When It's Time for Leaving Page 2

  Once back in my apartment, I headed to the backyard to relax. I was streaming music on my tablet when my cell rang. I almost didn’t answer because nobody I know makes calls unless it’s to bust chops—like Kim—but the caller ID came up Blue Palmetto Detective Agency and I was curious. The caller was a Mrs. Greenleaf and before she’d hung up I knew that while the Florida Georgia Line concert was not in my future, a trip to Ava Island off Savannah, Georgia, was.

  I was still taking in what Mrs. Greenleaf had told me when I got another call. Bill Collins.

  “Do you have Florida Georgia Line tickets yet?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, you do now. I punched in the web address over and over for four hours before they even opened up the sales, and I got in on time! I got four. Two of them are yours.”

  He sounded like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  “You’re not hearing me, man! They’re yours. Free.”

  “I won’t be around to use them. But I’ll give you the money for them. Give them to Donahue. Tell him you won them.”

  “Donahue? But you hate him.”

  “Kim likes the group. He’ll take her.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Just do it.”

  I didn’t think I had to explain to him that I wanted to leave Connecticut at peace with Kim, even if she didn’t realize it.

  2

  A MONTH LATER, MY DREAM of L.A. and guacamole pizza on hold, I drove to Savannah with Psycho’s GPS stuck to the window of my F-150. I bought the truck because I fell in love with the silver-stripe-on-black package. I realized too late that it didn’t have a built-in GPS. Psycho’s device was retro, but it did the trick in helping with some creative route planning to avoid monster bridges, just in case whatever was going on in my head happened again.

  Even with the added mileage, I made it down to Savannah in less than fifteen hours. There, I was able to duck a huge bridge that looked like a sailboat with two giant sails. The alternate route, though, put me right in the heart of the city. While I was there, I took a spin through the town to get my bearings as much as to put off the inevitable face-to-face with my old man. My first impression was that there was more to the community than southern Gothic and Spanish moss.

  I had read that River Street was paved with ballast from the old sailing ships, but I didn’t expect the jazz and southern rock streaming from every bar and restaurant that lined it, any more than I expected to see a paddlewheel river boat, or an open topped hearse giving a city tour. The place looked young and upbeat. I was ready for young and upbeat now that I wasn’t a cop. I just wondered if Savannah was the right place for it.

  I stopped in a place that advertised Savannah’s best chicken sandwich. I was wolfing it down along with a craft beer when the waitress stopped by for the obligatory how’s-the–food check.

  “You’re here on business, aren’t ya?”

  I wiped some juice off of my face with a napkin.

  “How can you tell?”

  She looked at the sandwich that was already three-quarters gone.

  “I don’t know. You seem to be eating with a purpose. You know what I’m saying?”

  I could feel myself blush.

  “You’re right. I have to slow down. I’ll take another one of these.” I picked up the beer bottle.

  “That’s better. Savannah should be taken in sips, like wine, not in gulps like Coke. Save that for Atlanta.”

  She made me smile. I wanted to stay longer but it was time to get this over with.

  “How do I get to Ava Island?” I asked.

  “Well now, I suppose the best way would be to follow Route 80. In fact, it’s the only way. Shouldn’t take you but 15 minutes. You’ll see the sign for the bridge.”

  “You mean, The Bridge?” I looked out the window where I could see the monster that I had masterfully avoided, when I came into town, thanks to the GPS.

  She laughed. “The Savannah River Bridge? Not unless you want to go to South Carolina. It’s a small drawbridge to the island. Careful you don’t miss it.”

  I realized my arms were crossed against my chest. I dropped them in relief.

  *****

  “You own a detective agency and a home on Ava Island,” Greenleaf had said.

  According to my Internet research, Ava is 1.47 square miles of self-governed paradise at the mouth of the Savannah River, between Savannah and Tybee Island.

  As I crossed the drawbridge, I could see the humongous Savannah River Bridge upriver.

  When I heard the words, “You have arrived at your destination,” I was, well... surprised. Maybe I had been a little hasty in judging my old man as a loser.

  I drove up a cobbled driveway and parked in front of a huge brick Southern Colonial house, complete with a palladium window and a columned portico. As I walked around back, where I could see sailboats racing on the Savannah River, I felt as if I had won the lottery.

  The smell of the refreshing sea breeze and the beautiful landscape had me beginning to think that this might be cool after all. Then I remembered why I could never handle living on Ava Island, paradise or not. The house and the agency came from my father. But I’d bet selling the place would get me more than enough money to finally get to L.A.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned to see a young woman by the pool bent forward on one leg. Her black compression shorts and a white muscle tank showed off a perfect tan. My father’s secretary? Correction. I’d won Power Ball.

  “Nice imitation of a flamingo,” I said.

  She dropped the dumbbells she held and stood straight.

  “Single-leg deadlift. It strengthens the core. You could use it. What did you say you want?”

  The voice may have been soft and sweet but the tone said she could be total badass if she needed to be.

  “I don’t want anything. I’m checking things out. I need to take it all in, ya know?

  “Listen, what you need to do is leave.”

  I whipped off my sunglasses. “I’m the new owner.”

  She whipped off her sunglasses in turn, stood up and shook her caramel colored hair.

  “Damn it! Not again. I hate to break the news to you dude, but you’ve been scammed.”

  I walked toward her. “Scammed?”

  “Yes, scammed. I bought this house last year and someone used the pictures from the Multiple Listing Service to put a phony for-sale-by-owner ad on Craig’s List. You’re the third one to show up this month. Did they take you for a $1,000 deposit?”

  “Nobody took me for anything.” I was beginning to wonder if I’d been punk’d. “You called me and said my father gave me his house and a detective agency.”

  She laughed as if she finally understood what was going on and then moved in to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Ah, so you’re the long-lost son. Al Junior, right?”

  Long lost son. What had the old man been telling people?

  “Al. No junior, okay? You would be Mrs. Greenleaf?”

  “Not exactly. I’m Max Brophy. I call your dad Big Al but I can see Little Al won’t do for you.” As her eyes lowered and lingered, I shifted on my feet. “You’re going to have to be plain old Al until I think of a better name for you.” She poked a finger at my chest. “Fine detective you are. You’re at the wrong address. Your place is next door.”

  She pointed to a thick bamboo border above which I could see the second story of a boxy contemporary style house of concrete and glass.

  “Okay then. My mistake.” The other house was way too modern for my taste but it would put some nice coin in my pocket when I sold it. “It’s nice.”

  She frowned. “Actually, that’s the house beyond yours.” She led me to a path through the bamboo. “This is yours. Welcome neighbor.”


  I guess I was punk’d after all. The place was old Georgia all the way. The one-story wood frame cottage, complete with tin roof, sat in the middle of a narrow lot darkened by the spread of a giant live oak tree hung in Spanish moss. Unlike the thick lawn next door, patches of green that resembled crabgrass grew through the soil in the sun-starved yard. A handmade sign with orange lettering on a cobalt background to match the paint on the house hung on a screened-in porch: Blue Palmetto Detective Agency. This must have been what all the houses on Ava Island looked like before it was taken over by hipsters who had tons of money to burn. Thanks for nothing, Dad.

  “If you ever want to sell the place, give me first dibs. That guy on the other side of you would love to squeeze another monstrosity like his in here.”

  I took a minute to pull off some sand spurs that had stuck to my socks. When I straightened up she was gone. As I looked around the yard, I noticed a yellow Mercedes sport convertible sitting on the crushed shell parking area between the cottage and the street. Sweet, sweet, sweet. The vanity plate read Classic 1982, the same year I was born. I admired its SL badge, long hood, and short rear deck. It must have been the rich man’s Mustang back in the day.

  I decided that I had better go next door to retrieve my own vehicle. I went through the path into Max’s sunny yard. When my eyes finally adjusted to the sunlight, she was nowhere in sight. Too bad. I would have liked to get to know her better even if I was only going to be on the island for a short time. I got my truck and drove it to my new, although temporary, home.

  When I pulled my truck in next to the convertible, I spotted an older woman standing on the cottage porch with her arms folded.

  “If you had called, I would have told you how to find the place. And I’m glad to hear the resemblance between Max and me wasn’t lost on you.” She primped her gray streaked hair.

  “News travels fast around here. You must be Mrs. Greenleaf. I didn’t call because I have a GPS. Right?”

  “A lot of good it did you. Call me Greenleaf. That’s what your father does.”

  Greenleaf brought me through the porch into the cottage. The inside surprised me. It was totally updated with light colored walls and an open beamed cathedral ceiling that made it seem light despite the shade from the huge tree outside.

  “This is my office. I’ll show you the rest of the place.” She led me to the room behind it. It, too, was modern with a big window that looked out at the mouth of the river. “This is your father’s office; yours now. Mine’s bigger because I do most of the work around here. I don’t see that changing, so we’ll keep the offices as is.”

  “I don’t think so.” When she wasn’t looking, I tapped a button on my phone that set a ten-minute alarm.

  She gave me a look with one eye closed and her frown slightly twisted. “You want my office?”

  “No. What I’m saying is that I don’t want my father’s office. Show me the rest of the place.”

  “Millennials,” she said, not caring that I heard.

  The rest consisted of a bedroom and small kitchen–living room arrangement with French doors that opened to a patio. “I’ll work on that couch so I can put my feet on the coffee table and look at the river.”

  “Have it your way. I’m semi-retired, so I come in at 10:00 and leave at 2:00. That’s not going to change either. I have all of your paperwork filed with the state of Georgia, so you’re good to go.”

  “Yeah, good to go.”

  She gave me the stink eye again. “You have a problem?”

  “A month ago, I didn’t know my father was still alive. And now I’m supposed to run his detective agency.”

  I’d help her dispose of his remaining cases, and then I was out of Ava Island and Georgia. I whipped out my phone and took some pics so I could bring them to a real estate agent.

  Greenleaf spoke like she was talking to a kid who didn’t get it. “Your agency. You own it. I explained all of that to you. Did you go to see him on the way in?”

  No, I hadn’t. How was this her business? “Show me the outside. Okay?”

  She took a moment to get a stack of folders that she had left on my father’s desk and placed them on the coffee table. Then she took me out back, and I saw that I had the same view of the mouth of the Savannah River that my neighbors in the million dollar digs on either side of me had. While the building might be a tear down, the land was certainly worth something. I was only there a half hour and I already knew of two people who were interested in the place. I lost that thought when I noticed a dock with an awesome Grady White tied up to it.

  “Whose boat?”

  “Yours. It comes with the house and the agency. Your father used it for surveillance work, but he wasn’t against doing a little fishing, too.”

  I guess my old man was living his version of the good life all those years. The problem is, my version of the good life was living in L.A., with the surf, and traffic, and energy, a place I learned to love on the many visits Kim and I had made out there when we were together. “I’ll help you get things in order, and then I’m moving on.”

  My alarm that I had set for 10 minutes went off.

  I pointed to the phone. “Hey, I appreciate your showing me around, but I have something I got to do. Okay?”

  Greenleaf rolled her eyes to let me know I wasn’t fooling her.

  “I was leaving anyway.” She surprised me by putting a hand on my shoulder. I pulled back and she frowned.

  “You didn’t ask me for advice, but I’m going to give it to you anyway. Let go of the past. That’s the last advice I’m ever going to give you.”

  I had the feeling that was not the last time she was going to give me advice.

  She walked over to an ancient pink and chrome Schwinn with fat white walled tires that was parked in an iron pipe bike rack that was something out of the last century. She slid onto the seat.

  “Isn’t the yellow Mercedes out front yours?”

  “Nope. That’s yours, too. You can get rid of your truck and the lousy GPS. That car’s a classic. Take care of it.”

  So, even my car and boat had been picked out for me.

  “I kind of like picking out my own transportation.” I thought of how that worked out when I pulled Batshit’s car from the motor pool. But still, no thanks.

  She pursed her lips and glared at me. “I’ve never been one to tell people what to do,” Greenleaf said. “You get yourself familiar with the place. Tomorrow I’ll get you up to speed on a few cases that must be wrapped up. And look, for your own good, go see him. He’s at a place over in Savannah called The Palms. That’s not advice. It’s something you need to do. It’s easy to find. Use that GPS of yours.”

  3

  UNTIL I GOT THE CALL from Greenleaf the month before, I hadn’t heard from my father since he left when I was an eight-year-old kid. Over the years, I had put him out of my mind. I kind of got used to him not being there. I had a friend in school named Davie whose father got killed in a construction accident. Somehow the story of his dead father and my missing father got twisted up in my mind and I had convinced myself that my father was dead, too. My mother’s brothers were cops. My uncles filled in for the father-and-son stuff like the Pinewood Derby and Little League, so I still had a pretty well-rounded childhood. When kids would ask, “Where’s your father?” I’d say, “Dead.” That would be the end of it. It kind of made me special like Davie. No big deal. My father’s dead, yours is alive. Let’s play ball.

  Of course, when I grew up and became a police detective, sometimes I’d wonder what ever became of him, but I never pursued it. He had been a cop like my uncles. Who knew he had become a private investigator? With both of us in the same line of work, you wouldn’t think that it’d take twenty-eight years for us to find each other. Maybe neither one of us had thought about it, or cared enough to take the initiative.

  *****


  That night I stayed up until 2:00 a.m. going over files that Greenleaf had stacked on the coffee table before she left. I was wiped out but the quicker I got the loose ends of Big Al’s cases tied up, the better. Then I could be on my way to the west coast.

  I must have been more tired than I thought because I slept until almost eight the next morning. Greenleaf had supplied me with a full refrigerator, and after putting on a pot of coffee, I whipped up some fried eggs and toast.

  I brought my breakfast to a herringbone patio out back, chevrons of interlocking blocks; a simple pattern in snapshot but maddening in wide-angle, like life.

  “Big Al laid the pavers for this patio himself,” Greenleaf had told me when she showed me around.

  “Apparently, the old man was good at almost anything he did; except for being a father,” I had replied.

  As I ate looking out at the million-dollar view of the Savannah River, for a minute I thought that maybe I could get used to this. As I realized I could see the bridge looming up river at Savannah, the moment soon passed. I didn’t ask for the Blue Palmetto Detective Agency, and I wasn’t going to let my old man push me into something I didn’t want. Since the incident on the bridge up in New Haven, I didn’t feel like chasing bad guys any more.

  While I was on the island already though, I had no problem with getting to know Max better. I was thinking of going over to see her with the excuse of asking her if there was a good place to workout nearby when I noticed splashing down by the dock.

  At first, I thought it might be an alligator. I walked down to the seawall and hopped onto the dock to see what the heck was going on in the water.

  I’d seen a lot of bad stuff when I was a cop. Still, I almost tossed my breakfast when I got a look at what was happening. Hundreds of frenzied little fish nibbled on the body of a young dude trapped in the lines between the dock’s float drums and the Grady.

  I pushed the boat away from the dock and tried to move the body. There wasn’t enough slack and the boat kept bouncing back against the dock. I loosened the lines from the stern leaving the bow tied so the boat wouldn’t float away, then laid on my stomach and grabbed the body under the arms. Several of the fish nipped at my flesh before they turned in unison and disappeared. I tried to lift the guy out. No way that was going to happen. I tried again and realized his hands were caught in the lines.