Page 160 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Nate closed himself in his office for the second time in less than three hours but this time his headache was gone and he held a Carter Island Deli and Bakery bag in his hand. Two of his deputies were home getting some rest, and if he was lucky, he would be able to finish his soup and sandwich before he got called out again. He took a seat at his desk and made quick work of diving into the paper sack for his foot-long sub. Eating regularly over the last few days wasn’t a luxury he’d been afforded. Thank God Kay had stopped off to pick something up because he was starving. He took a huge bite and groaned as he tasted the salty ham and pickles melding with the mayo, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes. “Damn, this is good,” he said through his mouthful as he pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked his top drawer. Securing files behind locks was something he’d never done before, but he’d also never worked a case that was making national headlines. Grabbing the folder, he set it down and reached for the FedEx envelope just as his phone started ringing. Swallowing his bite, he picked up. “This is Nate.”

“Nate, this is Charlotte Deacon. Kay patched me right through.”

“Hey, Charlotte. How are you?”

“Busy. All of our flights have been full since Monday.”

“I bet.”

“I’m sorry I’m just getting back to you.”

“Not a problem.” He plucked a pickle slice off his sandwich and popped it in his mouth as he sat back, getting comfortable and crossing his ankles on the edge of the desk. “I completely understand.”

“I hate to say it, Nate, but I’ve looked through all of our old files, and I haven’t been able to locate any information from 1995. Our records don’t go back that far—or we didn’t keep them, I should say.”

He stifled a sigh as he closed his eyes. “Twenty-two years is a long time.”

“It is, but I know how important this information is to you, so Buzz and I put our heads together last night, and we’re both nearly certain that Carter Island Air was out of commission the third and fourth of July of that year—some sort of engine issue.”

He dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. “You’re sure you’re remembering July 4, 1995?”

“Yes. Keep in mind we only had the one plane at that point, so I remember it really hurting our bottom line. Plus, I had my hands full with Marcus. He was just a couple of months old, and Buzz’s parents were in town trying to help. Add plane issues to the mix and you have a rather unforgettable holiday week. Why that didn’t occur to me until now, I have no idea.”

Nate gave a victory punch to the air. “Now’s as good a time to remember as any.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about the private planes, though. I know you were hoping we knew something about that as well.”

“What you’ve given me is great.”

“I’m sure there were some planes in and out that morning, but inbound and outbound flights are halted right around twelve thirty so they have plenty of time to get the landing strip ready for the fireworks.”

He sat up straighter. “That’s right.” It was his turn to wonder why the hell he hadn’t thought of that.

“You know how particular Thomas is about the show going off without a hitch—all the tourists expecting something extra special,” Charlotte continued.

“Yes, I do.” He opened the file folder, found his notes, and circled ferry. They could officially take plane services out of the equation. “This is great, Charlotte.”

“I’m glad I could help, but I should go. We’ve got passengers arriving for our afternoon flight.”

“Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck with Callie’s case. We hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

“I appreciate it.” He hung up, grinning his triumph. Scratching the plane question off the list wasn’t much but it was something—a small move in the right direction. He and Sanchez still had a huge hole in their timeline, but now they could concentrate on figuring out if Callie and her mother left at two, six, or ten thirty p.m. How they were going to accomplish that task was their next problem. Surveillance video wasn’t available in Sanderson back in the early nineties, nor would twenty-two-year-old footage exist. And Carter Island Ferry Services didn’t keep records dating back that far.

Refusing to be discouraged, he took another bite of his sandwich, opened the FedEx envelope, and pulled out the disc Sanchez had sent. According to Hartford PD’s IT Department, the images were cleaned up, but they hadn’t seen anything particularly remarkable when they gave the footage a once-over. Nate shoved the disc into the drive anyway and went after his sandwich again as the computer screen filled with the town of Sanderson’s Independence Day festivities. He raised his brow, impressed by the HD quality that had once been a grainy, glitchy mess. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” He swallowed his bite, watching the camera panning over the crowd, and paused it when Callie’s biological mother came into view, studying her without the lines and squiggles running through the image. During the last two and a half weeks, he’d stared at her face hundreds of times, but it was always a shock to see the woman who looked so much like Callie.

He let the footage play again, eventually catching glimpses of Callie and her mother moving through the crowds to the ice cream stand. He reached into the bag for his soup, pulling out the paper cup and nearly dropping it when Callie’s mother leaned down to pick up her daughter and a flash of gold caught in the sunlight. “What the hell was that?” Backing up the video, he watched again, moving closer to the screen, studying the charm dangling from a necklace around Biological Mother’s neck. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered, rewinding again—three times, then four—as he struggled to make out exactly what it was, but the lead weight settling in his belly gave him a pretty good idea.

Shoving his food to the side, he opened the file folder and grabbed the picture of Callie and her mother sitting by the old stone church, scrutinizing the woman and child, but it was impossible to see any sort of jewelry from the angle the shot was taken. Callie’s head was in the way. “Jesus,” he said again, reaching for his cell phone and selecting Sanchez’s number in his contacts.

“This is Sanchez.”

“Hey, it’s Nate Carter. Do you have a second?”

“I’m out on a scene, but this guy’s not going anywhere. My missing person is now a corpse up on Fifty-Second Street.”