“She could be half way to Singapore by now,” I said.
“Your expense account is unlimited,” he answered. “I will want you to keep me informed if you leave town in search of Miriam and I would expect you would, as a professional, keep expenses to a minimum and give me a full accounting of all such expenses when you find her.”
“If I find her,” I said. “I’ll do my best to find out why she left. I’ll have to ask her if she’s willing to talk to you. I’ll tell you where she is if she gives me permission to tell you.”
“I understand,” he said.
He moved again. I followed into an office where he moved to a desk and picked something up next to a computer.
“Here’s a check in advance,” he said. “Larry said your fee was negotiable. Consider this expenses and, if anything is left, part of your payment. I propose one hundred and twenty dollars a day plus expenses.”
I nodded to show it was fair and took the check. It was made out to me for five hundred dollars. He had been ready and expecting that I’d take the job.
“How long?” I asked.
“How long?”
“Do I keep looking before I give up? I expect to find her, but it may be hard or easy. It may, if she’s really smart, be impossible.”
“Let’s say we re-evaluate after two week’s if it goes that long,” he said. “But I want her back if it’s at all possible. I’m too old to start again and I love Miriam. Do you understand?”
I nodded, tucked the folder under my arm after dropping the check into it and asked him for the numbers of any credit cards they shared, the tag number and make of her car and various other things that would make my job easier.
While he found what I asked for he admitted, “I tried going to the police first, but they said they really had no reason to look for Miriam unless I thought she might be dangerous to herself or had been taken against her will. They also said I could file a missing persons report but there was little they could do even if they found her other than inform me that she was alive and well, unless she had committed a crime, which she hadn’t. I’m talking too much.”
“It’s understandable,” I said as he ushered me to the door and handed me an embossed business card, tasteful, easily readable black script: Raymond Sebastian, Investments, Real Estate. There was an office address and phone number in the lower left-hand corner. He had written his home phone number on the back of the card but I already had that.
“Keep me informed,” he said taking my hand. “Call any time. As often as you like.”
He waited with me at the elevator. His was the only apartment on the floor, but he was on the twelfth floor and the elevator took a few minutes.
“Anything else I can tell you?” he asked.
“She have any living relatives?”
“No, it’s all in the material I’ve given you,” he said. “Just me. I don’t think she’s gone far. We’ve traveled all around the world, but she considers the Gulf Coast her home. I could be wrong.”
“I’m going to start with her friend Mrs. Wilkerson,” I said.
“Good idea though I don’t know what Caroline can tell you that I haven’t. Yet, maybe there was something said, some… I don’t know.”
The elevator bell rang and the doors opened. I stepped in and smiled confidently at Raymond Sebastian who now looked a little older than he had on his balcony.
When I’m not working, I bike. Not a motorcycle. A bike. Sarasota isn’t that big and it has a good cheap bus system that not enough people use. When I’m on a case, I rent a car and charge it to my client. I had left my bike, an old one-speed, chained to a tree. No one had taken my battered bike pack. It wasn’t worth the effort and besides, we were a little off the regular haunts of Sarasota’s downtown homeless. I put the folder in the bike pack, took off the chain and dropped it into the second pouch of the pack. I biked. It was summer, the day was hot. I pedaled to my place behind the Dairy Queen on 301. I pedaled slowly. I was wearing my best clothes — sport jacket, pressed pants, white shirt — and I didn’t want to get them sweat drenched if I could help it.
When I got back to my office, I made three calls. First, I called the little independent car rental company I used and we agreed on our usual deal. I said I’d be over to pick up a Toyota Tercel within the hour. Then I called Caroline Wilkerson, who was in the phone book, and made an appointment with her that afternoon. She said she was worried about Miriam and Raymond and would be happy to talk to me. I called Dr. Gerald Bermeister, got a typical he’ll-call-you-back. I told her it was urgent, about Miriam Sebastian. The woman put me on hold for a minute so I could listen to the Beach Boys and then came back on to say Dr. Bermeister could see me for fifteen minutes at four-forty-five. I said I’d be there.
I put on my jeans and a black pull-over tee shirt, washed my face and went down to the DQ where I had a burger and a Blizzard and talked to Dave who owned the place. Dave was probably about my age but years of working in the sun on his boat had turned his skin to dark leather. I’m a sucker for junk food and I’ve got no one to tell me to eat well. Dave doesn’t eat his own food, but I knew he kept the place clean. I worked out every day at the YMCA where I biked every day and told myself that covered the burgers, fried chicken, ribs and hot dogs. I could tell myself lies. Who was there to contradict me?
I walked to the car rental office about a mile and a half north on 301, past antique shops, a girlie bar, a pawn shop, some offices and restaurants, a rebuilt and new tire garage and a Popeye’s chicken. I had worked up a sweat when I got the car. I turned on the air conditioning and headed for Sebastian’s bank where I cashed the check for five hundred. Then I drove back to my office and my room to wash and change into my good clothes.
Caroline Wilkerson met me at the Cafe Kaldi on Main Street. I had no trouble finding her even though the coffee house tables were almost full in spite of the absence of the winter tourists. She sat alone, an open notebook in front of her, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was writing. A cup of coffee rested nearby. I recognized her from the society pages of the Herald-Tribune. When I sat across from her, she looked at me over her glasses, took them off, folded her hands on the table and gave me her attention.
The widow Caroline was a beauty, better in person than in the papers. She was probably in her late forties, short, straight silver hair, a seemingly wrinkle-free face with full red lips that reminded me of Joan Fontaine. She wore a pink silky blouse with a pearl necklace and pearl earrings and a light-weight white jacket.
“Would you like to order a coffee?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve had my quota for the day.”
She nodded, understanding, and took a sip of her coffee.
“Miriam Sebastian,” I said. “You know she’s apparently left her husband?”
“Raymond told me,” she said. “Called. Frantic. Almost in tears. I couldn’t help him. She hasn’t contacted me. I would have thought, as Raymond did, that if Miriam did something like this, she’d get in touch with me, but…”
Caroline Wilkerson shrugged.
“Did they have a fight?”
A trio of young women suddenly laughed loudly a few tables behind me. When they stopped, Caroline Wilkerson closed her notebook.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I can’t be certain. But Raymond said nothing about a fight and I don’t recall ever seeing them fight or hearing from Miriam that they had fought. Frankly, I’m worried about her.”
“Any idea of where she might have gone?” I asked.
The pause was long. She bit her lower lip, made up her mind, sighed. “Gerry Bermeister,” she said softly meeting my eyes. “He’s her analyst and… I think that’s all I can say.”