She's Not There by P. J. Parrish

sir?” the woman asked. “There’s a bad storm coming.”
    “I guess so. It’s already knocked out the streetlights.”
    “Streetlights?” The woman looked to the open doors. “Oh no, the city shuts them off on purpose.”
    “Why?”
    “For the turtles.”
    “What?”
    “The sea turtles, sir. It’s turtle season. They lay their eggs in the sand and when the babies hatch, they use the moonlight to guide them to the ocean. But if the streetlights are on, they lose their way and follow the bright lights up to the highway.”
    Buchanan nodded. “Where they die.”
    “Yes, sir, I’m afraid so.”
    She started toward the sliding glass doors.
    “No, leave them open, please,” Buchanan said.
    She nodded, gave him a smile, and left. The room was quiet for a moment and then came another rumble of thunder. Buchanan went to the tray, dropped some ice cubes into a glass and opened the bottle of Jack Daniels. He filled the glass halfway and drank it quickly.
    Bucky?
    The voice was there in his head again, not his dad this time but the other one, the gentle voice that came like a ghostly whisper, echoing in his hollow insides. The only one who ever called him by that nickname.
    No more, Bucky, please.
    And then she was gone.
    He drained the glass, wincing at the scorching in his throat, waiting for the numbness to come. When it didn’t, he poured another glass and took it out onto the balcony.
    Below, it was nothing but blackness. He could smell the rain and hear the rumble, but there was nothing else there. Then, suddenly, there was a break in the black clouds and the moon emerged. Moonlight, soft and silvery, slid over the sand, lighting the way, and then it was gone.

CHAPTER TEN
    Buchanan got only twenty feet into the lobby of the Lauderdale Yacht Club before he was stopped.
    “Are you a member, sir?”
    The man who had stepped in front of him was wearing a hard smile and a blue blazer with a little flag emblem on the breast pocket.
    “No, I am not,” Buchanan said. “I’m a guest of Joanna McCall’s.”
    “Ah. Yes. She’s waiting in the bar, sir. Just beyond the trophy case.”
    Buchanan eyed the silver cups and model boats in the case as he passed, and then paused at the entrance to the bar. It was well past lunchtime, but the place was still full of big dogs in Maas Brothers sherbet slacks and polo shirts, with a few Brooks Brothers types thrown in. There were only a few women, most of them old tsarinas and a few sleek young SWANKS—second wives and no kids.
    He scanned the crowd for Joanna McCall, looking for a woman who matched the ones he had seen in the society rag City & Shore . He was looking for someone who was all teeth, tan, and gold jewelry. King Tut’s trophy wife.
    A blonde in the corner was waving to him. He went over to the table.
    “Mr. Buchanan?” She offered him a smile and her hand. “I’m Joanna. Please, won’t you sit down?”
    He shook her soft warm hand and sat down across from her.
    “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice,” Buchanan said.
    Her smile faded. “I want to do whatever I can to help find Mel.”
    Joanna McCall wasn’t young, probably past fifty, and she had worked hard and paid a lot of money to turn back time. But with her good skin and thick blonde hair cut in a long bob, there was a softness to the woman that was undeniably attractive. Her green eyes were liquid and slightly reddened, and he knew it wasn’t from the untouched Bloody Mary in front of her. The woman had been crying.
    There was a scattering of pastel paint chips on the table, and she began to gather them up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re building a new house up on Hillsboro Mile, and I was trying to pick out paint colors.” She set them aside, shaking her head. “I can’t decide anything right now.”
    Her voice carried just a hint of Southern drawl, but from where, he couldn’t pinpoint.
    “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.
    She motioned to a waiter, and he