“Gravitas?”
“That’s the word exactly. Gravitas.”
With that, their conversation petered out. Frank began to wonder if this was such a good idea. He didn’t know the guy. In fact, Holloway seemed a little…off. Maybe bestselling authors were like that. All that time alone inside their own heads—maybe they weren’t adept, socially.
He could feel the guy scrutinizing him from behind his dark glasses. The way the light bounced off them— Frank couldn’t see the man’s eyes. For the first time, Frank questioned his decision to leave his security detail behind.
Frank decided right then this would be a short day. They’d go out a ways, do a little fishing, and be done by early afternoon. He wouldn’t call off the fishing trip altogether though. Something told him not to piss this guy off. Go out for an hour—they wouldn’t even have to talk—then leave him back at the dock. That decided, he stood up. “What do you say we go get us some kings?”
Just as he said it, a shadow crossed over them—a pelican landing on a nearby piling. A storm was coming later this week, but today was beautiful. A beautiful sunny day, but Frank felt goose bumps crawl across his shoulders as the man smiled.
Dark glasses and excellent teeth.
“Sounds like a plan,” Nick Holloway said.
27
As Jolie and Louis walked back to their cars, Louis’s phone rang.
After disconnecting, he said, “We got an owner for the truck—matched the VIN number. It was stolen from an auto body shop in Panama City. Guy dropped it off three days ago—was gonna restore it to its original condition. Bad deal, huh? Now his vintage truck’s got a big dent in the rear quarter panel, and I’m sure two days in the pond didn’t do it any good.”
“It could be where he hit the post in the alley.”
“That’s what I was thinking. We’ll go on that assumption. Guess I’d better get back.”
“Guess so.”
“I’ll, uh, keep you apprised.”
“It’s okay, Louis.”
“Hey, just occurred to me. You asked me if there were any missing persons reported on Memorial Day weekend, remember? Palm County didn’t have a missing person, but Bay County did. Panama City Beach—a friend of mine took the info. There was someone—a young guy named Nathan Dial.” He gave her the contact info for the Panama City Beach PD.
“Thanks, Louis.”
“No prob.”
“Be sure to check out Amy’s phone. It could solve the case for you.”
“Okay.”
Back at home, Jolie called the Panama City Beach detective, Craig Jeter, who had taken the missing persons report on Nathan Dial. “Kid left his car at the bar, must’ve hopped a ride with somebody,” he said. “To tell the truth, I’m surprised he didn’t show up after a day or two.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Could be a number of things. Maybe he found himself a new relationship. He disappeared from a gay bar.”
“You think he’d just up and go? Leave all his stuff?”
“I’ve seen weirder. But he could just as easily have gotten into some big trouble. I wish you good luck.” He gave her what he had, which wasn’t much. Jolie got the feeling he didn’t take Dial’s disappearance seriously. Kids “took off.” She got the impression that he thought gay kids in particular could fall off the face of the earth and nobody would know where they went. Or care.
Her second call was to Scott Emerson, Nathan’s roommate. He suggested they meet at the Waffle House on Thomas Drive in Panama City Beach.
Jolie had to decide which weapon to take. She felt naked without one. Although the Palm County Sheriff’s Office had given her a replacement firearm for the SIG Sauer P226, she decided to leave it at home. It would be best to take her own weapon. She had four handguns to choose from—she chose the other SIG.
The badge, she took.
As Jolie crossed the Grand Lagoon, she saw high-rise hotels lined up along the beach like dominoes. It was bright and sunny, the sky a diaphanous blue—a beautiful day to play hooky.
Stopped at Cove Bar on the way in.
Cove Bar dated back to the early sixties, a low brick structure painted dark purple. A round sign loomed at a forty-five-degree angle above the door. According to Detective Jeter, Nathan told his roommate he planned to meet a guy named Rick at the bar on Friday night of Memorial Day weekend. From there they would go to a party.
He was never seen again.
The bar was closed. Jolie took a couple of photos of the bar and the parking lot where Nathan’s car had been left behind, then drove a mile west to the Waffle House.
She scanned the parking lot, wondering what kind of car Scott Emerson would drive. He was a college kid. It was likely he’d use cheap transportation. She thought he’d drive the Chevy Cavalier without hubcaps.
Inside, she sat at the counter, ordered a Coke, and waited. The cook in her white paper hat glanced at her inquiringly, and Jolie shook her head. The cook turned back to the griddle and didn’t look at her again.
Jolie knew she was skating right on the edge—first talking to the PCB detective, and now meeting with Scott Emerson. If Skeet found out, she had no doubt he’d use it against her. But nobody at the Palm County Sheriff’s Office knew about Nathan Dial except for Louis. And Louis was a little busy right now, trying to solve her case.
By a quarter past two, Jolie realized Scott Emerson wasn’t coming.
She called and got his voice mail. She’d wait another ten minutes and then give it up. A young woman went by and sat on the stool at the end of the counter. The girl could have been sashaying down a runway. She made a big production of setting her rose-pink alligator bag down on the stool next to her and checking her phone. Jolie caught the potent combination of perfume, tanning oil, and beach sand—a Panama City Beach girl. Long blonde mane—Jolie guessed, hair extensions. Makeup troweled on, but she was still beautiful. Halter top that matched the bag, bare brown midriff, tiny short-shorts, stork legs ending in translucent sandals on five-inch heels. Fiddling with her bejeweled cell phone, every gesture over the top. A girly-girl.
Jolie had never looked that good. Didn’t think she’d want to. She liked to watch other people, but didn’t like them watching her.
The beach girl ordered lunch, flirting with the heavyset female cook, speaking in a high baby voice, ordering waffles, cheese eggs, and hash browns, “scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked.”
Little girl with a big appetite.
Jolie tried Emerson again.
Christina Aguilera’s “Can’t Hold Us Down” blared down the counter. The beach girl consulted her phone—she made a big production of it.
Jolie punched in Emerson’s number again.
“Can’t Hold Us Down” sounded again. The girl looked at her phone again and dropped it in her purse. She got up, paid the cashier, and walked out the door.
Jolie watched through the window as the beach girl walked right past the red Miata, straight to the white Cavalier. Bent from the waist to unlock the door, her rear end pushed out and up, showing off the beautiful line of her tanned legs.
Her tiny, compact butt.
Hair shiny in the sunlight.
Jolie dropped a five on the counter and hustled outside to her own car just as the Cavalier turned right on
