the same thing," Robertson informed me. "Claire drives a five-year-old Toyota Prius. I phoned a friend of mine who's an auto dealer. Unfortunately, that model year didn't come with GPS equipped on it."

"Hopefully," I said, "the police will be able to track the location of her cell phone. Almost every cell phone these days has some kind tracking device embedded in it." But it's useless if the phone's been destroyed or the battery's been removed, but I kept that to myself.

I turned my attention to Mrs. Robertson. "Who did Claire confide in?"

"I'm ashamed to admit it, but Claire and I aren't very close. She's never confided in me very much, even as a young girl. Growing up, she was always more of a Daddy's girl. As far as her friends, I'm not sure. Claire's always kept to herself."

"What about the wedding? Who was supposed to be Claire's maid of honor, and who were the bridesmaids?"

"I should have thought to bring a wedding invitation, but I've been so frazzled." She thought for a moment, then said, "I know Olivia Anderson was supposed to be the maid of honor. She's a realtor here in Savannah, and a friend of Claire's. I think she's with Keller Williams."

I scribbled her name into my pad. "I know Claire planned to have dinner with you both last Saturday. Was there something special about that day besides dinner? Some reason other than seeing the two of you for driving up to Charleston?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Jane Robertson said, shaking her head. "We were worried about her after she broke up with Bill, especially after we found out he hit her."

I spent another hour with them, but unfortunately I didn't learn much more from Claire's parents. I suppose it's normal for parents of grown children to be a little in the dark when it comes to their offspring. But at least now I had two leads I could follow: ex-fiancé Bill Taylor, and maid of honor Olivia Anderson.

Before we said our goodbyes, I assured the Robertsons that I'd do all I could to bring Claire home safe.

~ ~ ~

Later that night, after putting Megan to bed, I grabbed a beer from the fridge and took it out to the back deck to unwind. I sat in an old Adirondack chair with my feet up, breathing the clear night air. I took a long pull on my beer. A swollen silver moon had risen, and the iridescent light it cast penetrated the tree branches, causing dappled shadows to dance across the deck. Off in the distance a chorus of insects rubbed their wings, producing a symphony of night sounds.

Nights like this take me back to the innocent days of my youth. To summer nights chasing fireflies while visiting my Aunt Barbara in this very house where I now live. Savannah was a very different place back then. Before the Jim Williams trials and the subsequent book brought a never-ending tsunami of tourists to the city. I didn't live here then, but I remember it.

The past can be a good teacher if we have the wisdom to allow it. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that we can't go back, no matter how much we may want to.

As I sat listening to the sounds and watching the dancing light, my thoughts turned to Claire. A beautiful, intelligent woman who until the moment she went missing, seemingly had her entire life in front of her. Did she leave of her own volition, or had something far more sinister happened to her? Was she alive or was she dead? And if she was alive, would I be able to find her and bring her home safe?

I killed the rest of my beer, stepped inside, and shut the door on the day. 

# Chapter Six

The following morning I was up before the sun. I knocked back a cup of coffee, then went down to the garage and put on the gloves. I hit the heavy bag in five-minute intervals, up on my toes the entire time. Left jab, right cross, then a whistling hook. Circling the bag. Punches digging in. Getting into a good rhythm. Over and over again, whaling away till my fists ached, and my arms felt like rubber.

Next I worked the speed bag. Timing and reflexes. Cross over jab and a quick back-fist. Same drill with the other hand. A flurry of leather echoing off the walls...rat-a-tat-tat.

I peeled off the gloves and banged out a series of push-ups and sit-ups. Spent, I lay on the concrete floor drenched in sweat, staring at the ceiling and catching my breath.

I dragged myself upstairs and chugged a glass of OJ. It tasted like liquid sunshine, so I downed another. I sat at the kitchen counter, perusing the paper for a minute or so, and began to feel myself recover. I realize most people no longer read the newspaper, choosing instead to get their news from the internet, or from Jon Stewart's The Daily Show. But I'm an ex-newspaper man and a bit of a throwback, so I continue to support this dying industry.

I put the paper aside, wandered down the hall, hopped in the shower, and soaped up till I was squeaky clean. I toweled off, wiped the steam from the mirror, and finger-combed my hair. I tell you, I felt like a new man. I threw on a comfortable pair of jeans and a blue polo shirt, sans horse. I don't do the horse.

Later that morning I whipped up a longshoreman's breakfast: fried eggs, French toast, home fries, and four of strips of bacon. I know some people won't eat bacon for religious reasons. But I'll bet those folks dream about it at night, the smell of sizzling pork secretly winding its way into their cerebral cortex.

Anyway, with nothing to hold us back, Megan and I stuffed ourselves. When we finished eating, I dumped everything into the dishwasher, then dropped her off at tennis camp before returning home.

Upstairs in my third-floor office, I tried reaching Olivia Anderson at her real estate office. She hadn't made it in yet, so I left a message with the receptionist. Next, I went over the notes from my meeting with the Robertsons. I needed to start interviewing people, and first up on my list, Bill Taylor, Claire's ex-fiancé.

Taylor lived in Hardeeville, a small town in Jasper County South Carolina. It's located approximately twenty miles north of Savannah. I had the name of Taylor's bank, but I wasn't about to ring him up. I wanted to show up unannounced and catch him unaware.

I pulled up the bank's website on my laptop, then found a link that said meet our team. I clicked the link, and then another link that said Bank President Bill Taylor. A photo showed him standing and smiling.

I studied his picture. Somewhere in his late thirties, Taylor wore a conservative blue suit, starched white button-down, and a black and gold striped tie. Thinning brown hair receded from a high forehead, and he looked a little puffy around the gills.

He also liked to hit women and I wanted to drill him. On the scumbag ladder, there aren't many rungs lower in my opinion.

~ ~ ~

I left the house at a quarter past nine and headed downtown. Motoring north on Drayton, I passed The DeSoto Hotel on my left just as the traffic light turned yellow. I hit the gas, lit up the tires, and two-wheeled it onto Liberty.

Ten minutes later I crossed the Talmadge Bridge on another picture postcard day: clear skies, a warm breeze, and the sun glinting off the Savannah River like a row of shimmering diamonds in a jewelry store display case.

I left Georgia and entered South Carolina. I was now in Jasper County, racing north on Highway 17, the old coastal Highway that preceded the construction of I-95. If you haven't driven it, this stretch of Highway 17 is beautiful, with fascinating things on both sides of the road to hold your attention, but only if you cross your eyes and pretend you're someplace else. Actually, it's not that bad. I had the window down, breathing in the fertile smell of the marsh, hauling ass in the GTO.

As I drove, I fiddled with the car radio until I heard Bob Seger singing "Fire Lake." Great song. I remember reading somewhere that Seger always performed barefoot because he wanted to feel the music from the ground up. Working an investigation is sort of like that. You start off at street level, burning shoe leather and asking a lot of questions. And hopefully, one thing leads to another until finally you arrive at a solution. Whatever.

Anyway, it was a beautiful lowcountry morning. No traffic jams slowing me down, and no ticket happy cops pointing a radar gun at me. The road ahead curved gently to the east as I thundered past a roadside stand selling some veggies. I jacked up the volume and settled in for the tedious ride to Hardeeville.

After the Seger song, a new DJ took over, some guy who called himself Reggae Randy. I listened to him ramble on for a little while, and then he put on Bob Marley's "Stir it up." I made good time, grooving to the song's syncopated riffs.

At approximately 9:35 A.M. I parked in front of Bill Taylor's Hardeeville Bank and Trust.

I hoofed-it inside and stood in the bank's lobby, getting myself oriented. Directly in front of me, two bank tellers serviced a sparse line of customers. On my left, a wrinkled old bird with a steel wool beehive roosted behind her desk. She was occupied with a customer and didn't seem to notice me. To my right, a hallway led to a series of glass fronted offices. Jackpot.

I wandered down the hall searching for Taylor and found him in the last office on the left. His door was open, and he sat behind his desk jabbering away on the phone. I stepped inside, closed the door, and grabbed a seat across from him.

Taylor stayed on the phone, and I used the time to check out his office. On the walls, I spotted his Clemson diploma, some various civic awards, a silly golf plaque, and an 8x10 photo of Taylor and some chums deep sea fishing.

Worth noting, most people would rather cough up a lung than give away information. And if they suspect they're being interrogated, they clam up faster than Rush Limbaugh's wallet at a Democratic fundraiser. Therefore, a skilled interrogator will attempt to extract information in subtle ways: showing empathy, gaining trust, finding things in common, or even lending a sympathetic ear.

I'm pretty good at reading people, priding myself on knowing which method to employ.

With Taylor though, I opted for a slightly less delicate approach. I shanghaied a felt-tipped pen and a piece of bank letterhead off his desk. In big block letters I scrawled, **WHERE'S CLAIRE** **ROBERTSON?** I slid the sheet of paper across the desk in front of him.

"Let me call you back," he said into the phone. "I've got someone in my office." He hung up and eyed me like I was a piece of rotting fish.

"Morning Bill," I said. "How's your day going?" Because it's about to be a whole lot less than great.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding pissed. "Have we met?"

"I'm Ray Fontaine. I'd like to ask you some questions about Claire Robertson."

"What about her?"

"When was the last time you saw her?"

He sneered at me. "What did you say your name was?"

"Ray Fontaine." I held up his pen. "Why don't you write it down so you don't forget?"

"Look, Mister, I don't know who you think you are, barging in here like this and bothering me about Claire."

"Easy, Bill. Don't be so touchy. We're just having ourselves a friendly little chat."

"No, we're not. You burst into my office without an appointment and interrupted my phone call. Give me one good reason why I don't have you removed from the premises."

"Just one? How's this? Claire dumped you. Word on the street is you didn't take it very well."

His eyes bugged out as he snatched up the phone. "I'm having you tossed out of my bank." He started punching numbers into the phone.

"Don't you mean your Daddy's bank?" I paused and looked at him, and I could feel my anger rise. "Claire's missing and you're a prime suspect. I know you smacked her around when she called off the wedding. Unless you start answering my questions, I'm gonna make sure everyone in this state hears about it."

He hesitated, then set the phone back in the cradle. "You don't look like a cop. I wanna see some identification."

He was right. I'm not a cop. Therefore, I had no Fifth Amendment obligation to read the asshole his rights. Instead, I was free to squeeze him.

"I've been hired to find Claire. I know she humiliated you when she left you standing at the altar with your dick in your hand."

Taylor narrowed his eyes. "You don't know who you're dealing with. Now get the hell out of my office before I have you arrested."

"I know exactly who I'm dealing with, a coward who likes hitting women. Trust me, you'll cooperate and answer my questions. Or maybe you'd rather see your name splashed across the front page of tomorrow's paper?" In case he was having trouble picturing it, I said, "What do you think of this headline: Jilted groom beat up missing woman. Casino deal in peril."

Everyone loves a scandal. And the news jocks turn rabid when reporting on a missing woman. Factor in that Claire is beautiful, comes from money, and works on some mysterious island. Shit. The minute this story broke, the media would descend on Taylor like the Roman senate on Caesar. News vans with satellite dishes would park twelve deep outside the bank, as roving packs of talking heads jostled for the inside scoop. In the end, guilty or not, they'd carve him to the bone in an all-out effort to feed the twenty-four-hour news cycle.

"Listen," he said, "I didn't even know she was missing until you walked in here a minute ago. I don't know anything about it."

"Attaboy. Now we're getting somewhere." I gave him a hard-eyed stare. "When was the last time you saw her?"

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but I don't buy it. During my time as a CID agent, I had suspects stare straight into my eyes and lie all the time. Liars don't always falter. They don't always look away. Self- preservation trumps everything, especially the truth.

"I haven't seen her since we broke up," he said

"So you haven't had any contact with her at all since she called off the wedding?"

He rubbed his jaw like it itched. "I phoned her a couple times, but she wouldn't return any of my calls."

"Drive by her townhouse at night? Hide around the corner? Watching? Waiting?"

Taylor sat there looking sullen. "No," he said at last. "I never did any of that."

"Where were you Friday night?"

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Having dinner with friends in Savannah at Leoci's."

Leoci's is an Italian Restaurant located on Abercorn Street, a block from Forsyth Park.

"Interesting. What's that...a five-minute walk from Claire's place?"

He nodded solemnly but kept his mouth shut.

"Who'd you have dinner with?"

"Tim Woodson. He's my attorney."

"I don't care if he's the last Emperor of China. Plus you said you had dinner with friends. Who else besides the two of you?"

"Tim's wife Beth."

"So just the three of you having a pity party for poor little Bill?"

He shook his head. "No, I had a date."

"Good for you Bill," I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice. "Back in the saddle so soon after being dumped. What's her name?"

"Look," he said, stonewalling me, "I don't want to involve her."

The whiny little toad was starting to get to me. I wanted to swat him a few times, before knocking him straight into next week.

"Listen, and listen close," I said. "You're on thin ice and I'm standing below you with a blowtorch. That Indian tribe you're trying to do this casino deal with, any idea how fast they're gonna beat feet once this gets out? So I'm gonna ask you one last time, what's her name?"

He lowered his head and muttered, "Jill Sullivan."

"So the four of you drove down to Savannah together Friday night. Do I have that right?"

"No. The Woodsons and Jill live in Savannah. I drove down alone and met them at the restaurant."

"You didn't pick your date up at her place Bill? Why not?"

"Beth fixed me up," he said, sounding sheepish. "It was kind of a blind date."

"What about after dinner? Did the four of you go anywhere else for a drink?"

"No. We just had dinner and called it a night."

"And afterward, did you drive your blind date home?"

"She caught a ride with the Tim and Beth."

"And what about you...what did you do then?"

Taylor fidgeted, running his fingers through his hair. "I was tired. It had been a long week. I got in the car and headed for home."

I shook my head. "So after having dinner five minutes from where your ex lives, on the night she disappeared, you got in your car and drove home alone." I locked eyes with him. "What do prosecutors call that? Oh, I remember...motive and opportunity."

He looked off to the side and avoided my stare.

"I need Jill's phone number. You wanna be a good boy and give it to me, or should I get it from Tim Woodson?"

"I didn't ask for her number," he said, smirking. "She wasn't my type."

The smirk was the scale tipper. I had his balls in my hand and it was time to squeeze. "Let me ask you something Tenderloin. How do you feel about a steady diet of prison dick, cold shower gang bangs, and being some lifer's yard bitch?"

He looked like I'd slapped him. "You can't talk to me like that. I didn't do anything wrong."

Over the years, people tend to mellow. Our rough edges dissipate like a stone smoothed by the river's current. We put up with what we can't change. But domestic violence, a man hitting a woman, that's something I'll never accept. Sitting in that office, breathing the same air as Taylor, sickened me.

"What do you call hitting a defenseless woman you gutless dung beetle?" I rose out of the chair, put my hands on his desk, and glared at him. "Stop jerking me around, or I'll throw you right through the wall. Now how do I get in touch with your date from Friday night?"

"She owns a children's clothing store on Broughton Street," he said, reedy voice stretched thin. "It's called Sugar and Spice. That's all I know."

"You see Billy-Boy, that wasn't so hard. Now fill me in on what you did Saturday."

He thought about it for a moment, then looked at me and said, "I played golf at my club in the morning with three buddies and spent the afternoon doing typical weekend chores." Adding, "I stopped by Ace Hardware for a couple of items, bought a bottle of bourbon and some beer at the liquor store, and picked up some steaks at Publix. Later I watched the Braves beat the Cubs on TV at home."

I wrote down the name of his golf buds. "Were you in Savannah anytime over the weekend after Friday night?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I stayed close to home."

"You're telling me you didn't cross the Talmadge Bridge once after Friday night?" Before he had a chance to answer, I said, "Let me make it easier. Were you anywhere in the state of Georgia last Saturday or Sunday?"

"I never left South Carolina," he said.

At this point, Bill Taylor wasn't looking to good. Red blotches bloomed on his face and rings of armpit sweat seeped through his suit coat. Even if he had nothing to do with Claire's disappearance, in my book the craven needed a kick in the teeth.

"Why'd Claire call off the wedding?"

He let out a pitiful sigh. "She said she met someone else."

"What'd that feel like?" I asked, grinding a little salt in the wound.

"What do you think it felt like? Look, I don't know where Claire is. I had nothing to do with—." Taylor's voice faltered. He looked at me and shrugged. I waited for him to continue, but he stayed silent.

"Did Claire tell you the other guy's name?"

"No. She never did. When you find out who it is, maybe you should ask him where Claire is."

Taylor slumped in his chair. His eyes glazed over as a mountain of humiliation sagged his bony shoulders. The dim-witted dolt was one of those weird mouth-breathers. The way his slack jaw hung open, he reminded me of a baby sparrow waiting for a worm from its mother.

"Did Claire ever talk about wanting to get away?"

"Not to me, but obviously I didn't know her as well as I thought I did."

We both stayed silent then. I could hear the seconds ticking from his wall clock, and it felt like the oxygen had been sucked from the room. In my mind, I pictured the twitchy little prick waltzing through the casino, playing big shot.

I stood up and started out the door, then turned to him and said, "Hey Sport. Just thought of a great name for the casino...what do you think of The Busted Flush?"

# Chapter Seven

Back in the car, I drove around Hardeeville for a while. I had no plan or particular destination in mind. I just sort of wandered around while my festering anger for Bill Taylor grew.

After about ten aimless minutes, I pulled into a small shopping plaza and spotted a bakery called Rollin in Dough. I parked out front, got out of the car and stepped inside. Rollin in Desperation was more like it. The only person in the place beside myself was a college kid standing behind the counter playing with his phone.

I ordered a large coffee to go. As college kid rang me up, I said, "You know a guy named Bill Taylor?"

"Hardeeville Bank and Trust Bill Taylor?" he asked, placing the coffee on the counter.

I nodded and smiled.

"Sure," he said. "Doesn't everybody?"

I love small town gossip. "Did you hear his bank was seized by the Feds? They say Taylor was laundering money for terrorists and drug smugglers. When I drove by this morning, a couple of FBI agents were frog-walking him out the door."

He gave me a funny look but didn't respond. I paid for the coffee, walked outside and climbed back in the GTO. I sat there for two or three minutes drinking my coffee. Then I cranked the motor, threw it in gear, and got back on Highway 17, this time heading south toward Savannah.

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later, with the Talmadge Bridge in sight, my cell phone rang. I plucked it off the passenger seat and hit the speaker button.

"Mister Fontaine, this is Olivia Anderson returning your call. What can I do for you?" Her voice was soft and southern, and I had a hard time hearing her over the car's powerful V8.

I adjusted the phone's volume and eased up on the accelerator, then thanked her for returning my call. "Olivia I'm an investigator trying to locate Claire Robertson. If you have any free time today I'd like to ask you some questions."

She stayed silent for a while, and I thought we might've been disconnected. But then she said, "I spoke with a Sergeant Daniels yesterday. I told him everything I know, which, unfortunately, isn't very much."

"I'm not with Savannah P.D. Olivia. I'm a private investigator. I've been hired to find Claire and hopefully bring her home safe. When I spoke with her parents yesterday they mentioned you were supposed to be Claire's maid of honor. I know when you talked with Sergeant Daniels you obviously told him everything you know, but I need your help."

"I'm expecting a client any minute," she said, "but I should be free by one o'clock. Would that work for you? "

"Perfect. I can meet you anywhere you like, or even swing by your office and take you to lunch. We can talk about Claire while we eat."

"Would you mind if we talked while we walk? I normally skip lunch and instead try to get some exercise." She added, "I'm trying to lose a few pounds."

"You sound thin to me."

She chuckled. "I wish. Tell you what, why don't we meet in front of the fountain in Forsyth Park. I should be there no later than one."

To make sure we didn't miss one another, I said, "I'll be leaning against the fountains railing, and facing the Drayton Street side of the park."

As I hung up, I heard Olivia say, "Wear comfortable shoes."

~ ~ ~

I crossed over the river and back into Georgia. I exited at Oglethorpe, rocketed past the Thunderbird Inn, then hooked a left onto Martin Luther King, the western border of the Historic District.

Back in the mid-1950's, a group of forward-thinking women banded together to keep the wrecking ball away from Savannah's historic structures. And in 1966 the Historic District was declared a National Historic Landmark.

Block by block, the vast majority of Savannah's Historic District has been gentrifying for years. It's happening everywhere: apartments converted into condos, warehouse space re-purposed into chic hotels, residential lofts above store fronts. A fresh coat of paint here, a spit-shine there. People are moving back into the city, and tourists hitting town need a place to stay and something to do.

And while the rest of the Historic District spiffed up, MLK was avoided like the lecherous uncle at the family reunion. But that's beginning to change. With deals tough to come by elsewhere, the real estate sharks have started gobbling up land along the once blighted street.

In fact, two new hotels are currently in the planning stages along MLK. One is a six-story mid-rise tentatively called the Hotel Lina. It's slated to be built where the old Econo Lodge once stood. The name Lina is Swedish, so I'm guessing they plan on staffing it with a bunch of blonde haired, blue eyed Euro-babes. Personally, I think we've got enough downtown hotels. Instead, I'd rather they build a good watering hole that caters to locals, plus I prefer dark haired women, but nobody cares what I think.

Anyway, after passing the county courthouse, I hung a right on Broughton, our version of Main Street.

Millions of visitors pour into Savannah every year, flooding our streets like a cloudburst. And today Broughton sizzled with activity. The sidewalks teemed with shoppers and downtown office workers out for an early bite to eat. Street traffic was choked with cars, slow moving tourist trolleys, and the occasional Savannah metro bus.

I bumped along in the GTO, caught in a snarl of traffic. I got stuck at traffic lights at Whitaker, Bull, and then Drayton. Finally, the traffic light turned green and I cleared the intersection. Up ahead I spotted Sugar and Spice, Jill Sullivan's store. It was on my left, across the street from the Marshall House Hotel. I slowed as I rolled past it, then swung left onto Abercorn.

A half block later I parked at the curb. After locking the car and feeding the meter, I hoofed it back to Broughton Street.

I made my way down the block until I reached Sugar and Spice. I opened the glass-paneled door, and three small bells attached to the inside knob chimed my arrival.

The store's layout was approximately twenty by thirty feet. It had hardwood floors, exposed red brick walls, and a vaulted, pressed tin ceiling. A couple of brass antique ceiling fans stirred the air, keeping it nice and cool inside.

I counted a half dozen shoppers milling about. A tall, slim figured woman smiled. "Be with you in a minute," she said, walking behind the counter to ring up a sale.

"No rush," I replied. "Take your time."

While I waited, I did a couple laps around the store. I picked out a pink t-shirt with a peace sign for Megan and continued looking around. Ten minutes later, I was the only customer inside the store.

The woman behind the counter glided over. She looked early-to-mid thirties, casually dressed in well-worn jeans and a tight fitting top, and easy on the eyes. She gave me a warm smile. "Finding everything alright?"

"I think my daughter would like this." I handed her the t-shirt, then asked, "Are you Jill?"

Her gray eyes went wide as she searched my face. "Yes, I'm Jill. Have we met?"

"We haven't had the pleasure. My name's Ray Fontaine. I'm a private investigator trying to locate a missing woman. I know this might not be the ideal time, but I'd to ask you some questions about Bill Taylor."

She looked kind of startled at the mention of Taylor's name. "Has he done something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. The woman I'm looking for was engaged to Bill. When she called off the wedding he didn't take it very well." I added, "I spoke with him this morning and he mentioned the two of you were out on a date last Friday night. Can you confirm that for me?"

She didn't respond right away. Instead, she shook her head and stared at a spot on the wall behind me. Finally, she looked at me and said, "It was hands down the worst date of my life. Some friends set us up, so technically it was a blind date."

"You met him at a restaurant...Leoci's, is that correct?"

"That's right. We had reservations for eight o'clock. He showed up almost an hour late, acting like God's gift, doing me a favor. The arrogant jerk got drunk, spilled wine all over the tablecloth, and was rude to the wait staff. It was beyond embarrassing. I couldn't wait to get out of there and away from him."

I liked her immediately. "What time did you leave the restaurant?"

"Not soon enough, but I'd say it was sometime around ten o'clock. After we finished eating, I refused to get in the car with him." Her eyes flashed anger. "He called me a slut."

"I hate to make you relive that night, but I need to ask you one more question. Did Bill ever mention his ex? Her name's Claire Robertson."

She shook her head. "No. He never said a word about her. Do you think Bill had something to do with—?"

"I don't really know. But right now he's the best lead I've got."

We were standing close to one another, and it was impossible not to notice just how attractive she looked. Gray eyes the color of polished nickel. Shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail. And jeans that showed off a pair of long lean legs, and a nice butt.

"I hope you find her." She paused for a beat while she looked up at me. "If you need anything else, I'm here Monday through Friday."

"There is one other thing," I said. "Make that two things." She cocked an eyebrow and waited. "Megan's T-shirt, and your phone number. When this case is finished, I'd like to take you out on a real date." 

# Chapter Eight

_Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness_

Chinese Proverb

The ride back to my place was uneventful. John Mellencamp's "Cherry Bomb" was playing on the radio as I rolled south through the historic district. I arrived home just after 12:30 P.M. and stepped inside.

I mentioned last night my Aunt Barbara once lived in this house. In fact, she owned it for almost forty years. When she reached her early seventies, rheumatoid arthritis ravaged her joints and the stairs became impossible for her to manage. She moved into an assisted living facility down in Tampa to be near my cousin Tommy. Soon after, I bought the house from her and relocated from Atlanta to Savannah.

It's way too much house for one person, three stories tall and twenty-eight hundred square feet. But the home I grew up in was a war zone, and any fond memories from my childhood were spent right here. When Aunt Barbara decided to put the house up for sale, I was flush with cash from my settlement and couldn't stand the thought of strangers living here.

Anyway, before I left to meet Olivia Anderson, I fired up my laptop and pulled up the Hardeeville Bank's website for the second time that day. I wanted to track Bill Taylor's movement last Friday night. In order to do that, I needed his cell number.

I dug my phone out of my pocket and punched in the bank's phone number. On the second ring, a woman answered. "Hardeeville Bank and Trust, please hold." While waiting, I listened to the Lawrence Welk orchestra playing an instrumental version of The Beatles song, "Yesterday." I hummed along to the line, 'all my troubles seemed so far away.' Moments later she came back on the line. "I'm sorry for keeping you on hold. How can I help you?"

"Bill Taylor please."

"I'm afraid he's at lunch. Can I have him call you when he returns?"

"My name's Tim Woodson," I lied. "I'm a close friend of Bill's, and this is kind of an emergency. I'm sure it's against bank policy to give out personal information. But is it possible for you to phone Bill and ask him to call me at this number? I need to speak with him right away."

"Let me see what I can do."

"Do you need my number?"

"No, I've got it. It shows up on my phone."

"Thanks so much," I said. "And please tell Bill it's urgent."

Less than five minutes later, my cell rang. I checked the number, area code 843...South Carolina.

I answered with a gruff, "Ralph's Paint and Body."

"Um...this is Bill Taylor. I received a message to call Tim Woodson at this number."

"Sorry, Mac, you've got the wrong number. We don't have a Tim here."

"Can you check with your customers?" he asked in pissed off voice. "He just phoned me."

"I'm the only one here. You must've misdialed."

"Fuck," he said, before hanging up. I smiled as I jotted down his number.

~ ~ ~

I locked up and headed out the door, eager to meet with Olivia Anderson. I left my chariot parked at the curb and set off on foot for Forsyth Park, a thirty-acre urban jewel in a city known for its beautiful squares.

Savannah's unique city plan, a grid system built around the squares, was laid out by Oglethorpe in 1733. The city really its stride after we gave the Brits the boot in a little dust-up known as the American Revolution. After the war, and with the wealth brought on by "King Cotton," Savannah's residents built lavish homes, and many of them are still standing. In fact, my house was built in the mid-1800's by one such cotton baron.

Anyway, I dodged a couple cars crossing Drayton, then wandered toward the fountain. Forsyth Park draws quite a crowd. On a beautiful spring day like today, people were out jogging, walking their dogs, winging the Frisbee, or just hanging out catching some sun. A light breeze was blowing, and it stirred the Spanish moss that hung like silver-gray beards from the Park's towering live oaks. Summer in Savannah is a sauna, but springtime is _the_ season. Warm days, mild nights, and everything I can't name is in bloom.

I made it to the fountain with five minutes to spare. I did a quick lap around it, then leaned against the railing on the side that faced Drayton Street.

While I waited for Olivia to show, I watched a SCAD student lugging an armful of camera gear toward the park's bandstand. He had thick black glasses, and a head of hair that looked like a bowl of ramen noodles.

One of the things I like best about Savannah is the influx of creative students who hit town every fall. The unique mash-up of Old South blended with the artistic energy the college attracts, gives the city a hip, Bohemian vibe.

I noticed a woman striding toward me, late twenties to early thirties, about five-foot-four in height, and definitely not overweight. She had shoulder length strawberry blonde hair, an Ivory Soap complexion, and a button nose dusted with freckles. She also had some of the bluest eyes I've ever seen. "Are you Ray Fontaine?" she asked.

"You must be Olivia."

She nodded. "I have a confession to make. I've been sitting over there on a bench for the last ten minutes watching the fountain. I wanted to make sure you weren't some kind of a creep."

"Hope I passed the test," I said, smiling. "But as long as it's confession time, after talking to you on the phone, I thought you were gonna be, how do I say this...plump."

She laughed and her blue eyes kind of crinkled. "I've dropped twenty-eight pounds over the last six months. Five more and I'll hit my goal."

"Congratulations," I said. "You look great." Seconds later I added, "Thanks for agreeing to meet with me."

"Ready to walk?" she asked, arms pumping.

"Let's do it," I replied.

We headed south through the center of the park. Claire's Whitaker Street townhouse was up ahead and off to our right. When we were parallel to it, Olivia said, "I represented Claire when she bought her home. I was her realtor before we became friends."

"How long ago was that?"

"Let's see. We closed on her townhouse in May of 2009. The market was still in the toilet. I'd had my license for about a year and a half by then, and it was touch and go for quite a while."

"How did the two of you meet?"

"I met Claire during a volunteer cleanup day for the Wilmington River. We were side by side, pulling trash and old tires out of the water. We were knee deep in water and mud, trying to dislodge a sunken tire. Claire told me she was a marine biologist, and I told her I was a realtor. We started looking at houses approximately a month later."

We passed by the basketball court on our right. A couple of black guys were enjoying a lunchtime pickup game, talking smack and giving each other a hard time. The four public tennis courts on our left were all in use.

We were now at the south end of the park. There's a small parking area here. Across the street sat a small commercial strip of buildings. The Sentient Bean coffee shop where I had my first Facebook experience is located here, and the hipsters that frequent it were sitting out front enjoying the day.

We took a left toward Drayton Street, and I lightbulbed back to something Claire's mother said about the Savannah River dredging project. I asked, "Did Claire ever talk to you about the port expansion and the river dredging?"

Olivia nodded. "All the time. She's dead set against it, which, by the way, isn't a very popular stance around here. Everyone seems convinced it's going to bring jobs to Savannah."

"Not just Savannah," I said, "It's supposed to add jobs to the entire state."

"That's what they say."

"Why is Claire so opposed to the dredging?"

"She's convinced we'll pay a heavy ecological price, and doesn't think the trade-off is worth it. She said something like, 'We're rolling the dice and putting the coast at risk.' It just doesn't make sense to her. She thinks Charleston is a better choice for the mega-ships."

I thought about that for a while, then said, "Is that just Claire showing hometown favoritism?"

"I don't think so. Even though Charleston will need to dredge just like us, their port sits right on the coast. Here the ships have to travel almost thirty miles up the river. Claire lives in Georgia. This is her home. She just wants to protect it."

South Carolina, which shares the Savannah River with Georgia, spent years trying to scuttle Savannah's harbor project. They want the Post Panamax ships docking and unloading at the Charleston port. But unlike Savannah, Charleston sat on its hands, putting scant effort into the required eco-impact studies. Being only one hundred miles apart, there's a deep-seated rivalry between the two cities. In the last five years, Savannah's port has eclipsed Charleston and it's now the fourth busiest in the nation. More cargo equals more jobs, at least in theory.

I asked Olivia, "Do you know if Claire made her opposition known?"

"That's putting it mildly. Claire's not afraid to express her opinion. She's had run-ins with several prominent people, including John Thigpen."

"The congressman?"

Thigpen is a Savannah resident and a Republican firebrand. His congressional district covers southeast Georgia. A staunch conservative often referred to as the Prince of Pork for his ability to wrangle government funds for earmarks, he's a climate change denier and thinks evolution is a lie. He's also an unabashed supporter of dredging the river, but then again, so is every other politician in the state.

Olivia nodded. "He's taking credit for getting the project funded. Supposedly he's thinking about running against Hilary next year. Claire spoke out at one of his rallies. She called him on the carpet for risking the environment. From what Claire told me, it turned heated."

"You mentioned run-ins with several people. Who else besides Thigpen?"

"The only other person I'm sure about is Frank Chambers."

We were now across the street from the Mansion on Forsyth Park, located at the corner of Drayton and E Hall. The fashionable hotel used to be a funeral home, but these days the only people dying to get in are the well-heeled. If you've got a few extra quid, I highly recommend it for your next visit. Better yet, stay home or vacation somewhere else.

I asked Olivia, "Who's Frank Chambers?"

"He's a well-connected real estate developer," she said, glancing my way. "Ever heard of Liberty Island?"

I didn't recall seeing it on my coastal Georgia map. "Doesn't ring a bell," I replied.

"It's an ultra-luxury residential development about forty miles south of Savannah. It's really not one island, but a series of marsh islands connected by small wooden bridges along the Newport River. There are over three hundred residential lots, a golf course, a deep-water marina, an equestrian center, and an aquatic landing strip for seaplanes. We were supposed to have the exclusive contract to sell the homes."

"What happened?"

We turned the corner at Drayton and Gaston, continuing west toward the Whitaker Street side of the Park.

"I wasn't one of the on-site agents," she replied, "but apparently Chambers and my broker had differences. He pulled the contract and formed his own real estate sales company, which is certainly his right. In fact, many developers use their own agents."

"Why would Claire have trouble with Chambers?"

"He's done a number of shady things."

I waited for her to elaborate, but she stayed quiet, lost in her thoughts. We passed Bull Street to our right. "What kind of shady things?" I asked.

"Well, for starters he significantly increased the density of Liberty Island after the development had been approved by the county. Originally it was designed to be a very low density, eco-friendly type development, somewhere along the order of one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty homes. And there was supposed to be a tremendous amount of dedicated green space that could never be developed. I'm not sure of the particulars, but he must have paid off some county officials because the density almost tripled."

"He's not the first developer to pull that."

"No. That's true, but there's more to it than that. Frank Chambers wasn't Liberty Island's original developer. Wayne Kendall brought him on board after the real estate market collapsed. Banks were failing, and those that weren't refused to turn any money loose. Wayne's funding dried up, and the development almost went bankrupt."

I still didn't understand what this had to do with Claire. I asked Olivia, "Does Claire hold a grudge against Wayne? As Chambers' partner, isn't he partially responsible for the increased density?"

"They're no longer partners. Somewhere along the line they had a falling out. There were suits and counter-suits. It went all the way to the Georgia Supreme Court. Supposedly the judge who heard the case is Chambers' hunting buddy, so of course he decided in his favor. A lot of people think Frank Chambers stole Liberty Island from Wayne." She shot me a sidelong glance, then added, "Wayne grew up in Charleston. He and Claire have known each other for years."

"Are they ever romantically involved?"

"Not a chance," Olivia said, giggling. "Wayne's gay. He's been in a committed relationship for years."

"Where's Wayne these days?" I asked.

"Right back where he started fifteen years ago, hanging sheetrock and roofing houses. He lost almost everything when the court ruled against him. He and his partner rent a house in Thunderbolt." Thunderbolt is a small town that about five miles outside Savannah. Olivia continued, "After Wayne lost the court case, Frank Chambers did a poor job maintaining the silt fences. After a hard rain, sediment poured into the River and the surrounding tidal creeks. The silt fouled the watershed pretty significantly. For a marine biologist like Claire, that was the final straw."

Circling back to the Savannah harbor, I asked, "Does Chambers have anything to do with the harbor project?"

"He's not directly involved. But in addition to Liberty Island, he owns the last large undeveloped tract of land near the port. He's in the rezoning process right now and wants the zoning changed from rural to industrial so he can develop the site. He's sitting on a potential gold mine. Not only that, but over the last couple years he snapped up thousands of marsh acres along both sides of the Savannah River."

"Why would Chambers want to own marsh land? It's in the flood zone and can't be developed."

"You're right, the marsh can't be developed. But he figured out long before anyone else that part of the harbor expansion approval process entailed pacifying the environmental organizations that opposed it. One of the ways you do that is by increasing the size of the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge. But in order to expand the refuge, the state needs to purchase additional acreage of wetlands. And he's sitting there with thousands of available marsh acres he picked up for a pittance. He'll sell the marsh for a profit..."

I finished her sentence. "And Georgia will thank him by guaranteeing the rezoning of his land near the port. You've got to hand it to him. That's pretty slick."

Olivia nodded. "Oh, he's way beyond slick. Anyway, Claire's been a vocal opponent of the rezoning. She got into it with Chambers at one of the land use meetings. She's pissed because he fouled the water while developing Liberty Island, and wants everyone to know about it. She's also angry because of what happened to Wayne. But you know Wayne isn't the only one Frank Chambers did dirty. Claire told me he also slow-paid or flat out refused to pay a number of the subcontractors that worked on the development. He's hurt a lot of people. Many of them were ruined and had to declare personal bankruptcy."

"Did you tell any of this to the police?"

She shook her head. "They never asked. And, to be honest, I didn't think to mention it. Do you think there's a connection?"

I shrugged. "There's only one way to find out. How do I get in touch with Wayne?"

"His company is called Kendall Construction. I've got his number saved in my phone. I try to use him when my clients need to renovate."

She gave me Wayne's phone number, then glanced at her watch. "I need to run soon. I've got an afternoon appointment up in Beaufort."

I asked, "Do you happen to know which bank provided funding for Chambers when he became a Liberty Island partner?"

"Not off hand," she said, shaking her head. "Is it important?"

"I'm not sure, but it might be. I'd also like to know which bank funded his site near the port."

"Let me see what I can do. I'll check with my broker and send you a text as soon as I have an answer."

"Thanks. How's the market by the way?"

"Making a comeback." She looked at me and asked, "Do you need to buy or sell a house?"

"I'm all set," I replied. "But thanks."

She handed me a card. "If you have any more questions—."

"I do have one more. Claire's ex, Bill Taylor mentioned she'd met someone new. Would you happen to know who that is?"

"Claire never said a word to me about a new man in her life. But I can tell you this, Bill Taylor's an idiot." A sad look flitted across her face. "Call me if you have any more questions. I'll do anything I can to help you find Claire."

"I will. And thanks again. You've been a big help."

# Chapter Nine

I grabbed lunch at The Crystal Beer Parlor on W. Jones, a hamburger topped with bleu cheese, a side of German potato salad, and an ice cold draft if you're keeping score. When I finished eating I pulled up Wayne Kendall's phone number and punched in the numbers. He picked up on the second ring. "This is Wayne." I could hear pneumatic nail guns firing in the background.

"Wayne, my name's Ray Fontaine. I'm a private investigator trying to locate Claire Robertson. I'd like to talk with you if you have some free time."

"What happened to Claire?" he asked, sounding alarmed. He covered the phone, and I heard him yell something in Spanish. The nail guns stopped and he came back on the line. "Sorry about that, I'm at a job site. What do you mean you're trying to locate Claire?"

"She's missing. I'd like to drop by and talk to you for a few minutes."

"Oh, sweet Jesus, of course. Listen, I'm up on a roof. The address is 1323 E. 50th Street. It's a couple of blocks behind Daffin Park."

"I'll see you in ten to fifteen minutes."

I settled my tab and headed out. Midday traffic wasn't bad, and I made it in just under ten minutes. I turned down E. 50th and pulled to the curb. The house was a modest wood-framed bungalow, with a small, well-kept front yard.

A sandy-haired guy in his mid-forties sat on the front stoop talking on the phone, and a couple of Hispanics were walking around scooping up old roof shingles, tossing them into a trash dumpster.

I climbed out of the car. The guy on the stoop hung up and met me on the sidewalk.

"Wayne?"

"How long has Claire been missing?" he asked in a strangled voice.

I glanced at the guys in the yard. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"I don't have a key to the place."

"Why don't we take a walk?"

Wayne spoke some rapid Spanish to his workers, then said to me, "Let's go."

We started down the block. A malignant silence hung in the air. I turned my head and looked at him. "A friend of Claire's father hired me to find her. She hasn't shown up for work this week. No one has seen her since last Friday"

"Have you spoken with Bill Taylor? He and Claire were supposed to get married last month. When Claire called off the wedding, he belted her."

"I spoke with Taylor this morning. I want to talk with you about Frank Chambers."

"You think Frank had something to do with Claire's disappearance?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"At this point, I don't know what to think. For all I know, the pressure of calling off the wedding may have gotten to Claire, and she's gone off for a few days to be alone and sort out her feelings." I looked over at him and asked, "When was the last time you saw her?"

"I saw her a week ago Sunday. We had lunch at Vic's."

"How did she seem?"

"The same as always, happy, upbeat. I've known Claire a long time. I can usually tell when something's bothering her."

"I heard from Bill Taylor she met someone new."

He nodded. "I knew about that. Claire told me about it a couple weeks ago, right after they met. He paused and glanced in my direction. "She wouldn't tell me his name though. Said she didn't want to jinx the relationship."

"Tell me about Bill Taylor?"

"He's a controlling son of a bitch. Always giving Claire a hard time, wanting to know where she went and what she did."

"Fill me in on Liberty Island."

"What's there to tell?" he replied, staring at his shoes. "I thought it was going to be my legacy. But I got caught by the real estate recession and lost it to Frank Chambers."

"What's Chambers like?"

"He's a thief," he said, sounding angry and shaking his head. "Seduced me into thinking we'd be a great team. But from the moment Frank got involved, he schemed behind my back for a way to steal Liberty Island. And he did...it's his baby now." We walked in silence for a while, then Wayne added, "Lots of builders and developers have lost projects in the last couple of years. I'm not the only one. But in addition to screwing me, Frank ruined the lives of some good people. I'm talking about our subcontractors. After the recession hit, everyone was desperate for work. Frank knew this of course, so he'd get some of the guys to do work on spec, then refuse to pay. He also cut a bunch of safety corners so he could save a couple of bucks." We stopped walking and Wayne looked at me. "One of my best subs, a guy named Hector Menendez, almost lost his life when a poorly designed retaining wall collapsed on him. He's paralyzed from the waist down."

"Why didn't the county shut him down after the accident?"

"One, they probably never heard about it. And two, even if they did, Frank has the county commission in his back pocket. He paid Hector off and sent him back to Mexico."

I said, "I heard Claire's been an outspoken critic of Chambers. Supposedly she spoke out against the rezoning of some land he owns near the port because silt seeped into the river at Liberty Island and fouled the water. Is that true"

"Claire never mentioned that to me, but I wouldn't put it past her. She's a force when it comes to the environment." He stayed silent for some time, then continued. "I hate to admit it, but a part of her grudge against Frank is because she's pissed about what happened to me. Claire's true blue."

"Is there anything you can think of that can help me find her?"

"Keep your eye on Bill Taylor," he replied. "If anything's happened to Claire, he had something to do with it."

"One other thing," I said. "How the hell is Chambers keeping Liberty Island afloat? From what I've read, high-end second home developments still haven't recovered from the recession. Even the Sea Island Company went down the drain."

"Frank comes from money, and he's had a very successful career. But you're right; it costs a tremendous amount of money to keep Liberty Island going. It wouldn't surprise me if he's hanging on by a thread."

I gave him my card and asked him to call me if he thought of anything else, or if he heard from Claire.

# Chapter Ten

I decided to drop in on Daddy Warbucks to bring him up to speed. While I drove, I placed a call to Caroline. I needed the police to track Bill Taylor's movements. Now that I had his cell number, that shouldn't be a problem.

In addition to Taylor, I wanted to ask Caroline if the cops had made any progress tracking Claire's cell.

Cell phone tracking can be accomplished two different ways: triangulation, which covers all cell phones, and GPS, which is standard in almost every smart-phone.

With triangulation, three cell towers are used to approximate the location of the phone. Cell towers constantly ping cell phones to provide service. That makes a user's location and path of travel easily traceable. The potential problem of using triangulation is the accuracy depends on the density of the tower's population. This can be an issue in an urban setting like downtown Savannah, particularly when you factor in all the out of town visitors and their cell phones. The more phones that ping off cell towers, the harder it is to determine an exact location using triangulation.

GPS, on the other hand, is able to pinpoint a cell phone's exact location, regardless of how many phones are in the area. Most smart-phones have a GPS device embedded in them. Location data for either tracking method resides with the wireless provider, and police departments can access it if they are able to show just cause.

Caroline answered her phone and said, "You must miss me...either that or you want something else. But I've gotta run so make it quick Fontaine. I'm half way out the door. We've got a floater."

"I'll be quick. One, any luck tracking Claire's cell? And two, I need you to track someone else's phone, Claire's ex-fiancé. I like him as a suspect. His name's Bill Taylor. She dumped him last month, two weeks before their wedding. He got rough with her, plus he was having dinner five minutes from her home last Friday night. You ready for the number?"

"Shoot me a text. I'll call you later." She hung up without giving me an update on tracking Claire's cell. When I stopped for a red light at Drayton and Liberty, I sent her the text with Taylor's information.

The traffic light turned green. I hit the gas and continued north along Drayton. Minutes later, I parked at the curb in front of Cavanaugh's building.

When I stepped inside, the security guard looked up and smiled. I glanced at his copy of the New York Times. "Looks like you're keeping that mind sharp."

"Not as sharp as I'd like," he said, frowning "I'm stumped. Stuck on a six letter word for gold Ends in a T.

"That's an easy one," I told him. "Nugget."

"Shee-it. Two for two...what are you the puzzle whisperer?"

I shrugged. "Some days you got it."

"Amen to that," he said, sliding the registration sheet toward me.

When I exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor, Jennifer was planted behind her desk, gabbing away into the headset. She finished up on the phone, then looked at me and smiled. "Mr. Fontaine, how are you today?"

"If I were any better, I'd be twins. Is Mister Cavanaugh in?"

"Is he expecting you?"

I hate it when people answer my question with a question, but I let it slide. "He's not, but if he is in, would you mind letting him know I'm here."

"Let me see what I can do." She punched a button on her phone, then spoke into the headset. "Leslie, Mr. Fontaine is here to see Mr. Cavanaugh." She nodded her head. "I know, but would you mind letting him know anyway...thanks, Leslie." Apparently, Cavanaugh didn't have many drop-ins. Jennifer said to me, "Why don't you have a seat. Mr. Cavanaugh's assistant is checking to see if he's available." She punched a button on her phone and took another call.

I walked over to the window and checked out the river. The only activity I saw was a tug boat heading downstream.

I stood there watching the water until I heard a gruff voice behind me. "Mr. Fontaine?"

I turned and was accosted by Cavanaugh's assistant. She was a woman of an indeterminate vintage, but definitely north of forty, and rather severe looking, which was putting it mildly. Pale skin, dour expression, somber Mortuary clothing. She had thin bloodless lips and these weird unwavering eyes. The kicker, though, was the bolt of gray that ran through her coarse dark hair. Spooky. "My name's Leslie," she said in a chilly tone. "Mr. Cavanaugh will see you now." I checked her feet to make sure she wasn't levitating.

I followed the Bride of Frankenstein down the same corridor as yesterday, then back into the boardroom. Leslie turned and stared. "Mr. Cavanaugh will be with you shortly."

Here's one you can take to the bank. Mrs. Eddie sure didn't have to worry about her husband popping the assistant. Leslie turned and shut the door. Maybe Caroline was right. Cavanaugh did want something from me...my blood.

Ten minutes later Cavanaugh joined me in the boardroom. I rose to greet him, and we shook. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said.

"I apologize for dropping in on you without an appointment," I replied.

With the perfunctory apologies out of the way, Cavanaugh looked at me and asked, "Have you uncovered any information about Claire's whereabouts?"

I summarized my activities over the last day and a half for him. When I recounted what I'd learned about Bill Taylor striking Claire, his eyes clouded with anger, but he remained quiet. I concluded with what I'd learned from Olivia Anderson about Frank Chambers and John Thigpen.

When I finished speaking, Cavanaugh asked, "Where do you go from here?"

"I'm trying to get the Savannah police department to map Bill Taylor's movement via his cell phone. I'll check Congressman Thigpen's schedule for last Friday to see if he was anywhere in the area. I want to interrogate...interview Frank Chambers. And I need to get out to Sapelo. I want to speak with Claire's co-workers. I don't want to be tied to the ferry schedule though. I need a boat for transport, and a car at my disposal while out on the island."

He nodded. "I'll take care of the boat, and a vehicle will be at the Sapelo dock waiting for you. My assistant Leslie will call you tomorrow with the details." Great. More Leslie. Cavanaugh continued, "I followed up on Claire's will. After she passes, her entire estate is to be bequeathed to Green Peace."

I made note of that, then asked him, "Out of curiosity, where do you stand on the Savannah harbor expansion?"

He stared off into space and his face hardened. "Do you think our global competitors pit one region of their country against another when deciding where to locate vital infrastructure? Of course not. Their central government makes that call. Gouging thirty miles from the Savannah River, to allow gigantic container ships into our harbor, doesn't make economic sense Mr. Fontaine. Our current trade policies guarantee that American jobs will continue to move overseas." He paused and leaned forward, locking eyes with me. "Risking the pristine beauty of the Georgia coast, on the unproven assumption that this will boost our economy, is about the goddamn stupidest thing I've ever heard."

He went on in that vein a while longer, getting angrier and more worked up by the minute. Then something seemed to snap, and his aloof persona returned. He crossed his legs, cleared his throat, and looked at me. "If you have some spare time, there's someone I'd like you to meet. His name is Jack Hutchins. He's an archeology professor from North Florida University doing field research on Sapelo. Jack and I were discussing some funding opportunities through the Sea Grant for his next project when you arrived. There's a chance he may have some information that can assist us in finding Claire." _Us?_

I trailed Emperor Eddy down the hall, and he ushered me into his inner sanctum. It was a plush corner office the size of a small country, with a million dollar view of the river.

Sitting next to Cavanaugh's desk was a weak chinned guy who wore his hair in a ponytail. Hutchins stood, gave me a smile, and I noticed most of his teeth were capped. Cavanaugh introduced us, and we shook.

After the intro, Cavanaugh said, "I'm gonna leave you two alone so you can talk." He walked out and pulled the door closed behind him.

I sized Hutchins up for a moment. Dark hair, obsidian eyes, cruel mouth. He wore pricey looking jeans, a pressed white shirt, and a sterling silver barbed wire band around his wrist. A diamond stud earring twinkled when he turned his head. Slap a pair of silk pajamas on him and I'd swear I was looking at Steven Segal. Something about him bugged me. Something besides the hair and the jewelry I couldn't readily ID. Maybe it was the fake teeth, or the three hundred dollar pair of jeans, or my complete disdain for posers.

Angie always derided me for making snap judgments about people moments after we'd met. But in my line of work, I find that skill invaluable. I looked him over again, and then it hit me. Like a white-knuckle drunk with a tenuous hold on sobriety, there was a hint of brittle desperation near the edges of his eyes. He hid it well, but it was there.

I said to him, "I understand you do some work out on Sapelo. I'm hoping you can provide some information that will help me locate Claire Robertson."

"I wish I could," Hutchins replied, stroking the ponytail. "I've met her a few times, but I can't really say I know her. Most of my work keeps me on the far northern tip of the island. From what I understand, Claire is usually out in the marsh or conducting experiments back in the Marine Institute's lab."

"Claire's ex-fiancé mentioned she met someone new. Have you ever seen her with a man?"

"I think the only people I've seen Claire with are other Marine Institute employees."

"Were you on the 4:30 ferry back to the mainland last Friday? I'm trying to find out if anyone met Claire at the visitor center when the boat docked."

"I don't take the ferry," he replied. "I've got my own boat I use for transport. Besides, I'm normally still up to my elbows in dirt when the last ferry leaves the island." He paused and looked at me. "I wish I could help, but I'm afraid I just don't know anything."

"When was the last time you saw Claire?"

He furrowed his brows. "Let's see. I really can't say for sure, but it's probably been a couple of weeks."

"Where did you see her?"

"What's that?"

Hutchins also answered my question with a question. When a witness or someone I'm questioning answers like this, I grow suspicious. I said, "You just said you saw Claire a couple weeks ago. I want to know where you saw her."

He shifted in his seat. "I said I might've seen her a couple of weeks ago. I really don't recall."

A lot of folks get a little jumpy when questioned, even if they have nothing to hide. Still, Hutchins had me wondering.

"Are you married?" I asked, noticing he didn't wear a wedding ring.

"Twelve happy years."

"Your wife doesn't mind you not wearing a wedding ring?"

"I've never worn one. My wife understands it gets in the way when I'm rooting around in the dirt."

"That makes sense." That made no sense. I've yet to meet a married woman who didn't mind her husband not wearing a wedding ring. Dirt or no dirt, they want their man wearing that symbol that says, "He's taken."

I had no real reason to suspect Hutchins of anything. He seemed a bit evasive, but that could be chalked up to being put on the spot. Nonetheless, I decided I'd keep an eye on him.

"Where were you Friday night?" I asked.

"This sounds like an interrogation." _That's because it is._

To put Hutchins at ease, I wanted him to think of me as a simpleton, a dim-witted non-threat. Hopefully, he'd drop his guard, and I could learn more about him.

"Standard operating procedure," I replied. "I ask everyone that question. I've even asked it of myself. In my own case, I think I was walking my dog Friday night, or maybe feeding the goldfish. I like animals. I had a parrot named Carl when I was a boy. Most people don't think birds make good pets, but I do...

"Mister Fontaine, what does this have to do with—?"

"I can't understand why more people wouldn't want a bird for a pet. I mean, granted, they bite you on the ear when they're sitting on your shoulder...

"Listen, I'm pressed for time and—."

"And they crap a lot. I guess all pets do. But one time Carl ate a box of Milk Duds, and the mess he made on my mother's rug...

"Excuse me, Mr. Fontaine, I really need to—."

"Do you like birds?" I asked.

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Yes, I like birds. Was there anything else? I've got to get back to work."

"Let's see," I said, steepling my fingers. "What were we were talking about. Oh, I remember. Where were you Friday night?"

Hutchins sat there, and I could almost see the cogs turning in his head. Finally, he said, "I stayed out on Sapelo until about eight o'clock. Then I took my boat back to the mainland and spent a quiet evening watching TV. It had been a long week."

I tucked his alibi into a corner pocket of my head. "Where do you dock your boat when you're not out on Sapelo?" I asked.

"I rent a little place in Shellman Bluff. I keep the boat there."

"I appreciate your time Mr. Hutchins. If you see, hear, or think of anything that can help me find Claire, I'd appreciate you giving me a phone call." I slid a card from my wallet and handed it to him.

# Chapter Eleven

After leaving Hutchins, I took the elevator down to street level and stepped outside. With approximately forty minutes to burn before picking Megan up at tennis camp, I stepped across the street to Johnson Square, the largest and oldest of Savannah's twenty-two squares.

There's a fifty-foot obelisk here honoring Revolutionary War hero Nathaniel Greene, George Washington's right-hand man. For reasons beyond my grasp, he's buried beneath the phallic monument, instead of in Greene Square which was named for him. Savannah logic at its best.

Anyway, after dodging musket balls and kicking some serious British ass, Georgia thanked Greene by awarding him an abandoned plantation called Mulberry Grove. The plantation was seized after the previous owner, Lieutenant Governor John Graham, a Royalist loyal to the king, fled to England as the war heated up. Mulberry Grove lies along the Savannah River, just north of the port.

Unfortunately for Greene, he didn't get to enjoy his reward for very long. Soon after taking ownership, he fell victim to heatstroke and died. A few years later, Greene's widow hired Eli Whitney to tutor her five children, and Mulberry Grove is where Whitney invented the Cotton Gin.

I parked myself on a bench, then sharpened my observational skills by watching a woman in a short skirt with a great pair of legs stroll by. I'm a sucker for legs.

There's a sundial in the square dedicated to William Bull. Bull helped Oglethorpe choose Savannah's location. He also helped design the city's unique layout. Bull Street, Savannah's east-west dividing line, is named for him.

The leggy lady strutted over to the sundial, bent down and read the inscription. Then she straightened up and wandered out of sight.

When she was gone, I turned and looked at the obelisk. For some reason, this made me think of John Thigpen, aka the Prince of Pork. Funny how the mind works, don't you think?

Anyway, I whipped out my phone and Googled Congressman John Thigpen. I scrolled until I found an article from last Saturday's edition of the Morning News. The article reported on Thigpen's dinner with his campaign manager at The DeSoto Hotel on Friday night. Well, what do you know? Thigpen had been in town the night Claire went missing. I glanced at the obelisk and decided it was time to take a closer look at the Prince of Pork.

I crossed Bryant and got back in the GTO just as Hutchins exited the building. As I pulled away, he gave me a strange little smile.

~ ~ ~

That evening, Megan and I went out to eat at Screamin' Mimi's, a popular pizza joint on Oglethorpe Avenue. In addition to gigantic slices of New York style pizza, they've got cold beer on tap and a friendly staff. It was our last night together; Angie was driving down from Atlanta tomorrow and picking Megan up at camp. We sat outside on the patio, enjoying the warm evening air. "How's the pizza tennis queen?" I asked her.

Megan, I should mention, has her mother's good looks. Tall. Blonde. Big blue eyes. And a touch of her old man's sarcasm. A handful waiting to happen, but that's a few years down the road. For now, she's still my little angel.

"Delicious," she replied. "I wish we had a Mimi's at home."

I watched her, realizing for the millionth time how lucky I am to have her in my life. "I'm gonna miss you after you leave tomorrow Sweet P, but I'll see you in a couple weeks, OK? We can go out for pizza if you want, then I'll take you to the movies."

"Can we go roller skating too? Mommy just bought me some new skates."

"We'll see."

After we finished eating, we headed over to Leopold's for ice cream. A double scoop of peppermint for Megan, and a single pistachio for me. It was a mild evening, so we wandered down Broughton hand in hand, licking our cones. All in all, not a bad night.

We arrived home a few minutes after seven. I got Megan in the tub and was heading down the hall when I received a text from Olivia. It said: Frank Chambers' lender for both Liberty Island and his site near the Port is The Hardeeville Bank & Trust. Hope that helps. Let me know if you need anything else.

~ ~ ~

Later, unable to sleep, I lay in bed trying to get the disparate pieces of the puzzle to fit together. On the one hand, there was Bill Taylor. A nasty little twerp who'd turned violent when Claire jilted him. On the other hand, there was the Savannah River project, which Claire vocally opposed. Frank Chambers stood to make a fortune if he succeeded in rezoning his land near the port. Plus the little tidbit provided by Olivia, Bill Taylor's bank funded Chambers' projects.

I also had to consider Republican Congressman John Thigpen, a potential presidential candidate and the loudest cheerleader for dredging the river. Thigpen had publicly got into it with Claire over his environmental record. Was that sufficient cause for him to do her harm?

And then there was the wild card: Jack Hutchins.

Or perhaps Claire just lit out for parts unknown. Off on her own, doing her own thing. I turned the possibilities over again and again in my head.

My final thought before finally falling asleep, Caroline never called me back.

~ ~ ~

A shrill ringing pierced my sleep. I rolled over, groggy and disoriented, then jolted awake. Good news waits for daylight. Pale yellow from the bedside clock glowed 2:17 A.M., casting enough light for my hand to find the phone. "Fontaine."

Caroline voice on the other end said, "I think we found Claire. It's not good news."

I sat up and planted my feet on the floor. "The floater?"

"A tug boat captain thought he saw a body in the marsh. He phoned it in and the marine patrol went out and had a look. We won't know for sure until the M.E. finishes up, but it meets her description."

The Georgia Bureau of Investigation's Office of the Medical Examiner has a field office in Savannah. I asked, "What about cause of death?"

"Too soon to tell. The body has been in the water for a while." She didn't elaborate. She didn't have to. I know what a body looks like after a few days in the water.

"Have you notified her parents?"

"They're on their way down from Charleston right now. I'm sorry Fontaine. There was nothing you could've done. You were searching for a woman who was already dead."

# Chapter Twelve

A hundred paths presents a hundred difficulties

Chinese Proverb

The following morning I drove Megan to the tennis facility. We got out of the car and I walked her to the front door, then hugged her longer than normal before releasing her. "Remember Megan, your mommy is picking you up after camp today. Play hard. I'll see you in two weeks." I bent down and kissed her on the top of the head, then squeezed her one more time. I handed her off to one of the tennis instructors.

She turned and said to me, "Bye Daddy. I love you."

"I love you too." I stood at the door watching, until she skipped out of sight.

Twenty minutes later, I met Caroline at a trendy new coffee shop. Her idea, not mine...I don't do trendy.

I spotted her waiting for me on the sidewalk out front. Caroline had her thick brown hair tucked behind her ears, and she looked tense. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She'd been up most of the night. So had I. We were both running on fumes.

She gave me a tight smile, and we stepped inside without a word.

Above the din of the morning crowd, I said, "I'll grab the coffee. Find us a place to sit so we can talk."

She nodded, then turned and walked off toward the back of the coffee shop.

A young waif with chainsaw styled hair worked the hissing espresso machine, a jangle of nervous energy, with quick, disjointed moves. She wore a faded Che Guevara T-shirt and tight fitting jeans tucked into biker boots.

A hatchet-faced guy of similar age manned the cash register. He had a frizzy head of dreadlocks that reached the middle of his back and a gold nose ring. Knuckle tattoos on both hands spelled out Fuck You. I'm all for personal expression. But if your daughter walked through the front door with this train-wreck, you'd punch his lights out before he took two steps inside your castle. At least I would.

"What can I get you?" Nose Ring asked, his voice laced with boredom.

"Two large coffees please."

"Would you like to try one of our hand-roasted selections? We brew it right at your table in a glass flask that brings out the subtle notes of the bean."

"Not this morning. I'm kind of in a hurry." Subtle notes my ass. What's next, the fucking coffee harmonizes like Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young?

"You sure?" he asked. "This morning we're featuring Esmeralda Special Geisha..." He droned on for a while like he hadn't heard me. "...It comes from a small, fair trade plantation in Panama and is considered one of the finest..."

"Coffee. Large. Two of 'em," I snapped. "Pronto."

Nose ring eyed me for a moment, then shuffled over to a standard looking coffee brewer. "That'll be seven fifty," he said, setting two giant mismatched cups on the counter.

I fished a ten from my wallet and passed it to him. He put the ten in the cash register and stood there holding the two fifty he owed me. Then he had the balls to ask, "Do you need change?"

I was ready to spit nails...right through his nose ring. I glanced at his knuckles, then looked at him and smiled. "Fuck you...I like that." I snatched the bills from his hand. "You keep the coins. The subtle notes with Washington's face on 'em are coming with me."

With coffee in hand, I found Caroline all the way in the back of the store. She sat at an empty table fiddling with her phone. I handed her a cup, then settled in across from her.

"I need everything you've been able to uncover so far," she said. "And I do mean everything." She cocked an eyebrow and gave me the law enforcement stare.

"I want in Caroline," I said, trying to wedge my way into the case.

She scoffed. "Look, Fontaine, this is a murder investigation now, not a missing person's case. Claire's death has already been leaked, the media's all over it and rumors are swirling that someone killed her because she had some kind of new information that could squash the harbor expansion." She paused to rub her tired eyes. "We're catching heat from as high up as the governor's office. The Vice President of the United States even made a trip down here to stump for the harbor project. This case is a fucking powder keg, and you, my friend, are a walking incendiary device."

She went on like that for a while, listing all the reasons why my help wasn't needed. But even without a connection between Claire's death and the Savannah Port, the sad irony of her being found dead in the river she tried to protect would prove irresistible. It was already the lead story on every local news station in Savannah. I knew if this wasn't wrapped up quick, the tabloid piranhas would swarm, chewing off hunks of flesh.

"I can help you break this case, Caroline."

She stirred her coffee. "Have you even spoken with Cavanaugh? You might be out of a job already."

"I'm heading over to see him soon as you and I finish up."

I had absolutely no intention of dropping in on Cavanaugh. After the little pow-wow yesterday with Jack Hutchins, I wondered if Cavanaugh's own hands might be dirty. But that didn't seem to make sense. Cavanaugh was the one who hired me. At this point, I didn't know what to think.

Caroline pulled a pen and a small dog-eared notebook from her purse. "Fill me in on Bill Taylor."

I nodded. "He's a Jasper County bigwig and a pain in the ass. He's president of his Daddy's bank, and he owns a big chunk of the site where the county wants to build that gambling casino. He and Claire were supposed to tie the knot last month at St. Michael's in Charleston, but she called it off a few weeks before the wedding. According to Claire's parents, Taylor smacked her around when she kicked him to the curb."

"Do we know why the wedding was canceled?" she asked, furiously scribbling in her notebook.

"According to Taylor, Claire met somebody else."

She looked up and stared. "Did he tell you who?"

"He was beyond uncooperative. Said he didn't know the other guy's name."

"Was the domestic violence reported?"

"Claire told her parents, but she refused to file a police report."

"So all we have is the parents' word, which makes it hearsay." She blew on her cup, then took a sip. "Mmm. Good coffee."

"Can you taste the subtle notes?"

"The what?"

"Forget it."

"Will you please stop fucking around and focus?" She studied her notebook, regained the wind in her sails and said, "Alright, what else have you got?"

"Taylor was in town last Friday, having dinner with friends at Leoci's. They left the restaurant at approximately 10:00 P.M. He supposedly got in his car and drove home alone to Hardeeville. That puts him in the vicinity of Claire's townhouse."

Caroline leaned toward me and lowered her voice. "I don't want you breathing a word of this Fontaine, but that puts him near her place close to the time Claire went in the water." She took a sip of coffee, then continued, "We caught a break. Claire was wearing a watch that stopped working at 11:14 P.M. Friday night."

I thought about that for a moment. "A marine biologist wearing a non-waterproof watch. What are the chances?"

"It's an expensive watch, eighteen carat with twelve diamonds circling the face."

"It wasn't robbery, then. If she was mugged the watch would be the first thing they'd grab."

And if it wasn't robbery, that increased the odds that Bill Taylor was the killer. His motive was jealousy. Claire jilted him for a new man. Not only that, it was two weeks before he was supposed to get married.

I asked Caroline, "Has the ME made a positive identification?"

"Not officially, but the watch was given to Claire by her parents. The clothes and hair color are a match too. It's her Fontaine. When her mother saw the watch she collapsed. Doctors have her sedated, so we're pumping the father for as much information as we can get out of him."

"What about cause of death?"

"This hasn't been released yet. Claire was shot in the back of the head from close range. There were powder burns on her skull."

"Was the bullet recovered?"

"No bullet, but because of the powder burns we know it was a handgun."

I recalled Claire's Facebook photos. Her beautiful face. Those emerald eyes.

"Was she sexually assaulted Caroline?"

"We'll have to wait for the lab results, but I can tell you this. Her clothes were intact. They weren't torn or ripped."

I knew after that many days in the river, it was pointless to ask about signs of a struggle. I said, "Cavanaugh told me Claire's will named Green Peace as her sole beneficiary."

Caroline nodded, scribbling in the notebook.

"When do you plan on bracing Taylor?" I asked

"I'm on my way to Hardeeville as soon as you I wrap up. I'm sure he's seen the news and knows that Claire's body was found in the river."

I said, "You're gonna love this guy. An arrogant, belligerent, douche-bag."

Caroline gave me a hard-eyed look. "The two of you two must have hit it off great Fontaine."

"I treated him with all the kindness and respect he deserves." I should've bounced his head off the wall when I had the chance.

"Sure you did," she replied. "You're a real Mother Theresa. Alright Fontaine, what else?"

I weighed the pros and cons of showing her the poem I'd swiped from Lydia Baker. It was mailed the day Claire disappeared, but Caroline might throw my ass in jail for tampering with the mail.

I said, "Not much. I spoke with a woman named Olivia Anderson. She was supposed to be Claire's maid-of-honor. According to her, Claire had run-ins with Congressman John Thigpen as well as a real estate developer named Frank Chambers. According to Olivia, both incidents involved the port."

"How is Chambers connected to the port?"

"He owns what's supposed to be the last significant tract of undeveloped land close to it. Chambers is also the developer of a high-end residential community called Liberty Island. It's along the coast south of Savannah." I watched her jotting notes into her notebook, then added, "Get this. According to the tax records, Chambers' lender for both Liberty Island and his site near the port is none other than Bill Taylor's Hardeeville Bank and Trust."

Caroline shrugged. "I don't know how that ties in, but I can tell you this...if Claire's death had anything to do with dredging the river, and the project gets delayed yet again, this town might explode." She stayed silent for a while, then asked, "Is that all you've got?"

"That's about it."

"Alright Fontaine, I'll check in with you later."

Caroline stood and left me sitting there, a swirling eddy of lightly perfumed air trailing in her wake.

I watched her go, then drained the last of my coffee. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and I was already late.

# Chapter Thirteen

Black wrought iron gates set between stone pillars guarded the entrance to Liberty Island. Access was gained by punching a code into a post mounted security keypad. I leaned out the window and pushed the visitor button. A tinny voice through the speaker asked, "Can I help you?"

"Morning. This is Glen with UPS. I've got a package for Frank Chambers."

A slight pause: "You can drop it off at the sales center. Look for the signs." The gates swung open and I drove through.

I figured I had ten to fifteen minutes before the cavalry was dispatched to find the missing UPS truck, so I decided to take a little tour.

The mid-morning air was thick and warm as I motored with my window down, breathing in the smell of ocean air and salt marsh. The Newport River was to my left, cutting a serpentine path to the Atlantic, and a network of lazy tidal creeks and live oak hammocks were on my right.

I hung a right, crossed over an arched wooden bridge and kept driving for another five minutes or so. I passed a golf course with manicured fairways lined with palm trees and pines. The clubhouse looked like Tara from "Gone With The Wind," only with a better view. Surrounding the clubhouse were twelve tennis courts, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and an outdoor dining patio.

Crossing onto yet another island, I came upon some neatly fenced paddocks where horses grazed beneath the spreading branches of brooding live oaks. White wooden fences lined both sides of the road. A cupola-topped stable sat in the middle of this pastoral paradise. Framed in mortar-and-tenor heavy timber, covered in reclaimed wood, and roofed with cedar shakes and corrugated tin, it appeared to be a survivor from the plantation era. But it was recently built.

A side road led to the skeet shooting range. I kept driving until I came to the deep-water marina. A couple sailboats and a few pleasure crafts were moored at the dock.

A weathered sign pointed the way to the luxury spa. It sat on the bank of the river, with a wooden dock behind it that extended far out into the water. After a stressful day of counting your money, you could pull the boat right up to the dock, step inside, and get a message.

A great deal of thought, not to mention a tremendous amount of expense, went into creating Liberty Island. And it was a fantasy of cocktails on the veranda and never ending hors d'oeuvres. Served with a deferential smile by bowing and scraping white-gloved waiters.

The only thing I didn't see were people. I mean there was no one playing the golf course, or riding the horses, or even swimming laps in the pool. This orgy of excess looked like a billionaire's ghost town.

Time to meet the lord of the manor. I followed the signs until I found the sales center, a two-story red brick edifice with eighteenth-century Georgian architecture. I parked, got out of the car, then hiked up the steps. A placard next to the front door said, "No Spikes Allowed."

Inside, a bouncy little brunette with an oversized pair of store bought tatas nested behind her desk. "How can I help you?" she asked, leaning forward, offering up a peek of the Promised Land.

"Ray Fontaine to see Frank Chambers."

"Are you one of our owners?" she asked, looking puzzled. "I don't recognize your name."

I shook my head. "No. I'm not one of the owners, but let Frank know I'm here anyway will you please?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Can I let him know what this is about?"

"Sure. Tell him I'm Hector Menendez's attorney." Nothing brings the boss running like the threat of a lawsuit.

She shimmied over to a side credenza, picked up one of those hand held walkie-talkies and held it to her mouth. "Frank, it's Jenette. You've got a visitor."

Through the crackling static, I heard Chambers say, "Who is it?"

"His name's Ray...he says he's an attorney."

"Yeah? What's he want?"

Being a man of action, as well as extreme impatience, I took the walkie-talkie from her. "Morning Frank. My name's Ray Fontaine. I'd like to talk to you about workplace safety and what happened when that retaining wall collapsed on Hector Menendez." Dead silence. "You still with me Frank?"

"Give me a few minutes," came his terse reply.

I handed her the walkie-talkie, then went to inspect a framed aerial photograph of Liberty Island hanging on the wall. From ten thousand feet, I could see just how spectacular this stretch of coastal Georgia really was. In addition to the miles of river frontage, there were fresh water ponds and lakes, and a maze of tidal creeks meandering through the marsh. Stunning. There were other photos of Liberty Island in various stages of development and a watercolor rendering of the marina.

Behind me, I heard the door swing open. I turned, and Frank Chambers lumbered inside. He looked to be in his late fifties, with a lacquered helmet of gray hair and bulging fish eyes. Ill-fitting golf duds accentuated his malleable, jellyfish body. It was strange. Almost like he lacked a couple of structural bones. And his skin was smooth and hairless. No kidding. Other than the plastered locks on his head, I couldn't detect a follicle on him anywhere. Surf and Turf. Half man. Half manatee.

Chambers spotted me, and his hand was out for a shake from halfway across the room. We shook, and his fingers were moist and kind of squishy. But in an effort to prove he was the man, Chambers gave me the bone crusher routine. I squeezed his damp, meaty paw right back, and we played that uniquely male game known as "mine's bigger than yours."

While this was going on, the brunette was looking at Chambers like he was some kind of conquering hero, home after a long campaign in the hinterland. Doe-eyed admiration was tattooed to her face, and it was kind of obvious they were making nice-nice between the sheets. But like my crusty old editor, the esteemed and thrice divorced Harry Maclean put it, 'If it has tits or tires, sooner or later you're gonna pay.' Good old Harry. He always did have a way with words.

"Why don't we step outside," Chambers said, steering me toward the door. "We can talk while I show you around." He said to Jenette, "Hold my calls, will you, hon?" I'm betting that's not all Jenette holds.

Parked next to the GTO was a yellow golf cart emblazoned with the Liberty Island logo. Chambers gestured toward the cart, hoisted his hefty body in on the driver side, and I climbed in next to him. He put it in reverse, did a three-point turn, then mashed the accelerator.

We lurched forward, and he swiveled his head in my direction. "I'm not sure what you've heard, but I can assure you Hector was well taken care of."

"I guess that's one way of keeping OSHA off your back."

He prattled on about the inherent dangers of working construction. Emphasizing how long he'd been in business, Chambers highlighted his spotless safety record, the painstakingly developed projects he'd completed, and the hard-won success he'd gained.

We took a left. In front of us was one of the fresh water lakes I'd seen in the aerial photo. At the far end of the lake was a large wooden boathouse. At least that's what it looked like at first glance. But it was actually a plane hangar. Inside the hangar, bobbing on the smooth surface of the water, were two Cessna floatplanes.

Chambers pulled the cart to the side of the road, then said to me, "Liberty Island is one of the last significant pieces of lowcountry land left anywhere." He waved a fat hand in the direction of the lake, then cast a ponderous glance in my direction. "I've worked my entire career for this. It's gonna be my legacy. You have any idea how tough it is to pull off a deal like this." He leaned to the side, reached inside the front pocket of his pants, and pulled out a couple Tootsie Rolls. "Want one?"

"Think I'll pass."

He untwisted the paper wrapper, popped it in his mouth, and worked it around inside his cheek. "Listen," he said, chomping on his brown cud, "what happened to Hector Menendez was an unforeseeable accident. I took good care of his people. They'll never have to worry about money again."

I sat there looking across the water, but didn't respond.

Chambers turned the cart around and reversed course.

With his eyes on the road, he said, "I'm sure you and I can work something out between us." He paused for a long moment, then added, "Hey, I've got a great idea. Maybe you and a girlfriend can stop by sometime. I'll get my pilot to run you out to one of the islands." He gave me a barracuda smile. "Nothing like a little beach fucking to make you feel like a man."

You'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger fan of alfresco sex than me, but this asshole was trying to buy me off. Time to swat the hornets' nest. "What about Claire Robertson. You take care of her too?"

If he was shocked, or even surprised for that matter, Chambers' round face remained impassive. "Why are you asking me about Claire Robertson?"

"She's dead."

"So I heard. What's that got to do with me?"

"I'm a private investigator. I'm trying to find out who killed her. I know she tried to make it tough for you to rezone your site near the port."

"So what. You have any idea how many people oppose some of my projects? Comes with the territory my friend." The way he spat out the words 'my friend' made it perfectly clear we wouldn't be sending holiday cards to one another any time soon. "You accusing me?"

"Just trying to eliminate suspects."

"I've got nothing to hide. So if you want to ask me something, go ahead and ask...then get the hell off my land."

"Where were you Friday night?"

"Having dinner with some business associates aboard my yacht."

"Can anyone vouch for you?"

"Dave Quinn. He's my yacht captain."

"Dave over at the boat dock?"

He shook his head. "The Rendezvous is up in Thunderbolt at the Bull River Marina having some repairs done. Dave took it in this morning."

"An old friend of mine lives in Thunderbolt. You might know him. His name's Wayne Kendall."

The cart slid to a stop in front of the sales center. We climbed out and faced one another. Chambers eyes locked onto mine like magnets. "Let me tell you something," he said, fat finger jabbing in my direction. "Claire Robertson was a self-righteous bitch who got what was coming to her. She went out of her way to make things hard on anyone who disagreed with her. Everyone in this goddamn state wants that harbor expanded. Whoever killed her did us all a favor."

I got up in his face and stared into his eyes. So close, I could smell Tootsie Roll on his breath.

"Is that right," I growled. "Mark my words you semi-aquatic beast. If you had anything to do with her death, you'd better start swimming and pray I don't find you." I stepped back and looked at him. "For Christ's sake, you dumbass, buy some clothes that fit. You look like a beached beluga whale."

Chambers' hands balled his into fists. A thick purple vein pulsed on his forehead, and his corpulent face quivered with rage. "Fuck you," he bellowed, spraying spittle. "I don't know how you weaseled your way in here, but this is private property and you're trespassing. I could have your ass thrown in jail, so watch your mouth, mister." He spun on his heels and stomped up the steps.

Good advice. I ignored it. Instead, I called out, "Hey Sockeye. How's the view from atop Mount Bouncy?"

He turned and waved goodbye...with his middle finger.

# Chapter Fourteen

Except for an elderly couple looking at some black and white photos, the Sapelo Island Visitor Center was completely devoid of visitors. This wasn't a complete surprise; it's located off the beaten path in the small community of Meridian. The only time I'd been here before, which was when I attended the wedding at the Reynolds Mansion, it had been the same way.

Anyway, in addition to the elderly couple, there was one employee, a stout, iron-haired woman in her mid-fifties. She was ensconced behind a wooden counter, and like most government employees, she appeared to have mastered the art of sleeping while standing up.

Worth mentioning, not just anyone is allowed on the ferry, or on the island for that matter. The only people granted access are Sapelo residents and their guests, people staying at the Reynolds mansion, or those taking a four-hour canned tour. No bridge to the mainland and a limited number of visitors contributes to the pristine condition of the island.

I'd yet to speak to Cavanaugh and wasn't allowed out on Sapelo. So why was I here? I wasn't exactly sure, but I'd been shut out of the murder investigation, and was forced to kind of scrape the outer edges of the case.

I ambled about for a bit, looking at photos and checking out some of the exhibits. I was inspecting a black and white photo of President Herbert Hoover taken on Sapelo in 1933 when I noticed a stack of brochures for a volunteer organization called The Sapelo Preservation Society. On the front cover of the brochure was a photo of the Reynolds Mansion. I flipped through it, then approached the woman behind the counter. I hated to interrupt her nap, but duty called. I cleared my throat, and her eyes flew open like I'd stuck her with a cattle prod.

"Can you fill me in on The Sapelo Preservation Society?" I asked.

"Oh," she said with a flourish. "The Preservation Society is a fabulous organization. They lead tours of the Reynolds Mansion several times a year, and every Christmas they decorate it in a festive motif. You wouldn't believe how magical it looks."

"That's it?"

"Well, no. They also raise funds for a number of important projects on the island. The greenhouse is in a terrible state of disrepair. The turkey fountain needs attention..."

"Don't they all?"

She looked baffled. "Don't they all what?"

"Just thinking out loud. Please continue."

"Yes, of course. Where was I?"

"Turkey fountain."

"That's right. Here, let me show you."

She opened the brochure and pointed to a photo of a dilapidated fountain with a deranged looking turkey roosting on top. I think F. Scott Fitzgerald had it right. The rich are different from you and me. They waste vast sums of money on ridiculous shit like this. Just as youth is wasted on the young, wealth, I concluded long ago, is wasted on the rich.

"R.J. Reynolds gave the fountain to his wife as a Christmas present," she informed me.

"He should've stuck with a sensible pair of earrings."

She stood there looking at me, trying to decide if I was pulling her leg or was just mentally challenged.

"I'm not sure about that," she said, knitting her brow. "But if you're interested in joining the Preservation Society, they're always looking for new members. There's a phone number on the back of the brochure."

"Sounds like a swell group. Can you tell me where they're located?"

She smiled. "Of course. They're in a large two story colonial on Franklin Square down in Darien. There's a sign out front. You can't miss it, but if you get turned around, just stop and ask."

Real men never stop for directions. We'd rather drive around in circles all day like a bunch of fools.

With brochure in hand, I stepped outside. It was time to check out Darien. In addition to being the home of the Sapelo Preservation Society, it's where the poem I filched off Claire's neighbor had been postmarked.

I pulled out of the visitor center, hung a left, and drove for a little while, listening to the radio and letting my mind wander. I thought about Caroline and wondered if she was making any progress with Bill Taylor. I am by nature a very competitive person. And while she and I weren't necessarily competing to see who could solve the case first, I was still a little pissed about being told my help wasn't needed. Nothing puts a little starch in my shorts like proving people wrong.

I was now heading due south along Georgia Highway 99. To be frank, calling this desolate strip of blacktop a highway is a bit of a stretch. It's a narrow two-lane road lined with ramshackle homes set back among the pines. It's also the most eastern roadway through this section of coastal Georgia. Anything east of me was marsh, river, island, or the Atlantic Ocean. Next stop Morocco.

I checked my gauges and noticed I was low on fuel. Up ahead, off the side of the highway, was a gas station/convenience store. I pulled in next to the pump, hopped out, and had a look around. Granted, most of these places don't make the front cover Architectural Digest. But this dump was a low-slung pile of concrete blocks, with peeling roof shingles, filmy plate glass windows, and a trash dumpster that looked like it hadn't been emptied since Ronald Reagan was in office.

There was a gaunt looking pit bull over in the far corner of the gravel parking lot. The pooch was chained to a rusty boat trailer and looked about as pleased to be here as I was. The mutt bared its teeth and greeted me with a guttural growl. With one eye on the dog, I swiped my debit card at the pump. The digital message said read see the attendant. Fuck.

I glanced over my shoulder as I tromped across the gravel lot, praying the dog's chain didn't have enough slack to afford a chomp on my ankle. I jerked the door open and stepped inside the dingy hovel. The proprietor was a big, bullet-headed Eastern European type: I'm guessing a foot soldier for the Russian mob. He had a thick accent and surly attitude. Standing sentry with his thick arms crossed, he followed my every move to ensure I didn't palm a stale pack of cheese crackers or some pork rinds.

I had to hand it to him though. Bullet Head was chasing the American dream like the rest of us. He carried a wide selection of lottery tickets, sexual enhancers, energy drinks, and drug paraphernalia. Let's hear it for the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Since I wasn't terribly keen on having my debit card cloned, and every last dime hoovered out of my bank account, I left the plastic in my wallet and opted to pay with good old American cash. You can't be too careful these days. Before purchasing the fuel, I gathered a handful of those enormous beef jerky sticks from the display rack. I forked over two twenties, stepped outside, and tossed the dehydrated meat sticks to Fido. You didn't think I was going to eat that garbage did you? My good deed finished for the day, I gassed up and soldiered on.

As I drove, the sky above was a pale shade of blue, festooned with those big, puffy, popcorn-shaped clouds you see along the coast. The time on my watch said 11:30 A.M. I found a radio station playing CCR's "Born on the Bayou," John Fogerty belting out the lyrics 'I can still hear my old hound dog barking, chasing down a hoodoo there.'

Seven or eight miles later, I reached Darien, Georgia's second oldest city. More of a coastal river town, Darien sits at the mouth of the mighty Altamaha River. From what I could see out my window, it had a decent looking community park along the waterfront. There was a young mother pushing a baby stroller, and I noticed a large fleet of shrimp trawlers moored at the marina.

I cruised around for a bit, looking for Franklin Street and the Sapelo Preservation Society. I passed an elementary school, the entrance to Fort King George, and a clutter of brick and clapboard ranch houses. Most of the homes looked clean and tidy, with well-kept yards free of the usual claptrap...broken down washing machines, cars up on blocks, that type of thing. And none of the residents seemed to resemble the walking dead. But if I lived here, I'd end up putting my head in the oven. Small towns give me the willies.

After a couple of wrong turns, I finally found Franklin Street, then Vernon Square, which wasn't a square, but a circular turnaround. Adjacent to the square was the two-story colonial. There was a heavily lacquered wooden sign out front. It said: Sapelo Preservation Society and Museum. Beneath that, it listed the days and hours the museum was open to the public. Unfortunately, it was only open on the weekends.

One of my mantras is pay no attention to the signs. Can you imagine what would've happened if Columbus had turned the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria around the first time he came across a sign that said the world is flat? We'd all be stuck on the other side of the pond, wrestling with the pesky euro crisis. Am I right?

Anyway, I climbed out from behind the wheel, went up a set of wooden steps to a big front porch, and yanked on the door. Locked. I pounded a couple times with my fist, loud enough to rattle the door frame, but to no avail. No one was about.

As I retreated back down the steps, a sporty little two-door Audi slid into the gravel lot. The car door opened, a good looking, thirty-something woman got out of the car. She shielded the sun from her eyes with her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said. "The museum's closed."

"That's too bad. I'm here to rescue the turkey fountain."

She laughed. "Tell you what. I need to step inside for a couple minutes. I think I left my sunglasses in the office. But if you can be quick, you're welcome to join me." She walked up to me and extended her hand. "I'm Natalie Grant."

Bottom line, she was a looker: sleek and slender, with soft round curves. She had short brown hair, smoldering brown eyes, and legs longer than a Wyoming winter. Her attire was casual: a beige cotton skirt that ended a couple inches above the knees, a simple, peach-colored sleeveless top, and summer sandals with pearly pink toenails peeking out. A no-muss, no-fuss type, she wore little to no makeup...a swipe of lip gloss, and minimal jewelry...a thin gold bracelet on her left wrist. Unadorned, and smoking hot. It could be worse. It could be much worse.

I took her hand. "Ray Fontaine. It's a pleasure to meet you."

I followed her back up the steps, and she unlocked the front door. Glancing over her shoulder, she said to me, "What brings you to the Preservation Society?"

I thought about trotting out my turkey fountain line again. Get it...turkey trot? Never mind. "I'm interested in learning all I can about Sapelo. I was up at the visitor center and noticed one of your brochures." Just then my stomach growled, and I realized I hadn't eaten all day.

She chuckled. "Sounds like you're interested in lunch."

Actually, I was interested in seeing what she looked like beneath the clothes.

"Where's a good place to grab a bite to eat?" I asked.

"What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm not picky. I can eat almost anything except tofu and vegetables. I'm allergic to health food."

Natalie looked at me and smiled. "Healthy eating is the secret to a long and happy life." Healthy eating is the secret? And all this time I thought it was money and sex. Scratch that, make it sex and money. "If you like seafood," she went on, "Hammerheads has some of the freshest in town. I'm on my way over there myself."

Never one to pass up an opportunity to sup with a beautiful woman, I said, "Why don't you let me take you to lunch. It's the least I can do to repay your kindness."

"You're not some kind of weirdo are you?"

"I'm an Eagle Scout. Honest, forthright and trustworthy. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night ..."

She rolled her eyes. "That's the Post Office motto, but you don't look too dangerous."

What? Danger's my middle name. Well, actually it's Erwin, but you get the picture.

"Don't worry," I said. "I promise to be a complete gentleman."

She gave me a sly look. "Where's the fun in that?" Oh my, the comely Ms. Grant has a wild side. She added, "Let me see if I can find my sunglasses, and then you can take me to lunch. Why don't you have a look around, and I'll be right back."

While I cooled my heels in the small museum, Natalie ascended the steps to the second floor. While she was gone, I checked out some photos of the island, including one of famed aviator Charles Lindbergh, who, according to the caption, landed his plane on Sapelo in 1929.

Less than five minutes later, Natalie was back with sunglasses in hand. We walked out together, and she locked up.

Standing in the gravel lot, I said to her, "I'll be happy to drive."

"What kind of car is that?"

"It's a Pontiac GTO. You like?"

She looked me in the eye for a long moment. "Sexy." Was she talking about me or the car?

"What do you say...shall we give it a spin?"

"We'll take my car," she replied. "But I've got to warn you...I'm armed with pepper spray." She pulled a small silver canister from her purse and pointed it at me. "One false move out of you, and I'll hit you with a stream right between the eyes." She walked to the rear of my car and whipped out her phone. "Just so you know, I'm also texting your tag number to one of my employees." When Natalie finished punching in the numbers, she looked up and said, "Let's eat Eagle Scout. I'm starved."

She unlocked the Audi's doors with her key fob, and we slid into the little car. She started it up, tapped the accelerator once or twice, and the motor growled under the hood. Natalie fiddled with the car radio, then looked at me and smiled.

"Are you a fan of NPR?" she asked.

"Who isn't?"

I hate NPR. Nothing worse than a passel of boring hens endlessly pontificating about the most inane topics. And don't get me started on their eunuch counterparts. Not a pair of balls in the bunch.

"Oh good," she said. "There's this wonderful program I listen to called The Tasty Table. Do you like knife and fork radio programs?"

"Who doesn't?"

I wanted to stick a fork in my carotid artery.

Natalie engaged the clutch, put it in first, and sprayed a little gravel as she pulled out of the lot. And being the aforementioned Eagle Scout, which was horseshit, by the way, I tried my best to keep my eyes on the road. But her skirt kept riding up every time she shifted gears, and her tan thighs were really something. I think I might've mentioned, I'm a leg man.

# Chapter Fifteen

While she drove, Natalie played tour guide, giving me the lay of the land. "You know," she said, glancing in my direction, "both Darien and McIntosh County were founded by Scottish Highlanders soon after Oglethorpe established the Georgia Colony. The Highlanders were legendary warriors, and Oglethorpe was worried about the Spanish down in Florida."

"Cubans?"

She laughed. "No, not the Cubans, the Spanish. DeSoto, Cortez, Ponce de Leon...the conquistadors. The British wanted to keep the Spanish from expanding northward. So Oglethorpe had the Scots rebuild Fort King George, which had been destroyed by fire in the 1720's, and then he built Fort Frederica on St. Simons for the same reason."

"Tell me something. If the town was founded by the Scots, how'd they come up with a name like Darien? You'd think it'd be something like Glenfiddich."

Now there's a name that appealed to me. Where do you live Mr. Fontaine? I live in Glenfiddich, thank you very much. I could get used to that. It had a nice ring to it. Glenfiddich.

Natalie downshifted and hit the accelerator; I put my eyeballs back in my head.

"The name Darien," she said, banging the gears, "comes from a region in southern Panama. In the late 1600's the Scots tried to settle an outpost in Panama in the hopes of establishing trade with the Far East. But the settlement was poorly equipped and besieged by rain. Plus, they were under constant attack from the Spanish sailing up from Cartagena. The settlement was abandoned sometime around 1700."

"Never trust a man with a feather sticking out of his helmet."

Another laugh. "That's what Oglethorpe thought. The British had settled Charleston, the Spanish were garrisoned in Florida, and Georgia was the land in between these two warring empires. England was determined to stop Spain from expanding, so Spain tried to cripple the British Colonies economically. The Colonies relied on cheap labor, which is one of the reasons reason why slavery thrived. So Spain let it be known that any escaped slaves that crossed the St. Marys River and made it into Florida would become a free man."

"No kidding."

"You've heard "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" before haven't you?"

"Saw 'em in concert a few years ago."

She ignored this and said, "The first free settlement for African Americans was located just outside St Augustine. It was called Fort Mose. When Florida was ceded to the British under The Treaty of Paris in 1763, the freed blacks, along with the rest of the Spanish population, relocated to Cuba."

I was impressed. And not just with her legs.

"You seem to have a pretty good handle on your history."

"I should. I have a Ph.D. in American History from William and Mary College."

"And that's what you do...you're a historian?"

"I'm a part-time professor. I teach a course in early American history Tuesday and Thursday evenings at Savannah State." She paused and looked over at me. "I also own a little four bedroom Bed & Breakfast here in town. I don't have any guests at the moment, but I've got two couples checking in this weekend."

"Frilly curtains, creaky antiques, braided rugs and lace doilies...that kind of Bed & Breakfast?"

"It was when I bought it five years ago. I've tried to update it and bring it into the twenty-first century. You'll have to come stay with me sometime."

Since I rated staying at a B&B about as enjoyable as listening to knife and fork radio programs, I left that alone. Instead, I asked, "How does one go from getting a Ph.D. at Bill and Mary, to owning a B&B in Darien Georgia?"

"It's William and Mary wise guy. And I'll tell you my story over lunch."

We pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. On our way inside she hooked her arm through mine. I love it when women do that.

I asked her, "Would you have really doused me with pepper spray?"

"Who says I won't on the way back to your car. So you better behave Eagle Scout."

"I have a confession to make."

"Let me guess," she said, looking up at me. "You were never an Eagle Scout."

I shook my head. "I'm a polygamist from Utah with nineteen wives?"

"I'll bet you've never even set foot in Utah. But even if that were true, you'd divorce all nineteen of 'em after you met me."

This was one free-spirited woman, completely comfortable in her own skin. Did I mention her legs?

~ ~ ~

Hammerheads overlooked the Altamaha River. But instead of heading into the main dining room, Natalie took me upstairs to the oyster bar. It was a casual place, with a scarred, horseshoe-shaped bar, tables constructed of old wooden barrels, and some neon beer signs hanging on the walls.

Natalie led the way to an empty table in the corner. "Be right back," she said.

She walked over and gave the bartender a big hug. After a minute or so, she returned with two ice cold draft beers. "I took the liberty of ordering you a beer. I hope you don't mind."

"Bless you, my dear." She sat, and we clinked glasses.

"You know, this used to be a high stakes poker room." She took a sip of her beer. "In fact, McIntosh County was once a lawless place run by a crooked sheriff. There were all types of misdeeds: gambling, prostitution, that sort of thing. Not only that, but back in the seventies and the early eighties, we were a favorite destination for drug runners bringing marijuana up from Columbia. The pot smuggling reputation hung over the county like the sword of Damocles."

"Sounds more like the bong of Damocles."

"Nobody likes a wiseass." She looked at me and smiled. "I told you I'm a history professor and an innkeeper. What do you do?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you when I mentioned I have a confession to make. I'm a private investigator working on a murder case."

"Claire Robertson, am I right?" I nodded. "It's just awful," she said. "I saw the news this morning and couldn't believe it."

"Did you know her?"

"Not very well. Claire was a member of The Preservation Society. She took most of the photos of the Reynolds Mansion for the calendars we sell in the museum. She also took the photograph on the cover of our brochure." She paused and gave me a contemplative smile. "Since Claire worked out on the island, she rarely attended any of our meetings, which are held on the first Wednesday of every month. She was so beautiful; it was impossible not to notice her." Natalie was silent for a while, then said, "Claire and I had something in common. We dated the same guy, but not at the same time." 

# Chapter Sixteen

The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names

Chinese Proverb

Now obviously, this revelation was of interest to me. Particularly if this was the guy Claire dumped Bill Taylor for. But I didn't want to seem insensitive to my new lady friend, so I chose my words carefully. I said, "Ahh."

"Don't worry. He and I stopped dating a year and a half ago."

"Does he live here in Darien?"

She shook her head. "He's an archeology professor from North Florida University. Fancies himself a modern day Indiana Jones. He's been excavating at Chocolate Plantation on the north end of Sapelo for several years." _Really?_ Jack Hutchins forgot to mention that to me. I guess it slipped his mind.

I didn't want to tip my hand that I'd met the idiot archeologist only yesterday, so I said to her, "Chocolate? You've got some interesting names floating around down here."

Natalie nodded. "No one knows for sure where the name Chocolate originated, but the first English Settlement at Chocolate occurred sometime in the mid-1700's. That's when Sapelo was claimed by Mary Musgrove and her husband, Thomas Bosomworth."

It was like I'd entered some kind of strange alternative universe. The town was named for a Panamanian outpost. The plantations were named for candy bars. Bosomworth was named for some very worthy...

"Ray, are you listening to me?"

"What's that?"

"I was saying Mary Musgrove was the daughter of an English fur trader and a Creek Indian mother. She served as the interpreter between General Oglethorpe and Tomochichi."

Tomochichi, chief of the Yamacraws, is a big deal around here. He played a pivotal role in the peaceful founding of Savannah. In fact, he and Oglethorpe became such great friends, that they even sailed across the Atlantic together to meet King George. When he died, Tomochichi was laid to rest in Wright Square.

I said to Natalie, "It was Tomochichi who started Savannah's "to-go" cup tradition since he always traveled with Indian firewater in a deerskin canteen."

"Is being a wiseass a normal part of your investigative technique?"

"Sorry. We were talking about the archeologist. What is he doing on Sapelo, looking for Blackbeard's buried treasure?"

She shook her head and smiled. "He's researching plantation life in the early 1800's. But you know, Blackbeard wasn't the only one rumored to have buried treasure on these islands. Supposedly R.J. Reynolds buried hundred-pound bags of gold on Sapelo."

_Gold_? I let that ferment for a moment, then asked, "Why would Reynolds bury gold on the island? Wouldn't it be safer to just put it...you know, in a safe?"

"You have to understand this is all conjecture. But apparently in the late nineteen-fifties, Mr. Reynolds was convinced that the world markets were on the verge of collapsing. So he squirreled away millions in bearer bonds inside a safe in the mansion and buried the gold on the island. Why didn't he store the gold in the mansion? Nobody knows for sure, but some have speculated it was because he didn't trust his wife." She paused and leaned toward me. "He was on wife number three at that point, and they were heading for a divorce. He even became convinced she was trying to kill him."

This was getting interesting. But being interesting didn't necessarily mean it was consequential. I asked, "So where's the gold?"

"After divorcing his third wife right here in Darien, Reynolds got married for a fourth time. But his health was failing. He'd been a heavy drinker and smoker for years, and was suffering from severe emphysema. So sometime in the early 1960's, he went to Switzerland to try to regain his health, but he died soon afterward under mysterious circumstances. Supposedly he dug up the buried gold and took it to with him. But rumors have persisted for years that he didn't dig it all up and that some of it is still hidden out on Sapelo."

In my best pirate voice, I said, "Let's keelhaul Indiana Jones and keep the loot for ourselves."

Natalie laughed. To ensure we were talking about the same guy, I asked her, "Does Indiana Jones have a name?"

"Of course he does...Harrison Ford. Just kidding. His name's Jack Hutchins. He and Claire just started seeing each other."

An image of Jack Hutchins sitting in Cavanaugh's office popped into my head. No question, he lied to me. Was it because he didn't want to jeopardize his funding opportunity with Cavanaugh's Sea Grant? Or maybe he didn't want his wife to find out he was a philanderer. Either way, I decided Hutchins warranted further scrutiny.

I said, "I guess it was too soon to be serious."

"Jack doesn't do serious," Natalie said, crossing her legs. "He rotates between dating his students when he's in Florida, and someone older like Claire or myself when he's digging out on the island. The reality is he's a turd. He has a little ponytail and wears a diamond stud in his left ear."

"You know what they say, there's an asshole beneath every ponytail."

She laughed again. The witty and clever Ray Fontaine was on a roll. Just then, the waitress sailboarded out of the kitchen. She blew through the dining room and dropped off a couple menus. Before she left our table, Natalie said, "Can we order a dozen raw oysters and a dozen oysters Rockefeller?" She looked at me and smiled. "I hope you don't mind, but I can't get enough of 'em."

Two dozen oysters, was she trying to tell me something? "I like a woman who knows what she wants."

She chuckled. "Have you ever met a woman who truly knows what she wants? Besides, I like to be surprised. Keeps life interesting." She changed the subject. "Do you want to ask me some questions? I assume you didn't show up on our porch by accident."

"You're right, I didn't. Like I mentioned, I was up at the Sapelo visitor center this morning and found the Preservation Society brochure. So I decided to come down and have a look around. Obviously, I'm trying to figure out who might have a motive to kill Claire."

Natalie said, "The news made it sound like it might be tied to the Savannah harbor expansion. Is that true?"

"Too early to tell." With a touch of subtlety, I added, "Were you jealous when Jack started seeing Claire?"

"Am I a suspect?"

"Should you be?"

"You tell me. You're the investigator."

"Look, I'm just trying to piece together what was going on in Claire's life."

"Well, to answer your question, I wasn't the least bit jealous. Jack and I stopped dating well over a year before he and Claire became an item." She looked at me with those liquid brown eyes. "He and I were never serious, and I was the one who ended the relationship, not him."

After a failed relationship or a bend in the old career path, we all tend to accumulate a few battle scars. It comes with the territory. Believe me, I know. Still, I wondered about the issues that put an end to their relationship, and if Natalie was shining the hot light on Hutchins as a way to extract a little revenge.

I asked, "What did you think when you heard Claire had been murdered."

Natalie considered the question for a moment. "After listening to the newscaster speculate that it might have something to do with dredging the Savannah River, I figured she must have angered the wrong person. Someone with a stake in having the river deepened. Who do you think killed her?"

"I don't know. Obviously there's the river angle, but I need to talk with Jack Hutchins to see if he can clear up a few items for me."

She looked at me for a moment, then said, "I can assure you Jack had nothing to do with it."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because Jack's a wuss. Actually that's not fair. He's a pacifist, and wouldn't step on a spider. He's also a peacemaker...hates to argue, always in control of his emotions. The man avoids confrontation at all costs. It used to drive me crazy. Sometimes you need a good knock-down- drag-out to clear the air. Lord knows I did some things to infuriate him, and could never get a rise out of him."

Fat chance. She could get a rise out of any man with a pulse. "Would you mind if I asked how the two of you met?"

"Of course not. We met at the Marsh Landing ferry dock over on Sapelo. I'd been out on the island leading a tour of the Reynolds mansion and was waiting on the ferry. Jack walked up and introduced himself. Turns out we were both college professors, so we had that in common."

I asked, "Do you know any of the other people that work out on Sapelo? I'm talking about some of Claire's co-workers."

"I think the only co-worker of Claire's I've ever met is Tim Jenkins. He's one of the research scientists at the Marine Institute."

"What's he like?"

She took her time in answering. "Seems like a nice guy. I think he's married. Has a home down on St. Simons. I'd say he's probably in his late fifties. Looks like a scientist. You know, kind of rumpled and wears thick glasses."

We talked for the next ten minutes or so, though very little of what we discussed seemed directly related to the case. Natalie told me more about the Preservation Society, and the work they did on Sapelo.

She also knew many of the folks that lived around here, and quite a bit of local gossip. I realized I should be doing something more constructive than just having lunch with a beautiful woman, but after Frank Chambers, I'd used up most of my leads.

The oysters came. Between bites of shellfish and sips of beer, Natalie filled me in on more of the local lore, including the names of Georgia's three signers of The Declaration of Independence.

"One of the signers," Natalie informed me, "was Button Gwinnett. He owned St. Catherine's Island, which is just north of Blackbeard." She slurped a raw oyster from its shell, a move I found incredibly erotic. "Gwinnett was the second person to sign The Declaration."

"After John Hancock," I said, remembering Mrs. Doyle's seventh-grade civics class.

"Very good," Natalie replied, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "After the Revolutionary War, Gwinnett was killed in a pistol duel with Lachlan McIntosh just outside Savannah. Today his signature is considered the rarest of all the Declaration signers. In fact, it's one of the most valuable signatures in the world. One recently sold for over seven hundred thousand dollars."

I gave a low whistle. "I've got Willie Mays' autograph. Are you telling me Gwinnett's signature is worth more than my Willie?"

"It depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On the size of your Willie, silly." She laughed until she wiped tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry, but you asked for it." She laughed again. "You should've seen your face." Ha, ha, ha.

I took a long slug of my beer and regarded her for a moment. She was beautiful, smart, interesting, educated, free spirited, and outwardly successful. Plus, she didn't take any of my crap. I believe I was smitten.

A number of people stopped by to say hello to her, and it was obvious she was well known and well liked, which I took to be a good sign. But I had to keep reminding myself that Natalie had fallen under the spell of Jack Hutchins, and I wondered what the attraction was.

In any case, we kept the banter going, keeping it light and breezy. I looked at her and asked, "How did you get bitten by the history bug?"

"I picked it up from my grandmother. She used to tell me stories of how our family arrived on The Anne."

"Who's LeAnn?"

"Not LeAnn...The Anne. The third ship to arrive at Plymouth Massachusetts in 1623. Everyone knows the Mayflower was the first ship to arrive in 1620. The Fortune was the second to make the voyage. The Anne was the third. My ancestors on my father's side go all the way back to Plymouth Rock." This is America. Nobody cares about third place. No wonder I've never heard of The Anne.

Natalie filled me in on how she came to own a B&B in Darien, and I told her the story of how I ended up in Savannah. When I got to the part about barbecuing Troy Holden's Mercedes, her eyes grew wide. "You did not," she said.

"Word of honor," I replied.

Loosening up and letting our guards down, we polished off the rest of the oysters, then went to town on a seafood platter and a basket of peel and eat shrimp. And for a little while there, I actually forgot about the murder investigation.

When we finished eating, I paid the check and we stepped outside.

We got back in the Audi and Natalie drove me back to my car, but not before showing me where her Bed and Breakfast was located. It was a rambling old Victorian, with a rounded turret, whimsical gingerbread trim, and a wide wrap-around porch. It sat back from the street behind a white picket fence. A stately live oak lorded over the lawn, and on the left side of the house, a stone pathway led to a colorful flower garden.

We sat there idling in the gravel driveway. I asked her, "What's it like living inside an Inn?"

She held my eyes for a long moment. "I don't live in the big house. That's for my guests. I stay in a small cottage out back." In a soft sexy voice, she asked, "Are you involved with anyone?" Her eyes kind of fluttered.

Metaphorically speaking, I dipped my toe in the river, but didn't cross the Rubicon. "I don't know if it's going anywhere, but I just met someone. She owns a children's clothing store in Savannah."

Now, lest you think me noble, chivalrous, or for Christ sake an Eagle Scout, let me put that notion to rest right now. The only reason I didn't step inside and introduce her to Willie Longfellow was because I wasn't sure if the sexy and alluring Natalie Grant was still communicating with the dip-shit archeologist. I needed to know more about Jack Hutchins. He was now on my radar screen, and I didn't want him to see me coming when I crept up on him.

"Lucky girl," she replied. "Will you keep me in mind if it doesn't work out?"

I promised her I would. Natalie then drove me back to the museum. Before I got out of her car, we exchanged phone numbers. She leaned over and gave me a chaste kiss me on the cheek. "I hope you catch the killer," she said. "If you need anything else, you know where to find me."

I climbed out. Natalie honked, waved, and peeled out of the parking lot.

I must be a fool.

# Chapter Seventeen

On my way back to Savannah, I swung by the Bull River Marina to see if I could locate Dave Quinn, Frank Chamber's yacht captain. Unless he had an airtight alibi, Chambers was still near the top of my suspect list.

I pulled into the marina and parked, then wandered down to the dock and had a look around. In addition to the boat slips, the marina had a dry dock storage and a large repair facility. I spotted a mechanic in grease-stained clothes tearing apart an Evinrude marine motor. He directed me to the office, which was located inside a corrugated metal warehouse.

I pulled on the door, and a wall of heat seemed to block the entrance. Even in April, the sun beating down on the poorly insulated building had heated the interior to at least eighty-five degrees.

Behind a waist-high wooden counter, a grizzled old gent sat a behind a green metal desk. He was eating a submarine sandwich and reading Car and Driver. He looked up and asked, "Help you?"

He was thick-necked and well-fed, with trim gray hair and a white beard. A dead ringer for Ernest Hemingway. In my most friendly tone, I said, "I'm looking for Dave Quinn, the captain of the Rendezvous. Frank Chambers said I'd find him here."

"You just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago."

"When do you expect him back?"

"Probably not for a couple of weeks. The Rendezvous is out of commission for a while. We're painting the hull, installing new cabinets, and doing a complete check of the electronics."

"How do I get in touch with him?"

'Papa' belched. "We don't give out personal information." He stuffed a hunk of sandwich into his mouth and went back to his magazine.

I slid two fifties from my wallet and held them up for him to see. He swabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, rose from his desk, then sauntered over and grabbed the cash. "Give me a minute." I noticed he had a dab of mustard on his shirt.

He pulled open a file cabinet drawer and extracted a yellow folder. He rifled through it until he located a business card. He photocopied the card, then put the file back in the cabinet and handed the copy to me. "Have a nice day," he said.

I glanced at the sheet of paper. In addition to his name and occupation, the card had Quinn's phone number and email address. I said to him, "I really enjoyed The Old Man and the Sea. But man I sure do wish he could've gotten that marlin home in one piece."

I stepped outside and headed across the parking lot. As I got close to my car I noticed I'd been dive bombed. Seagull shit sat smack in the middle of my windshield. So I went down to the dock and started picking through a trash can. I managed to find an empty Coke bottle and an old oily rag. I filled the bottle with river water and carried it back to my car, then cleaned the bird shit off as best I could.

Sitting behind the wheel, I tried reaching Dave Quinn on my cell. His voice mail picked up, and I hung up without leaving a message. I sat there and tried to figure out my next move.

What I really needed were the necessary tools to solve the murder: access to the crime scene, forensic reports, financial and phone records, things of that sort. Since I knew none of these items would be forthcoming, I'd have to wing it. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the city.

~ ~ ~

In November 1864, Union General William Tecumseh Sherman left the captured city of Atlanta in flames. He then pointed his army south, on the fabled march to the sea. His intent was to break the back of the confederacy. Sherman tore up railroad tracks, burned plantations, destroyed crops and laid waste to everything in his path. The first practitioner of the wartime strategy known as scorched earth.

Four weeks after leaving Atlanta, Sherman and his boys hit town. Upon entering the city, he became mesmerized by the tranquil beauty. So instead of burning Savannah, he gave us to President Lincoln for Christmas. "Merry Christmas Abe. I've got Savannah wrapped up in a bow for you. Give my best to Mary."

Now jump ahead forty odd years to the early part of the twentieth century. The South's plantation society is a distant memory. A new century and a new era have begun.

The automobile, a recent invention, begins to appear on the crude roads of America's towns and cities. At first it was considered nothing but a toy for the moneyed elite. But eventually there will be hundreds of startup companies, cranking out cars by the thousands.

Before that happens, though, the American public falls in love with auto racing. Daring drivers piloting roaring machines at breakneck speeds were all the rage. And, believe it or not, for a few short years, Savannah was the epicenter of car racing.

In 1908, forty-four years after Sherman spared us the torch, Savannah hosted the very first Grand Prix race ever held in the USA, the aptly named American Grand Prize. The Grand Prize wasn't staged in 1909, but it returned to Savannah in 1910 and 1911. These races predated the first Indianapolis 500 by a couple years and attracted the top race car drivers in the world.

Hundreds of thousands of fans flocked to Savannah to see the races. They came from all over the country. Wealthy New Yorkers arrived by luxuriously appointed trains known as Wall Street Specials. In fact, every hotel and boarding house in town was packed beyond capacity. Pressed for space, the DeSoto Hotel lined its ballroom with cots to accommodate the overflowing crowd. Even the city jail was used. It was converted into the private sleeping quarters for Harvey Firestone of the Firestone Tire Company.

Determined to have one of the fastest tracks in the world, Savannah used prison labor to construct and improve the roads for the historic races. And, believe it or not, those crude cars could reach speeds of eighty miles an hour.

In attendance at the 1910 race was Howard Coffin, a founder of the Hudson Automobile Company. Coffin fell hard for the sublime beauty of the Georgia coast. A millionaire many times over by the time he turned thirty, Coffin purchased Sapelo Island not long after that 1910 race for the fire sale price of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

In addition to Sapelo, Coffin bought up vast tracts of land on St. Simons Island. He also purchased Sea Island, where he built the famous Cloister Hotel and founded the Sea Island Company.

Victory Drive, the ribbon of asphalt I was navigating on my return from the Bull River Marina, was part of the original course layout. Today it borders two very unique neighborhoods: Ardsley Park and Chatham Crescent. These were Savannah's first automobile suburbs, due in large part, to the success of the great Savannah races.

Anyway, there I was, heading west on Victory, not far from where the racecourse starting line once stood. Afternoon traffic was starting to pick up. Grayson Stadium, home of our minor league baseball team, was on my left. Ahead and to my right, was the WSAV building, the local NBC broadcast affiliate. Beyond that, historic homes and live oak trees line the street.

I glanced in my rear view and noticed a dark Chevy Camaro ripping up asphalt like one of the race cars of old. The car changed lanes several times, weaving in and out of traffic, then fell in behind me.

The Camaro pulled in tight and rode my bumper for a block or two. So close, if I tapped my brakes, they'd end up in my back seat. With one eye on the road and one eye on the mirror, I downshifted and hit the gas, putting a little space between us. The Camaro's driver punched it and locked onto my bumper again. The sun glared off his windshield, the grill shiny and looming. I checked my rear view once again. Two assholes riding low in the front seat, grinning like jack-o-lanterns.

I stuck my hand out the window and gave the driver the finger. He returned the salute. The jerk-off on the passenger side raised a pump-action shotgun, racked a shell, then leaned out the window and leveled it at the back of my car.

I flogged it, whipped the wheel to the right, and the GTO's throbbing V8 roared. I fishtailed onto Waters Avenue, a funnel cloud of tire smoke trailing behind me. I heard, then felt, the concussive blast explode my rear windshield. A pale mist of shattered glass. The back end of my car broke loose, and I lost control. Then a flood of white-hot adrenaline coursed through me like a river of electric eels. I swerved into oncoming traffic and glimpsed faces. Eyes flung open. Mouths agape. Horns blaring. Tires squealing.

I turned into the skid and almost clipped a blue Honda Civic traveling in the opposite direction. I yanked hard on the steering wheel, but over-corrected and jumped the curb. I stood on the brakes and jerked the wheel back to the left. I spun completely around, then got it under control and slid to a stop. Another couple of inches, and I would have t-boned a Shell station gas pump.

I let out a lungful of air and forced myself to breathe. I felt the back of my head, then looked at my hand. No blood, but the message was clear...BACK THE FUCK OFF.

I climbed out and did a quick inventory. In addition to the blown-out glass, the buckshot penetrated the metal skin of the car and shattered one of my taillights. My blood boiled at the thought of what would've happened if Megan had been riding in the back seat.

I checked the street, but the Camaro was nowhere in sight. I jumped back in the GTO and got the hell out of there. 

# Chapter Eighteen

"What'd you do, use the back of your car for target practice?" asked Chip, a guy in his early thirties. Chip worked for Coastal Auto Glass, one of those mobile glass replacement outfits. We were standing in front of my place, and he was running his fingers over the pitted pockmarks on the back end of the GTO.

"Quail hunting accident," I replied. I don't hunt, and wouldn't know a quail from a crow.

He raised his eyebrows and looked at me with an expression of dubious disbelief. "No kidding. Who were you hunting with, Dick Cheney?" Everyone's a fucking comedian, even Chip, the auto glass guy. "By the way," he said, "quail season runs from November to February."

I shrugged. "How quick can you have it replaced?"

"Bout an hour, give or take. You'll need to wait an additional hour after it's installed before driving though. The adhesive takes a while to set up and harden." He ran his fingers over the chewed-up holes again and shook his head. "Unreal."

I stood there looking at the shattered glass, then said to him, "If you need anything, I'll be inside."

I walked into the house and headed for the kitchen. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and took it into the living room. I plopped down into an old easy chair and tried to wrap my head around the murder investigation. It felt like I was making progress, and I'd picked up some interesting intel from Natalie. And my soon to be repaired car was proof I'd ruffled some feathers.

I took a long swig of the beer, then retrieved a legal pad and pen from an end table drawer. I drew four columns, one for each suspect: Bill Taylor, Frank Chambers, Congressman John Thigpen, and the newest addition, archeologist Jack Hutchins.

Beneath Bill Taylor's name I wrote: Wounded Pride. Violent Tendencies. Let's face it, getting dumped a month out from tying the knot had to sting...a lot. According to Claire's parents, Taylor hit her when she told him the wedding was off. Did the embarrassment of getting dumped push Taylor over the edge and turn him into a murderer? Also, what did he do after he left Leoci's at approximately 10:00 pm Friday night? According to Caroline, Claire's watch stopped working at 11:14 pm. That was more than enough time for him to abduct Claire, kill her, then dump her body in the river.

Next on the list was Frank Chambers. Below his name I wrote: Financial Dire Straits. And below that I wrote: Shotgun Blast. Chambers had to be hemorrhaging cash in order to keep Liberty Island going. I noticed very few sold homes when I was down there, but the golf course grass was green, the float planes were gassed up and ready to fly, the spa was open, and the horses were ready to ride. And if Claire had been able to squash his rezoning, his land near the port would be worth a pittance, compared to the value if it was zoned industrial instead of rural.

I needed to speak with yacht captain Dave Quinn to confirm or shoot holes in Chambers' alibi for Friday night. And on the subject of shooting holes, if Chambers wasn't the killer, then who else had turned the two shooters loose on me? Had my sniffing around down at Liberty Island made him nervous? I added the name Dave Quinn below the words Shotgun Blast in the Chambers column.

In the Thigpen column, I added a question mark. He'd been the earliest and loudest cheerleader for expanding the harbor, and hoped to ride that success into the highest office in the land. But I'd yet to figure out how to get in front of Thigpen so I could put the screws to him.

Last on the list was Jack Hutchins, the Indiana Jones wannabe. I had no concrete reason to suspect Hutchins, other than the fact that he was stepping out on his wife and seeing Claire on the sly. Plus he'd been a bit evasive when I asked him about the last time he'd seen Claire. Ergo, inclusion on the shit-head list.

Not coming clean on hooking up with Claire was a giant red flag. Granted, he was married and didn't want his wife, or Cavanaugh for that matter, to find out about his extracurricular activities out on Sapelo. But a lie, any lie, carries weight. Below his name I wrote: Married. And then, R.J. Reynolds/Bags of Gold.

Was it really possible Hutchins was secretly looking for the one hundred pound bags of gold Reynolds was rumored to have buried on Sapelo? This seemed far-fetched. I scribbled long-shot.

I looked at the list of suspects. I had lots of questions, but very few answers. It reminded me of a robbery case I worked when I was in the Army. A number of weapons were disappearing from a base in Texas. On the surface, the duty sergeant looked clean. There were four or five other soldiers that had access to the arms room, but I couldn't pin it on any of them. How did I solve the case? Let's just say I managed to procure some photos of the duty sergeant with his pants around his ankles, receiving a blow job from a frizzy-haired bottle-blonde. When I shared the photos with the duty sergeant's redheaded wife, she went ballistic. Then she took me to one of those rental storage places where the guns were hidden.

I drank a little more beer and thought about Jack Hutchins. I fired up my laptop, then Googled the value of one hundred pounds of gold. To my surprise, at current prices, one hundred pounds of the precious metal came in at approximately a million and a half dollars. That in and of itself didn't amount to probable cause, but let's face it, people have been killed for a whole lot less.

I added the one point five million to Hutchins' column. Maybe not such a long-shot after all.

Next I Googled Jack Hutchins, archeologist, North Florida University. The search returned the university archeology program page, which was housed within the anthropology department.

I clicked on the department page, and there he was in a group photo along with three other professors. Each of the professors had their own individual page.

I opened Hutchins' page. The dork stood there with his hands on his hips, dressed in one of those silly bolo string ties, smiling for the camera.

In addition to his photo, there was his bio, which included his education and credentials. There was quite a bit of information on the work he did out on Sapelo, as well as additional photos of him and his students excavating a site. I couldn't help but notice all the young females in the photos, and recalled Natalie's remark about Jack dating his students when he was back in Florida.

In most of these shots, the archeologist was wearing a straw hat, and a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses. Joe Cool. I wanted to step on his sunglasses...while they were still on his face.

I clicked back to his page and studied his photo. He was a decent enough looking guy. But he had that weak chin and those capped teeth, not to mention the ridiculous tie, the diamond stud earring, and that Steven Segal ponytail.

How on earth had this numbskull gotten Claire Robertson and Natalie Grant, two striking beauties far out of his league, to drop their panties? Women truly are a mystery.

I thought about Natalie. Sensuality seeped from her pores. Was I jealous because Hutchins landed on Plymouth Rock and planted his flag before I had? You bet your ass I was.

~ ~ ~

I got out my cell and placed a call to Randy "The Rainman" Pope. For a substantial fee, Randy can find out damn near anything about an individual or an organization. It's been said that there are no secrets. I'm here to tell you it's true. The Rainman is an MIT grad and a computer savant; bits, bytes, and digital data are his lexicon.

Grandpa was a horny drunk with a penchant for barnyard livestock? Not a problem for The Rainman. Granny was a communist sympathizer back in the 1930's? He'd have that info faster than you could say Joseph Stalin loved potato vodka. Randy's hacking royalty, and knows more about uncovering electronic information than anyone else, including the NSA.

He explained it to me once...something to do with computer protocols and trap doors. Or maybe it was backdoors and wormholes. Shit, I didn't know and didn't care if he retrieved the dirt through a black hole, a pothole, or a sinkhole. If it was out there floating in the ether, Rainman would find it.

I ordered a complete dossier on Jack Hutchins and paid the extra freight to have it done fast. I also had a couple more assignments for him that involved Bill Taylor and Frank Chambers.

I drained the last of my beer and let out a deep breath. I felt like Sisyphus rolling that giant boulder up the hill. In the past twelve hours, I'd been shot at, shut out, and shit on. The woman I was hired to find was dead. I was sleep deprived, my batteries were low, and the killer was still out there.

Plus Natalie probably thought of me as an idiot for turning down a roll in the hay. Shit, I thought of myself as an idiot for turning down her advances. No question, this had not been a red-letter day on the Fontaine calendar.

Yours truly needed to blow off some steam. When in doubt, pound it out. Or in this case, pound a few back.

I locked up and took a cab to Cyril's, a raucous Cajun joint located a couple of miles east of town. It sits perched on the marsh near the Isle of Hope and looks like a dilapidated swamp shack.

# Chapter Nineteen

I sat at the bar shoveling in a plate of spicy jambalaya and knocking back a longneck beer. A five-piece Zydeco band, accordion, rubboard, drums, guitar, and electric bass, was in full tilt. The singer was a big black guy with a thick-as-molasses baritone. The music was loud and the place was jumping...I mean literally jumping. Couples were doing the Cajun swing, and you could actually feel the floorboards rise and fall to the beat. Crazy.

Cyril must be pushing seventy, lives on a diet of whiskey and nicotine, and has the energy of a man half his age. A former IRA bomb chucker, he was arrested in Belfast while delivering a large cache of explosives. Cyril made bail, then fled to the Canary Islands before making his way to the States. He joined the marines and went into the Vietnam War meat grinder. Eighteen months later, he was discharged honorably with a Silver Star.

After that, Cyril flew covert operations for Air America, the CIA shell company. He took diplomats, spies, commandos, and sabotage teams deep inside Southeast Asia.

Then he bounced around for a while, made a mint in the marijuana import business, and ended up owning a bar on Toulouse Street down in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Ten years ago, he washed ashore in Savannah.

Anyway, the statute of limitations expired years ago, and Cyril could return to Ireland if he so desired. Besides, the only chucking he indulges in these days, is tossing drunk and obnoxious yuppies out of the bar and onto their asses. A deeply disturbed and demented soul, a former client and good friend...that, boys and girls, is Cyril O'Shea.

The band took a break. A couple minutes later I felt my phone vibrate, letting me know I'd received a text message. I fished it from my pocket and had a look. Natalie Grant. Her message said: Just finished with class. What are you up to?

I'd already downed a few beers, my ability to resist eroding fast. I tapped out my response: Having dinner at Cyril's. Join me?

Natalie: Love to...see you soon.

She didn't ask for directions, and I didn't provide any. And no, I don't play the field. I still had the hots for store-owner Jill Sullivan. But we had yet to go out on that date. At this point, I was a free agent.

Fifteen minutes later, Natalie strolled through the door. She'd abandoned the outfit from earlier and was wearing beige colored pants that flattered her figure, and a snug, pale green top. To say every man's head turned to check her out wasn't much of a stretch.

I stood, waved her over, and she parked her sexy frame on a barstool next to me.

I leaned in close. "If any my professors looked half as good as you, I'd still be in school."

She smiled. "Who was it that said, 'I can live for two months on a compliment?'"

"I believe it was Homer Simpson."

She laughed, then punched me in the arm. "Wrong. It was Mark Twain. Now stop being a smartass and order me a glass of red wine."

There were two bartenders working the crowded bar, but I spotted Cyril down at the far end, pitching in, pouring drinks, and knocking back a shot Jameson Irish Whiskey while he was at it.

I caught his eye, and Cyril made his way toward us.

"And who do we have here?" he said, laying the Gaelic brogue on thick for Natalie's benefit.

"Natalie Grant," I said, "I'd like you to meet Cyril O'Shea. Cyril's the owner of this fine establishment."

"A pleasure to meet you me dear," he said. "What on God's green earth are ya doin with this loser?"

Natalie glanced at me, then said to Cyril, "You'll have to tell me all his dirty little secrets."

"Hope you've got a lot of time me luv. Now, what can I get you to drink?"

"I'd love a glass of red wine. Pino noir if you have it, anything red if you don't."

"I like this one," Cyril said with a sly smile. Then to Natalie, "Back in a wee moment with your wine."

He winked, then wandered off to fetch Natalie's beverage. The band took the stage, and the place looked ready to explode. The bar was four to five deep with revelers, and it was impossible to miss the lustful glances cast in Natalie's direction. I understood. She had the same effect on me.

Cyril returned and handed Natalie her glass. "Here's your pino, the very best in the house. And a menu for you too. I'll check back with the two of you soon."

As the band was warming up, Natalie asked, "How does a guy with an Irish accent end up owning a Cajun bar?"

In my best Cyril imitation, I said, "It's one of the mysteries of the universe, me luv." Then in my own voice, "It's good to see you." We touched glasses.

"It's good to see you too." She stayed silent for several seconds, then said, "You know I've heard about this place, but I've never been here." She took a sip of her wine. "I didn't see your car in the parking lot."

"I left it at home and caught a cab." I didn't say anything about having my rear windshield shot out. In fact, I didn't say anything at all. Instead, I leaned over and kissed her. Lightly at first, and then with a little more heat. Natalie's lips parted, her tongue, lightning hot and silky smooth.

After the kiss, we made small talk for a few minutes. Natalie leaned toward me so I could hear her over the music, and I caught a glimpse of her breasts. They weren't too large, spilling out and flopping onto the bar. Nor were they too small. They were just right. Natalie straightened, crossed her legs, and took a sip of wine.

"I probably should've asked if you had company when I texted you," she said.

"Don't worry about it," I replied. "My date's in the bathroom. Her name's Delores. I'll introduce you when she comes back out."

She chuckled. "You're crazy." She smiled at me over the rim of her wine glass, and her eyes held mine in the dim light of the bar. "Admit it. After I dropped you off at your car, you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"Your name's Mindy, right? We met last week at Button Gwinnett's cookout. You said you wanted to see my Willy."

She rolled her eyes and laughed again. She had a nice laugh, kind of throaty and sexy. She looked around for a moment, then back at me. "I don't think I've ever seen so many single women in one place." She gave me a knowing smile. "Tell me the truth. Do you come here to score?"

I drained my beer and let my eyes wander over the crowd. I'd been so preoccupied with the murder investigation, I hadn't noticed all the unattached women floating about. And while Cyril draws an interesting mix on most nights, it seemed like every loony in the lowcountry was in attendance. I said, "It's kind of like trying to hook up on one of those internet dating sites...the odds are good, but the goods are odd."

Natalie put her wine glass on the bar. "Let's see your moves funny man. Dance with me."

"I'd love to." I took her hand and led her out on the floor. Even though we were far from experts at the Cajun stomp, or whatever the hell it was called, we moved pretty well together.

The band ratcheted down and played a slow one. I held Natalie close, pulled her in nice and tight, our bodies swaying to the music. Her head on my chest, lithe body, firm breasts pressing into me. Longfellow roused from his slumber and stretched.

Later, we went out to the back deck to get some fresh air. The moon was up and the stars were out in a big purple sky. A light breeze rustled the spartina grass, the air ripe with the smell of the marsh, an aroma that always makes me horny.

We stood front to back; I leaned against the deck railing with my arms wrapped around her while Natalie leaned back into me. Her hair smelled good...a light, fresh, apricot scent.

Any inhibitions Natalie and I might've felt seemed laid to rest. I'm not going to lie and say it felt like we'd known each other forever, but there was a comfort and ease between us that far exceeded the small amount of time we'd spent together. Simpatico, that's what we were.

Out on the water, the moonlight shimmered on the rippling current. And the murder investigation was the furthest thing from my mind.

Without turning around, Natalie said, "This is so nice." Followed shortly by, "What are you thinking about?"

Women have asked this question since Eve handed Adam the apple. I said, "I was trying to picture what you looked like naked." Though in Adam's case, he was probably trying to imagine what Eve looked like with her clothes on, since they were about to be evicted.

Natalie laughed. "Are you always this brazen?"

"That's me...Brazen the barbarian. Vanquish the enemy, pillage the village, steal all the horses and capture the women. Come on, let's get out of here."

# Chapter Twenty

Back at my place, I poured us both a glass of wine, then put on an Etta James CD. We danced to "I'd Rather Go Blind" and then to "Stormy Weather." What a set of pipes.

With Etta singing "At Last," I took Natalie by the hand and showed her the rest of the house...starting and ending with my second story bedroom.

I dimmed the lights. Natalie pulled my shirt over my head, then ran her hands over my chest. I kissed her long and deep, before ditching my pants.

I stood there in the altogether and watched her wiggle out of her clothes. She unhooked her bra, then slid her low-cut, lace panties off. She looked even better than I'd imagined: pert breasts, taut stomach, and long, well-toned legs. Her skin was bronzed, with well-defined, distinct tan lines...a major, major turn on. In a show of approval, Willie the Conqueror pointed due north.

We slipped into bed side by side, touching, kissing, exploring. A tangle of limbs. Natalie rolled over onto her back, and I got on top. Her body was electric. She took me in her hand and guided me inside. Wet. Warm. She raised her legs and wrapped them around my back.

Anyway, without giving too much away, we were more than good together, with none of the fumbling or awkwardness new lovers often feel. The second time, even better.

I fell asleep with her curled in my arms, and dreamed I was running naked through an apricot orchard. Go figure.

~ ~ ~

Judging by the angle of the sun slanting through the blinds, I guessed the time at about 8:00 A.M. I'd been awake for about ten minutes, but was still in bed. Natalie was on her side sleeping next to me, naked and warm, her lean stomach rising and falling with each silent breath.

I kissed the back of her neck and began to pull away. She stirred, then shifted back into me, erasing the space I'd created. I held her like that until I felt her drift off, then slid out of bed.

I needed caffeine. I pulled on a T-shirt and shorts, then went quietly downstairs to the kitchen.

I got the coffee started, then headed for the bathroom. I washed back a couple of aspirins and hopped in the shower.

I lathered up and let the hot spray pound down on my shoulders for a few minutes. After a quick shave and a mouthwash gargle, I was in fighting form, ready to face the day.

Coming down the hall, I thought I heard voices coming from the kitchen. But when I turned the corner, it was just Natalie, with bedroom hair and wearing an old faded shirt of mine that ended at about mid-thigh. She was sipping coffee and watching the news.

She looked up and said, "They were just talking about Claire."

I nodded, trying to shift gears and get my head in the game. "Did they have anything new to say?" I poured myself a cup.

"I'm not sure," she said. "I just turned the TV on, and all I caught was the tail end of the report."

Sometimes the morning after can be a little weird, and I wasn't sure how this one was going to play out. I said, "Feel like going out for breakfast?" I wasn't the least bit hungry, but wanted to be a gentleman and extend the offer.

"Have to take a rain check," she replied. "I've got guests checking in this morning." I tried to prognosticate...get a read on her mood.

She stood, came over and gave me a light kiss. "I had fun last night," she said. "I enjoyed meeting your friend Cyril too." She put her arms around me and we kissed again, this time with a little more zest, some of the old spark from last night. She brushed her fingers against my face. "Now I better get moving." She shook her hair out, then disappeared upstairs to change.

Five minutes later, she came back into the kitchen. I walked her to her car, which was parked at the curb out front. "Am I going to see you again?" I asked.

Her eyes kind of twinkled. I guess we were still friends. "You damn well better." Natalie stood on her toes, kissed me one last time, then said, "You've got my number." She slid into the Audi's bucket seat, shut the door and fired the motor. She put it in gear, smiled, and drove off.

I lingered until her car rounded the corner and was heading back inside when I heard a car honk. Thinking it was Natalie, I turned and saw Caroline's Ford pull up to the curb.

Fuck. But for once the timing Gods were on my side. Granted, Caroline and I weren't romantically involved, but still—.

She killed the engine and climbed out. As always, she looked crisp and professional: tan slacks, and a black tailored jacket with a light blue blouse underneath. She also wore a pair of pointy shoes that looked like they hurt her feet. Caroline, the consummate pro. A good looking, well-dressed cop, she could easily pass for a business executive.

"Ever answer that phone of yours Fontaine?" She brushed a strand of hair from her face as she walked up to me. "I left you a message, two of 'em in fact. One last night and one this morning. Sometimes I wonder about you." Sometimes I wonder about myself.

I shrugged. I'd turned the phone off last night at Cyril's after Natalie arrived and hadn't turned it back on yet. Must've had something else on my mind.

"Sorry about that. Forgot to turn it back on this morning."

"What a surprise," she said, then smiled. "I'm on my way to Sapelo. Care to join me?"

I looked her up and down. "Dressed like that?"

"Why not. I'm not swimming out to the damn island am I? But if you're coming get your ass in gear. We gotta move."

On our way inside, she asked, "What are you doing out front of the house?"

"Looking for the dog." I put my thumb and index finger in my mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

Caroline glanced at me, then rose to the bait. "You don't own a dog."

I smiled at her and said, "That's what makes finding him such a challenge."

"Goddammit Fontaine," she said, exasperated. "Am I gonna regret taking you with me?"

I waved her off with a dismissive gesture. "Of course not. In fact, I'm guessing you just might get a promotion out of this after we crack the case."

"Is that right?" She looked at me for a long moment. "Well you better behave, or I might crack you...right over the head."

While Caroline waited in the kitchen, I bounded up the stairs and threw on a pair of faded chinos, a comfortable sports shirt, and running shoes. Then I grabbed my piece. Anytime Megan's in town I keep the gun locked in a small safe in the back of my closet. It's a seven-shot Smith & Wesson .357 with a two and a half inch barrel. I like it because it's fairly easy to conceal, but carries a wicked payload. I checked the cylinder, then slid it into a holster on my hip. I saw no reason to advertise the heater, so I kept my shirt loose and untucked. Then I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and turned it back on.

When I joined her in the kitchen, Caroline was eyeballing the two coffee cups on the counter. She cocked an inquisitive eyebrow in my direction but stayed silent.

Minutes later we were out the door. Caroline climbed behind the wheel and cranked the engine. I slid into the passenger seat beside her. We were on our way to Sapelo. It felt good to be back.

# Chapter Twenty-One

A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials

Chinese Proverb

As we got on the I-95 entrance ramp, Caroline flicked on the Interceptor's grille lights and mashed the accelerator. Putting rubber to pavement, she had it up to eighty before we hit the expressway. I turned to her and said, "What's the hurry Kemosabe? The next ferry doesn't depart until noon."

She cut her eyes in my direction. "We're not taking the ferry. I've got a DNR patrol boat taking us over to the island." The DNR is the Department of Natural Resources, the government bureau that manages Sapelo for the state of Georgia. Their function is basically resource management, wildlife control, and making sure nothing illegal transpires on the island. "We'll pick it up at the ferry dock, and return the same way. Also, I've lined up a vehicle for us to use while we're out on the island." Caroline looked at me. "Who the hell is Kemosabe... one of those stupid Star Wars characters?"

"You're thinking of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sir Alec Guinness. Kemosabe is Tonto's name for the Lone Ranger."

She pressed her lips into a tight seam. "I should've left you at home."

I smiled at her. "Wrong. You'd be bored to tears without me."

"That's true," she replied. "You keep it interesting Fontaine. Aggravating, frustrating, challenging, but interesting."

I asked, "How'd it go with that squirrel Bill Taylor?"

I hate to pop your bubble, but despite the nonsense you see on television, a murder case is rarely solved by a bunch of gel-haired techs in lab coats pointing fancy lasers at trace evidence. It's not an exact science. You string the facts together to the best of your ability, try and get the pieces to fit, and go for a conviction. Sometimes you win, sometimes the murderer walks. That's it. End of story.

Caroline said, "We hauled him in for a talk. Like you predicted, he refused to answer any questions without his attorney present. He reiterated what you told me about having dinner at Leoci's and leaving the restaurant at approximately 10:00 pm. His dinner companions confirmed the time." She was silent for a moment, then added, "The ME estimates time of death at anywhere between 9:00 pm and 3:00 am. That's a wide window, but we're fairly certain Claire went in the water close to 11:14 pm because of the watch. We've sent a subpoena to AT&T to track his whereabouts via his cell. Until we get the records, we can't touch him." She paused and looked at me. "He denied ever hitting Claire by the way."

"So what?" I replied. "You didn't think he'd cop to that did you? I know I wouldn't if I was in his shoes. We know he's got motive and opportunity Caroline. She dumped him weeks before they walked down the aisle, and he was five minutes from where she lives...lived. How long till you get the cell phone records?"

"Couple days. The judge just signed the warrant. Until then, we'll sit on him." She paused for a moment, then added, "We should have Claire's phone records sometime Monday."

I nodded but didn't respond.

"One other thing," she said, "Congressman Thigpen has a solid alibi. After his fundraiser Friday night, he went out for a nightcap with his wife and his campaign manager. The three of them were together until approximately 12:30 AM, at which point Thigpen and his wife drove home and went to bed." She glanced in my direction. "What about you, anything new?"

I measured my response. "I paid a visit to Liberty Island and had a friendly, but brief chat with real estate developer Frank Chambers. He claims he was on his yacht Friday night. We need to confirm it with his boat captain. I've got his contact info but haven't spoken with him yet." A moment later I added, "A welcome wagon, driven by a couple of clowns I've never laid eyes on before, said hello and put a round of buckshot into the back of my car. They were motoring in a newer model Chevy Camaro. I'm assuming it was stolen."

She swiveled her head in my direction. "Are you serious? Where and when, and did you report the shooting?"

"Yesterday around three thirty. I was cruising west on Victory when they started riding my bumper. And no, I didn't call it in. I prefer to settle my own scores."

Caroline looked pissed. "Listen to me cowboy," she said, reading me the riot act. "You will not, repeat, not operate outside of the law. I can't have you compromising this case under any circumstances. Do I make myself perfectly clear?" She shot me a steely look. "The only reason you're here is because of Cavanaugh and his connections. He rattled the governor's cage, and the governor leaned on the mayor." Good old Cavanaugh brought me off the bench and had me back in the game. Caroline continued, "But I don't give a damn how well connected he is. If you fuck around, I'm having you tossed." Her features softened. "Jesus Christ Fontaine, you should've at least called me. You could've been killed."

"It was a warning shot. Nothing more Caroline. If they wanted to kill me, all they had to do was turn the Camaro around and put another round in me."

"A warning shot by who?"

"I can't say for sure, but I think it might have been Frank Chambers. I'd been at the Bull River Marina looking for his yacht captain. On my way back to town, the Camaro fell in behind me and blew out my back window."

She cocked an eyebrow. "You fooling around with someone's wife Fontaine?"

I thought Caroline might say something about the two coffee cups on the kitchen counter, but she didn't say anything else. We rode in silence for a couple of miles, the Interceptor barreling down the highway past a blur of pine trees. I slid my window down. Caroline's hair flickered in the wind.

Without mentioning Natalie, I said, "I think I found out who Claire was seeing after she dumped Bill Taylor. His name is Jack Hutchins. He's an archeologist excavating out on Sapelo. I'm hoping we can track him down while we're out there." I held off on mentioning R.J. Reynolds and the buried bags of gold. In the cold light of day, I was back to thinking it far-fetched. I also kept the fact that Hutchins was married to myself for the time being.

"Nice work Fontaine."

"Thanks, Kemosabe."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

We exited the interstate and were heading east when my cell phone rang. I checked the number: Randy Pope. I hit the speaker button so Caroline could listen in. "What have you got for me Rainman?"

"I just finished digging," he said, "and I'm about to email you my report."

"That's great," I replied, "but I'll be jumping on a boat soon. What did you turn up?" I looked at Caroline, but she had her eyes glued to the road.

"Hang on a second." In the background, I could hear him typing. I glanced out my window and waited for him to continue. "OK. Here we go...Hutchins has never been arrested and doesn't have a record. He appears to be clean." He paused, and I heard him typing again, fingers flying across the keyboard. "But you might find this interesting: He owns a home just outside Jacksonville in Orange Park that's mortgaged up to his nuts. He's two months behind on making payments, and the bank's been sending him letters threatening to foreclose."

That brought me up short. I recalled the fleeting look of desperation in his eyes. Little synapses lit up inside my brain like a power grid with the juice turned on. It had been sixteen years since I was an Army criminal investigator, but instinct dies hard, and mine was whispering that this was significant.

I asked, "What else have you got?"

"Mostly standard stuff. His parents are deceased. He's got one sister that lives in Galveston Texas. She's married to an oil worker. Hutchins is a tenured professor at North Florida University. He's been there for just over eleven years. This is interesting though. I hacked into the University's server and found Hutchins' resignation letter. He submitted it a week ago Monday and gave them a one hundred and twenty-day notice."

Four days before Claire was murdered, Hutchins turns in his resignation. Since I don't believe in coincidence, this had to mean something. But what?

"Thanks Rainman. I'll read through it tonight, and touch base tomorrow if I have any questions."

"Wait a minute Ray. Remember we talked about Bill Taylor and Frank Chambers?"

I took him off speaker and pressed the phone to my ear. "I remember."

"I did what you asked. I superimposed both their heads onto the bodies of a couple buff naked men. Then I uploaded the images to one of those hardcore, neo-Nazi websites. You'll love this: the skinheads hold their underground rallies at different locations to keep the cops from zeroing in on 'em. Their website has a restricted link that tells the punks where to meet. I fiddled around with their site. Guess where next week's rally is being held? _Liberty Island!_ The jack-booted thugs won't have any trouble getting inside either. I included the Liberty Island security code, so they'll be able to open the gates. I also put Taylor's altered image on his bank's server like you wanted. Monday morning when his employees log on to their computers, his new look will be the first thing they see."

I laughed. "You're the best."

"Hasta la vista," he said, before disconnecting.

Caroline drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Do I even want to know who Rainman is?"

"He's in the information biz. I had him lift a corner of Hutchins' curtains and peer beneath it."

"You run with an interesting crowd." She glanced at me. "I assume you weren't looking to see if he had any overdue books at the library."

"I don't know what I'm looking for, but I'm suspicious because Hutchins lied to me and said he barely knew Claire." Time to come clean. "He's also married." I turned in my seat and looked at Caroline. "One other thing: Before his death, R.J. Reynolds may have buried gold on Sapelo. I know this sounds crazy Caroline, but what if Jack Hutchins isn't just searching for plantation artifacts."

She seemed to be processing that information, then said, "That's an interesting theory, but why don't we stick to the facts at hand and not turn this investigation into some kind of hair-brained treasure hunt. I agree with you, we need to speak with Hutchins. And being behind on his house payments may or may not have anything to do with this case. But we're not gonna waste a bunch of valuable time on crackpot ideas of hidden gold and buried treasure." She paused, then asked, "And what was that about Bill Taylor and Frank Chambers?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," I replied.

She clucked her tongue to show me she wasn't buying it. "Everything you do is out of the ordinary Fontaine."

We swung into the Sapelo visitor center parking lot. Caroline nosed the Interceptor into an empty parking spot and we got out of the car. Down at the ferry landing, I could see the Department of Natural Resources boat waiting on us.

~ ~ ~

The DNR enforcement ranger was a rawboned guy named Joe McCoy. He had dark hair cut short, lean ropey muscles and a deep mahogany tan. Vertical creases were etched into his face. He met us at the dock. Caroline flashed her badge, and McCoy invited us on board. "You folks must be investigating the murder."

"That's right. I'm Detective Ross. This is Ray Fontaine. He's assisting me with the investigation."

I asked him, "Were you acquainted with Claire Robertson?"

He nodded. "Sure was. Not many people work out on the island. I imagine I've met most of 'em. Damn shame is what it is. I hope you catch whoever did it."

Caroline said, "We appreciate the lift. How long will it take to get out to the island?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes max." He looked at Caroline's holstered Glock. "Detective I see you're armed. Except during the controlled hunts we hold in the fall, firearms are strictly prohibited on the island. Mr. Fontaine, are you carrying as well?"

I raised my shirt and showed him the heater strapped to my hip. "Cut the crap," I said. "This isn't a fucking duck hunt. We're here to investigate a murder. Detective Ross is an officer of the law, and I'm licensed to carry concealed anywhere in this state." Give the game warden a badge, and he thinks he's Eliot Ness.

McCoy eyeballed me for several long seconds. "If you want to grab a seat, we can get underway."

I said, "Before we shove off, I'd like to know if you've noticed anything out of the ordinary that might assist us in the investigation?"

"Afraid not," he said. "Though Claire and I'd met, I can't say I knew her very well."

"I'm not asking how well you knew her. I want to know if you noticed anything that can shed some light on her murder. You mentioned how few people work on Sapelo. Theoretically, anything out of the ordinary would stand out. Am I right?"

"Makes sense," he said. "But you have to understand, it's a big island...eleven miles long, three miles wide, and over sixteen thousand acres. Most of it wild. The majority of the work the DNR does is on the northern end of Sapelo, in what's known as the Richard J. Reynolds Wildlife Management area. The Marine Institute's lab facilities, as well as their housing, are located on the south end of Sapelo." He paused for a beat, then said, "None of us are out there to socialize Mr. Fontaine. We all have a job to do. Regarding Claire, our paths just didn't cross very often."

I have a hypersensitivity to bullshit, and that sounded like a crock of it to me. With so few people on the island, who else are you going to hang out with after work? I wanted to ask him about Jack Hutchins, but Caroline's brow was furrowed and she was tapping her foot, growing impatient by the minute. Tough. I played a hunch and said to McCoy, "You mentioned the DNR does most of its work on the northern end of Sapelo. Isn't that where the archeological excavation is under way?"

"That's right," he replied. "Most of the digging on the island has taken place at Chocolate, one of the old antebellum plantations."

Then I lobbed him a leading question, which isn't exactly kosher. You're not supposed to lead a witness. "What are they digging for, some of R.J. Reynold's buried gold?"

He gave me a thin-lipped smile. "Everyone's heard that rumor. Personally, I think it's ridiculous. What they're doing out at Chocolate is trying to reconstruct what plantation life was like for the slaves that worked the fields."

"Can you say with certainty that Reynolds didn't bury gold on Sapelo?"

"I think you misunderstood," he replied. "What I'm saying is, _if_ R.J. Reynolds buried gold on Sapelo, none of it is still out there." He looked from Caroline to me. "Think about it. The Hog Hammock residents are having trouble paying their property taxes. Supposedly their relatives were the ones that helped Mr. Reynolds bury the gold. If some of it was still hidden on the island, don't you think they would've dug it up by now?"

I hadn't thought of that. I asked, "What have they managed to turn up at Chocolate?"

"I'm not sure. You'll have to ask Jack Hutchins. He's the archeologist leading the dig."

"Count on it."

"I think we're ready to head out," Caroline said. She took a seat toward the back of the boat.

McCoy nodded, fired the outboard motor, then let it idle for a several minutes. He turned to me and said, "Can I get you to cast us off Mr. Fontaine?"

I untied us from the dock, made my way to the back of the boat, and grabbed a seat across from Caroline. Morning sunlight fell on her face. Despite the obvious stress weighing on her, she looked good sitting there. I winked at her. She narrowed her eyes and mouthed, "No fucking around."

Do I deserve this? Here I am, pitching in and helping out, trying my damnedest to help her solve the case. And she's busting my balls and acting like a hard-ass. I know she's under a lot of pressure to wrap this up, but some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

McCoy glanced at us over his shoulder. Caroline nodded. He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat's propeller churned the dark briny water.

We started off at a languid pace as the boat pulled away from the dock. Caroline turned and looked out over the water. I followed her gaze and watched a squadron of brown pelicans flying in formation. When we reached the middle of the river, McCoy opened it up. The boat's hull rose out of the water. Soon we were up to plane, skimming across the water like a skipping stone.

~ ~ ~

Here's a little-known fact: Georgia, with only one hundred miles of coastline, has almost as much salt marsh as the rest of the east coast combined. Since most of our islands can't be reached by bridge, the ecosystem is healthy and intact. During the springtime, the tidal rivers of the lowcountry warm, and the brackish waters become an essential breeding ground for crabs, shrimp, and fish. Dolphins work the estuaries, feeding on the abundant aquatic life.

The river twisted to the east, and McCoy had us moving at a good clip. Thick marsh laced with tidal creeks were on both sides of us.

As you might have guessed, I'm not exactly a new-age kind of guy. I don't believe in power spots, vortexes, or any of that ridiculous nonsense. But something undeniable happens to me when I'm out here on the water. The effect on me is visceral, deeply felt and profound. I guess you could say I feel plugged into some unseen force of nature. The swaying marsh grass, the serpentine rivers, the sky, the clouds, and the unspoiled Sea Islands make me come alive like no other place on the planet. It's one of the reasons why I love living here.

As I sat in the back of the ranger's boat, my senses were on full alert. I wanted to carry that heightened sense of acuity with me, bringing justice to whoever killed Claire Robertson. I don't want to get all metaphysical, but I felt locked in like a heat-seeking missile searching for its target.

The truth was out there somewhere. And goddamn it, I was determined to find it.

Off our starboard side, a sailboat glided out to sea, the bright sun reflecting off its sails. I turned my eyes to the east. Thick cumulus clouds hung like Chinese lanterns from an endless sky. We rounded a bend in the river and the candy-cane striped Sapelo lighthouse came into view. 

# Chapter Twenty-Three

As we approached the island, I noticed the state-run ferry moored at the Marsh Landing dock. McCoy eased up on the throttle, and the DNR boat slowed. I stood and made my way to the bow. We pulled up behind the ferry, McCoy reversed the motor and halted our forward momentum. I hopped out, he tossed me a rope, and I tied us to a wooden pylon. I gave Caroline my hand and helped her climb out of the boat.

Finally. Here we were on Sapelo at last. Standing on the dock the morning sun felt strong as it beat down on us. On this side of the island, the wind was down and the air was still; it felt a good five degrees warmer here than on the mainland. Behind me, I heard a splash. A fish or some other sea creature had broken the surface. I watched as the concentric circles expanded.

"Thanks for the ride," Caroline said to McCoy. "I'm not sure how long we'll be out here. How do I get in touch with you when we're ready to return to the mainland?"

"I'll be at the DNR office all day. Drive up when you're finished and I'll take you back over." I was about to ask him where the office was located, but he said. "I don't know if you have a map of the island, but I've got one you can have." He reached into the boat's glove box and fished out the map. He unfolded it and pointed out the location of his office. Despite what he said about rarely crossing paths with the Marine Institute's staff, the DNR office didn't look far away to me. McCoy continued, "There aren't many roads out here, but the map will help you get around."

Caroline smiled at him. "We're much obliged."

He nodded. "Good luck."

Before we walked away, I said to him, "I heard Jack Hutchins takes his own boat back and forth from the mainland, but the only boat I see is the public ferry."

"There's a second dock further up the river," he replied. "He keeps his boat up there."

As we headed down the dock, McCoy called out, "Be careful. We've got rattlesnakes, feral hogs, and gators out here."

"That's Alright," I replied, glancing over my shoulder and patting my hip. "I've got Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson's .357 right here." Joe McCoy did not look pleased. Good. Fuck him.

Caroline and I continued down the dock toward the island. In the middle of the pier was an open-air pavilion where passengers could wait in the shade before boarding the ferry. At the end of the dock was a small dirt parking lot where a group of weather-beaten vehicles sat baking in the sun.

"What are we driving?" I asked Caroline.

She nodded toward a battered and faded SUV. "It's that Isuzu Trooper over there. The keys are supposed to be under the floor mat."

As we approached the Trooper, I glanced at the map. The Ranger was correct; there weren't many roads to keep up with. The main road, which ran north to south through the center of the southern half of the island, was called The Autobahn. And it appeared The Marine Institute was close, near the southern edge of the island. I found the Reynolds Mansion on the map. It wasn't far either.

I took me a minute to locate Chocolate Plantation. It was on the northwestern side of Sapelo, along what was known as West Perimeter Road.

Caroline said, "I'll drive. You navigate."

The Trooper turned out to be a sun-forged heap of rusted metal. The muffler was loose and hung low to the ground, and the windshield had a vascular network of spider vein cracks. But it had large knobby tires and looked like it could handle the island roads with little trouble.

I opened the passenger door; stale hot air hit me like a blast furnace. Caroline opened the driver's side door. She bent down and reached under the floor mat and located the keys. "Shit. This is a standard shift...I can't drive a stick."

"It'll be better this way," I said, smiling. "I'm a terrible passenger. Toss me the keys and I'll drive."

"If you make one sexist remark Fontaine, I swear I'll shoot you." On second thought, maybe I should've let the ranger take Caroline's gun.

We switched sides. I handed her the map and she gave me the keys. I slid behind the wheel, pushed in the clutch, and fired the engine. It sputtered, then rumbled to life with a cough of exhaust smoke. Caroline got in and slammed her door.

Before we pulled out, I asked her, "What did you think of Ranger Rick's little speech back there on the mainland about not socializing with the other island workers?"

She puffed out her cheeks and let out a deep breath. "His name is Joe, and what the hell are you talking about?"

"Think about it," I said. "What are there...twenty, maybe thirty people working out here. What do you think they do after work?"

"I don't know Fontaine." She turned in her seat and looked at me. "Why don't you illuminate me? What do they do out here after work?"

"The same thing everyone else does," I replied. "They knock back a couple beers, play cards, walk on the beach." I looked at her for a long moment, then said, "You pop in the pickle and raid the nookie jar. These are all wildlife people Caroline. They have a lot in common. After work, they're not going straight back to their apartments and stare at the walls. I say the ranger is full of shit."

Caroline groaned. "Pop in the pickle. What is this cooking class for horny fifth-grade boys? Who cares what these people do after work. We're not here to analyze the sex lives of the other Sapelo workers. We're here to piece together what was going on in Claire's life before she was murdered. That's it." Moments later she added, "Besides, I thought McCoy was kind of cute." _Cute_? Give me a fucking break.

"Come on Caroline. McCoy's a classic teeny-weenie overcompensater. It's called Napoleon complex of the crotch. Why else do you think he was trying to take our guns? The guy drops his pants, he's got a third pinky dangling between his legs. I'm betting he wears a size seven shoe and uses a peanut shell and a rubber band for a jock strap."

Despite her obvious frustration with _moi_ , Caroline laughed. "You need help Fontaine, but you're way beyond the couch. Now knock it off, and let's go."

~ ~ ~

I thrive on friction. No friction, no heat. No heat, no fire. Without a few gritty particles of sand, the oyster can't produce a pearl. It's why I like to stir Caroline up. I use the snarky banter to keep me sharp and focused. Besides, it's damn good fun to get under her skin. Nonetheless, I tabled the sexually laced culinary comments, threw it in first, and pulled out of the parking lot.

I looked over at Caroline. She had the Sapelo map unfolded on her lap. "This is Dock Road," she informed me. "It looks like we take it until it dead ends, then take a right on the Autobahn." She looked up and smiled. "The Autobahn? You gotta be kidding me."

We were motoring along a sandy road beneath a heavily forested canopy of live oaks. Hazy shafts of golden sunlight filtered through the trees. There wasn't another car in sight. Just us. "I don't know what I was expecting," Caroline said, looking out her window, "but this is unbelievable Fontaine. It's absolutely stunning."

I pulled over and kept the motor running, then turned to her and said, "Can you imagine being a heavy hitter like Howard Coffin or R.J. Reynolds? Living that life. Owning your own island...this island. God it must have been something." Sapelo's thick, semitropical foliage spread out in all directions. And for a few brief moments, I caught a glimpse of what it was like to own a paradise. "If we get a chance, I'll drive us by the mansion. These guys lived like kings."

Howard Coffin killed himself not long after he was forced to sell Sapelo to R.J. Reynolds. And now here we were, investigating the death of a woman that lived out here. The tragic irony wasn't lost on me.

I engaged the clutch, popped it in first, and hit the gas. We came to the end of Dock Road, and I hung a right on the Autobahn. Whoever named these roads had a sense of humor. This didn't resemble Germany's Autobahn, the legendary highway without speed limits. Sapelo's version of the Autobahn was nothing more than another sandy road.

Caroline glanced at the map. "It looks like the next road we come to is called Beach Road. We cross over it and keep going straight. That should put us right at the Marine Institute's facilities."

I threaded the Trooper between thick stands of live oaks draped with wisps of Spanish moss. In places the trees were so close the tangled branches scraped the sides of the Trooper. Some sections of road were washed out and heavily rutted. I skirted a fallen branch by going completely off-road into a thicket of saw palmetto. The Trooper bounced and shook, but handled the terrain well.

We crossed Beach Road and left the forest. The road here was recently graded, lined with crushed shells that crackled and popped like a bowl of Rice Krispies beneath the Trooper's tires. We passed a wooden sign with a lighthouse painted on it. Below the lighthouse were the words Sapelo Marine Institute.

We drove for another quarter mile, palm trees flanking us on both sides of the road. I passed the infamous turkey fountain. It didn't look quite as sinister in person, but I kept my distance just in case.

The Marine Institute resembled a small Tuscan Village. Numerous buildings, each constructed of pale, terra cotta colored stucco, and roofed with red clay tiles, were scattered about the well-tended grounds. The largest building stood three stories tall, with a steep roof pitch and twin side gables. Between the gables, there was observation tower topped with a black, wrought iron weathervane shaped like a sailing ship.

This was once R.J. Reynolds' dairy complex? Shit. Reynolds' cows lived better than most people. Instead of mooing, they probably said _Arrivederci_.

Caroline looked out her window and gave a low whistle. "Do you remember any of this from when you were here?"

I shrugged. "We must have passed by here. But you have to understand, I was here years ago and was only on the island for about three hours. When we got off the ferry, a van met us at the dock and took us to the Reynolds Mansion for the wedding. When the ceremonies were over, we went right back to the dock, boarded the ferry and departed."

I parked next to a white Ford F-150 and we got out. I turned and looked back toward the road we'd just driven, and the view was stunning. I thought about Cavanaugh. Maybe we really were fools to risk spoiling paradise in order to scoop another seven feet of mud from the Savannah River.

It was easy to be seduced by the ethereal beauty of the island, and I reminded myself why we were here. I looked at Caroline. Her face was set with a look of quiet determination. 

# Chapter Twenty-Four

_Teachers open the door, but you must walk through it yourself_

Chinese Proverb

We approached the main building, then went up a set of granite steps to a massive arched wooden door with wrought-iron strap hinges. I twisted the knob and gave it a good shove. The door creaked open, and we stepped inside a two-story atrium. After the hot, bumpy ride in the Trooper, the inside air felt cool on my skin. To our left, a glass-paneled door led to the laboratories. Just past the labs there was a suite of offices.

We made our way down the hallway, Caroline's shoes clacking on the floor tiles. Inside one of the labs, I spotted a young woman hunched over a desk, peering into a microscope. She wore tan colored shorts, a green T-shirt, and running shoes. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked like a graduate student. I knocked lightly. She looked up and blinked, then came to the door.

"We're looking for Tim Jenkins," Caroline said to her.

"He's two doors down on the right," she replied, smiling pleasantly.

We thanked her and continued down the hall. Jenkins' door was open and he was seated at his desk, reading from a sheet of paper. He was a middle-aged guy, matchstick thin, with receding hair the color of tin. Thick coke-bottle glasses gave him a slightly owlish appearance, and I recalled Natalie's comment about him looking like a scientist.

Jenkins noticed us before we had a chance to knock. He stood and motioned us inside. "You must be Detective Ross," he said, an expression of deep sadness trailing across his face.

Caroline nodded. "Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Jenkins. This is Ray Fontaine. He's helping out with the investigation."

We shook hands all around, and Jenkins gestured toward a couple of cracked leather chairs that looked like Salvation Army relics. He lowered himself into his swivel chair, and Caroline and I sat facing him.

I took a couple seconds to look around, and Jenkins' office was a small dank cave. Floating in rays of filtered light were clouds of dust so thick I could recognize shapes in them, including one that looked like Bill Clinton. Books, file folders, dog-eared periodicals, and moldering stacks of newspapers rose like stalagmites from every conceivable surface. Papers spilled from a small side table, puddling on the floor. A credenza held a saltwater aquarium and a small coffee maker. In the middle of his desk was a half-eaten bowl of soggy Fruit Loops. The milk had taken on a slightly psychedelic hue.

Jenkins looked at us and asked, "Where would you like to begin?" How about with a hazmat suit and a respirator for yours truly. There were enough toxic mold spores wafting about to wipe out half the Indian subcontinent.

"Why don't you take us through last Friday," Caroline said.

"As best as I can recall," he said, stroking his chin, "everything seemed normal. Most of the time, Claire and I didn't work together. But I remember seeing her around mid-morning, and she was her usual cheerful self."

"Nothing out of the ordinary happened?" Caroline asked.

He shook his head. "Not that I recall."

"Were you on the four thirty ferry last Friday?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "Most of the staff departs on Friday for the weekend. After five days out here, we're ready to get back to our families."

"Anything unusual about that ferry ride?"

"I'm afraid I didn't notice. I sat and read a book. It helps me relax after a long week."

"What were you reading?"

"A trashy detective novel, I'm embarrassed to admit."

Caroline said, "To help us better understand, why don't you give us some background on what you and the other scientists do out here."

Jenkins nodded. "This is one of the oldest marine labs in the nation. When R.J. Reynolds donated his dairy barns to The Marine Institute back in 1953, the study of marsh ecology was a revolutionary idea. At the time, most people viewed wetlands as something to be drained and done away with. In fact, you could argue that the nation's ecological movement began on Sapelo." I could argue his armpit of an office hadn't been cleaned since 1953.

I asked, "What type of things did Claire work on?"

"Claire's area of expertise was water quality. Specifically, the impact bacteria have on the health of the estuaries. She studied the marsh to determine the types and the amount of microbes in the water that surrounds Sapelo." He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Because so little has changed in and around Sapelo in the last couple hundred years, the ecosystem is relatively stable. We don't have dead zones or algae blooms like most other coastal regions. Therefore, we're able to get a fairly accurate baseline for comparative purposes. Healthy bacteria, you see, control the entire ecosystem. They help break down the organic matter like the marsh grasses, they clean the water and provide oxygen for the fish and the shrimp to breathe. If anything like fertilizer runoff or silt disrupts the balance of bacteria in the water, the estuaries could be at risk. "

This was a real snoozer, but my ears perked up at the mention of silt in the water. Claire's beef with Frank Chambers stemmed from the release of silt at Liberty Island.

Caroline nodded and asked, "And what is it that you work on Mister Jenkins?"

"I study the marsh vegetation..." Jenkins had a flat monotone voice, and my eyes were growing heavy. I stifled a yawn and found myself watching a sucker fish in the fish tank. It had attached its thick fish lips to the aquarium glass. "...we take core samples of the mud and measure the spartina grass root system. This is done in order to determine the health of the marsh. We then compare it to other more populated areas..."

I couldn't take much more of this. My head was swimming like Wavy Gravy at the Woodstock Festival, and I was in serious danger of passing out into the bowl of Fruit Loops. I cut him off mid-sentence. "Mr. Jenkins, did Claire ever mention the Savannah harbor expansion?"

He looked at me, big owl eyes blinking behind the glasses. "We talked about it a few times in passing," he replied. "Like most of us, Claire was concerned with the potential impact on the marine environment."

"Who do you think killed her?" I asked, prying him out of the comfort zone of the marsh muck.

Jenkins hesitated. "I...I have no idea. Claire was a dedicated scientist, and one of the most likable people you've ever met. Everyone here thought the world of her."

And yet, someone had put a bullet in her. I asked him, "Were you aware that Claire had recently ended her engagement?"

"Yes I was," he replied, nodding.

I wanted to ask about the domestic violence incident, but with Caroline sitting right next to me, I needed to kind of nibble around the topic. "Do you know if Claire and her ex split amicably?"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know."

"Did you ever see the two of them together?"

"No, I didn't. I live on St. Simons Island," he said, chair swiveling, "which is thirty miles south of here. Claire, as I'm sure you know, lived up in Savannah."

"Did she seem any different to you after she broke it off?"

"Different in what way?"

"You know...happy, sad, apprehensive, relieved." Like a lot of propeller heads, Jenkins seemed a little clueless about the human condition.

"We're all so busy with work out here," he replied. "I'm afraid I didn't notice."

This guy had been trained to notice changes in the marsh, not changes in his co-workers. Like pets that resemble their owners, Jenkins was starting to remind me of a fiddler crab. Maybe I need a vacation.

Wanting to confirm what Natalie told me about Claire and Jack Hutchins, I asked, "Do you know if Claire started seeing anyone after she ended her engagement?"

"I'm not sure. We rarely discussed our personal lives."

"You mentioned the impact silt in the water has on the estuaries. Do you know if Claire quarreled with any of the developers building communities in the surrounding area?"

"Not that I'm aware of," he said.

Caroline asked, "In the past few weeks, did Claire appear like she was under any undue pressure or stress?"

"If she was," he replied, "it wasn't apparent to me."

"Why don't you take us back to Monday," Caroline said, looking at him. "What time did you notice that Claire wasn't at work?"

"I noticed even before work even began," he replied. "She wasn't on the ferry Monday morning. Occasionally Claire would return to the island on Sunday afternoon, so this wasn't completely out of the norm, and I wasn't alarmed when I didn't see her on the Katie Underwood...that's the name of the ferry. Anyway, sometime around mid-morning Monday, I stopped in to see her in her office. Obviously she wasn't there."

"What's the protocol when someone doesn't show up for work?" Caroline asked.

"We don't really have a protocol," Jenkins replied. "But I wanted to make sure she wasn't sick. So I called Claire's cell number and left a message. When she didn't show up for work again on Tuesday, and I still hadn't heard from her, I grew concerned."

"And that's when you spoke with Edward Cavanaugh," I prompted.

"That's correct."

I asked, "What do you folks do for fun out here after work?" Caroline gave a slight head shake.

"Same thing everyone else does I suppose. Watch TV, read, go for a walk. Claire liked to go down to the Reynolds Mansion and kind of wander around inside the place. She was always photographing it."

"The Marine Institute staff has keys to the mansion?"

"Claire did. She was a member of the Preservation Society."

"What's on the floors above us?" I asked.

"The second floor is a lecture hall. At one time, it was a movie theater where R.J. Reynolds screened films for the island residents. The third-floor is taken up with classroom space and some additional laboratories. From time to time we have visiting scientists working here. The third-floor labs are for their experiments."

For the next thirty minutes, we went round and round like a dog chasing its tail. But ultimately, we were unable to tease any useful information out of him. Caroline, too, must have sensed the interview was getting us nowhere. She said to Jenkins, "We'd like to take a look at Claire's office. Can you show us the way?"

"Yes, of course." He rose from his desk and said, "Follow me."

We retraced our steps back to the anteroom, then followed Jenkins down the opposite hall to Claire's office. Jenkins flicked on the light switch and gestured us inside. Caroline said to him, "Thanks. We'll stop in and see you when we finish going through Claire's things."

Jenkins nodded and scurried out of sight.

# Chapter Twenty-Five

Caroline and I spent the better part of an hour giving Claire's office a good toss. We sifted through countless files, then pawed the insides of her desk drawers. We flipped through countless books and trade journals, hoping something would slip out. I even pulled pictures off the walls in case something was hidden behind them. When we finished, I turned off the overhead lights and closed the door.

I said to Caroline, "You need to get one of your department guys to do a number on Claire's work computer."

She nodded but didn't reply.

We made our way back down the hall to Jenkins office, and Caroline poked her head inside. "We want to have a look inside Claire's apartment. Is there someone who can let us in?"

Jenkins replied, "Trevor Hopkins is our maintenance man. He has keys to all the apartments. Let me see if I can get him for you." He picked up his desk phone and punched in some numbers. "Trevor, this is Tim. There's a Savannah police detective in my office that would like to take a look at Claire's apartment. Can you please let her in?" He hung up and said to us, "Trevor will meet you in front of our building in five minutes." He looked at both of us and said, "I know I speak for everyone who works at the institute when I say, I hope you catch whoever did this."

"I hope so too Mr. Jenkins," Caroline replied, producing a business card from inside her jacket. "If you think of anything that might help, no matter how inconsequential it may seem, please give me a call. My cell number is on the card. Thanks for your time." We shook hands again. Caroline said, "We'll see ourselves out."

~ ~ ~

Back outside, we waited for the maintenance guy to let us into Claire's apartment. The clouds from this morning had burnt off. Caroline turned to me. "That was a big zero. Maybe we'll learn more after we see her apartment."

"Let's hope so," I replied. "This isn't Animal Planet. We didn't come all this way to hear about mud and microbes." I checked my phone for messages, but all was clear on the Fontaine front.

I pocketed my phone. Moments later, a heavyset fellow with a balding fringe of white hair rounded the corner of the building. He held a large circular key ring in his hand. Rather than wait, we strode toward him and met him half way. "Mr. Hopkins, I'm Detective Ross with the Savannah Police Department. We'd like to take a look at Claire Robertson's apartment."

He looked from Caroline to me, then said, "Right this way."

We followed him to a single-story outbuilding made of the same terra cotta stucco. There were four wooden doors marked A, B, C, and D. He walked up to unit B, inserted a key, and opened the door. Caroline asked him, "Has anyone been in here since last Friday?"

"Yes, I was," Hopkins replied. "When Claire didn't show up for work on Monday, Tim asked me to check Claire's apartment. I came in and briefly looked around."

"What about anyone else?" Caroline asked.

"No. Other than Claire, I'm the only person with a key."

Caroline held out her hand. "I'd like that key Mr. Hopkins." He hesitated, then slid it off the ring and handed it to her. Caroline pocketed the key.

We stood just outside the door and spent a good fifteen minutes quizzing Trevor Hopkins about Claire. Unlike Tim Jenkins, who seemed to notice nothing above the sub-atomic particle level, Hopkins had seen Claire and Hutchins together on several occasions, including one-time holding hands while walking on the beach.

After we finished putting him through his paces, Caroline said, "Thanks, Mister Hopkins. We greatly appreciate your time. We would also appreciate it if you didn't mention this interview to anyone. Thanks again...that'll be all."

He nodded, then quietly walked away.

When he was gone, Caroline pulled two pairs of blue latex gloves from her purse. She handed a pair to me. "Put these on Fontaine. If we need to dust Claire's place for prints, yours and mine won't have to be excluded."

I pulled on the gloves, stepped inside, and let my eyes take a walk around the apartment. It couldn't have been more than three hundred square feet. The postage sized living room contained a loveseat, a built-in desk and chair, and a flat screen television attached to the wall. Off to the side was a kitchenette with a stove and a small sized fridge. I rounded the corner, and the bedroom had barely enough room for a double bed, two nightstands, and a dresser. A closet in the bedroom held Claire's clothes. The bathroom had a stand-up shower, a pedestal sink, and a toilet. I wasn't expecting Trump Towers, but this was downright Spartan.

"Not exactly the lap of luxury," I said. "You take the bedroom. I'll start right here in the living room."

Caroline nodded, then slipped around the corner toward the rear of the apartment.

We took our time, going methodically through the place. I removed the cushions from the love seat, then tipped it over and checked beneath it. Next I went to the desk. Starting from the top, I pulled out each drawer and rifled through the contents. When I finished, I ran my hand along the bottom of the drawers, in case anything had been taped there.

I could hear Caroline going through Claire's dresser. I went to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator. Inside was a stale carton of orange juice, a half dozen eggs, a container of low-fat milk, a bowl of strawberries, some wilting salad greens, and some cottage cheese. In the freezer, I found a frozen pizza, a tray of ice cubes, a half-eaten carton of peach ice cream, and a bottle Gray Goose vodka. Beneath the sink, there was nothing but the usual cadre of cleaning supplies. I pulled everything out of the kitchen cabinets. Next I unscrewed the light switch and power outlet covers and looked inside. I didn't find anything.

I joined Caroline in the bedroom and searched Claire's closet. I shook out every piece of clothing, checked inside pockets, and flitted my fingers inside seams. We flipped the mattress over. I got down on my hands and knees and checked beneath the bed.

We turned the place upside down, but in the end we found nothing of value that could assist us in the investigation. In fact, other than her clothes, Claire had very few personal effects inside the small apartment: two pairs of earrings, a couple of novels on the nightstand, and some family photos of her and her parents on the dresser. That was it.

We finished searching in about forty-five minutes. Caroline looked at me from across the bedroom. "There's nothing here for us to find Fontaine. Let's go."

We stepped outside. I pulled the door shut, twisted the knob to make sure it was locked, then peeled off the gloves. Calendar be damned, summer arrives early in the lowcountry, and the day was growing hot.

On our way back to the Trooper, Caroline said, "Let's see if we can track down the archeologist. What's the name of that plantation where he's digging?"

"It's called Chocolate," I replied. "When we get out there how do you want to handle him?"

"What do you mean how do I want to handle him?"

"Well," I said, recalling the last time I'd questioned Hutchins, "let's say we're playing poker. It never hurts if the guy on the other side of the table thinks you're dumber than they are."

I saw the faint lines of a smile at the corners of Caroline's mouth. "Alright Fontaine," she said, not missing a beat. "We'll do it your way. You've got my expressed permission to act as dumb as you want."

# Chapter Twenty-Six

We took the Autobahn north, then traveled west on Dock Road for a couple hundred yards. When it intersected with West Perimeter Road, I slowed, then hung a right. We were now on the far western side of the island, bordering the edge of the marsh. Ten minutes later, we arrived at a small graveyard full of modest headstones.

I pulled to the side of the road and looked out my window. Caroline consulted the map. "This is Behavior Cemetery," she informed me. "It's where the slaves buried their dead. There's a sign up ahead. Let's see what it says."

I put it in first, and we bumped along for another thirty yards or so. I parked next to the sign, which was embedded into a tabby monument. Tabby, an early building material of the coastal residents, is a combination of oyster shells, sand, lime, and water. It's sort of crude, rough-hewn version of concrete. The sign told us that this was indeed Behavior Cemetery, established in 1805.

We sat there for a moment, looking at modest headstones. The island's sad past seeped into me like a slow poison. I glanced at Caroline. Her eyes were closed and her head was bowed, whispering silent prayers for the dead.

I pulled out, and Caroline checked the map. "It looks like we've got another five or six miles to go before we reach Chocolate Plantation. Let's hit it, Fontaine."

I nodded and motored along. A mile or so later, we arrived at a two-story building that contained the Sapelo Post Office, as well as the DNR's administrative offices. Caroline said, "There's Joe McCoy's office." She glanced at the map. "The building is known as Long Tabby. It was a plantation era sugar mill. Apparently it's the oldest building left standing on the island."

Rather than beleaguer the point that the DNR's administrative building wasn't located very far from the Marine Institute, I just kept driving past Puny Pickle's office.

I let a few minutes pass, then looked at Caroline and asked, "What do you call a woman who likes a small penis?"

"You're gonna tell me whether I want you to or not," Caroline said, shaking her head. "So hurry up and get it over with Fontaine....what do you call a woman who likes a small penis?"

I smiled. "Joe McCoy's girlfriend."

~ ~ ~

Soon after passing Long Tabby, the island vegetation to the west thinned out. Out my window, I caught glimpses of enormous pieces of driftwood that had washed up along the banks of the tidal river that ran along Sapelo's western edge. Weathered by the sun, the silver gray driftwood stood out in bold relief against the green marsh grass.

We crossed over another road that was little more than a trail. "There's supposed to be a research dock up ahead," Caroline said, turning my way with an arm slung over the seat. "Take the next left." I drove until we arrived at a smattering of small buildings interspersed among the trees. Caroline looked at the map. "This is called Moses Hammock. It looks like we're now in the Reynolds Wildlife Management Area McCoy mentioned this morning. I think this is where people camp out when they come out here to hunt."

I recalled McCoy's comment about rattlesnakes, wild boar, and alligators on the island. I patted the gun on my hip. Though I doubted we'd see any deadly critters, I was glad I'd brought my piece.

Just ahead, I saw the road Caroline mentioned. I slowed and hung a left. Twenty yards later the road petered out at the edge of the marsh. I parked the Trooper next to a palm tree and killed the engine. We climbed out, walked down to the edge of the river, and then up onto the dock.

There was a boat tethered to one of the wooden pylons. It was a decent size cabin cruiser, thirty five-feet in length, with the words I can Dig It painted on the hull.

Clearly, I Can Dig It was archeologist Jack Hutchins' boat. It must have cost a king's ransom. I don't know what the pay rate for a professor is these days, but there was no way in hell Hutchins could afford this boat on his salary. And even if he could, why didn't he sell it and catch up on his house payments? The synapses were percolating once again.

I walked up to the boat and rapped my knuckles on the side of it. No response. I climbed on board. Behind me, Caroline said, "What the hell are you doing?"

I waved her off. "Just taking a quick peek."

"Don't forget what I told you about doing this by the book," she said, sounding more than a little perturbed. "You need a search warrant before you board a man's boat."

"I'm not searching," I said, peering below deck. "Why don't you go back to the Trooper for five minutes? I think I hear your phone ringing." I wanted to take the boat apart while Hutchins was out doing his thing.

"My phone's right here in my pocket," Caroline informed me. "Off the boat Fontaine...now."

I heard the low rumble of an approaching vehicle. I jumped down onto the dock, wheeled around, and looked past Caroline. A tan Dodge pickup pulled in and parked next to the Trooper. The driver side door opened, and Joe McCoy stepped out.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand

Chinese Proverb

McCoy hitched his thumbs through his belt loops and leaned his tailbone against the truck's front bumper. "I saw you drive past the office," he said, striking a casual, 'aw-shucks pose.' "Thought I'd stop by and see if you needed any assistance."

"I think we've got it under control," Caroline said, beaming a smile at him. "But we appreciate you thinking about us."

I took a long hard look at nature boy and tried to figure his endgame. "I think I spotted Bigfoot wrestling with an alligator about a mile back," I told him. "You should go check it out." And get the fuck out of here.

Still leaning, McCoy pawed the earth with the toe of his boot. "You may think it's a joke," he said, narrowing his eyes, giving me the dagger stare, "but we trapped a ten-foot gator near Bourbon Field two weeks ago. Nothing you could handle Fontaine. That I can promise you." His words hung in the thick island air, calling me out.

I wanted to plant his ass in the marsh. "We're not here for some kind of wildlife adventure," I said, taking a few steps in his direction. "This is a murder investigation. Unless you have some kind of credible evidence, I suggest you get back in your fucking truck—."

"How much further is Chocolate?" Caroline asked, stepping between us.

"Two, maybe three miles at the most. Just keep heading north on West Perimeter Road. You'll run right into it."

"Thanks, Joe. We'll see you back at your office when we finish up."

McCoy eyed me a little while longer, then nodded. He pushed himself off the truck, ambled back to the driver's side door, and got back inside the cab. He cranked the motor, then disappeared into the island foliage.

When he was gone, I looked at Caroline. "You gonna tell me it was a coincidence that jerk rolled up on us like that? I'm telling you, I get bad vibes from that hayseed."

Caroline threw me a steely look. "What are you paranoid as well as brain dead? He said he noticed us drive by his office." She shook her head. "What's next Fontaine...Joe McCoy was the second Kennedy shooter standing on the grassy knoll?" A moment later she added, "I thought you were gonna wait till we got to Chocolate before you started acting stupid. Now let's go."

She spun around and stomped back to the Trooper. I followed, chastised, but not convinced.

~ ~ ~

We bumped along in silence for another half mile, Caroline staring out her window, doing a slow burn. Turning in her seat toward me, she said, "Have you ever heard the term 'fruit of the poison tree' Fontaine?"

"Sounds like a dish my ex used to serve for breakfast." Sometimes I think Caroline forgets I was a criminal investigator in Uncle Sam's Army. And while military and civilian law don't always dovetail, I know all about tainted evidence.

"Let me clue you in hotshot. Fruit of the poison tree means any evidence gathered illegally is inadmissible, a direct violation of a person's fourth amendment rights. I already told you what's at stake in this case. You cannot hop on a man's boat and search it without a warrant. If you fuck this case up—." She was quiet for quite some time, then added, "And what's with all the macho bullshit back there with McCoy? Did it ever occur to you that he may be able to assist us? It does us no good for you to intentionally piss everyone off. "

"Piss him off? He's pissing me off. Mark my word Caroline, that fucker's got an agenda." I glanced in her direction. "Rocky Raccoon shows up again, he's going in the river."

"Is that right? Well, my agenda is gonna be having you tossed if you don't shape up. No more screwing around. I'm serious."

We drove for a while longer, and Caroline went back to ignoring me. I glanced in her direction and asked, "What's the name of the place where McCoy said he trapped the alligator?"

"I don't know," she replied, sounding irritated, staring out her window. "Bourbon Street, Bourbon Field...why?"

"Just wanted to make sure we didn't stumble on it, that's all." Moments later I added, "See if Bourbon Field is on the map."

She let out an audible sigh. "Hang on a second." Caroline spread the map out, searching with her eyes. "Here it is," she said, indicating a spot on the map. "Looks like it's on the far northeastern side of the island." She looked over at me and asked, "What's going on Fontaine?"

I kept my eyes straight ahead and didn't respond, trying to quiet my thoughts. When the ranger said he'd trapped the gator near Bourbon Field, it was like my head had been razored open and a piece of the puzzle trickled out. The poem I'd swiped from Lydia Baker had a line that said something about Bourbon Field. I racked my brain for the poem's exact wording, but it was like trying to grab wisps of fog. And the harder I tried, the further it retreated into my memory bank, thin and vaporous. Then something clicked... _buried in Bourbon Field_.

Then another click: _Gold_. Was it possible Hutchins had been searching for gold in Bourbon Field all along? And if so, did he kill Claire because she stumbled upon something she wasn't supposed to see? And had the key to the goddamned investigation been locked in my glove box the entire time? Before I got ahead of myself, I needed to have a look at Bourbon Field.

"Where's the next road that cuts across the island?" I asked her.

"Looks like it's about a half mile behind us," she said, studying the map. "Why?"

"We're taking a quick detour." I pulled to the side of the road and turned the Trooper around. "Hutchins can wait. I want to take a quick look at Bourbon Field."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

When the foolish man hears of the Tao, he laughs out loud

Chinese Proverb

We arrived at Bourbon Field without fanfare, which is another way of saying Caroline didn't yap at me the whole way. Out the passenger window, I spotted a large clearing through a break in the trees. I pulled the Trooper over and killed the engine, then hopped out and had a look around. The maritime forest was particularly thick here, pressing down and enveloping us. The dark labyrinth of tangled branches muffled the sound of everything except the ticking of the Trooper's cooling engine. Caroline got out and stood next to me.

"What are we doing here?" she asked. "We're nowhere near Chocolate."

"Hang on a second." I opened the passenger side door and consulted the map. "Let's go," I said, setting off on foot toward the clearing. "I want to take a look at that field."

Caroline stayed firmly planted next to the SUV. "We're not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on."

"I've got a feeling," I said over my shoulder, "the key to the case may be lying out there somewhere in Bourbon Field." If it hasn't been dug up already.

"Does this have anything to do with that alligator?" she called out, racing to catch up. "Hold on a second...wait for me." She muttered something about ruining her shoes. I smiled, but kept right on marching. Caroline trailed in my slipstream, grabbing at my elbow. She caught up, fell in next to me. "Spill it Fontaine. I need to know what we're doing here."

"I think Claire saw something out here that may have gotten her killed."

"Like what?" she said, her voice stern. "And don't give me that, 'I've got a feeling crap.' Lay it out for me, and it'd better not be about that gold."

I stopped walking, turned and faced her. "Alright Caroline, here's the deal. During the week when Claire was out here staying in the Marine Institute apartment, one of her Savannah neighbors, a woman named Lydia Baker, retrieved her mail. Back when this was a missing person's case, I appropriated a letter off her that was addressed to Claire. The letter was postmarked Darien, and it was dated last Friday, the day Claire was killed. Inside was a strange cryptic poem that said something was hidden in Bourbon Field. I thought it was nothing, or had something to do with a bottle of booze maybe. I mean it just didn't make any sense. It wasn't until Ranger Rhubarb mentioned capturing the gator near Bourbon Field that something fell into place. I think it's possible that whatever is hidden out here got Claire killed."

Her nostrils flared and her jaw sort of clenched. She gave me one of her withering stares, the kind that can peel paint. I braced myself, waiting for the "We're gonna do this by the book," ball-busting. Finally: "Alright Fontaine. We'll deal with how you got that poem when we get off the island. For now, let's see what's out in that field." Caroline removed her shoes and started picking her way through the trees. "Let's hit it," she said. "The sun's getting hot, and we're burning daylight."

When Caroline mentioned the sun, it jarred a piece of the poem free in my head. I think I had the first line... _there are strange things done in the midnight sun_. Was that it?

~ ~ ~

We broke through the trees on the western flank of Bourbon Field and left the shelter of the forest canopy, the sharp spring sunlight flooding us as we entered the clearing. I looked around and realized that Bourbon Field was larger than I expected: approximately five hundred yards long, and two hundred yards wide. Far overhead, a couple of hawks worked the field, circling effortlessly like an infant's mobile hung high in the sky.

"I should've brought better shoes," Caroline said, walking gingerly, watching where she put her feet. "What was I thinking?" She took a couple more steps. "Do me a favor Fontaine. Keep the gloating to yourself."

"Walking barefoot is supposed to be good for you," I said, barely able to contain myself. "It's called earthing. The electromagnetic particles from the ground..."

"It's called stow it," she snapped. "Now what are we looking for?"

"We're looking for holes or places where fresh dirt's been turned over. Let's do a grid search, walking ten to fifteen feet apart. Let's start right here and work our way toward the marsh." I nodded toward the eastern edge of the clearing.

We both stayed quiet then, scanning the field as we went. Thirty minutes later we reached a thin clump of trees on the opposite side of Bourbon Field. We passed beneath their twisted branches and continued walking for another ten feet or so.

Watching where she put her feet, Caroline said, "If we see an alligator, I'm out of here." She took another couple steps. "And if you try anything funny, Fontaine, I'm ringing you up on a mail tampering charge."

We made our way to the edge of the island and stood on a ten foot bluff. Below us was a stretch of marsh about a quarter mile wide. On the far side of the marsh there was another heavily forested island. "That's Blackbeard Island," I said, indicating with my chin. "Apparently Blackbeard, real name Edward Teach, hid out in the tidal rivers up and down the Georgia coast, waiting to ambush any passing ships."

Caroline didn't respond. Instead, she stood there silently looking toward Blackbeard. What a view. This was the Georgia coast at its best. Not another person or a man-made structure as far as the eye could see. Blue sky. White clouds. The salt, the sea, and the air. A pirate island on one side. The other island once owned by captains of industry at the peak of their power. Shit, back in the 1920's, Lucky Lindy landed his plane on Sapelo. And maybe bags full of gold were buried out here too.

Caroline remained transfixed, her skin moist from the heat, her eyes reflecting the sky. A warm coastal breeze lifted her hair. She looked good. All cheekbones and attitude. I said to her, "A pirate walks into a bar with the wheel of his ship crammed down his pants. The bartender says, 'Excuse me, sir, but what's that ship's wheel doing down your pants?' And the pirate says, AAARRRGGGHHH! It's drivin me nuts."

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, then let out an irritated sigh. "You're driving me nuts."

I smiled, then turned my gaze to the east. In my mind, I could see Blackbeard aboard his frigate, the Queen Anne's Revenge, hiding out, lying in wait for an unsuspecting ship, then coming ashore at night in a lanterned rowboat with a treasure chest full of plundered gold. If Jack Hutchins wasn't a killer, and I was ninety-nine percent sure he was, I would have enjoyed hunting for the treasure with him. I mean, who doesn't enjoy a good treasure hunt?

The breeze continued to blow, and I could smell the Atlantic. My eyes swept the horizon. A series of tidal creeks snaked lazily through the marsh grass offshore. The largest creek was thirty to forty feet wide and came close to where we stood. I looked at Caroline. "I'll bet at high tide you can get a good size boat up here."

She nodded. "You're probably right. It looks like it comes in off the ocean, skirts between the islands, and empties out into the Sound." She gave me a furtive look. "Level with me Fontaine. You really think there's gold buried out here?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. But I think it's possible Claire saw something out here she wasn't supposed to see."

"We need to check with Jenkins. I want to know if any of Claire's research brought her to this side of the island." She turned and looked at me. "When we get back to town I want that poem."

I said, "I remember the first line... _There are strange things done in the midnight sun_."

Her blue-green eyes went wide. "That's the first line to The Cremation of Sam McGee. It's a famous from Robert W. Service."

"You sure?"

"I was a Criminal Justice major in college," she said, nodding, "but I minored in English Lit. The Cremation of Sam McGee is a poem about prospecting for gold in the Yukon." She thought for a moment, then added, "There's no mention of Bourbon Field in it though."

When Caroline said the name Sam McGee, she dislodged the remainder of the poem from the tangled recesses of my mind. I said to her, "I think I remember the rest of the poem. It went like this:

There are strange things done in the midnight sun.

Hidden in Bourbon Field.

Beneath the largest tree, just like Sam McGee.

_Three hundred pounds concealed_."

Caroline said, "Someone took the first line of Service's poem and added the rest." She spun around. "There aren't any trees in Bourbon Field Fontaine. It's one big clearing."

"I know, but Bourbon Field was the name of the antebellum plantation Caroline. These trees surrounding the field were probably part of the original grounds."

"Why would someone write a poem like that Fontaine?"

"I don't know, but supposedly R.J. Reynolds was afraid that his third wife was trying to kill him. Maybe he wrote that poem to alert his heirs to the location of the buried gold in the event she succeeded." I did some quick math in my head. "Three hundred pounds of gold is worth approximately four and a half million dollars. We need to hunt down that bastard Jack Hutchins."

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

_If you sit by the river long enough, the bodies of all your enemies will float by_

Chinese Proverb

I whipped the Trooper around and doubled back along East Perimeter Road. I cut across the island, then raced north, twin plumes of dust churning up behind us. The road was narrow and rutted. I gripped the wheel tight. Caroline had her right hand wrapped around a handle above her door and braced her left hand on the dash.

Five minutes later we made it to Chocolate. I locked up the tires, and the SUV shuddered into a skid beneath the shade of a live oak near the edge of the marsh. The tree was enormous, with gnarled branches that spread out relentlessly. It had to be several hundred years old, and could have stood on this spot since Blackbeard sailed these waters.

We jumped out of the Trooper and surveyed the former plantation. Like Bourbon Field, Chocolate was predominantly a large clearing where plantation slaves once picked Sea Island cotton. The field was surrounded by live oaks and thick stands of saw palmetto. On Chocolate's western border, the green grass of the marsh was bisected by the Mud River.

Overlooking the river, about a hundred yards north of us, was a large tabby barn. It looked like it had been restored at some point in the not-too-distant past. Near the barn stood several tabby ruins.

There was also a small house near the northwest section of the clearing. The house was a modest bungalow from the 1920's or 30's. This surprised me; I didn't expect to see anything this modern way out here.

Next to one of the tabby ruins a group of people gathered near a trench. They were sifting dirt through some large screens. I scanned the folks out in the field, but didn't see Hutchins. His boat was tied up at the dock, so he had to be around here somewhere. I wondered if he'd gotten away while we detoured on our little jaunt to Bourbon Field. If that prick slipped through my fingers...

Just then, Hutchins walked out from behind one of the ruins, wearing a pair of faded jeans, a wife beater, the straw hat and the wraparound sunglasses. He spotted us and stood motionless, staring.

# Chapter Thirty

"That's our boy in the hat and mirrored glasses," I said.

"Don't forget what I said about following procedure and doing this by the book, Fontaine." _Fuck the book. This guy's our killer._

I glanced at Caroline. "Hundred bucks says he makes a run for it."

We marched across the clearing. Hutchins frozen in time and space. Then he snapped out of it. He bent down and muttered something to a young woman crouched near the trench. Her back was to us. Still crouching, she looked over her shoulder and craned her neck. I saw her face. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old, and I wondered if she was one of Hutchins' conquests.

Hutchins said something else to her. Then he swaggered in our direction, cool as shaved ice.

Caroline said, "Looks like you owe me a hundred bucks." Moments later she added, "You also owe me dinner for slipping that missing person's report to you."

With my eyes locked on Hutchins, I said, "Carpe Culus."

She gave me a quick sideways glance. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Seize the asshole."

When we were about fifteen feet from him, the cocky bastard said, "What can I do for you Mr. Fontaine?"

I didn't utter a word till I was on him. "Your wife called. She wanted me to tell you to put your wedding ring on." Recalling the name of his boat, I smiled and said, "Can you dig it?" I love twisting the knife.

Caroline flashed her badge. "Mr. Hutchins, I'm Detective Ross with the Savannah PD. We'd like to ask you some questions about Claire Robertson."

He nodded. "Alright. Would you mind if we talk somewhere not so close to my students?"

"We can talk down at the station if you'd like," Caroline replied.

He thought about that, then said, "That won't be necessary. I'll be happy to answer your questions."

The hot sun ricocheted off the mirrored sunglasses, and he reminded me of the prison guard in Cool Hand Luke. The man with no eyes.

I said, "Why don't we start with the lie you told me in Cavanaugh's office." I paused and stared at him hard. "The one where you said you hardly knew Claire."

His jaw muscles tightened. "I told you that because I didn't want—."

"Because you didn't want me to find out you killed Claire. Is that it?"

"I didn't kill her. But I'm married, and I didn't want my wife to find out I was—."

"You didn't want her to find out what? That you were fucking another woman? From what I've heard, you've been fucking a lot of women. How many of these female students out here have you bedded?"

"Look," he said, "I'm a shitty husband. I admit that, but that doesn't make me a killer. I didn't kill Claire. I swear I didn't."

I said, "You killed her for that poem you little grub worm. How long have you been searching for the gold out here, Hutchins? I'm guessing you've been hunting for it for years. And you thought you hit pay-dirt. Claire stumbled on that poem inside the Reynolds Mansion when she was in there taking pictures. And you know what? She probably would've given it to you. Except she discovered you're a fraud. You've got a wife in Florida. You're up to your ass in debt. The bank's about to foreclose on your house. And Claire's got the secret to your salvation, the poem that tells where the gold is buried. You knew she had it because she told you about it. And right before you got your filthy hands on it, Claire finds out you're a fucking liar. You poor dumb bastard." I held my thumb and index finger about an inch apart. "You were this close."

"No. I didn't kill her. I swear to God I didn't."

"One of the things that bothered me," I said, "was why did Claire bother to mail the poem from Darien when there's a Post Office right here on the island? But you were threatening her, and she was afraid for her life. Claire didn't want to risk you seeing her at the Long Tabby Post Office. So she waited until she was off the island."

"Where were you Friday night Mr. Hutchins?" Caroline asked.

He stayed quiet for some time, then said, "I'd like to speak with my attorney."

Caroline nodded. "That's certainly your right, but if you want to talk to your attorney, we'll continue this interview downtown at police headquarters."

He stood there weighing his options, then looked at us and said, "No. I'll answer your questions. But can we please do it someplace away from my students?"

I wanted to gut him right here in plain view of everyone, but Caroline relented. "That's fair," she said, nodding toward the Trooper. "We can talk over there near our vehicle."

~ ~ ~

So off we went across the clearing, not a word spoken between us. We stopped walking when we reached the shade of the ancient live oak. The wind off the Sound rattled the palmetto fronds and stirred the Spanish moss. A little rivulet of sweat trickled down the side of Hutchins' face. If I had my way, we'd tie him down out in the mud and let the crabs do their thing.

I said, "How do you feel about hospital food through a tube because I'm about to bash your teeth in. Oh, that's right, they're not your teeth." I was really getting worked up. You're not supposed to get emotionally involved in a case, but I was long past that point. "You killed Claire for that poem you piece of shit, and it was you who sicked those two assholes in the Camaro on me. No one else knew what kind of car I drive. If my daughter had been in the back seat, her head would've been blown off." I grabbed a fist full of his shirt and backhanded him across the face. His head snapped back. The hat and sunglasses went flying. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and ran down his chin. I held tight to his shirt and cocked my fist.

"That's enough Fontaine!" Caroline yelled. "I want you to stand over by the Trooper."

"No fucking way Caroline." There's a savage place inside all of us, dark and primal. If pushed far enough, we all have the capacity to kill. Like a broken piece of flickering film, my mind's eye kept seeing the back window of the GTO shot out. My pulse was hammering. I shook him like a rag doll, ready to bury my fist in his face.

"Please Ray," Caroline pleaded. "We can't jeopardize a conviction by trampling his rights. There's too much at stake." If Caroline weren't here, he'd be face down in the mud already. "Do what I say, Ray, please."

Hearing her call me Ray pierced my rage. I released him, then backed slowly away.

Caroline stood between us. She trained her eyes on him and stared. "Where were you Friday night Mr. Hutchins?"

The little prick let a few seconds pass. "Having dinner at Huey's," he replied.

"Is there anyone that can confirm that?"

"I ate alone at the bar," he said, sounding sullen. "I was there from eight o'clock till just after midnight. The bartender was a young girl with blonde hair. If you need proof, there's a restaurant receipt in my wallet." Hutchins slid his right hand behind his back.

"Put your hands in front of you," I yelled, my fingers curling around the butt of my piece. "I swear to God, they'll be looking for chunks of you till the end of time."

He put his hands where I could see them. Caroline stepped behind him. With one hand on Hutchins' shoulder, she slid a black leather wallet from his back pocket. She came back around and stood in front of him again, then flipped the wallet open and peered inside.

Hutchins sprang forward like a cornered feral cat, whirling Caroline around. In an instant he had her in a choke hold, his arm wrapped tight around her neck. He jerked her head back, and almost lifted her off the ground. Her eyes locked onto mine, fearful.

I had my gun drawn, but Caroline was tangled in Hutchins' arms. Too close for me to risk a shot. Hutchins clamped harder on Caroline's windpipe, then began dragging her away from me. "Drop your gun Fontaine, or I'll break her fucking neck."

I held tight to my gun, looking for any chance to blast holes in him. "You're crab food Hutchins. You're not getting off this island alive."

He tightened his hold on her neck. She bucked and kicked, trying to wrench herself free. With his free hand, Hutchins grabbed for her gun.

They grappled, and I charged. I heard the lethal crack of gunfire. Caroline crumpled to the ground.

I caught a flash of black metal as Hutchins swung the Glock toward me.

I dove to my left and shoulder rolled. He got off three quick shots, missing wildly.

I scrambled to my feet. Hutchins fired again, the bullet smashing into the Trooper behind me.

Then, with both hands on the heater, I punched his ticket. I squeezed off two rounds, putting both slugs in the middle of his chest. Hutchins twisted in the air and flew backward into the marsh, the thunderous report reverberating across the water. 

# Chapter Thirty-One

_The journey is the reward_

Chinese Proverb

I woke Sunday morning to the sound of rain slapping against my bedroom window, the first rain in weeks. I had a five-star hangover. My head was pounding. My tongue felt three times its normal size. Even my eyeballs ached. Blah. I chugged about a quart of water, swallowed four aspirin, then jumped in the shower. Fifteen minutes later, I thought I might survive.

Yesterday, after leaving the island, I spent about six hours down at police headquarters getting grilled by the brass. When they finished putting me through the wringer, a young cop named Buddy Blaylock gave me a lift back to my place. When we pulled up, I was surrounded by a herd of news reporters camped out on my front lawn. I no-commented my way inside, then slipped out the back and headed over to St. Joe's to check on Caroline.

Caroline was lucky. The bullet struck her in the thigh and passed through without severing an artery or shattering bone. She was out of surgery and sleeping when I got there, doped up on pain medicine and snoring, so we didn't get a chance to talk.

The surgeon informed me she should be up and around in a couple of weeks. He also told me the guys who airlifted her off the island saved her life. Caroline's currently on paid leave while internal affairs looks into what happened out on Sapelo. But after all the publicity this damn thing's gotten, they don't have the balls to do anything but reinstate her at the conclusion of their investigation. I'm hoping she gets that promotion.

There was no gold on Hutchins' boat, nor was any found inside his rental house in Shellman Bluff. Who knows? Maybe there wasn't any gold buried on Sapelo to begin with. Or maybe it's still out there...waiting. On a side note, the cops recovered Claire's purse, and a .38 caliber revolver they believe is the murder weapon. Both were hidden inside a storage shed behind the house.

And me? Why I'm a hero, of course, even if it's in my own mind.

I've got about a couple hundred messages parked on my phone from people who know me, all wanting to know more about what happened. I even got one from Angie, but she just wanted to make sure my child support payment wouldn't be late. When Aggie finished, Megan got on the line. "I saw you on TV Daddy," she said. "Mommy said you looked like you've put on a little weight and need a haircut, but I thought you looked handsome. Bye Daddy, I love you."

There were a few messages from major media outlets, CNN, Fox, The New York Times, all requesting an interview. And one from an old colleague of mine at the Atlanta paper. He said Harry, my former editor, wanted to do a front page piece on me, but the corporate hacks were afraid of the publicity. Fuck them.

I also had a message from Cavanaugh offering me a well-paid position at Coastal Capital. Basically, I'd be an in-house investigator assisting his roster of rich clients. So I guess Caroline had it right all along when she said Cavanaugh wanted something from me.

Other than Megan, I haven't called anyone back yet. Maybe when I return home, after a few, well-needed days off.

I threw on some shorts and a faded t- shirt. I slid my feet into a pair of flips flops and headed out the door. I wanted to see what that Bed and Breakfast down in Darien looked like.

# Epilogue

Nine Months Later

It's dog eat dog, rat eat rat

Mark Knopfler Boom, Like That

I motored from Savannah to Charleston on a gray blustery day. The distance between these two southern cities is approximately one hundred miles, and normally I enjoy the solitude of the car. The hypnotic passing of time and miles brings me a measure of comfort. But the weather was foul. There was a vicious storm brewing somewhere out in the Atlantic. Strong winds buffeted the coast and keeping the GTO on terra firma was no easy task.

When I got close to Chucktown, the sky darkened beneath thunderheads that loomed just offshore. The wind began to howl, whipping up a battalion of whitecaps as I crossed over the Ashley River.

I headed downtown and found a hitching post for my steed, then slipped silently inside Fast and French, the happy ending front and center in my mind. Before you think less of me, Fast and French isn't a sleazy skin parlor. And I wasn't there for an incognito rub and tug, or any other type of lewd sexual act for that matter. Instead, F&F is a popular Charleston cafe.

Anyway, I played it safe with a turkey and Swiss on rye, snacked on the sandwich, and sat reading The Post and Courier.

An hour later I turned my collar up against the cold and leaned into the wind. I made my way to the intersection of Meeting and Broad, known locally as the Four Corners of Law, each corner representing either federal, state, local or God's law. The only location with that distinction found anywhere in the United States. I stood there and lingered a moment, my eyes resting on St. Michael's, the historic church where Claire Robertson and Bill Taylor almost married. I looked skyward and nodded, then turned the corner. Ready to close the book.

~ ~ ~

U.S. District Judge Janet Wilson was a raven-haired woman in her mid-forties. At one o'clock she struck her gavel and began the proceedings. I looked around, and there were more than seventy people in attendance. I glanced across the aisle at Caroline and Puny Pickle, and she smiled. No one bats a thousand, even yours truly. A few months ago Caroline ran into McCoy somewhere along Broughton Street. He took her to lunch, and much to my displeasure, they've been seeing each other ever since. McCoy seems to care for her, but if he steps out of line, his ass is mine.

At the front of the courtroom, flanked by his attorney, stood Bill Taylor. Fidgety Bill's parents and a sister sat behind him in the first row on the left. Conspicuously absent on this day of reckoning, Frank Chambers.

Frank cut a deal with the Feds and rolled over on Taylor. He's currently two months into a four-year stretch at Edgefield, a medium security prison. Maybe a couple skinheads will recognize him...Achtung shit-head. Anyway, I hope he drops the soap.

Taylor and Chambers, it turns out, had cooked up a complicated scheme that bilked the Hardeeville Bank and Trust out of millions of dollars. After the bank collapsed, the Feds seized Liberty Island, as well as the large tract of land near the Savannah Port, and the thousands of marsh acres Chambers owned along the river.

When Judge Wilson asked if he had anything to say before sentencing, Taylor bowed his head and blubbered. "Mister Taylor," she said, scowling down from the bench, "you've done a grave disservice to the citizens of South Carolina, not to mention costing the taxpayers close to ninety million dollars. In light of the seriousness of your crimes, as well as your refusal to cooperate with the investigators, I'm sentencing you to ten years in Federal Prison. This court is adjourned."

# Author's Note:

**Dear Reader:** Word of mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed Savannah Gone, please leave a review on Amazon, even if it's just a sentence or two. Thank you so very much. http://www.amazon.com/SAVANNAH-GONE-Ray-Fontaine-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00WFC6EZG/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1430689595&sr=1-1&keywords=SAVANNAH+GONE

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Sapelo is a real island with a fascinating past. I did, however, take several liberties, including some of the descriptions.

# Acknowledgments

This book is dedicated to the three lights that illuminate my heart: Lily Grace, who would not let me quit. Matt, for inspiring me every day. And of course to Deena, there's no one else like you.

A thousand thanks to Rich Malerba, for reading countless passages and drafts, as well as making valuable suggestions.

A thousand more to Shannon Carter for her editing expertise.

I'd also like to thank my siblings, Diane, Rob, Lee, Karen, and Jeff. I love you all very much.

Without all of you, this book would not be possible.
