“What if I got a roster for the football team for that year?” Mak persisted. “Maybe seeing the names would spark a memory?”
“Sorry. I just never paid attention to sports. Not my thing.”
“That’s okay,” Makarowicz. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
* * *
“This is Frank. You know what to do.”
Makarowicz hesitated. He’d left three previous voice messages for Frank Ragan, none of which had been returned. He didn’t have high hopes of hearing from the former football coach, but he’d give it one more shot.
“Mr. Ragan, this is Al Makarowicz of the Tybee Island Police Department. There has been a new development in the investigation into the disappearance of your wife, and it’s urgent that I speak to you.”
He spelled out his last name and left his number and disconnected. He was sitting in the claustrophobic cubicle that served as his office at the police headquarters on Van Horne Avenue.
Driving back to the island from his meeting with Holland Creedmore, he’d been thinking about the drama teacher’s disclosure that Lanier Ragan had been tutoring high school kids, including some of her husband’s football players, the fall before she disappeared. Could one of those “big dumb lugs” have been her secret lover? Holland Creedmore Jr. was on that team, but had he needed tutoring? Who else might fit that description?
He opened the browser bar on his desktop computer and typed in “Cardinal Mooney Catholic High Football team, 2004.” There were dozens of citations. He learned that the Knights had gone undefeated and won the state championship that year, and that Frank Ragan had been named Georgia High School Coach of the Year, and that two of his senior players, André Coates and Holland Creedmore Jr., had been named to the all-state first team.
He found a photo of the team’s two standouts, grinning and holding their all-state plaques. Coates was a beefy-looking defensive lineman, and Creedmore Jr. was, not surprisingly, a tight end. The article accompanying the story said that Coates was headed to Florida A&M, while Creedmore had signed to play at Wake Forest.
“Wake Forest, huh?” He studied the photo of an eighteen-year-old Holland Creedmore. His blond hair grazed his shoulders, and he was dressed in a white dress shirt, striped red tie, and blue blazer. Clear-eyed, handsome, every mother’s son.
Makarowicz scrolled through other stories until he found an article from the Savannah Morning News extolling Cardinal Mooney’s 2004 senior football players. Eight of the championship team’s members had been seniors and were highlighted in the article. He printed out the story and read on.
Thirty minutes later, he had a folder of printouts and some thoughts. On his way out of the building he stopped by the office of the city’s code enforcement officer, Howard Rice.
Rice was on the phone, so Makarowicz leaned in the doorway and scrolled through his phone messages. He’d already heard from Hattie Kavanaugh about her run-in with the man she referred to as Inspector Gadget, but he wanted to see the photo of the flaming dumpster for himself.
“Something you need?” Rice was off the phone now.
“I’m Detective Al Makarowicz,” Mak said. “Only been with the force a few months, so I guess that’s why we haven’t met. I’d like to talk to you about that fire on Chatham Avenue last night. I understand someone sent you a photo of the dumpster yesterday?”
“That’s right,” Rice said. “A concerned citizen.”
“Does the citizen have a name?”
“No,” Rice said. “The citizen preferred to remain anonymous. We have a municipal tip website that allows citizens to directly report these kinds of violations.”
Mak sighed. He’d dealt with this kind of self-important bureaucrat many times in his law enforcement career. They were almost invariably wannabe cops eager to demonstrate the power of whatever badge they wore.
“Can I see the photo you showed Hattie Kavanaugh?”
Rice hesitated. Makarowicz sensed he was trying to find a reason to refuse his request.
“I’m going to meet the fire marshal over at the house this afternoon. That photo could be evidence that the fire was deliberately set.”
“This is a code violation—” Rice started.
“Not interested in code-breakers. I’m interested in arsonists,” Mak said, holding out his hand. “The photo, please.”
* * *
“Have you been avoiding me?”
Hattie was sitting on the edge of the seawall, looking out at the Back River. Mo had called for a lunch break, and she’d grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water and was enjoying the light breeze barely ruffling the surface of the water.