Then where was Lois Timbers?
I thought about dialing her number on my disposable phone, and then a woman wearing a banana-yellow T-shirt strolled into the coffee shop. She paused near the front counter, her eyes adjusting from the sunlight outside to the dark interior. I stood and smiled. She nodded and walked to my table. “Mr. O’Brien. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Please, call me Sean.”
“It’s good to meet you. You’re bigger and even more handsome than you appeared on TV.” Her voice rolled off her tongue in a southern drawl that was charming and sincere. She was barely five feet tall, skin the color of the coffee I sipped, wide smile. She sat down and said, “My daughter and her youngest, little Timmy, were at my house. He fell riding his bicycle, poor thing, and he had a few well-earned scratches on his knees.”
“How old is Timmy?”
“He’ll be five next month.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Oh, yes, please. They know how to make it here.”
I signaled for the waitress, and Lois ordered a cappuccino. I said, “Thank you for seeing me today. The number on your phone that Courtney dialed, did you call it?”
“I thought about it, just to let whomever answered know that I’d seen Courtney. Figured someone was worried. Then all that stuff on the news seemed to happen overnight. Those murders, and the connection between you, Andrea Logan, and maybe Courtney. When I saw that video of you on the news, you looked really concerned — not so much about the questions the reporters were asking, but maybe deep concern for the girl. That’s when I called the marina and left a message with the woman who said she knew you.”
“Kim.”
“Yes, Kim. She was so sweet.”
“May I have the number?”
“Of course. I wrote it down for you.” She reached in her purse and handed me a folded piece of paper. “I did look up the area code.”
“What did you find?”
“Looks like she called someplace in South Carolina, but I don’t know where.”
“Is the number still on your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Delete it.”
“Why?”
“Because if the number’s gone, no one will be able to call it.”
“Well, to call it, they’d have to steal my phone from me, and that means they’d have to steal my purse.” She smiled. “One time a mugger in Detroit tried to do that. I have a scream that would wake the dead.”
The waitress brought the cappuccino. Lois stirred sugar through the foam and sipped. “That’s delicious.” She held the cup in both hands, her eyes moving from the steam up to my face. “The girl, Courtney, she does favor you some. Do you think she’s your daughter?”
“I don’t know.”
“I bet you’d make a fine father. An old grandmother like me can tell. Where’s the rest of your family?”
“They’re all dead. No one’s left.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Family and close friends is what life is all about, if you get right down to the real meaning of it.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, yes I do. Maybe Courtney is your child, and maybe she’ll be part of your life and you part of hers, too. What if that’s why I saw you on the news and made the call? Something was pulling at my heart, weighing heavy on my mind.”
“I’m glad you did make the call. Lois, some very bad men are frantically hunting for Courtney. The number on your phone might get them a lot closer to her. Right now only Kim and I know you have a tie to Courtney. No one can check your phone records because they don’t know your name or the connection. We want to keep it that way. I’m going to leave, and I’m going to go out the back door. I’m parked two blocks away. Wait at least ten minutes before you go, okay? The young man at the table next to the bookshelf is a college student. He attends Stetson. He will walk you to your car before you drive away. It’ll be just like you met him for coffee.” I stood and motioned to the college kid. He nodded.
Lois looked around a second. “Sean, I’m getting a little bit frightened.”
“Did you memorize the phone number?”
“No.”
“It’s deleted from your mind. Now, delete it from your phone. No one can take something that doesn’t exist. Thank you, Lois.”
She smiled. “You’re a kind person. I hope you find Courtney before they do. And I hope she’s your daughter. I’m a teacher, and the one thing I’ve learned in life is people need to be needed. Courtney needs you. And I believe you need her.”
59
When I opened the door to my Jeep, I took the piece of paper from my pocket. I looked at the number Lois had written on it, and I wondered where in South Carolina this number would lead me. Was it to one of Courtney’s relatives? Her parents? A sister, brother, or grandparent? Maybe it was the number to one of Courtney’s friends.
I sat in the Jeep, closed the door, sealing off most of the outside noise, and I lifted a mobile phone. What would I say to whomever answered? What could I say? It would depend on who answered the phone. I dialed the number.
“Hello.” It was the voice of a woman. A tired voice. A soft voice that, in one word, spoke volumes.
“Hi, is Courtney there?”
Silence.
“Is Courtney home?”
“I’m sorry, but you must have a wrong number. There is no Courtney living here.”
“Do you know Courtney?”
A two second pause. My heart raced. Would she hang up?
“There is no one here by that name. Goodbye—”
“Wait! Please, don’t go. My name’s Sean O’Brien. I’m trying to help Courtney. She’s in a lot of trouble. None of it’s her fault. Do you know where I can—”
“Please, sir, I have to go … I’m sorry.”
Her breath was slightly labored. Emphysema, maybe. She disconnected. The sound of silence crushing. I lowered the phone from my ear and looked at the screen. Who was the person? What’s her relationship to Courtney? Was there a relationship — a connection? I believed there was something — a modulation in her voice gave it away. It was when she said, ‘There is no one here by that name …’
She didn’t answer my question. Didn’t say whether she knew Courtney when I asked her a direct question. Only said there was no one here by that name. I started the Jeep, the voice of the mysterious woman from the phone call echoing in my ears like a troubled whisper imprisoned in my brain and bouncing off the inside of my skull.
When I drove into the Ponce Marina parking lot, the cracking of the oyster shells under my tires popped thoughts that had transported me as far away as South Carolina. I’d considered calling the number again. Would the woman pick up the phone? If so, what could I say differently to try to convince her to speak with me?
Nothing.
Not a damn thing. If I wanted to talk with her, I’d have to find her — have to find her before Senator Logan’s black ops people found her, or before one of Bandini’s hit men tried to put a .22 caliber bullet between Courtney’s striking eyes.
A black Mercedes with windows tinted dark pulled into the space next to my Jeep. I instinctively reached for the Glock wedged on the right side of the seat. My hand rested on the butt of the pistol. I waited for someone to get out. I glanced around the lot. Three cars. Two out-of-state license plates. One local. A TV news truck was pulling into the lot from the far side, closer to the Tiki Bar. The last thing I wanted was to be caught on camera in a possible shootout with whoever was sitting inside the Mercedes.