Chapter 2 - Brooks #3
The lobby held eight chairs. All vacant. And there wasn’t a desk sergeant to greet him. He stood there, thinking about his next step. Normally, he’d wait for someone to escort him through the building, but something told him he could walk around, and no one would care.
Just as he stepped past the desk, Chief Sullivan came around the corner. “It’s great to finally meet you in person,” he said as they shook hands.
Sullivan was mid-fifties, with graying hair, and a weathered appearance likely from dealing with the public for decades.
After a quick tour of the station, Sullivan poured Brooks a cup of coffee.
One quick sniff told Brooks everything he needed to know—The Mystic Cup was superior—and the stuff at the police station was sludge.
“Tell me about this missing person.”
“Melissa Clarkson from Boston,” Sullivan said, leading him back to his office. “Thirty-four years old, here with her husband for their anniversary. She went out yesterday morning to photograph the lighthouse. Never came back.”
“Why didn’t her husband go with her?”
“Said she’s the independent type and this isn’t out of the ordinary.”
“Huh,” was all Brooks said.
Husband: suspect number one.
“Where are they staying? I’d like to interview.”
“The Hotel Oceanview,” Sullivan said. “I have a search scheduled. He should be there.”
Sullivan’s office was spartan. Metal desk, two chairs, filing cabinets along one wall. A small pile of what looked like iron filings sat in Sullivan’s pencil drawer when the chief reached for a pen. Another odd detail to file away.
“Any other leads?” He settled into the uncomfortable visitor’s chair.
Sullivan shook his head. “Husband says she was fascinated by local history. Spent most of yesterday at the historical society, asking questions about the old families.” His expression darkened. “Mrs. Pennington mentioned she was interested in the lighthouse and something about the Aldrich family.”
The lights flickered when Sullivan said the name. Both men glanced up at the fluorescent fixtures. The chief continued as if nothing had happened. His hand moved to his pencil drawer, fingers brushing the iron filings.
“The Aldriches . . .” Sullivan paused. “Winston junior is our current mayor. Has been for over a decade. Runs the biggest insurance company in the county. His father, Gerald, maintains the lighthouse—the family’s had control of it since the 1920s. Very influential around here.”
“Junior?”
“He’s named after his grandfather. Not technically a junior but it’s how we keep the two of them separate. Senior was also the mayor.”
“You said influential?” Brooks noticed Sullivan’s jaw tighten.
Sullivan looked at Brooks for a long time, sighed heavily, and shook his head. Brooks nodded. Westerly Cove was a small town. Sullivan’s reaction said everything he needed to know. He’d have to ask about the very influential mayor and his family some other time.
“Westerly Cove is like any other small town. We all have our power players. You’ll learn in time.
Until then, there’s something you should know about that lighthouse.
” Sullivan opened his desk drawer and pulled out a photograph.
Black-and-white image of a younger man in police uniform.
The resemblance in the jawline and eyes was clear.
On the back, someone had written “Thomas Sullivan, Missing 1978” in faded blue ink.
“Your father?”
Sullivan nodded, face grim. “He was investigating some . . . unusual incidents. Disappearances centered around the lighthouse area. One day he went out on patrol and never came back. We found his cruiser at the lighthouse, but no sign of him.”
“Any theories about what happened?”
“Plenty of theories. None of them made it into the official reports.” Sullivan returned the photo to his drawer. “Point is that lighthouse has a history of making people vanish. And now we’ve got another missing person in the same area.”
He made a note on his phone. Every town had its local folklore, especially small coastal New England communities where isolation bred superstition. Tall tales didn’t find missing tourists.
“What about the search? Anything at all?”
“Search team’s been over the area twice.
Found some footprints on the path leading to the lighthouse, but the rain last night washed most of them away.
The Coast Guard’s been checking the water, but .
. .” Sullivan shrugged. “If she went into the ocean, we might never find her. The rip current is bad right now.”
He stood, formulating a plan. “I’d like to take a look at the area myself. Get a feel for the terrain.”
“Figured you would. Just . . .” Sullivan hesitated, then nodded. “Just be careful out there, Harrington. And if anything seems off—anything at all—you radio for backup.”
After issuing Brooks a new badge, giving him a radio, and a PD issued side arm, the chief walked with him to the front door, pausing with his hand on the handle.
“One more thing. You’ll probably hear stories about the lighthouse.
Local legends, ghost tales, that sort of nonsense.
Don’t let it distract you. This is a practical matter with practical answers. ”
Brooks nodded.
Chief Sullivan let out a long exhale. “I’ll be out there shortly myself.”
Brooks walked back toward Harbor Street. Sullivan’s warning hung in the air. He’d come to Westerly Cove to escape. To slow down and find peace. The last thing he expected was to have to deal with a missing person before his official start date. Yet, here he was.
The harbor was busier now. Fishing boats returning with their afternoon catch.
Tourist boats heading out. Despite the month, people swam in the ocean.
Some even surfed. Brooks watched the locals, looking for patterns, routine interaction among the locals, between the workers on the dock, and the boat crews.
This was his habit. He was always Detective Harrington and never Brooks.
He wasn’t even sure he knew how to be anyone different but hoped a change of scenery could help him figure it out.
Everything appeared normal. Or as normal as he would expect.
Then he noticed the footprints.
They started at the water’s edge, near the main pier and led up the ramp toward Harbor Street.
Wet footprints, as if someone had just emerged from the ocean.
But the prints were clear and fresh. Water still pooled in the deepest impressions.
He could see no one walking ahead of him who could have made them.
Adult-sized. Barefoot. He followed them across the street, toward the town center. The sidewalk ahead was empty of any swimmers or surfers. No one appeared to be dripping wet.
Brooks scrubbed his face. Clearly, he was tired and needed a decent night’s sleep. Surely, where there were footprints, there would be a person, walking and dripping water from their clothes.
There was neither.
The prints continued for half a block before ending mid-step. Not at the storm drain. Three feet before it. As if whoever had made them had vanished mid-stride. He crouched beside the last clear print, checking his phone: 2:47 p.m. He’d been following the trail for less than three minutes.
He used his phone to take several photographs. Probably just someone who had been swimming and dried off quickly. A jogger who had cooled off in the harbor and was now inside one of the shops.
There had to be a logical explanation.
But as he straightened and looked back toward the lighthouse, he thought about Traci’s voice in his dream: “Don’t trust what you can’t see.”
He stared at the lighthouse and then remembered what the Chief had said earlier. Whatever was happening in Westerly Cove, he suspected the lighthouse held the key to understanding it.