“He will.”
“He won’t, and it doesn’t matter. Nothing does.”
“Sam, yes it does. I promise,” Kate said.
“I want my mom,” Sam said, her voice thinning out and rising to a shriek.
“Oh, Sam,” Kate said, dropping Popcorn’s leash and pulling her niece close.
“I want my mom,” Sam wailed. And she started to pull her own hair, scratch her own face, and even though Kate was grabbing her, holding her, trying to soothe her, Sam wouldn’t stop.
32
The brothers had been trying to get together, but until now, Reid hadn’t been able to break away from the case. He met Tom at the Y-Knot, a seedy, beer-sloshed bar, mostly frequented by sailors and fishermen, on the waterfront near the New London train station. They sat on red vinyl barstools and drank Jameson neat, just as their father had done. He had been in the navy, stationed across the river in Groton, then a cop in New London, where the brothers had grown up.
“So, fill me in,” Tom said.
“I thought we had it, right from the beginning,” Reid said.
“I know you did,” Tom said. “I was worried you narrowed in on Pete too soon.”
“Yeah, you let me know,” Reid said. “But I was positive—everything lined up: not just another woman, but he had a kid with her. He thinks he’s a genius, and the fact he turned up the AC—I mean it’s not the most original thing, but it takes some research.”
“Okay, then with the evidence you have now, you still think it’s him?”
“Trick question.”
Tom grinned. “Lay it on me.”
Reid took a drink. He ran through the autopsy results, the witnesses he’d questioned, the fact he was having a forensic accountant go through Pete and Beth’s finances, and the most recent development: Martin Harris.
“Icing on the cake,” Tom said. “A perv living at the Osprey House.”
“Yeah,” Reid said. “I’m not sure where he fits, but he fits. His parole officer is convinced his testosterone-blocking drugs have changed his life—”
“I thought those guys never change,” Tom said.
“Mostly true. But Harris even gave me permission to speak to his shrink, who claims he’s the poster boy for chemical castration. No bad thoughts whatsoever, doesn’t want to hurt women anymore, sex is nothing to him now. But he says he dreamed of seeing Pete kill Beth.”
“Dreamed?”
“Yeah. It all came to him while he slept.”
Tom chuckled. “He sounds like a nutjob. Could it be true, that he has some warped way of wanting to solve the case?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Reid said. “See, then there’s the postcard. Black Hall, the Lathrop Gallery. If you saw his name doodled with Pete’s, then Beth’s name at the head of the list of all the women he’d attacked ... it was like a love letter.”
“To who? Pete?”
Reid drank from his scotch. “Yeah. Like, he’s in love with the idea of a buddy just a few miles down the road thinking like him, acting like him.” He paused, drank again. “Only the buddy takes it one step farther and actually murders his victim.”
“You said there was no sign of sexual assault on Beth,” Tom said.
“No fluids,” Reid said. “But she had bruising all over her legs, between her thighs. No sign of penetration.”
“So, does that jibe with Harris’s MO?”
“The thing with Harris is undies. He loves lace. When he’d go to a house, he’d be afraid his victim wouldn’t have pretty enough whatever, so he’d bring his own. He had charge accounts at Frederick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret. Spent twice as much at Fred, so I guess that’s what he preferred.”
