“You’re making a mistake,” the man said. “We’re heading south for the winter, and we ...”
“Hands up!” Tom shouted. The man and Sally complied. The entireNehanticcrew had responded. Several crew members were standing along the port rail, weapons drawn and pointed at the two people aboardRembrandt; others were hurrying down to the deck where Tom stood. A call was made to headquarters—a request for air-and-sea backup. The raid boat was readied and lowered. Tom led the boarding party.
They handcuffed and searched the two people on boardRembrandt—Joshua Anderson and his wife, Sally. Both had Glock 9s in hip holsters hidden beneath their red fleece jackets. The hands of both suspects were covered with deep scratches. Tom took photos of their hands to show that with the blood already coagulating and scabbing, the injuries couldn’t have been caused during the arrest.
The boarding team secured the weapons. The yacht was a Nautor Swan, one of the most luxurious and seaworthy production sailboats made. Tom heard Joshua babbling about pirates, how you can’t be too careful these days, how the Glocks and Chinese AKs were for self-defense, how the rules of the high seas were different, how boat invasions were just as deadly and prevalent as home invasions.
Tom scrambled down into the cabin. At first he thought the gold-framed museum-looking paintings onRembrandt’s walnut-paneled walls were just part of the Swan’s decor. He spotted a thin edge of metal between two of the walnut panels and leaned closer to examine it. He wondered if it was a hinge, so he ran his hands over the wall, pressing as he went, and a door opened. Inside the secret compartment were at least ten more paintings in heavy gold frames and several canvases that looked as if they’d been sliced out of their frames.
He pulled out one of the framed paintings and propped it up on the chart table. It depicted a night scene of beauty and mystery. A large stone house was bathed in gauzy silver light. The moon glinted through dark-green leaves and illuminated a young girl dancing in the yard. The painting conveyed passion and urgency. The lower left corner was signedB. Morrison. Tom looked on the back of the painting. The canvas was protected by a sheet of brown paper. A yellowed card taped to the paper gave the painting’s title and other information:Moonlightby Benjamin Morrison, 1906.
Ever since the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston had been robbed in the early-morning hours of March 1990, New England law enforcement officers and military had been on the lookout for over a dozen stolen works of art. Rumors had flown—they’d been stolen by the Irish mob to pay for guns; or a gang of drug dealers had ordered them stolen as ransom to have their leaders released from prison; or the old favorite ORDIAMITB theory:One Rich Dude in a Mansion in the Bahamaswho wanted to keep the paintings in a locked room for only him to see.
One of the most important missing paintings wasThe Storm on the Sea of Galileeby Rembrandt van Rijn. CouldRembrandt, the name of the yacht, be a play on that? Tom wouldn’t know a Rembrandt from a Picasso, butMoonlightlooked like it belonged in a museum, and the idea occurred to him. He told his theory to his commanding officer, and he figured that if there was anything to it—if the paintings had come from the Gardner—the FBI would take it from there.
But the source of the paintings was much more local. It hadn’t hit the news yet, but they had been stolen from the Harkness-Woodward Gallery earlier that day. And Tom’s brother had been first on the scene.
Glancing across the chopper, Tom knew that case had inaugurated Conor’s career and got him promoted to the Major Crime Squad. Conor was gripped by that long-ago case. He rarely talked about it, but Tom had seen a change in him after he’d rescued the sisters. He began drinking too much, and when Tom called him on it, Conor said he couldn’t sleep, that he figured scotch was better than sleeping pills. Eventually Conor had cut way back on the booze, but he’d never returned to the easygoing way he’d had before.
Tom knew Conor would never forget what he had seen in that basement, and right now Tom felt uneasy, wondering whether it could be clouding his judgment about Pete. He could read his brother’s mind, see the gears turning, and knew that Conor 100 percent wanted Pete for Beth’s murder.
There were overlaps, and Tom saw that it made logical sense to think that Pete could have been inspired by his father-in-law’s crime: twenty-three years earlier a husband, although a hundred miles away, had set in motion a violent act that had caused his wife’s death.
Garth Woodward’s wife had died during the course of the crime, so the charge had been raised to felony murder. Some believed it hadn’t been an accident at all—that Garth had wanted Helen killed, had ordered the Andersons to make sure the gag was so tight she would choke, so he could collect insurance not only on the paintings but on her life.
Is that what Pete wanted too? To collect the insurance on Beth? Tom forgot to worry that Conor was rushing to judgment and watched his brother stare at his suspect with the unrelenting attention of a hungry panther tracking its prey.
Tom smiled at Pete Lathrop.
You’re in for it,he thought.
7
It was hard to believe that just that morning, Kate had found her sister’s body. Every minute that ticked by took her farther away from Beth yet made the realization she was gone even more horrifying. Flying to Maine and back, trying to find anything halfway comforting to say to Sam, had filled the hours with heartbreak.
The kettle whistled, and Kate poured boiling water into Mathilda’s Blue Willow teapot. The scent of Earl Grey, Beth’s favorite tea, nearly knocked her over. Sam was wrapped in a blanket, watching TV. Kate had told her to keep the news turned off, but Sam wanted to see everything. Kate heard the somber voice of a newscaster broadcasting from outside her sister’s home at 45 Church Street, Black Hall.
Kate lived on the top floor of an 1833 warehouse on Bank Street in New London. Although gentrifying, the maritime neighborhood was still rugged. Bars had always lined the street, but now cafés and a hair salon had moved in. The sturdy granite Custom House with its Doric columns, now the New London Maritime Society’s museum, was next door.
The terrible day had turned to night. Late-afternoon summer light had blazed through skylights and tall windows, and now there was darkness. The Thames River with all its boat traffic flowed by. Train tracks ran along the riverbank. Two Orient Point ferries passed each other near the New London Harbor Light, exchanging short horn blasts—everything reminding Kate that time was passing, more time without Beth.
Telling Sam about Beth had been unthinkable, a nightmare; Sam was still in shock. Now it was time to tell Lulu. The four of them—Kate and Lulu, Beth and Scotty—had been best friends forever, and Kate owed it to Lulu to make sure she heard it from her—no one else. But all her calls went straight to voice mail.
Scotty had not simply called but had been waiting at the airport when Kate had landed after getting Sam: a tearful, grieving welcoming committee of one. Kate hung back while Scotty went straight to Sam. She embraced her tightly—the way Beth would have. Sam actually put her head on Scotty’s shoulder for a minute—after all, Scotty’s daughter Isabel was Sam’s best friend, and Scotty was practically a second mother to Sam.
“Have you talked to Lulu?” Kate had asked Scotty when they’d met at the airport.
“I can’t reach her,” Scotty had said. “It’s weird and so not Lulu. She always answers her phone.”
Now Kate could barely breathe. Lulu didn’t inspire worry. She was the most independent woman Kate knew, other than herself. But her skin felt charged with the knowledge that the worst could happen, as it had to Beth. She needed Lulu to call so she could know Lulu was okay.
She leaned against the kitchen counter for a minute, pulling herself together, then loaded a tray with the teapot, cups, and a plate of oatmeal cookies.
“Tea,” Kate said, setting the tray on a low table in front of Sam. Popcorn lay on the floor at her feet, tongue out and eyes friendly. His tail thumped.
“Look, it’s our house,” Sam said, gesturing at the TV. “There you are, Popcorn.” The screen showed the dog on a red leash, a police officer leading him into the back of a patrol car. Popcorn had been at the Black Hall station until Kate and Sam had picked him up on the way home.
“Turn it off,” Kate said.
