“We can’t just board her,” Tom said.
“Why not? You boardedPsyche,” Kate said.
“That was different. The door had been forced open, and there were blood spots on the deck,” Conor said. “Exigent circumstances. We don’t know anything about this boat.”
“Conor,Zémire et Azoris an opera based onBeauty and the Beast,” Kate said. “The boat names are connected. What if they have someone on board here? What if it’s Maeve?”
Tom tapped Kate’s arm and beckoned her away fromZémire. Conor followed, knowing Tom wanted to move away from that open window, in case anyone was inside and was listening.
“It’s possible, Kate, but we don’t have any real reason to think so,” Tom said.
“WithPsycheout of commission, they need a new boat, right?” Kate asked.
“They probably do, if we’re right about the vessels being used in a trafficking operation,” Conor said. “And I’m going to tell Joe about it, and he’ll have the whole Maynard-King property searched. And he’ll question the directors and medical staff.”
Kate kept staring at the Hinckley, as if her gaze could solve the mystery, protect anyone who might be on board.
“I’m going to assign a team to watch this dock,” Tom said. “And we’ll tell Joe everything we’ve learned today and see where he wants to go.”
“What about talking to Darla?” Kate asked. “Jennifer told me where her office is.”
“Let’s go,” Conor said.
They left the dock and drove through the sprawling and manicured grounds of Maynard-King. Conor noticed the gardens, the graceful trees, the large white building with columns on either side of the door, flowers blooming in planters beside the steps, a wide porch. It seemed peaceful, a sanctuary. But through years of police work, he knew that secrets hid everywhere, and sometimes the most apparently beautiful people and places were not what they seemed.
They parked outside a small white house that looked as if it belonged in a neighborhood, not on the grounds of a psychiatric hospital. Considering that it was just past five p.m., he wasn’t sure the office would be open, but he knocked on the door, and it was answered by a young woman looking very businesslike in slim black pants and a jacket.
“May I help you?” she asked with a wide smile.
“We’d like to see Darla Vandeveer,” Conor said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I called earlier, and I’m just following up.”
“You’re the one who left the message?” she asked.
“Yes,” Conor said.
She smiled. “I got it. I’m Gabrielle, Darla’s assistant, so I check her voicemail and relay it to her. She’s not here.”
“When will she be here?” Conor asked. “It’s very important that I speak with her.”
“Can I ask what this is about?” she asked.
“I have some questions about the 1740 property owned in trust by Leprince de Beaumont Associates. LP de BA,” he said, watching for Gabrielle’s reaction. He saw a small furrow crease her brow when she heard him mention the trust’s name. “The operator told me Darla would be the best person to talk to.”
“The hospital operator?” she asked. “Hmm. I’ll have to speak to her. She’s new.”
“Why, she’s not supposed to put calls through?”
“We’re just careful with information,” Gabrielle said. Her smile had gone briefly away but came back strong. “It’s very sensitive, dealing with institute matters. I’m sure you can understand that. We’re a psychiatric facility, and privacy is a main concern.”
“Of course,” Conor said. He thought her smile was due to training, not a friendly feeling. There was something pacifying, manipulative about it, a bit like a magic trick to distract her visitors from their quest. “You have my number. Please ask her to call me when she can.”
Monday, July 5; 6:00 p.m.
Sam sat on the Club Room terrace, listening to the waves and feeling anxiety build in her chest. The table had been reserved by Anne and Mike for dinner, but neither they nor the rest of their party had arrived yet. Sam and Leo Kennedy were the first to be seated.
