29
Tuesday, July 6; 6:00 a.m.
Shortly before sunrise, the Coast Guard had towedPsycheto New London, where Tom’s investigative unit was stationed. Tom and Conor were waiting at the dock. Last night’s moon was setting in the west, and Tom watched the sloop glide through the dawn mist. She looked ethereal, a moonlit ghost. Many times, Tom had investigated boating incidents where fatalities had occurred. It could be anything from someone slipping on a wet deck and going overboard to an accidental crack on the head from a wildly swinging boom. Whenever he encountered a vessel where death had occurred, he saw it differently. It was as if not only the human aboard had died—he felt as if life had gone out of the vessel as well.
The Reid brothers boardedPsyche. She had initially been processed at her berth on the island—finger and palm prints lifted, blood samples from the handcuffs and the bulkheads swabbed.
Tom knew that the boat had been gone over by the forensics team from the Rhode Island State Police. The Coast Guard investigated crimes such as human and drug smuggling in the maritime realm. Given suspicions thatPsychehad been used to imprison women, Tom had an interest in the case. Right now, he and Conor would be searching for anything related to 1740 or Maynard-King.
Tom knew that the Hinckley Pilot’s length was thirty-five feet overall, but that was on deck—bow to stern. At the waterline, the sailboat’s length was twenty-five feet, with plenty of overhang fore and aft, makingPsychea sleek-looking beauty. Tom and Conor climbed down the companion ladder into the cabin. The beam—the width of the boat—was nine feet, making the salon quite narrow.
The sloop had once been elegant, outfitted for style and comfort. But the bulkheads and the door to the forward cabin had been soundproofed with layers of foam, and chains had been bolted into the sole—the floor of the boat. There were bookcases and storage lockers behind the insulation. The team had pulled down sections of foam in order to look inside the lockers, and lumps of it were scattered around.
“Do you really think Suzanne lived aboard?” Conor asked.
“She had the dockage receipt.”
“But living in a torture chamber?”
“Let’s figure that out,” Tom said.
“Do you think she—or anyone—really used that?” Conor asked, pointing toward the small mosaic-tile fireplace—more like a woodstove—tucked into the corner. “Or is it just for show?”
“People do use them,” Tom said.
“The Coast Guard must love that,” Conor said. “An open flame on a sailboat out at sea.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “One of our favorite calls—a drunk captain who forgot to close the stove door before turning in, a spark lighting the boat on fire.”
“Must be hard for you to get fireboats to the scene out at sea in time,” Conor said.
“Yep,” Tom said, glancing at his brother. “Making small talk? You must be nervous.”
“Why would I be nervous?”
“I can think of a few reasons.”
“Look,” Conor said. “The way I see it is that Joe Harrigan is in charge. Officially I have no say. But you’re a Fed, and you’ve got jurisdiction on this boat and any other boat, and I’m helping you. Right?”
“You’re a shadow investigator,” Tom said.
“Whatever you want to call me,” Conor said. “Can we get going here?”
“Sure,” Tom said. He noticed that Conor’s frown had deepened. He knew his brother better than anyone. And he knew that to Conor, solving the case would get him back on track to the altar. The devastation of the last few days had made their wedding seem cursed. Conor and Kate needed each other.
The two brothers split up in the small space. Tom watched Conor head into the forward cabin. Tom stayed in the main salon. He looked in all the open lockers. They were empty, and he was sure that the police had collected their contents for evidence. Law enforcement agencies didn’t always work well together, but Tom had a good relationship with Joe, and he was confident they would share information. He had to peel back insulation that was covering the bookcases, and he found an interesting array of volumes.
There were folders of nautical charts, books about marine science, field guides to birds and marine mammals, books about stars and the night sky, books of poems, a few thrillers and romance novels,Moby-Dick,The Perfect Storm, and some blank journals. He half expected to find at least one edition ofBeauty and the Beast, but there were none.
“Hey!” Conor called from the forward cabin. “They missed something.”
Tom went to meet him. The cabin was shaped like a triangle, the apex being the bow of the boat. There was a V-shaped platform covered with cushions cut to measure. It formed a double bed. Conor had pulled the cushions off. At first, the platform beneath them appeared to be solid. But Conor used a pocketknife to pry up the center section, revealing a shallow compartment containing a stash of photographs.
Each six-by-four photo showed a young woman wearing an old-fashioned white gown. Each woman’s face was hidden by a black mask. They wore jewelry—earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Two of the photos had been taken right here, with the subject lying on the V-berth. No restraints or wounds were visible. Three shots were unmistakably of the bedroom in the stone mansion on Bellevigne Island. The rest of the photos appeared to have been taken elsewhere—a location Tom had not seen before.
“I can’t tell,” Conor said, leafing through the photos, “if they are alive or dead.”
“I was thinking that too,” Tom said. “We can’t see their eyes behind the masks. Is it the same mask, by the way? And are these different women, or are there multiple photos of the same one?”
