“Husband, not suspect?” Tom asked.
“Remains to be seen,” Reid said.
“I can’t believe it’s Beth Woodward,” Tom said. “Shit, Conor.”
“I know.”
“Have you talked to her sister yet? What’s her name again?”
“Kate. And yeah, I talked to her. She found the body.”
“Jesus.”
“What do you think of him?” Reid asked, gesturing down the dock toward Pete. “First impression.”
Tom glanced over his shoulder. Pete and his friends were clustered by the stern of the boat, all talking on cell phones. “Arrogant, that’s for sure,” Tom said. “Just now, when they were docking, I heard him giving everyone else orders. You know—‘You take the bowline; you stay in the stern.’ Does he own the boat?”
“No.”
“He’s a dick,” Tom said.
“Sounds like it,” Reid said. “Can you hang around? I want to speak more after I interview him.”
“Yeah. I’m off for the weekend. Heading home.”
“Great, you can ride back on the chopper. Thanks for helping with this.”
“No problem,” Tom said.
“There’s something else,” Reid said. “The painting was stolen again. Cut right out of the frame.”
“Which painting?” Tom asked.
“You know the one.”
Tom stood there, obviously shocked. He had played a role in catching the girls’ father’s accomplices and, therefore, helping to bring Garth Woodward to justice. Of the several paintings stolen the night Kate, Beth, and their mother were tied up,Moonlightwas the most valuable and the one that captivated the jury. Tom shook his head now and clapped his brother on the shoulder.
Reid walked towardHuntress. Jennifer Miano stood by the sleek sailboat’s stern, speaking to each man and taking notes. He saw her writing down their names in her notebook. As he approached, he noticed a very tan, very blond man standing off to the side, his posture straight.
Reid recognized Pete. He’d seen him often enough over the years, and earlier that day, he had examined some framed photographs around the Lathrop bedroom. One, next to the window with the air conditioner, had shown him in a tuxedo, standing beside Beth in a black gown, surrounded by old and valuable-looking paintings. The thing that had struck Reid then was the fact that the monogrammed sterling-silver frame had been coated with frost. The air-conditioning had been that cold.
“Mr. Lathrop,” he said. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Detective Reid.”
“Can you take me to Beth?” Lathrop said, his voice quavering. “Right now? I’ve got to see her.”
“Yes, very soon,” Reid said.
“I have to know—what did they do to her?”
“‘They’?” Reid asked.
“Or he, whoever. You said she was murdered.”
“I said she was deceased,” Reid said.
“No, I distinctly heard ... never mind. Just, can we go? Please.”
That had been a big slip on Pete Lathrop’s part, Reid thought. It would be helpful to use in court. He wished Miano had heard the exchange. Seeing the empty frame with the canvas cut out, it would have been normal to assume Beth’s murder was part of an art theft, possibly connected to the old crime, to what the Woodward girls’ father had done.
