“Look, Conor,” Leo said. “You’ve been through hell this weekend. If it makes you feel better, I’ve checked with Criminal Division, and they don’t have any charges brewing against you. You’re in the clear.”
“Good to know.”
“I’ve got to go now,” Leo said. “I’m on my Hatteras, about to go fishing. I’d invite you to come along, but clearly you have more important things to do. Call if I can help. I hope you find Kate.”
“Hey, Leo,” Tom said. “It’s Conor’s brother, Tom. What’s running, what are you going out after?”
Conor shot his brother a look across the front seat.
“Tuna,” Leo said. “Are you a fisherman?”
“Sure am. Tuna, nice. Are you heading out to the canyons?” Tom asked, and Conor knew he was referring to the deep water on the far side of Montauk.
“No, that’s too ambitious,” Leo said. “Just the Gully, out past Block Island. I want to come home tonight. The canyons are too far.”
“Good luck,” Conor said.
“You too,” Leo said and disconnected.
Conor looked at Tom. “Did you catch that?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Tom said. “You didn’t mention anything about needing to find Kate.”
He knew he didn’t have to ask Tom why he had inquired about Leo’s fishing destination. Leo had just risen to the top of his 1740 list, and both Conor and Tom wanted to know where he could find him.
Tom dialed a member of his team, and Conor heard him instructing him to look for a Hatteras sportfishing boat, focusing the search in—but not limited to—the waters around Block Island. He said to check registrations and identifications and stay alert for—but don’t detain—a boat owner named Leo Kennedy.
“Leo might have just told us Block Island and be going somewhere else entirely,” Conor said.
“That’s why I said don’t limit the search,” Tom said. “We don’t know if Leo has anything to do with it. But the thing is, if we are right about there being a trafficking enterprise, and he’s involved, a large Hatteras would be perfect transport. It’s spacious, fast, and long range.”
“He knew I was looking for Kate without my telling him. That’s enough for me. We should find out if his boat has been seen at either the Maynard-King or Bellevigne Island docks,” Conor said.
Traffic was moving slowly into downtown Mystic as they inched toward the big flagpole in Mystic. The bascule bridge was closed, and cars were barely creeping across. But then a loud alarm sounded, and Conor swore. He knew that once the bridge swung open for boats to pass through, they’d be stuck in that line of tourist traffic for at least another twenty minutes.
“You got the Gravel Street address, right?” he asked, quickly turning to look across the front seat at Tom.
“Yeah, but . . .”
“I’m not going to wait. Meet me there,” Conor said. He jumped out of the truck and started to run.
The alarm was still going off when Conor sprinted toward the bridge. It had not started to open yet, and he ran across it. If he were on duty and saw someone else doing that, he would have arrested them. He was in Connecticut now, his jurisdiction. His badge was in his pocket, and he would have flashed it in a second if someone stopped him, but no one did. He had to get to Kate.
34
Tuesday, July 6; 11:00 a.m.
Sam figured the Tower Suite was the best place to work on her 1740 research. Kate had moved in for the duration, and Sam was staying in the adjoining room on the lower floor. She climbed up to the main level and saw Kate’s laptop on the table by the terrace door, so she and Lincoln set up their workstation there too. The suite was quiet and inspiring, with light streaming through the round windows in the mansard roof.
Everything about the last few days—the rehearsal dinner drama, the wedding cancelation and her aunt’s unhappiness, the tension she felt coming from Conor, and most shockingly, the murder—made Sam feel wildly off balance.
Sam’s mother had been murdered when Sam was sixteen. Every year that passed meant another 365 days since Sam had last hugged her. Her parents had been going through an ugly divorce at the time of her mother’s death, and Sam had been acting out, angry, not speaking to either of them.
Those facts were always with her; they were part of who she was. Not only did she love and miss her mother, but she also had to live with the fact that she had been furious at her mother when she died. Worst of all, she hadn’t been there. Maybe she could have stopped her mother from being strangled by someone she had trusted, even loved.
Had that been the case with Belinda? Had someone she’d known well, cared about—someone she’d thought loved her—walked up behind her and slit her throat?
The wedding dress must have played a role; it was bizarre that Belinda had stolen it from right here in the Tower Suite, put it on, and had been wearing it when she was murdered. Sam pictured the white fabric soaked with blood. Had the killer been repulsed by that sight, or had it fed a sick fantasy? It all seemed beyond the realm of reality, and Sam wondered if either or both victim and killer were insane. It seemed to her that they had to be.
