Last Night, page 10
“Check that out,” Conor said.
“Huh, some poor yachtsman lost his key. In the middle of winter. He’s a long way from the Bahamas.”
“Could be connected to your case,” Conor said.
“Wouldn’t you or any of my cops have seen it if it was dropped that night? How many times have you walked this street since then?” Joe asked.
Conor knew that Joe had a point, but the snowdrifts kept shifting and re-forming in the strong wind. “Maybe the killer dropped it in the street, and a snowplow turned it up,” Conor said.
“Not sure about that, but I’ll take it just in case, have it examined,” Joe said. He used a pen to pick the key up by the chain. He dropped it into an evidence bag. “But, hey, it reminds me—that other key. The one you found with the other stuff, in the hedge. With CeCe’s blanket thing.”
“Yes, reminds me, too,” Conor said.
“It obviously goes to a safe-deposit box. What’s a kid doing with something like that?”
“That I don’t know,” Conor said. “But I can tell you it’s from the Bank of Southern New England. Hartford office.”
“Don’t tell me you talked to them,” Joe said.
“Of course not, Joe,” Conor said. “I know better than to meddle in your investigation.”
“Yeah right,” Joe said, rolling his eyes as they walked up the wide steps to the Ocean House.
15
That floating boat key stuck in Conor’s mind. Even if Joe doubted its connection to Maddie’s murder and CeCe’s disappearance, Conor wasn’t so sure. He knew it would be a good idea to check with someone who knew about boats, and there was only one person he wanted to call.
“Reid,” Tom said when he answered the phone.
“Hey, Reid,” Conor said.
Static on the line.
“You there?” Conor asked.
“I’m here,” Tom said. “The storm is messing up cell reception. Can’t tell if it’s you or me.”
“Wait, you’re the Coast Guard,” Conor said. “You’re supposed to have failproof communications.”
“Uh, you’re the state police, so back at you.”
“Blizzards will be blizzards,” Conor said. “Are you home or at the station?”
The call dropped before Tom could answer. Conor tried him back; the line went dead again, so he waited for Tom to return his call. His brother had been moving around the region lately. He was commander at Sector Southeastern New England in Woods Hole, and Station Point Judith was under his command. Being stationed in Rhode Island made it much easier for him and Jackie to see each other. When it came to marriage, Conor looked to his brother as an example of how to do it right. Tom and Jackie had the kind of closeness Conor wanted for himself and Kate.
Finally the phone rang again, and Conor picked up.
“I’d call you on the station landline,” Tom said, “but I’m down at the dock. I just moved to the other side of the lot, and I think reception is better. Let’s hope. Where are you?”
“I’m on vacation,” Conor said. “I brought Kate to the Ocean House . . .”
“Oh really,” Tom said, and Conor could hear the smile in his voice. “I approve.”
“Of what?” Conor asked.
“You picked a good spot to propose. Am I right? I better be—it’s about time.”
“That was the plan,” Conor said, not surprised by Tom’s guess. It was a reflection of how well his brother knew him. “Have you been following the news?”
“Wait,” Tom said. “Watch Hill. The murder and the missing girl. Are you on that case?”
“Unofficially,” Conor said. “It’s why I’m calling you.”
“How can I help?” Tom asked.
The line crackled, and Conor waited for the noise to stop. Tom being stationed in Massachusetts put him just far enough away that Conor hadn’t seen him much lately. He missed getting together regularly. The sound of Tom’s voice, the possibility of his counsel and collaboration, felt very good.
“You there?” Conor asked.
“I’m here. Can you hear me?” Tom asked.
“Yes,” Conor said. “There’s a piece of evidence I’d like to tell you about.”
“Hey, Point Jude is just down the road from Watch Hill. Why don’t I head over and we can talk. This phone thing is ridiculous.”
“That would be great,” Conor said. And it was clearly the right decision, because the phone went dead again. He stuck it in his pocket and headed down the curving walkway from the hotel to the beach. He wanted to check on the searchers working there, but he could see that all the police vehicles had left.
The white cottage with a gingerbread roof served meals on the beach in summer, but it was locked tight now. He passed it, walking onto the sand where the wind had flattened the snowfall. Cutting between snow fences put in place to protect against blowing sand and erosion, he finally got to the hard sand below the high-tide line.
The waves were still enormous, ten feet at least. They had washed all the snow off the beach in the intertidal zone. He stayed at the edge of the tide line, head down, and looked for anything possibly related to the case. It was unlikely that he would find anything, but the elements kept sand moving, potentially uncovering evidence. Although the sun was out, the temperature had actually dropped since the storm. Ice crystals sparkled on the snow and sand. The beach was beautiful but deadly cold.
Conor thought of CeCe. He didn’t know who had taken her, or where, but he found himself hoping she was warm. That whoever killed her mother hadn’t left CeCe out in this cold. She wouldn’t survive long, if she had survived at all. He walked a little farther and then turned back toward the hotel, heading across the beach to meet his brother.
16
The boy took CeCe to a house next to a dock. She saw a small building with a lobster-shaped sign that looked exactly like the lobster on the boy’s jacket patch. Next to the door was a big stack of logs. Rectangular cages made of green wire were piled on top of each other. She didn’t like the look of them. They seemed too small to fit a girl her size, but what if he was going to put her in one? Coils of dirty rope lay on the dock beside them. Seagulls cried and swooped.
“What are the cages?” she asked. She had told herself she would not open her mouth to him, but she was really scared he might make her get in one, and that fear won out.
“Huh?” he asked, following her gaze. “Oh, those are lobster pots.”
“What are they for?”
“We drop them in the ocean with bait, and they sink to the bottom, where lobsters crawl in. Then we haul them up with those ropes and sell them.”
“Oh,” she said. “Not for people?”
“No,” he said, laughing as if she had just said something funny.
They stood outside the door of a very small house with paint peeling off the side, and the boy patted the pockets of his jacket. Wind swirled off the water, stinging CeCe’s cheeks. There were icicles stabbing down from the roof.
“Where is it?” he asked.
She didn’t know what he was talking about. He went back to the car, checked inside, and retraced his steps to the house, staring at his feet as if he were looking for something he dropped.
“That’s great,” he said, his face red, and gave her an angry look. “Did you take it?”
“Take what?” CeCe said, and she froze as he patted the sides of her jacket, then reached into her pockets.
“Shit,” he said when he realized they were empty.
He stomped to the building a little farther out on the dock. There were more lobster pots there. They were stacked high, taller than he was. There were also big blue barrels. He reached under one and came back with a key, and without saying anything to CeCe, he used it to unlock the door.
“Yeah, we live here. What about it?” he asked, glaring at her when they stepped inside.
She didn’t know what he meant.
“It’s a fish shack. We’ll be moving soon, when we get the money,” he said. “We’ll be getting a real house.”
Inside, the little house, the shack, was a mess, and that made CeCe feel strange. It gave her the feeling that the people who lived here didn’t take care of each other and didn’t care about anything. There were dirty dishes on a counter, a bunch of mud-crusted rubber boots by the door. Some fishing rods leaned against the wall, and on one table there was a pile of feathers. CeCe was afraid to look at them, in case there were dead birds. The room was almost as cold as the outdoors.
“My dad probably didn’t pay the oil bill,” the boy said. “It will warm up, though. I’ll build a fire.”
He went outside and returned with an armload of the logs she had seen piled next to the door.
“What happened to the birds?” CeCe asked, mesmerized and terrified by the feathers.
“We shot ’em. My dad and I go hunting and collect the feathers to tie flies, and then we sell them,” he said.
She couldn’t imagine killing a bird. She pictured a fly buzzing around. “How do you make flies out of birds and feathers?”
“We tie the feathers to hooks, and that’s how some people catch fish. Fly fishermen. Haven’t you ever gone fishing before?”
CeCe shook her head. Once on the pier in Malibu, she and her papa had watched a fisherman haul in a gigantic manta ray. It took a long time, and CeCe had felt so sad because even though the big ray looked frightening, and she wouldn’t want to swim with it, she thought it was beautiful and knew it was going to die.
“You sell flies? I thought you sold lobsters.”
“Both,” he said, sounding mean. “We’re not rich like you.”
CeCe closed her eyes, wishing she had Star. I want my mommy, she said inside her head.
“Are you hungry?” the boy asked.
“No,” CeCe said, even though she was.
“You better eat something,” he said. “I am in so much trouble. The last thing I need is you passing out from starvation. He’s going to kill me.”
She wondered whom the boy meant, but she didn’t ask. It was time to stop talking again. Everything felt confusing, and in a way, she felt as if she were drifting. Hovering overhead like a bird, seeing things and people on the ground, including herself. How could she be up here and down there at the same time? Was she alive or dead? Had she turned into a bird?
“Stay here,” he said and went outside again. He was gone for more than a minute. She looked out the window and saw him open the car door.
This would be a good time to run away, but she didn’t know where she was. It wasn’t like during the snowstorm, when they were in the car just down the hill from the yellow hotel. So she stayed still.
When he came back in, he was carrying the gun he had shown her. She curled up into a ball, like a sleeping kitten, so she wouldn’t feel it when he shot her. But he didn’t shoot her. He went into another room. She heard a drawer open and close. When he returned, he wasn’t holding the gun.
There was a fireplace, and he moved the screen from in front of it. He crumpled up some newspaper and put little sticks on a grate, then three logs. On top of the mantel were some wooden matches, and he lit one and touched it to a corner of the paper. The kindling flamed, then caught the sticks, and within a few minutes, there was a blazing fire.
It began to heat up the room, because the room was getting to be warmer than the outdoors. The boy came close and stared down at her. He still smelled like fish and seaweed. When she looked into his eyes, they looked sad.
“You’re not that bad,” he said. “You’re a pretty brave kid.”
She wasn’t at all. She was scared. But she didn’t cry; she didn’t say a word. If she pretended to be brave, maybe she really would be.
“I fucked up taking you,” he said. “We’re both going to pay for it.”
She wondered: Pay what?
“Promise me you won’t run or yell when he comes home,” he said. “That would just make things worse.”
She just kept looking into his brown eyes. She didn’t believe she looked brave or scared or anything. She was just air. She was invisible. She was floating up to the ceiling. She wasn’t going to promise him anything.
17
Tom was on his way along Route 1 from Point Judith to see Conor in Watch Hill, and he registered how good it had felt to speak with his brother. They had worked together on a few cases, and even though he couldn’t quite figure out how the Coast Guard could help in a murder that had occurred on land, he was all in. Just as he was passing the exit for Moonstone Beach, he got a call.
“Reid,” he answered.
“Hey, Tom,” Stone Crawford said. “Just got word about Garson’s boat. It’s drifting onto the jetty.”
One of the Charlestown Breachway jetties, Tom knew. After Zane’s distress call, he and the crew had located the Anna G just off the Charlestown Breachway. Rescuing Zane had been their mission; because of the conditions, they had left the boat where it was. Now it had floated free and been carried by the tide and currents toward shore.
“I’m just about at that exit.”
“Sea Tow is already on it,” Stone said. Sea Tow was a marine-assistance company that provided towing and salvage services. Its fleet of yellow-hulled boats was familiar to any sailor up and down the coast.
“Okay, good,” Tom said. “Any fuel seepage?”
“None reported,” Stone said.
“We’d better check it out,” Tom said. “Meet you at the dock.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone said.
Tom pulled off Route 1. Hauling the lobster boat to safety would be the owner’s responsibility—the cost of being towed off the beach belonged to Zane, but the Coast Guard would be there. Tom texted Conor and said he had to postpone getting together. Then he made a U-turn and headed back to the Coast Guard dock in Narrow River, Galilee, where he had started from after talking to Conor.
He was eager to see his brother and learn what he needed help with, but first he had to deal with the Anna G.
18
Conor was disappointed that Tom had to postpone their meeting, but he was used to it. They both were. As close as they were, they each had jobs that called for last-minute changes of plans. He knew Tom would come when he could. Just as he was about to get into the elevator and head up to his room, he caught sight of Bernard Lafond coming through the lobby. He let the elevator go and headed toward him.
“Detective Reid,” Bernard said. “I was just about to call you.”
Conor waited.
“Can we talk?” Bernard asked.
“Sure.”
Bernard said a few words to someone at the desk, and they were led through the lobby to a door marked THE CLUB ROOM, MEMBERS ONLY. Conor had seen the sign earlier and wondered what was inside. They stepped into what felt to him like an exclusive club in London or somewhere. There were red leather chairs, highly polished dining tables, bookcases flanking a large fireplace, art everywhere, and a wall of windows and french doors facing the beach.
A tall man stood behind the bar and greeted them warmly. Bernard introduced him as Brian and ordered a Grey Goose martini. Conor said he’d have coffee.
“But it’s cocktail hour,” Bernard said.
“Coffee’s fine for me,” Conor said. “What did you want to discuss?”
Bernard ran his hand through his shaggy hair and exhaled long and hard. He looked more haggard than he had when Joe Harrigan had led him away. “You would need vodka, too, if you had just been hooked up to that machine and grilled as if they already believed you to be a murderer.”
“The polygraph?”
“Exactement. When I play cops in films, I’m the one standing in the corner while the technician measures the murderer’s lies. I’ve stood on the other side of the mirrored window, studying the suspect. Does he blink too fast? Do his eyes shift left when he answers the questions? But to be the one hooked up, for real, not fiction . . . Give me that martini.”
They heard the ice being shaken as Brian mixed it. Conor watched him pour it into the chilled glass and felt the urge to ditch the coffee and join Bernard. But instead he directed his gaze at Bernard and watched for tells. Bernard’s face was red, his brow furrowed. Conor read anger.
“Here you are, Mr. Lafond,” Brian said, setting the glass down on a coaster.
“À votre santé,” Bernard said, taking a large slug of his drink.
“To your health, too,” Brian said.
“You speak French?” Bernard asked.
“When it comes to toasts,” Brian said, smiling. He walked away and returned a few moments later with coffee for Conor. Conor warmed his hands on the cup, watching Bernard. He sensed Bernard was working his way up to whatever it was he really wanted to talk about.
“You know, of course, that they suspect me of killing Madeleine,” Bernard said.
“I do not know that,” Conor said.
“I saw you talking to Detective Harrigan.” His French accent was more intense than it had been earlier, and he pronounced the name “Arrigan.”
“Yes, but he didn’t tell me his theory of the case.”
“Two detectives? I assume you share information.”
“Only to some extent,” Conor said. “I work in Connecticut. That’s another jurisdiction.”
“Well, surely, wherever you work, you share the opinion that the husband is always the number-one suspect,” Bernard said. “Whether justified or not.”
“It’s common to question everyone who is close to the victim,” Conor said.
Bernard shook his head. “You cops stick together. They are making a mistake, focusing on me. And the longer they do, the more time my daughter is missing.”
“They are very aware of the fact CeCe is missing, and they are doing everything possible to find her.”
“They are not doing enough,” Bernard said. “That is why I want to talk to you.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lafond?”
“I need help. I want to hire an outside investigator. A private eye, if you will. To find my daughter, to learn who killed my wife,” Bernard said.
