was at the table in two quick strides. Buchanan ordered coffee. The half a bottle of Jack from the night before was still sloshing around in his gut.
Buchanan watched the waiter disappear, and when he looked back at Joanna McCall he knew she was studying him, almost like he was a biology specimen or an alien life-form. He was used to it. The people his clients employed—the gardeners, maids, and au pairs—were just shadows moving along the peripheries of their lives. But he was different, and Joanna McCall knew it. He was one rung up, like a dentist, someone who you didn’t need until you were in pain.
“I’m sorry I was so abrupt when you called this morning,” Joanna said.
“Suspicion is not a bad thing these days.”
“It wasn’t suspicion.” She picked up the Bloody Mary and started to take a drink but then set it down. “It’s just, this whole thing with Mel, it’s just so unbelievable. Outside of getting a ticket once, I’ve never had to deal with the police. But Owen says you can be trusted and that you are very good at what you do.”
“I get results,” Buchanan said.
She nodded slowly. Buchanan wondered how much her husband had told her about how he worked. He decided she was probably like many of his clients who didn’t want to know the dirty stuff.
The waiter brought his coffee. He poured in some cream and stirred in two sugars.
“Mrs. McCall,” he began.
“Call me Joanna, please.”
He took a sip of the coffee, considering his approach. Might as well go right for the jugular because she wouldn’t be expecting it.
“Do you know where Amelia is?”
Her green eyes locked on his. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“Has she contacted you?”
“No. I would have told Alex if she had.”
“Not if she wanted to get away from him.”
Joanna’s eyes were steady on his for a moment and then she looked away, taking a drink.
“You’re her friend,” Buchanan said. “Her only one here in Fort Lauderdale, from what I can tell. Do you know where she is?”
When Joanna looked back at him, her eyes were brimming. “No,” she said softly. “I wish to God I did.”
If she was lying, she was good at it, Buchanan thought. But her jizz was telling him that she was telling the truth.
Buchanan knew people were staring at them, probably wondering who was this guy who was making Owen McCall’s wife cry. With his rumpled khakis and blue blazer he wasn’t fooling anybody into thinking he belonged there.
“Mom? You okay?”
Buchanan looked up. A young woman had come to the table. She was wearing a short white tennis dress and carrying a racket. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail with little wet tendrils around her neck.
“Oh, hello, honey,” Joanna said, smiling quickly.
“What’s wrong?” the young woman asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just have some business to talk about here.”
The young woman’s gaze moved to Buchanan. Her lips were pink pillows, and her wide-set eyes were a compelling hazel green flecked with gold. She was, Buchanan imagined, what Joanna McCall had looked like thirty years ago.
Joanna touched the woman’s arm. “Are you and Elaine done with your game?”
“She had to leave early, and I don’t have my car. Can Jack drive me home?”
“Not right now. I won’t be finished here for a while. Why don’t you go get showered and changed and—”
“I’ll wait here with you.”
Before Joanna could object, the young woman sat down. Joanna’s eyes carried a hint of apology as she glanced at Buchanan. “Megan, this is Clay Buchanan,” she said softly. “He’s a private investigator looking into Amelia’s disappearance.”
Joanna reached up to gently push a strand of hair from the young woman’s face but Megan eased away from her touch.
“This is my daughter, Megan, Mr. Buchanan,” Joanna said.
“My pleasure,” Buchanan said.
The young woman’s eyes frosted over. She held Buchanan’s stare for a moment and then turned back to
Buchanan watched the waiter disappear, and when he looked back at Joanna McCall he knew she was studying him, almost like he was a biology specimen or an alien life-form. He was used to it. The people his clients employed—the gardeners, maids, and au pairs—were just shadows moving along the peripheries of their lives. But he was different, and Joanna McCall knew it. He was one rung up, like a dentist, someone who you didn’t need until you were in pain.
“I’m sorry I was so abrupt when you called this morning,” Joanna said.
“Suspicion is not a bad thing these days.”
“It wasn’t suspicion.” She picked up the Bloody Mary and started to take a drink but then set it down. “It’s just, this whole thing with Mel, it’s just so unbelievable. Outside of getting a ticket once, I’ve never had to deal with the police. But Owen says you can be trusted and that you are very good at what you do.”
“I get results,” Buchanan said.
She nodded slowly. Buchanan wondered how much her husband had told her about how he worked. He decided she was probably like many of his clients who didn’t want to know the dirty stuff.
The waiter brought his coffee. He poured in some cream and stirred in two sugars.
“Mrs. McCall,” he began.
“Call me Joanna, please.”
He took a sip of the coffee, considering his approach. Might as well go right for the jugular because she wouldn’t be expecting it.
“Do you know where Amelia is?”
Her green eyes locked on his. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“Has she contacted you?”
“No. I would have told Alex if she had.”
“Not if she wanted to get away from him.”
Joanna’s eyes were steady on his for a moment and then she looked away, taking a drink.
“You’re her friend,” Buchanan said. “Her only one here in Fort Lauderdale, from what I can tell. Do you know where she is?”
When Joanna looked back at him, her eyes were brimming. “No,” she said softly. “I wish to God I did.”
If she was lying, she was good at it, Buchanan thought. But her jizz was telling him that she was telling the truth.
Buchanan knew people were staring at them, probably wondering who was this guy who was making Owen McCall’s wife cry. With his rumpled khakis and blue blazer he wasn’t fooling anybody into thinking he belonged there.
“Mom? You okay?”
Buchanan looked up. A young woman had come to the table. She was wearing a short white tennis dress and carrying a racket. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail with little wet tendrils around her neck.
“Oh, hello, honey,” Joanna said, smiling quickly.
“What’s wrong?” the young woman asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just have some business to talk about here.”
The young woman’s gaze moved to Buchanan. Her lips were pink pillows, and her wide-set eyes were a compelling hazel green flecked with gold. She was, Buchanan imagined, what Joanna McCall had looked like thirty years ago.
Joanna touched the woman’s arm. “Are you and Elaine done with your game?”
“She had to leave early, and I don’t have my car. Can Jack drive me home?”
“Not right now. I won’t be finished here for a while. Why don’t you go get showered and changed and—”
“I’ll wait here with you.”
Before Joanna could object, the young woman sat down. Joanna’s eyes carried a hint of apology as she glanced at Buchanan. “Megan, this is Clay Buchanan,” she said softly. “He’s a private investigator looking into Amelia’s disappearance.”
Joanna reached up to gently push a strand of hair from the young woman’s face but Megan eased away from her touch.
“This is my daughter, Megan, Mr. Buchanan,” Joanna said.
“My pleasure,” Buchanan said.
The young woman’s eyes frosted over. She held Buchanan’s stare for a moment and then turned back to
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