Chapter 1

We meet the main characters and establish the setting

The sun emerged from the waters of the Atlantic. The haze in the sky was a hint of the humid weather to come on this July day in North Florida. The haze in Frank Rozzani's brain began to lift as he felt the moist sticky texture of Lucy's tongue on his ear as she attempted to wake him from his four and a half hours of sleep. It was quite a night of music mixed with the anticipation of another case, this one to potentially rescue a young girl in danger.

Lucy, Frank's bed companion each night is a black Labrador retriever and Border collie mix adopted when she showed up at his trailer soon after he took up occupancy. It still wasn't clear who adopted whom.

Frank knew that Lucy enjoyed runs on the beach. It didn't seem to matter to her that Frank stumbled in at 1:30 AM after his last set at the Sun Dog, the local greasy spoon by day, jazz club by night. He played piano with his jazz trio at the venue each Thursday and Friday night.

Frank could never be angry at the sweet dog. He appreciated her assistance with keeping him on a schedule. After resisting her tongue bath as long as possible, he sat up, pulled on a pair of Syracuse University running shorts. After some cursory stretching of his 30 something muscles, he grabbed a cold bottle of water and started down the path to the beach with Lucy matching him stride for stride.

After crossing the pliable sand further from the shore, Frank landed on the firm, hard-packed sand that is closer to the water. The sand in Northeast Florida is so firm by the ocean that the sight of cars driving on the beach was once commonplace. Thanks to sea turtle nesting and some careless drivers that used sunbathing tourists as speed bumps, driving was now prohibited.

At this early hour, the beach was surprisingly crowded with runners, bikers, and yoga enthusiasts. Frank and Lucy fell into their usual pace as they ran north on their usual two mile course. This course took them to the guard post at Naval Station Mayport and back. The run was Frank's opportunity to reflect on his latest ventures or to debrief himself on a completed case. Although less prevalent, Frank also use this time to think about his prior life. The pain of what he had left behind in Syracuse nagged at him even as time had passed. For him the adage "time heals all wounds" didn't ring true. Some wounds are too deep for even a lifetime to heal.

As Frank and Lucy approached Mayport, the guard atop his chair began to descend to the beach. As he did this, Lucy began to pick up her pace and advance toward him. As she neared the guard, he reached into his pocket. Lucy hurried up to him, immediately rolled onto her back, and wagged her tail kicking up a spray of sand.

"Hello Lucy. Hello Frank", the guard said cheerfully. "Beautiful morning for your run".

"It definitely is", said Frank.

Beautiful mornings in Florida were so numerous that they were expected.  As they turned for their return run, Frank's stomach began to rumble. Their next stop would be at the Sun Dog for an outdoor table and some breakfast. Frank had an appointment that would likely result in a new case.

As they approached the stretch of beach where Atlantic Boulevard ends at the ocean, a familiar figure emerged from the water. Clifford Jones III, aka Jonesy, was just finishing up his morning ride on the waves. He headed toward Frank and Lucy with his long board under his arm.

Jonesy, among other things, was the drummer in Frank's trio along with Armand Bigtree, a 6'5" Native American that dwarfed an acoustic upright bass. Jonesy was quite the enigma. He came from a wealthy family in Savannah, Georgia. He graduated at the top of his high school class and went on to graduate with high honors from the University of Georgia. Much to the consternation of his University of Georgia-loyal family, he studied law at the University of Florida. He finished law school a full year early and then immediately passed the bar exam becoming one of the youngest people in Florida to do so. After being courted by many prestigious Atlanta, Miami, and even Northeastern law firms, Jonesy walked away from all of them and put his shingle on a rundown old building in Jacksonville Beach where he started his surf shop/law firm. His clients were the poor and unfortunate citizens that could not afford traditional legal help. His law practice attire was mostly board shorts, a t-shirt, usually with a funny slogan or picture, and shoes are always optional. When a court appearance is necessary, long pants and shoes might be thrown in to make a good impression.

Jonesy's love for surfing borders on obsession. He is known to brave the water of Jacksonville Beach every day, rain or shine; hot or cold. The only exception is when he takes a surfing trip to some exotic locale like Costa Rica, Hawaii, Australia, or parts unknown in search of the perfect wave.

The Sun Dog was an institution for the eccentric locals of Jacksonville Beach. Its location, at a prime intersection where Atlantic Boulevard meets 1st Avenue, was on the last road before the beach and the ocean beyond. The art-deco building was the redheaded stepchild among its neighbors, the trendy seafood place, the micro-brew steak place, the ubiquitous Starbucks, and small fashion boutiques. The clientele was as eccentric as its owner Samuel Monreaux or "Fat Sam" as he was known. Fat Sam bought the run-down restaurant when Jacksonville Beach was not a trendy destination.

Fat Sam arrived, or fled to, Jacksonville Beach in 1985 from New Orleans. He bought the place from its 85 year old owner just before foreclosure. With his New Orleans cultivated cooking skills and musical taste, he soon turned the place into a magnet for the artistic, and eclectic population. These groups became fiercely loyal to the establishment. When prosperity, growth, and professional football came to Jacksonville, the beach development mushroomed. The prime real estate occupied by the restaurant became much desired. Astronomical offers, well into seven figures, did not entice Fat Sam into selling. He had come to value his lifestyle and clientele above the money. Even when less savory means were used to force him from the property, he persevered and flourished.

As Frank, Jonesy and Lucy settled at their regular table, the usual breakfast, cheese omelet for Frank with mushrooms and hash browns, and an egg white and spinach concoction for Jonesy arrived. Not to be left out, a healthy bowl of last night's chicken gumbo was set down for Lucy. Fat Sam knew his clientele so well that rarely had to order.

The potential case had landed in their laps the previous night between their second and third set. As had happened before, Fat Sam summoned them to his private table in a remote corner of the restaurant where they met a fifty-something man with a desperate look in his eyes, Travis Bullock, Jr., an attorney from the wealthy Jacksonville suburb of Ponte Vedra. Ponte Vedra had become a wealthy suburb by virtue of the professional golfers and football players that had built mansions there. These groups were followed there by business executives and prominent attorneys that constructed "McMansions".

After the introduction, Bullock, looking haggard and tired relayed his story to Frank and Jonesy.

"My daughter Maggie is missing. She is 16 years old and was attending a church retreat. We received a call today telling us that she did not report for breakfast and when the staff checked her room she was gone", Bullock said, tears welling up in his bloodshot eyes.

"Did you notify the police?" Frank asked.

"We called them right away. They took a report from us, did a quick search of her room, and told us that she probably ran away and that we should wait to hear from her".

"And you don't believe her?" Jonesy interjected.

"Maggie is a straight A student, literally the perfect child. She wouldn't just disappear. It's not her personality type to do something like that", Bullock replied.

"If we take this case, Mr. Bullock, we will need more than just your intuition that she did not run away. It wouldn't be fair to you to take your money if this does turn out to be a simple runaway situation. Also, the police don't generally like us poking around in open cases trying to prove them wrong", Frank said sternly.

"I understand, Mr. Rozzani. What I'm asking is for you to look into the situation. Your reputation speaks to someone who can often find evidence that the police miss".

Frank agreed to follow-up with Bullock and his wife at their home the next day so that they could explore the situation in more depth and determine if the Jacksonville Police Department had overlooked some key piece of evidence that might point to a scenario other than a typical teen runaway. Frank thought that he and Jonesy should come up with a strategy first thing in the morning.

Jonesy sat down and exuded his usual morning glow. He truly enjoyed his life and whatever had driven him to turn his back on a promising and prosperous corporate law career clearly gave him no cause for regret.

"How do you do it, Jonesy?" Frank asked.

"Do what?" Jonesy replied in his Georgia accent.

"Play the drums until one AM and then hit the ocean surfing at five AM the next day as if you slept for eight hours?"

"The ocean provides me with meditation time that beats the most comfortable deep sleep. Plus I knew I would get to see your smiling face this morning".

"OK. Whatever you say", Frank said as he drank a large gulp of high-octane coffee.

As the two friends tore into their delicious breakfast, they naturally settled into the business at hand.

"Do we both need to meet with the Bullocks today?" Jonesy asked.

"I'd like to get your take on the situation, especially in terms of his truth about what happened to their daughter".

"So am I the good cop or the bad cop this time?"

"You're the Zen cop. Try to focus your new age powers to see if you can spot any holes in their story".

"Hey, don't knock the new age stuff until you try it. It's relaxing and the yoga chicks are hot".

"Whatever", Frank said. "I'd rather eat a pretzel than end up looking like one. I'll stick to running with Lucy".

At the sound of her name, Lucy looked up from her food bowl long enough to see if she was needed and then went back to cleaning up every last morsel of gumbo.

"I'll pick you up at around 1:15. That should get us there by about 1:30", Frank said as he got up to leave.

There was no question of paying the bill. They had an understanding with Fat Sam. He provided them food and a place to satisfy their desire to play jazz and he received services from them for himself and his clientele in need. Neither side abused the privilege.