Page 61 of Summers at the Saint
“Ray Bierbower, our head of security, told me there was no sign of violence that he could see,” she said.
“Novisiblesigns,” he corrected. “Look, I can’t talk to you about an ongoing investigation.”
“But I’m family,” she protested.
“Speak to Ric Eddings,” the sheriff said. “I’m going out to the dining room now, to talk to some of your staff. Is there a room where I can talk to people, in private?”
“The Azalea conference room, closest to the restaurant, is available,” Traci said, picking up her phone. “I’ll have it unlocked for you.”
“What the fuck do you want?” Ric Eddings stood in the half-open doorway of his home, glaring at her. His usually precision-styledhair was matted to his head; his eyes were bloodshot. He was dressed in baggy gym shorts and a faded white undershirt and he held a half-empty tumbler of what she assumed was scotch in his right hand. From the smell of him, it wasn’t his first drink of the day. Not even close.
Traci had prepared herself for this kind of greeting.
“Ric, I know you and I have been at cross-purposes lately, but I was hoping we could forget our differences, considering what’s happened. Parrish wouldn’t have wanted—”
“You don’t know shit about what Parrish wanted,” Ric said, his voice hoarse. “How dare you show up at my home like this?” He pointed a trembling finger at her and his speech was slurred. “My daughter is dead because of you. If you hadn’t guilt-tripped her into working for you this summer, hadn’t bribed her to move into that goddamn dorm with those low-lifes and pervs…”
“Hey!” she interrupted. “You want to know why your daughter was so eager to move out? I’ll tell you what she told me. She was tired of your lying and cheating and fighting with your wife and running around on her. I didn’t have to bribe her.”
Ric swayed a little, sloshing the scotch over the side of the tumbler he was clutching.
“I’m sorry,” Traci said, contrite. “I really don’t want to bicker with you. I’m sorry I talked Parrish into working for me this summer. Maybe if I hadn’t… And I know you’re in pain, but you have to know what Parrish meant to me, and to your brother. We loved her too, you know.” She tried to blink away a fresh wave of tears.
“Just one more thing. If you and Madelyn need help, you know, making funeral arrangements…”
Ric downed the rest of the scotch in a single gulp.
“I think I’ve had about enough of your help to last me a lifetime, Traci. Now get the hell off my porch. And don’t come back.”
He slammed the door in her face.
CHAPTER 33
Whelan was only partly surprised to learn that there were seventeen Michael Sullivans living in his targeted geographical area, which consisted of Georgia, Florida, and South Carolina. Of those seventeen, just six had been born between the years of 1991 and 1993, the years bracketing Hudson’s birth.
One of the Mikes (that’s how he thought of them: Mikes) was deceased, killed, as Whelan had read in the online obituary, by a rare childhood blood cancer. The other five Mikes didn’t fit the profile for the Mike he was seeking—a kid whose parents had been Saints; that is, a family wealthy enough to be a member-guest at the Saint back in July of 2002.
These Sullivans all seemed to be working-class families—or in the case of one, the product of an unmarried mother who’d gotten pregnant at the age of sixteen.
Which left him with just one Mike: Michael Thomas Sullivan, age thirty-two, who was, as luck would have it, living in a suburb of Jacksonville, Florida, which was less than a two-hour drive away from Bonaventure, Georgia.
Whelan was skittish when it came to social media. He’d occasionally check in with the guys who’d been in his unit in Afghanistan. They had a Facebook group where they’d post updates on their families, jobs, and social life, something Whelan rarely did.
But he’d learned early that social media was an invaluable research tool. To that end, he’d been cyber-stalking Michael T. Sullivan of Avondale Park for the past week. He’d learned Michael loved paddleboarding with his golden retriever Gladys, grilling out, and posing for selfies with a group of handsome, tanned men who always seemed to gather in a bar or at a beach. Michael’s BFF or “work wife” was a young brunette named Jill who worked at the same bank in downtown Jacksonville. He knew Michael lived in a fixer-upper ranch, and that he’d been slowly doing a DIY renovation of his kitchen.
On Sunday afternoon, Whelan hit the road around four, reasoning that if Michael had been out paddleboarding or beaching it with his friends, he’d probably be back home by six that evening, getting ready for a Monday workday.
The day was scorching hot, ninety-eight according to the readout on the dash of his Tahoe. But he was listening to ’80s rock on his radio and the trip was so uneventful, the traffic on I-95 so light, he managed to pull up to the curb in Avondale Park shortly before six.
Sullivan’s house was clearly the nicest on his block, with extravagant beds of pink, blue, and white New Guinea impatiens nestled in swaths of bright green asparagus fern. A porch had obviously been added on to the front of the house, supported by modernist-looking columns.
Whelan rang the doorbell and heard a deep-throated series of barks. A voice emerged from the Ring doorbell.
“Yes?”
The barks continued. “Hush, Gladys,” the voice said. “How can I help you?”
Whelan flashed what he hoped was a warm, sincere smile. Sometimes, warmth was a stretch for him. “I’m looking for Michael Thomas Sullivan?”
