When she’d given him the basics, he fell silent for a moment before saying, “Tell you what, if Xavier Rayne’s dead it’s a goddamn shame.”
Harper glanced at him, surprised. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” he said. “But I’ve been following his career since he started out, singing at open-mic nights around town when he was a teenager. He always had talent but, in the last couple of years, he found his voice.” He sounded almost reverent. “He’s the real deal. Two years at Juilliard on a full scholarship. Dropped out to go pro. His new album is something else.”
She should have known Miles would be all over this. He loved music, and had a professional’s affinity for spotting new talent in the area.
“He’s probably just passed out on someone’s couch,” she told him.
“Maybe.” Still morose, he looked out the window at the marshes. “Or else he’s feeding crabs.”
The Tybee Island police headquarters was a low clapboard structure near the beach. The street was quiet as the two of them hurried up the wide sidewalk to the front door. The rain had eased a little, but a cool breeze blew in hard off the ocean. The air smelled of brine.
Inside, pale light flooded through wide picture windows into an airy, open-plan space that felt for all the world like a luxury real-estate office. There was no one in the lobby. The reception desk was unmanned.
Harper looked around, bewildered. She’d never seen a police station that wasn’t teeming with activity at this time of day.
She stood on her toes, calling into the office behind the front desk. “Hello?”
A chair, which she’d assumed to be empty, twitched before it rolled back, revealing a woman in her thirties with short, blond hair.
“Oh my heavens,” the woman said, getting up. “You startled me. I didn’t realize anyone was there.” Her apologetic smile was outlined in pink lipstick, matching her pink cardigan. Her gaze swung from Harper to Miles and back again. “Can I help you?”
“We’re from the Savannah Daily News.” Harper held out her press pass. “We’d like to see the crime report on Xavier Rayne.”
“Oh yes.” The woman grew serious. “Tom Southby told me you might come in. I’ve got it right here.” She picked a folder up off the desk and slid it across to them, already open to reveal an official form. “It’s such a shame. That poor young man. I hope he’s okay.”
Harper and Miles bent over the document, which set out the case in stark, emotionless terms.
Missing person: Michael Xavier Rayne.
Age: 24
Height: 6ft
Weight: 160
Race: Mixed
Hair: Black
Eyes: Hazel
Last seen: Approx. 0200 hours
Last known location: 6 Admiral’s Row
Last seen: Individual had been drinking heavily at his residence for several hours. Individual announced he was going to the beach to write music. Housemates report seeing him walk to the beach with guitar and bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Housemates say they fell asleep after that point. When they awoke, individual had not slept in his bed. When he did not answer his phone or respond to messages, they searched the house and nearby beach. At approximately 1200 hours they contacted PD to report missing person.
Page two had a few additional details: basic information about the scene—house in good repair, no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle.
At the end was a final entry.
Reporting persons: Hunter Carlson, Cara Brand, Allegra Hanson.
All of them listed the Admiral’s Row address as their home. Harper wrote down all three names before handing the file back to the receptionist.
“Have you had any calls at all about him this afternoon?” Miles asked. “Any sightings?”
“Nothing at all.” The receptionist looked past them out the glass wall to the swirling clouds and falling rain. “I sure hope he turns up. This is no kind of weather to be out in.”
Harper couldn’t argue with that. But all she said was, “Can you tell us how to get to Admiral’s Row?”
* * *
The receptionist’s directions took them to a short, leafy street of six grand, two-story Victorian mansions on a low bluff overlooking the ocean. The houses were identical and magnificent—each had a high, peaked roof and a spacious wraparound porch on both floors.
Number 6 was the last house on the lane.
Harper parked at the end of the street, and killed the engine.
“Nice place,” Miles observed, looking up at the huge windows. “I guess music pays.”
The low, menacing growl of the ocean was clear in the distance as they got out of the car.
Harper turned around, trying to get her bearings. She thought the lane was probably a mile from Spinnaker Cottage. And maybe half a mile or more from where gunshots had been reported the night before. But it was hard to tell without looking at a map. The island’s winding roads were confusing.
“What’s up?” Miles asked, glancing back at her.
“Oh it’s nothing,” she said, after a second. “Just thinking.”
It was too early to make any guesses about what was going on here. She had nothing substantial to connect this missing-person case with the gunshots. And the police didn’t believe there had even been any gunshots at all.
She didn’t want to blow a good story by hoping for a better one.
She glanced at Miles. “You want to come inside or head straight down to the beach?”
His eyes swept the impressive house. “I’ll come with you. I want to get a feel for the place.”
The front door was broad and sturdy, painted the same white as the house, with a fan-shaped transom window above it that looked as old as the building.
Harper took the lead, knocking firmly. A long silence followed. She was thinking of knocking again when the door was yanked open so unexpectedly she jumped back, bumping hard into Miles.
A man in his twenties glared at them. “What the hell do you want?”
He was tall and slim. His sandy-brown hair stood up as if he’d just raked his fingers through it. He wore a faded band T-shirt for a group called the Lumineers.
Remembering the names on the report, Harper said, “We’re sorry to bother you. Are you Hunter?”
His brow creased. “Who’s asking?”
He had a Northern accent—New England, maybe. He was trying to sound intimidating, but Harper could hear the nervousness that lay beneath his words.
“My name is Harper.” She kept her voice measured. “This is Miles. We heard about what happened with Xavier Rayne. We work for the Savannah Daily News.” At the mention of the newspaper, he flinched, and she hurried to finish. “The police have asked us to write about it. To spread the word. In case someone’s seen him or knows where he might be.” She took a step forward, keeping her eyes steady. “We just want to help.”
“Oh, man.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. “I didn’t think the press would find out so soon.”
His eyes were bloodshot. His shoulders sagged a little, as if the day pushed down on him. There was something boyish and vulnerable about him that Harper instinctively liked.
“Who is it, Hunter?” A woman about his age appeared just behind him. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she moved him aside gently.