SAVANNAH GONE (11 page)

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.

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.