Miranda stepped forward, trying to get between Conor and Mike. “Mike, I am telling them. It’s my choice, okay?”
Mike looked fierce, shrugged with defeat.
“Yes, Leo is part of it,” she said, looking straight at Conor. “And so is Judge Flook. But I am not.”
“Then why were you on Leo’s boat?” Tom asked.
“Come aboard and see,” Miranda said, sweeping her arm as if to invite everyone to boardRosebud.
“Miranda,” Mike said, stepping in front of the gangway to prevent anyone going onto the boat. “Stop right there.”
“Why should she stop right there?” Conor asked.
“Because she has rights,” Mike said. “If you want to make a case against Leo that will hold, that will permit an effective prosecution, you have to do this correctly. Conor, if you go aboard without a warrant, you know what will happen—anything you find will get thrown out by the trial judge. And you can put Miranda in jeopardy. Do this right, Conor. Call Joe Harrington or Garrett Milne or any other Rhode Island law enforcement officer that you want. But respect criminal procedure. Don’t mess this up.”
“Uncle Mike,” Conor said with steely calm. “Right now, I don’t care about criminal procedure. Or a case. Or a prosecution. I only careabout Kate, you know that. So let me go by.” He pushed past his uncle and stepped aboardRosebud’s deck.
The cop in Conor knew he should put on the brakes. But thinking of Kate, he stormed down the steps into the cabin.
The interior was very spare, not like that ofPsyche—the opposite ofPsyche’s old-world charm. The cabin contained electronics for navigation and entertainment, a well-equipped galley with storage and a stainless steel sink and stove, and seating on banquettes and swivel chairs.
The banquettes had white vinyl cushions. Conor sensed Miranda behind him.
“You’re in the right place,” she said.
“What am I looking for?” Conor asked.
Miranda pointed at a seam in the banquette cushion. There was a long, thin brownish line, with streaks, as if someone had tried to clean a stain.
“Some blood seeped in there,” she said. “And Leo tried to clean it. He got most of it, but some soaked into that seam, and he couldn’t get it out.”
“Whose blood?” Conor asked, afraid to hear.
“The last girl’s,” Miranda said. “The one you found dead off Point Judith.”
Now Uncle Mike and Tom had come down into the cabin, too, making it very crowded. “What’s her name?” Conor asked.
“I just know her as Girl #2,” Miranda said. “That’s what they do, take away their names and give them a number.”
“When you say ‘they’ ...” Conor began.
“1740.”
There was a metallic, rancid smell to the cabin. Blood sometimes smelled like copper; because the boat was a sportfishing vessel, Conor would have assumed it would be from the large fish Leo hauled in on his excursions. But this was different. There was human sweat—fear—mixed in, and it reminded him of the odor he’d noticed onPsyche.
“How did she die?” Conor asked.
Miranda was silent.
“Were you here when it happened?” Conor asked.
“Conor,” Mike said. “Let me speak with Miranda privately, and then she might be able to tell you what you want to know.”
“Up on deck,” Conor said, gesturing for everyone to leave the cabin. He exchanged a glance with Tom. His brother went up to keep an eye on Miranda and their uncle, and Conor stood still in the main salon. He used his iPhone to take photos of the bloodstain and the area around the settee. He saw that a pink object—maybe a stone—had skidded under the table, but when he crouched down, he realized it was a broken fingernail. He remembered the hands of the young woman he’d seen in Galilee, of how she was missing a nail. He took photos of it but left it where it was.
Tom had gotten Uncle Mike and Miranda off the boat, which was now clearly a crime scene. Conor looked around. As far as he could tell, they had not attracted the attention of anyone at the hospital. The grounds looked quiet. A few people strolled the paths up the hill, by the main hospital building, but there was no sign of security.
“Where is Leo now?” Conor asked.
