Page 193 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass

Chapter Thirty-Three

Nate stood by the small case board he and Sanchez had put together over the last hour and a half, studying their current results. They had several pictures—copies of the early-nineties images Danielle Deluca had scanned and forwarded yesterday afternoon, plus the one Callie had found at the library. Maps of Carter Island and North Hartford, Connecticut, had also been pinned in place. Nate followed the pieces of red yarn connecting the image of Samantha sitting with her daughter in front of the old stone church to the two circles they’d drawn in fluorescent orange on the map where they were certain the young single mother and her little girl had been spotted in downtown Sanderson. There was another piece of string leading from the picture he’d taken of the locket to the spot in the woods where the jewelry had been found. His gaze wandered past the large section of empty corkboard representing the thirteen-hour time gap they weren’t getting any closer to filling in, to the newspaper articles about Phil’s Diner and the photograph of a four-year-old Callie wearing her pediatric johnny at the hospital.

“It’s coming together,” Sanchez said, sitting back in Nate’s comfy leather chair.

Nate raised his brow, staring at the glaringly vacant space on their corkboard. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I don’t know what you were expecting to find out there today. There’s still patches of snow on the ground, for God’s sake.”

In actuality, they’d found more than Nate had been bargaining for. On their cold, miserable hike through Brewster’s Forest, Nate had given Sanchez a lay-of-the-land tour, walking with him beyond the orange flag perimeter he and Captain Bob had set up three short days ago. They’d wandered down a small decline and past a thick stretch of pines. He’d frozen in his tracks when the roofline of the Sandersons’ old abandoned cottage caught his attention in the distance. It had looked so much like the single window shining bright among the shadows Callie had drawn when she awoke from her bad dream the night before their trip to Roxbury last week. “I still don’t like this new cottage piece. It’s not sitting right with me.”

“That’s certainly an angle we should pursue, but I think we have to temper our expectations with the perimeter search—that we’re going to find Samantha out there. Just because her jewelry was doesn’t mean she is.”

“We’d be stupid not to look. My gut’s telling me Brewster’s Forest plays a part in this.”

“I can’t argue with you, but let’s keep in mind we’re surrounded by the ocean. For all we know, someone dumped her in the water. If they were smart, that’s exactly what they did.”

Nate rubbed at the back of his neck. “I still want to bring in the dogs.”

“And we will, but we need the right conditions first. We can’t have the wind blowing the way it is today—fucking brutal. Throws the dogs off any scent trails they find.”

Nate flared his nostrils in frustration as he moved to lean his ass against the edge of the desk. Every point Sanchez made was exactly right—and nothing he hadn’t thought of already—but hearing it out loud pissed him off. “This whole two steps forward, three steps back thing is getting fucking old.”

Sanchez sat up, giving Nate a solid slap on the shoulder. “You’ve brought this case a long way in a short amount of time.”

Yet they were still no closer to their resolution and giving Callie a little peace. He’d hoped meeting with Sanchez would bring something new to the table—a rehashing of the details and finding something they’d initially missed. But no dice.

Before Sanchez’s midmorning arrival, Nate had confirmed that Callie’s maternal grandparents were deceased. He’d also tracked her biological father in the system. Jonah Tracey had been locked up on a grand theft auto conviction during the time of Samantha’s disappearance and was currently doing time in a California state prison for more of the same.

Sanchez sat back again, lacing his hands behind his head. “How’s that list of the locals coming along?”

Nate shrugged. “Not bad. I’ve asked around over the last couple of days—crossed off some names.”

“The area we were out in today—not just anyone would think to go out there. They know this place.”

And the idea still made Nate sick.

“What about your list of priors?” Sanchez wanted to know.

Nate crossed his ankles. “We’ve got a couple of records—local hardware store owner had some trouble with the bottle a while back. Captain Bob fought a D&D charge up in Alaska thirty years ago.”

“Their alibis check out for the Fourth?”

Nate nodded, remembering how he’d subtly gotten his confirmation of Captain Bob’s Independence Day 1995 whereabouts while he asked questions about Silas’s jewelry business—which had gotten him absolutely nowhere. As far as Bob knew, Silas had been unorganized when it came to the business side of his hobby. If there were receipts from past purchases, Bob had never seen them. “Jeremy heads up to Maine every year with his wife and Captain Bob was guiding the ferry to and from Hyannis Port on the two, six, and ten thirty p.m. shifts. According to him and the plaque at the ferry station, he hasn’t missed a day in over twenty-five years. He’s a good man.”

“He could have killed her and stashed her body later.”

Nate shook his head. “Technically that’s a possibility, but it doesn’t line up for me.”

“What about the kid you were telling me about—Sanderson or whatever?”

Another shock he hadn’t seen coming. While Nate perused the National Crime Information Center’s database yesterday morning, he’d discovered that Jordan Sanderson had one hell of a rap sheet his family had gone out of their way to keep out of the press’s eagle eyes. For nearly two decades, Jordan had been in and out of jail and rehab for drug possession and alcohol-related issues. “He’s got a long list of trouble.”

“That’s the governor’s nephew, right?”

Nate nodded.

“I’m surprised you weren’t aware.”