“And, guys,” Richie added, “apparently the girl’s dad is a little jumpy. War vet. Raised his daughter on that houseboat. Probably still waiting for her to come back.”
We got off the state highway three miles down. A roadside sign advertisingFLORIDA’S LARGEST CITRUS STANDoffered free samples of oranges and pecan candies and sold fireworks all year long. We passed it and headed south, the road becoming a two-lane with rosemary and marsh marigold growing wild along the roadside, saturated in eight inches of standing water.
Neither of us had spoken in ten minutes.
Shooter turned to me. “What are you thinking?”
“This guy,” I said, referring to the man in the sketch. “We have no idea what’s motivating him. What these women have in common.”
“Yet,” Shooter said. Which was a rallying cry at PAR.
“Yet,” I agreed.
But inside, I had a fear that comes to me from time to time. ThatPAR would inherit a case that bore no patterns for us to recognize. Offered no riddle to solve. Was devoid of any real evidence.
The FBI, for what it’s worth, has always been an organization full of lawyers and accountants, along with ex-cops and law enforcement types. But PAR was built from a different DNA, and the most common skill set we all had in common was data analysis. Which wasn’t that helpful on cases with no data.
Shooter slowed the car, and I examined a small marina. A dock stuck out onto a green lake on which four boats were moored. Two were houseboats; the other two were sixteen-foot outboards. The rest of the marina contained open slips for boats to motor in for gas or bait.
The two houseboats were connected by a small plank walkway, and faded signs with arrows pointed to each side:GILLIAM’S BAIT SHACKandGILLIAM’S HIDEAWAY.
I opened the text from Richie.
Julie Gilliam. Missing since March 2020. Dad: Bud Gilliam.
I held it out so Shooter could see it, and she pursed her lips, nodding.
As we glanced at the phone, a second text came in, this one containing the computer-generated image that had gone out to the media.
In the digital reconstruction, Julie Gilliam was a petite Caucasian with wavy blond hair that was cut just below her ears. A small round face with big eyes.
We got out of the car and walked along the grassy area that led to the dock. It was late afternoon, and most fishing businesses openat dawn. A single bulb burned outside the bait shack. My eyes trailed up to a man standing on the wooden plank that ran between the two houseboats.
“Permission to come aboard?” Shooter called out, her voice upbeat.
The man was slight of stature, with curly brown hair. He wore a mechanic’s one-piece in olive green and looked to be in his sixties.
“Bait shack’s closed,” he said. “Not that you two look like you’re ready to fish.”
Up close, the floating structures had seen better days. The houseboat on the left advertised the best bait to catch bluegills. The one at right was the residence, and half the paint had peeled off the side of it.
“Are you Bud Gilliam?” Shooter asked.
“I am,” he said. He took the plank over toward the houseboat, and we headed in the same direction. As we got closer, I saw a shotgun laid out on a circular table on the boat deck.
“Jo,” I said softly under my breath, but she had already clocked it.
“That’s a classic,” she said to the man. “Stevens Model 94, am I right? Sixteen gauge?”
“You know your weapons.” The man rocked back on his heels. “You government?”
“I grew up hunting with my dad,” Shooter said, not answering him directly. “My pop would take a Model 48 Topper that he learned to shoot with. I would use a Stevens. He gave it to me when I turned ten.”
“You still have it?” the man asked.
“You know what?” Shooter said. “I sold it.” She shook her head, and her strawberry-blond hair flitted from left to right. “Felt badabout it after. Went into the gun store to buy it back, but the owner had taken the Tenite off. Replaced it with wood.”
The man shook his head as if someone had committed an atrocity. “Yuppies,” he said. “That store owner was trying to upcharge some young buyer. Some hunter who wouldn’t know a grouse from a turkey.”
