“I just got off the phone with the head of the goddamn detective agency I hired to find Sara,” he said. “I asked him for a progress report, and he fed me a line of bullshit about the police arresting Tyrone Biggs, and that it was only a matter of time before Biggs confessed, and told them where he’d put Sara. I played along, and made him think I believed him. Then, I asked him if he’d talked to the FBI. Do you know what he said?”
I shook my head.
“He said ‘What for? This is out of their jurisdiction.’ That’s when I realized that all the guy was doing was feeding me the police reports on my daughter’s case. He’s done nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“There’s a reason they call them dicks,” I said.
Long turned in his seat. “I fired the son-of-a-bitch.”
“That’s a good start.”
“I want to hire you. You know more about what’s going on than anyone else. Say yes, and the job’s yours.”
I had already committed myself to finding Sara. I had to find out what had happened to her, and also what had happened to Naomi Dunn. In a way, the job was already mine. Long was offering to pay me for it.
“I’m game,” I said.
Long visibly relaxed. He was the kind of man that needed to move the needle. He removed a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket, and passed it to me. I was not proud, and held the check up to the faint light coming through my window. It was a personal check made out to me for the sum of $50,000.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“Karl Long is always serious,” he said. “That’s the amount I advanced to the detective agency, and you deserve the same. If you find Sara, I’ll double it. She’s the only family I have. She’s worth everything to me.”
I folded the check and slipped it into my shirt pocket. My wife had a favorite expression: Everything happens for a reason. I shook Long’s hand, sealing the deal.
“I want regular updates on your progress,” he said. “Even if the news is bad, I want you to call me.”
“You’ll be the first to know. You have my word.”
The car fell silent. I sensed that Long wanted to continue the conversation, only there wasn’t much left to say. He glanced into the backseat at Buster.
“What kind of dog is that?”
“He’s an Australian Shepherd, but he’s got a nose like a bloodhound,” I said.
“Is the breed really from Australia?”
“Northern California. They were originally bred for herding sheep and cattle. He’s a champ at finding things, especially people.”
“So he’s your partner.”
“I guess you could call him that.”
Long bravely stuck his hand beneath my dog’s snout, and to my surprise, got his fingers licked in return. “Sara’s mother and I divorced when Sara was two,” he said. “I didn’t see Sara much when she was growing up, too busy building shopping centers and strip malls. When Sara was fourteen, my ex-wife got killed in a car wreck, and I suddenly became a parent. I struggle with it.”
“We all do,” I said.
“My situation is different. You have a good relationship with your daughter. I could tell by the way she looked at you during the game. I don’t have a good relationship with Sara. She hates me, thinks I’m an egotistical blowhard. I started coming to her games hoping to break the ice, but it hasn’t worked. The only time we speak is when she needs money for schoolbooks or to pay the rent on her apartment. I want to change that. I’m committed to changing that. I just need a second chance. Please find her for me, Jack.”
Making promises to clients was a curse in my line of work, but I was going to make an exception for Long. Maybe it was the blunt honesty in his words. That counted for something in my book.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I said.
“Thank you.”
I watched Long peel across the lot in his fancy sports car, ignoring the lane markings and stop signs. I took the check out of my pocket, and stared at the sum, just to be sure it was real. Whoever had said that money didn’t buy happiness had never been broke. Buster poked his head between the seats, his cold nose pressed against my arm.
“We’re eating steak tonight,” I told him.
CHAPTER 20
I bought two filet mignon dinners from the takeout at Outback, and I ate in my car with Buster. Then I drove to a nearby Holiday Inn, and rented a room with a king-size bed, an in-room coffeemaker, and seventy-two channels of cable TV. Buster seemed to know that there had been a seismic shift in my world, and would not stop wagging his tail.
I awoke with the first rays of sunlight and took my dog for a walk. The sky was an aching blue without a single cloud, the air warm and moist. Back at the motel, I peeled off my clothes, and took a swim in the motel pool in my underwear, the chilly, overchlorinated water snapping me awake and clearing my head.
The motel offered a free continental breakfast, and I grabbed a couple of warm rolls and a newspaper before hopping on 595 and heading east along with a few thousand other commuters. My destination was the First Atlantic Bank on Sheridan Street, where I’d done my banking for most of my adult life. It was just past eight when I pulled into their parking lot, found a shaded spot, and spread the paper across my lap.
At 8:30 the first employees began to trickle in. At 8:45 it was upper management’s turn. At 8:58 the bank manager arrived, a short, thick, disagreeable guy with an architecturally complex comb over. His name was Ed Nagle.
“Stay,” I told Buster.
I followed Nagle into the icy building. I’d heard it said that Florida could solve half its problems by outlawing air-conditioning. The idea certainly appealed to me.
Nagle’s office was a corner space with plenty of light. I found him at his desk, erasing voice mails. I rapped on his door, and he looked up with a start.
“Top of the morning,” I said.
Nagle scrunched his face, trying to place me.
“I’m sorry, but do I know you?” he asked.
“Jack Carpenter,” I said.
“I remember you. You’re the detective who got thrown off the force. What can I do for you this morning?”
Nagle’s words stung like a hornet. I entered without being invited and plopped down in the chair directly across from his desk. The expression on Nagle’s face told me I wasn’t a pretty sight. Unshaven, wearing two-day clothes, hair uncombed. The beach bum look.
“I have a business proposition for you,” I said.
Nagle drummed his fingers on his desk. I removed Karl Long’s check from my shirt and laid it on his blotter, smoothing the crease as I did. Nagle stared down at the piece of paper like I’d dropped a turd.
“Is this a joke?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Karl Long is a client of this bank. I know his signature.”
“Then you should be able to identify the one on this check as being his.”
Nagle picked up the check with both hands and studied the signature. The expression on his face changed from hostile to pleasant in a snap of the fingers.
“Well, this is definitely Mr. Long’s signature,” he said, passing the check back to me. “May I ask why Mr. Long gave you this?”
“He hired me to find his missing daughter.”
“I heard about his daughter’s disappearance on the news. Such a tragedy.”
