8

Maddox either was born with or was a master at copying Baxter’s elegance. He handed me the keys and garage door opener and drew me a map to the condos. Also, he wrote a big fat check which meant I had to go to work in earnest, not that I didn’t always, but it’s a bonus when you get one of Georgia’s richest men for a client. Webdog had informed me of that fact.

“Baxter Carlisle is listed in Georgia’s Richest. Real estate, baby, real estate. Wasn’t it Bob Hope who said go out and find land nobody wants and buy as much as you can, and they will come?”

“I don’t know, Web. I’m not a movie buff.”

“He bought in Palm Springs before there was a Palm Springs, and, for sure, they came.”

“Maybe it had something to do with him being Bob Hope.”

“Might be right, boss. Anyways, this Carlisle slid out of the womb onto a pile of money. His ancestor started one of the first insurance companies in Atlanta. It’s undergone several name changes, but started out as Dime Assurance for Life and Home.”

“I can see the reason for the name changes. Dimes for dollars.”

“Baxter Carlisle is also one of Georgia’s most reclusive gazillionaires.”

“Wouldn’t do for our Bax to run for office.”

“All would be revealed.”

“You mean his taste for teen girls?”

“Maybe that’s why he collects dolls.”

“What?”

“He has one of the most extensive doll collections in the world. Every Barbie ever made, and lots of old-fashioned, expensive dolls. Travels all over the globe to find them.”

“Is this supposed to be a secret?”

“The dolls are housed in one of his homes in Augusta. His caretaker’s grandson was a college classmate of mine. Last year the guy flunked out and went to Mexico, but we stay in touch.”

“No spoofing attacks needed?”

“Nope.”

“Speaking of spoofing, can you spoof a cell number?”

“Easy, breezy.”

“What else did you find on Baxter?”

“He’s never been married. He has a son, thirty-two in a month.”

“What’s his name?”

“Maddox Gilmeath.”

“Ah, all is revealed.”

“All?”

“Father and son together in Athens. The maitre d’-slash-business manager. Wonder when they got together?”

“He always supported the boy and let the kid visit in summer. Maddox went to Duke University. Is gay. Has a partner who resides in England most of the year. They commute.”

“Expensive commute. Name of partner?”

“I’m going to spell this. U-l-i, Uli. Last name van U-u-m.”

“Lot of U’s going on there. What kind of name is that?”

“Born in Prague of Belgium parents. Educated at the Glenn Paullus Art Institute in New York. Lives in London. A sculptor, of some note.”

“Lots of art in this case.”

“He seems to specialist in private parts.” I asked what private parts. “Penises. And not of your average Joe.”

“You’ve seen?”

“On the net. When he applied for a grant he had to submit work. It makes Piss Christ look heavenly.”

“Nice. You get to Damian Hansel and Cho Martine yet?”

“Dirk’s digging.” Dirk’s is a general private investigative agency with whom we contract out routine stuff. Web said, “With young people who obey the law and pay their bills, they don’t have much of a public history to track. Hansel’s never been in trouble with the law, has two paid-up credit cards, owns a Jeep in his name, both parents living, mother’s ill.” He took a breath. “If there’s anything deeper, I’ll find it when I hash his plaintexts and compare it to the input hash.”

For the deep stuff, we don’t hire Dirk’s. “Hash away. And Cho Martine?”

“An enigma. I’m going to have to consult John the Ripper’s dictionary for her.”

“Haven’t I heard of John the Ripper in some underworld context?”

“You don’t want to know the brute.”

“That all you got for me now?”

“Yep. I’m gone.”

He’d caught the phone hang-ups from Portia.

I don’t like using Web’s cracking expertise, but when you need info fast, you got to do what you got to do.

I decided to take Bax up on his offer of dinner and went from Baxter’s office to the maitre d’s dais. I wish I had taken his offer of the lovely suit .I’d have to tackle dinner and Maddox Gilmeath in my working clothes. The restaurant was full capacity, and the woman who registered reservations told me that there was nothing available for one. I told her I needed to talk to Maddox. She said Mr. Gilmeath would be with me shortly.

He came from the bar with a steady smile—the unthinking practiced smile of an expert in public relations. When he saw me, his eyes brightened, and he came up holding out an exuberant hand.

“You have decided to join us for dinner,” he said.

Glancing around him, I saw the reservationist’s pressed lips which told me that Mr. Gilmeath was difficult to work with or for. I said, “I know you’re full. I don’t want to put you out.”

“We do it like hotels. Save a table for unexpected, important guests.”

“Who knew?” I said, smiling.

“Mr. Carlisle told me to take very good care of you.”

“You would anyway,” I said. “Have you heard from him?”

“Through his attorney. He called to say Mr. Carlisle would be a while, but that he would be here for closing. Can I get you something from the bar?”

“Chardonnay, please, and, Mr. Gilmeath, I’ll have an appetizer at the bar.”

“You sure?”

“I had a wonderful lunch at the Polo Ground and I’m not that hungry. Maybe a shrimp cocktail.”

“I’ll fix just the thing for you. Come this way.” He turned and led me into the bar. “A nice Pahlmeyer 2007?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Can’t afford it.”

“On the house, and much better than the 2006. Nicely focused, some mouthfeel and succulent lime and mellowing nutmeg.”

I would say Baxter raised his son very well. “Sold.”

The sommelier opened the white wine locker, and Maddox Gilmeath dropped his role as the charming maitre’ d and moved away to commit to the wine ceremony, giving me time to size him up. Six feet tall, his unsmiling face featured a melancholy man with a perfect, straight nose that cut between deep blue eyes. His jaw was strong and his thick brown hair was expertly barbered. Stylish in every aspect was Maddox Gilmeath. A trick of my mind, however, saw him as a rock musician, hair down to his shoulder, disheveled, a two-day old beard and dark chest hair exposed by an unbuttoned shirt. A sexy man was Maddox Gilmeath.

He carried the bottle and a fragile wine glass to where I perched as elegantly as I could on the high stool, poured and invited me to taste. It was quite sumptuous. Holding the glass, watching the legs, I smiled up at him. “Am I supposed to describe this delicious stuff?”

“Only if you can.”

I sniffed and drew in a mouthful again. “So smooth, like velvet on my tongue. Buttery, but not too. I taste the citrus, no oak.”

“Excellent.” He pushed the bottle toward me. “It’s yours.”

“Do you run a taxi service for drunks?”

“I promise, you won’t get intoxicated.”

“Can I speak with you for a few minutes?”

He sat on an adjacent stool and angled his body toward me. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

“I have a researcher.”

“It’s ludicrous, the charges that girl makes. Baxter has his low points and particular tastes, but pedophilia is not one of them.”

It was interesting that he didn’t call him father, or daddy. Neither Baxter nor his son was daddy-calling types. “Can I ask about his low points?”

“As you’ve said, you have a researcher.”

“There are rumors,” I said. He gave me a quizzical, dark look. “He travels to places ...”

He glanced at the bartender who was busy fixing a Manhattan. “Travel is something the rich do with their money. They can only wear one suit at a time. Baxter trusts you.”

“I have to deal with rumors as well as facts. Sad to say.”

“Be that as it may, put some faith in him, until you learn otherwise.”

“Wisely said. Do you know Damian Hansel and Cho Martine?”

“I wish I didn’t.” He noted my raised eyebrows, but he made no move to elaborate.

I said, “I’m getting glimpses of them. It’s important to understand the personalities involved to understand why someone disappears. With Damian being an artist and ...”

A noise came from the back of his throat. “Athens Georgia would like to think itself the Paris of the twenty-first century, but it’s not even close. There are some good journeymen here, but Damian isn’t one of them. He’s a pretender and Cho Martine is a chimera.”

If I recall Greek myth correctly, a chimera is a monster represented by a lion’s head, goat’s body and serpent’s tail. I hadn’t seen her tail. “Are you an artist, Mr. Gilmeath?”

“I have no talent, but I’ve learned to appreciate art. My partner was born in Prague and is a sculptor.”

“Uli van Uum, an interesting name.”

“An interesting individual. I met him in Paris when I was a student at a place where foreign nationals hang out.”

“Does he exhibit in the states?”

“In New York, yes. And he’s subordinating himself to sculpt for our restaurant.” The glow in his eyes showed how proud he was of his partner. “He’s doing Uga, the Georgia Bulldog’s mascot. It’s to hang in Power House.” Uga is a real live bulldog. On game day he wears a spiked collar and a red official game jersey. He has an air-conditioned house at the stadium because bulldogs are susceptible to heat stroke. As a specialist in gay art, I shuddered to think what Uli van Uum would do with the white bulldog. “Very pricey,” I said. “The art, not the steak house.”

He shook his head. “You might drop by Studio Two-O-One during your stay here. Uli donated a sketch of the work. Also, you might be interested in a showing of Ceramic Progressions by Julian Cross. Tonight is the closing reception at Gallery Two-O-Five. They’ll still be there.”

“You’re being mysterious,” I said, looking at my watch.

“I think you’ll be interested.”

“Then I’ll drop by on my way to my home-away-from-home tonight.”

“I hope you’re comfortable.” By the look on his face, I knew the comfort level couldn’t be beat.

“One more thing,” I said, holding up a finger. “I understand Cho Martine is a musician.”

He shrugged. “I heard.” He watched two men walk into the bar. “I must attend my duties, Miss Dru ...”

“Just Dru.”

He grinned. “Dru.”

“Can we talk later?”

“Of course. When you need expense money, come to me.”

“I’ll do that.”

He rose. “Enjoy the wine. Ah, here comes your shrimp. Bon appetite.”

“One more question, Mr. Gilmeath ...”

“Maddox.”

“Do you think Baxter will let me see his doll collection?”

“Maybe you’d better stick with Mr. Gilmeath,” he said grinning, his eyes gleaming.