Finding David Chandler Read online

  “FINDING DAVID CHANDLER”

  A MATT HUNTER NOVEL

  By Charles Ayer

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  Finding David Chandler

  A Matt Hunter Mystery

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright 2019 Charles Ayer

  The book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  “But why had he always felt so strongly the magnetic pull of home? He did not know. All that he knew was that the years flow by like water and that one day men come home again.”

  Thomas Wolfe

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  DOREEN CHANDLER looked good.

  Of course, Doreen has looked good to me since the moment it first dawned on me that girls looked good: a hot June day when she’d shown up at the town pool sporting this summer’s body in last summer’s bathing suit. She’d smiled at me.

  It was June again, and hot. A lot had changed in my life since that day over a quarter-century ago. Doreen hadn’t.

  “Doreen,” I said, stupidly, standing in the front door of the newly rented apartment I already didn’t like. It was part of a complex called “Devon Wood,” but the name belied the reality of the place: two acres of parking lot with red brick apartment buildings randomly erupting from the asphalt like pimples on an adolescent boy’s nose. But I needed cheap, and cheap was what I got. I had signed a month-to-month lease and hoped for the best.

  “So are you going to let me in?” said Doreen, hands on her hips, giving me that same smile, “or are you going to stand there staring at me like we’re both still twelve?”

  I should have known that she could still read my mind. She was almost forty now; we both were, but she still got away with a snugly tailored blouse and a tight pair of jeans that most women her age had quietly dropped into the Goodwill bin years ago. The couple of pounds she’d put on over the years made her look better, if anything, and I found myself wondering if the view from behind was still what it used to be. Her once shoulder length auburn hair was now short, but it was still thick and wavy, and had lost none of its rich luster. And those eyes, those witch hazel eyes, still teased me.

  “Matt?”

  “Oh! Sure! Come on in,” I said, opening the door, wondering how long I’d been gaping. I stepped aside as she walked in and gave the place the once over. The view from behind, I was happy to confirm, was still splendid.

  “You just moved in, I guess,” she said, as she scanned the living room that so far I’d managed to furnish with a beat up sofa, a banged up coffee table, and a TV that wasn’t plugged in.

  “Wednesday,” I said.

  “Gee, only three days and look what you’ve done with the place already.”

  “It wasn’t like I was expecting guests,” I said, looking around and wondering if I could look like any more of a loser. “How did you even know where to find me?”

  “This is still a small town, Matt, and in case you haven’t noticed yet, you’re still a pretty big name around here. It wasn’t tough.”

  “I guess.”

  “You haven’t changed much,” she said, turning her attention to me and giving me an appraising stare like I was a Weimaraner in the Sporting group. I was wearing an old pair of khakis and a faded NYPD tee shirt that I’d snatched up off the bedroom floor and thrown on when I’d heard the doorbell ring. I hadn’t shaved in two days, and I was in bad need of a shower. She was being kind.

  “Neither have you, Doreen, except for the better.”

  She gave a quick nod of her head, as if to say that she knew that, but thanks anyway.

  “So, do you think you could scare me up a cup of coffee?” she said, already heading toward the kitchen.

  “Sure,” I said, following her, “and I’ve even got cream and sugar.”

  “Thanks, but I drink it black now,” she said, as she took a seat in one of the two scarred chairs placed around a tiny kitchen table that I’d picked up at a tag sale the day before.

  “So do I,” I said, as I busied myself with the coffee maker, the only appliance on an otherwise bare counter.

  “Where’s Marianne?” said Doreen.

  “Marianne’s not here,” I said. Doreen knew damn well where Marianne was, and where she wasn’t. She knew that Marianne wouldn’t set foot in a hovel like this, and if I was living here, I was living alone. But we had to get past acknowledging the obvious.

  “I gathered that from the décor. When is she going to get here?”

  “She’s not going to get here, Doreen.”

  “I hope she’s all right.”

  “She’s fine, she’s just not going to be here, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Matt. Are you divorced?”

  “Not yet, but it’s just a matter of time. She’s staying in the house in Mount Kisco with the kids. She’s making all the money anyway, and she’ll get the house in the divorce.”

  While I’d been busy deciding how best to ruin my life, Marianne had kept her nose to the grindstone, and she was now Senior Vice President of Human Resources at Allied Mutual Insurance Company, headquartered in White Plains.

  “I don’t mean to be nosey, but was there somebody else?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. But Marianne has a lot of friends, and she doesn’t like to be alone, so I’m sure there’ll be someone soon.”

  “I’m really sorry, Matt.”

  “It is what it is,” I said, trying to sound final. Doreen and I had grown up on the same street; we’d gone to school together from kindergarten right through high school, and she’d been my first crush. But I hadn’t seen the woman in ten years, and this was all starting to get way too personal. The last year had left me rubbed raw. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it coming for a long time; but a divorce is like a death after a long illness: it still comes as a shock. Besides, there had never been any love lost between Marianne and Doreen, and I just didn’t want to open up that can of worms.

  “So what brings you back to Devon-on-Hudson?” she said. “Why didn’t you just move to the city?”

  “I don’t know. I guess hom
e is home.”

  “A good place to come and lick your wounds, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You were gone for so long. We were starting to think you had something against the place, or maybe us.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Doreen.”

  “‘Ah, c’mon,’ nothing,” she said. “We were all like family. We all had a great time at the ten-year reunion, and then you jilted us like an ugly date. What were we supposed to think?”

  She was right. What was everybody supposed to think? But the only thing that I was thinking at the moment was that I didn’t want to talk about it, at least not now, and not with Doreen, no matter how close our friendship had been. What was left of my male ego wasn’t ready to have that conversation, especially with her.

  Thankfully, the coffee was ready and I poured it into the only two coffee mugs I had. I gave Doreen the blue one that said, “John Jay School of Criminal Justice.” I kept the commemorative “1986 New York Mets World Series Champions” one for myself. There are some things you just don’t share.

  “Nice of you to remember that I’m a Yankees fan,” said Doreen, staring at my Mets cup.

  “Even with Jeter gone?”

  “Even with Jeter gone.”

  We sipped our coffee in silence. I was hoping it would last for a couple of minutes, but Doreen was relentless.

  “I knew you’d broken up with Marianne the minute I pulled into the parking lot,” she said. “Marianne doesn’t love anybody enough to live in a place like this. It’s not even up to your standards. How long are you planning on living here?”

  Doreen had managed to insult my wife, my marriage, my admittedly modest new abode, and me, all in one breath, but I didn’t let it bother me. Doreen and I had always shared the gift of bluntness.

  “Long enough to decide if I’m going to stay here long enough to look for anyplace better,” I said.

  “Well, if you ever need help looking for someplace else, just tell me.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Doreen didn’t reply, and this time the silence was uncomfortable.

  “Look, Doreen,” I finally said, “I can’t tell you how great it is to catch up with you, but I feel like that’s not why you came over.”

  “What? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  “Of course I’m happy to see you. When was I ever not happy to see you?”

  “Maybe never,” she said, giving me a look that made me feel warm inside.

  “But?” was all I said. The next move would have to be hers.

  “But you’re right,” she said, after a long pause. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out what looked like a business card. I don’t think anything any bigger could have fit in there. “As nice as this has been, I didn’t come over here just for a polite visit. I came here because of this,” she said, handing me the card. “I found a few of these lying around in the post office so I picked one up. It’s how I knew you were back, seeing as you didn’t bother calling me.”

  I took the card from her and looked at it, although I didn’t have to. It said:

  C. MATTHEW HUNTER, ESQ.

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  It gave no phone number or address, since I hadn’t had either when I’d had the cards printed up.

  “So what about this?” I said, turning the card over in my hands.

  “You showed up just in time, Matt,” said Doreen, taking the card back like it was a souvenir and looking me straight in the eye. “It seems that you’re not the only one who’s been abandoned by your spouse. I figured if anybody could find out where David’s gone, it would be you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Remember how you always got assigned to girl’s Phys. Ed.?” said Doreen, staring at the card.

  “Yeah, I remember,” I said, trying not to wince at the memory as I poured more coffee for both of us.

  My full name is Carroll Matthew Hunter. Dad had been a huge Green Bay Packers fan during their Vince Lombardi glory years, and wide receiver Carroll Dale had been one of his favorite players, a fact that played no small role in my choice of position on the Devon Central Gladiators football team. By the time I was a sophomore I was six feet tall, weighed 180, and I was fast. I could have played any position I wanted, except quarterback, of course. David Chandler had been The Quarterback in town since Pee Wee football, and he’d been penciled in as the future Devon Central varsity starting quarterback since he’d been ten years old. Besides, I knew how it would thrill Dad to see me play wide receiver, so that’s what I did, always wearing Dale’s number 84.

  At least Dad had known that he’d saddled me with an awkward name, so I’d been called “Matt” since the day he and Mom brought me home from the hospital. Still, word gets around in a small town, and having a name like Carroll could have been a deal breaker in school if I hadn’t been the co-captain of the football team.

  “And what’s with the “Esquire”? And when did you leave the NYPD? I thought you were a lifer.”

  “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be asking questions, here,” I said, but Doreen wasn’t having it. And she was right. A lot had happened since the last time I’d seen her, and I had some explaining to do. But not now.

  “I just want to know, that’s all. What, did you expect me not to ask?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t think now’s the time to get into my life story, that’s all.”

  “I already know your life story, Matt. I was there for most of it.”

  “I guess you were,” I said. “But look, we’ll have time to talk about all that later. You came over here to talk about David, so let’s get to that first, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Doreen, after taking a deliberate sip of her coffee, “but don’t forget, I’m here for you if you ever want to talk.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling grateful just to move on. “Now, what’s this about David? When was the last time you saw him?”

  “It was Thursday morning. Two days ago, when he left for work.”

  “That’s not a very long time, Doreen. What’s got you worried?”

  “Matt, David and I have been married for 18 years, and we’ve never spent a night apart in all that time until the last two nights.”

  That sounded like David, but I had to ask the inevitable question.

  “So you don’t think he’s left you for another woman? Your marriage was good?”

  Doreen surprised me by not responding right away. She and David had started dating as high school sophomores and had been inseparable ever since as far as I knew. They had gone out on their first date a week to the day after Doreen had turned me down flat when I’d finally worked up the courage to call her up and ask her out. She’d laughed. “Oh, Matt,” she’d said, “you know that you and I aren’t like that.” We weren’t? That was news to me. I didn’t leave my house for a week.

  “I do not believe that he left me for another woman,” she finally said.

  The carefully crafted response surprised me even more, but I decided not to pursue it, at least not now.

  “Have you gone to the police yet?”

  “What? You mean Devon’s Finest? You’ve heard, right?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Eddie Shepherd’s just been named Chief of Police.”

  Shit, I thought.

  “No, I hadn’t heard that,” I said, trying to sound neutral, but I wasn’t going to fool Doreen.

  “So what kind of help do you think I was going to get from him?”

  “Have you at least called and reported David missing?”

  “Yes, I did, yesterday afternoon.”

  “What did they say?”

  “What do you think they said? They said he’d only been gone for a day and that I should call back in a week if he still hasn’t come back.”

  “That’s nothing to take personally, Doreen. If I were still a cop I would’ve said the same thing. The problem is they won’t put out an APB or a BOLO until
they’re convinced he’s missing.”

  “What’s a ‘bolo’?”

  “Sorry. It’s a ‘Be On The Lookout For.’”

  “Can’t you get them to make an exception?”

  “I doubt it,” I said, “but in the meantime there’s plenty of stuff that we can look into ourselves.”

  “Like what?” said Doreen.

  “For example, have you called the credit card companies to see if there’s been any recent activity?”

  “I don’t have to call anyone,” said Doreen. “We have online accounts, and, yes, I’ve checked them. I handle all the family finances, so I would have noticed any irregularities.”

  “And you don’t think he might have gotten a card in his own name without your knowing about it?”

  “He could have, but he didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, like I said, I handle all the family finances; I have since the day we got married. I know where all the cash comes from and where all the cash goes. So if he had some secret card, he wouldn’t have been able to use it without my knowledge.”

  “Does he have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, he does, but he has literally never used it since we got it. It’s on the same family plan that mine and the kids’ phones are on. I see all the billings.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes. It’s up in his bureau drawer, gathering dust. I checked yesterday morning, just to make sure. He never even bothered to charge it up. If he wanted to make a phone call, he either used the landline phone or he borrowed my cell phone.”

  “What about a laptop?”

  “We have a laptop in our home office, but David never uses it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. We share an email account, and I’ve never seen him receive or send an email from it that wasn’t just an innocent communication with friends or family, but even that’s rare. When he wants to talk to someone, he calls. And frankly, I do most of the communicating for both of us.”

  “Are you sure he doesn’t have a private email account?”