East Hampton detective Carter Decker was hunched at his desk over a sandwich and a set of phone records, more excited about the former than the latter. The sandwich was stuffed with layers of prosciutto, salami, ham, and provolone on focaccia that could have come from the heavens, but was actually from his beloved Luigi’s. The phone records were for a suspect in a recent smash-and-grab robbery at a high-end national chain store in the village. It had happened in the rush of summer, and now the upper-crust part-timers who came east to escape the stench and chaos of a New York City summer were exchanging whispers about their irrational fears of being robbed on the street or in their homes.
The mayor wanted an arrest made yesterday, but Carter knew he’d need the case locked and loaded for the prosecutor’s office to make the charges stick in the long run, and having a surefire timeline for the suspect’s whereabouts at the time of the robbery took…well, time. A small part of Carter wouldn’t mind if a delay in an arrest drove down tourism for the summer. Sometimes he looked around the town where he was born and bred and couldn’t believe it was the same place.
He tried to focus on the records, but found himself closing his eyes as he savored another giant bite of his sandwich. Phone records were tedious work, and the strain was kicking in. Just as he was about to take a break, his cell rang. He recognized the number from two earlier phone calls that he had neither answered nor returned. Rhode Island area code. It was the lawyer for Tinsley Smith, who had also been calling him incessantly.
Carter was used to family members of missing people “lawyering up” when they became suspects, but this was the first time he’d seen a family hire a lawyer when it wasn’t even clear a crime had been committed. He let the call go to voicemail and allowed himself the luxury of finishing his lunch in peace before checking the message.
“Detective Decker, this is Anthony Walker calling again on behalf of my client, Tinsley Smith. I know you’ve already spoken to Mrs. Smith about the disappearance of her son, David. She’s deeply worried about his well-being and is concerned that the department isn’t treating her fears seriously. We’ve hired some local people in the area to print up and distribute missing-person flyers, but we could use a more thorough response from law enforcement and hope you can help us. Please give me a call back as soon as possible to see how I can facilitate.”
Carter pushed the phone records aside and reached for his laptop. He entered Anthony Walker lawyer Rhode Island into the search bar and hit enter. Former prosecutor, now a plaintiff’s lawyer. Boston College Law School, cum laude, a few multimillion-dollar jury verdicts to tout on his website.
Carter eyed the stack of paper he’d stashed on the corner of his desk—more copies of the flyers the family had somehow already managed to blanket the East End with, describing missing David Smith as a thirty-six-year-old man, six-foot-two with a medium build, last seen Saturday at Gurney’s hotel, where he had been staying, in a gray T-shirt, jeans, and white Gucci sneakers.
David Smith’s photograph stared back at Carter from the flyer. Carter had no problem recognizing good looks in another man, and this guy was objectively handsome, plain and simple. Chiseled jawline, deep-set eyes, a mop of blond hair. Not quite Brad Pitt, but not exactly unlike him either. Preppier, without the edge. Even if Carter hadn’t looked into the Smith family’s background—even without cues like Gurney’s resort and the Gucci kicks—Carter would have known David Smith was from money. Just from the look. He was the heir to a publishing fortune built when print media could still make a family rich for generations to come.
The call was going to have to be made sooner or later. He pulled up Walker’s number from his last voicemail message and hit enter. The lawyer answered on the second ring.
“Detective Decker, thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”
It hadn’t been quick at all, but Carter appreciated the lawyer’s attempt to start out in a cordial place.
“Happy to stay in touch as we gather more information, but, as I explained to Mrs. Smith, we really don’t have any evidence to suggest that her son is in any danger. He’s an adult on vacation—and according to the staff at Gurney’s, seemed very affectionate with the woman he checked in with at the hotel. It wouldn’t be unusual under the circumstances for him not to be in contact with his mother for a couple of days.”
The night-shift manager at Gurney’s had called David’s plus-one a “real box of chocolates,” which sounded to Carter like a good reason for a single man not to call his mommy for the weekend.
“Except his mother has been calling and texting him, and he hasn’t responded, which she insists is extremely unusual. Look, it’s not how I deal with my mom, to be sure, but Mrs. Smith sent me some screenshots of their ongoing text conversation. Two days of silence appears to be unprecedented. And the hotel housekeeping staff tells me that the room appeared unused both yesterday morning and today. Bed still made. Towels still folded. A duffel bag filled with David’s clothes.”
“But his rental car isn’t at the hotel, and I didn’t see a second bag for his female companion. It’s not unusual out here for people with the means to do so to make day trips to other locations without checking out of their hotel. He could have gone to Shelter Island or the North Fork for the weekend, or decided to spend a couple days in the city.”
“I understand your skepticism, Detective, but that’s not what’s going on here. Calls to his phone are going straight to voicemail, suggesting his phone’s either off or dead. And David’s been using his corporate card on his trip out here. Charges for the hotel, Wölffer Estate Vineyard, the Surf Lodge in Montauk, something called Page in Sag Harbor on Friday night, two p.m. Saturday at Topping Rose.” Carter estimated the two-day tab to be more than what he made in a month. “No charges since, coinciding with his phone going dark.”
“People do still use cash, or David’s date might have picked up a check or two.”
“Between me and you, Detective, I get the distinct impression that David doesn’t date women who ever picked up a check.”
Carter pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. Ninety-nine percent odds this kid was off living a rock-star lifestyle with his weekend box of chocolates, but there was always the other percent.
“If David and his mom are so close, how does she not know who her son’s traveling with?” he asked.
“You think most single men tell their mothers about every woman they spend time with?” Walker said. “I’ve got some calls out to David’s friends. Hoping one of them knows who she is so we can see if anyone’s heard from her either. His mom said his car’s in the shop getting some work done. I found a Hertz charge for a rental car picked up in Providence Friday morning, due back Wednesday. They don’t have trackers on their rentals, but maybe you can put out a BOLO or something. I’ve got a Florida plate number for you.”
Carter could already tell this lawyer was more than tough talk. He knew his stuff.
“I can do that. And I’ll put out a request to check airports and train stations. Any chance David’s cell is a company phone like his credit card?”
“I’m not sure,” Walker said, “but I can check.”
“If it is, you’ll be able to get the records faster than I can. If not, I’ll subpoena them on my end. And do me a favor and shoot me a copy of those credit card charges with dates and times.” He spelled out his department email address for the lawyer. Carter wasn’t quite ready to jump into a full-blown search for David Smith, but he would check the phone records for any obvious avenues of investigation. And he could enlist some of the high school students volunteering with the department for the summer to retrace Smith’s steps through the receipts to see if anything unusual happened along the route.
He found Sergeant Debra McFadden in the break room, feeding a dollar bill into the vending machine. “What’s happening, D-Mac?”
“I’m about to say a very loud fuck-you to this stupid keto thing I’ve been doing. What do you think, Skittles or a Milky Way?”
“You love Skittles.”
“I really do. C. 8.” She pressed the machine buttons with emphasis.
“And you shouldn’t diet. It’s stupid. Especially for you.”
“I don’t know how you managed to make that sound like a compliment, but thank you.” She tore open the snack bag and offered him first dibs, which he declined.
“You working with the Explorers again this summer?” he asked.
“Yup,” she said, her eyes briefly closing with pleasure as she chewed her tart candy. “They’re good kids. And it’s easy OT.”
They’d had three dates before Debra asked Carter if kids were in his future. He answered honestly, and that was that. He handed her a copy of the David Smith flyer. “You’ve seen these around town yet?”
“No, but I heard Kelly say something about finding her future husband on a missing poster. Now I see why.”
“Think you can send some of your kids out to follow his steps? I’m getting a list of all of his credit card charges. Sounds like he was making the rounds to the usual hotspots. Maybe someone noticed an argument or something? I can walk the kids through what to look for, the questions to ask or whatever. Just need you to tee me up for that.”
“Sure. I’ll round them up now. You hook up anyone for the smash-and-grab yet?”
“Nope. Still working it.”
“Damn if part of me isn’t sort of rooting for them. They took twelve-thousand-dollar handbags, Carter. Twelve thousand dollars. For a handbag. Think about that.”
She held out her candy bag again, and this time he extended his palm to accept the offer.
“You trying to make me hate people even more than I already do? Let me try to think about this missing dude instead.”