Chapter 4 - Brooks
FOUR
brooks
Brooks arrived at the Westerly Cove Police Department at seven thirty, the October morning already carrying a chill that reminded him why he’d left Texas. A young officer was at the front desk, phone pressed to his ear. He waved Brooks over.
“County lab,” he mouthed, then wrapped up. “Yes, sir. I’ll let him know. Thanks.”
He hung up and stood, extending his hand. “Detective Harrington? I’m Officer Daniels. That was the lab—they finished processing the blood from the keeper’s cottage. It’s Melissa Clarkson’s type—AB negative. DNA confirmation should be ready by end of day.”
Mid-twenties, with an eager energy that reminded Brooks of his former partner Traci in her early days—the same enthusiasm, the same confidence that procedure would lead to justice.
Brooks shook his hand. “Good work getting that expedited.”
Brooks set his coffee down and pulled out his notebook. “What about the photograph we found? Any luck tracing when it was taken or how it ended up there?”
“Still working on it. But I’ve got something else.” Daniels handed him a file. “I pulled records on Lily Morgan like you asked. The girl who went missing twenty-five years ago.”
Brooks flipped it open. Seventeen years old, high school senior, disappeared October 1999. Last seen near the lighthouse, conducting research for a history project. Body never recovered. Case went cold within six months.
“Why October?” Brooks asked, recalling what he overhead yesterday when he was near the harbor. “Bad things happen at the lighthouse in October.”
“No idea. Could be coincidence.” Daniels shrugged. “But Mrs. Pennington at the historical society mentioned Lily had been asking questions about the lighthouse’s history during Prohibition. Smuggling, illegal activities, that kind of thing.”
Brooks added it to his notes. “Melissa Clarkson was interested in local history too. Daniel told Chief Sullivan his wife had been researching the lighthouse.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I think two women interested in the same location going missing twenty-five years apart is worth investigating. But also, Mr. Clarkson wasn’t at the search yesterday.”
“Distraught husband?”
“Or guilty and doesn’t want to unsuspectingly show us where to look.”
“Always the first suspect.”
“Sadly.” Brooks closed the file. “Where’s Sullivan?”
“Coordinating the search. Coast Guard’s got boats out, and we’ve got volunteers covering the trails.” Daniels hesitated. “Detective, I heard Chief Sullivan mention you were with that woman from the tea shop yesterday. The one who does readings. Miss Hawthorne. She’s got a reputation in town.”
“What kind of reputation?”
“Well that depends on who you ask. She just came back to town not too long ago—been living in Boston, I think. But her grandmother ran that shop for decades, and people still talk about her. Some folks say the Hawthorne women have helped solve cases going back generations. Others think it’s all nonsense.
” Daniels shrugged. “Either way, Miss Hawthorne showing up right before a woman goes missing has people talking.”
“She’s not a suspect,” Brooks said flatly. “Just someone who knows the area.”
“Right.” Daniels didn’t sound convinced, but he let it drop.
His phone buzzed. Unknown local number. He answered. “Harrington.”
“Detective, it’s Martha Morgan.” The woman’s voice was elderly, strained. “Vivienne Hawthorne said you might be willing to listen. About my daughter Lily.”
Brooks pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d hoped to avoid this conversation until he had more information. “Mrs. Morgan, I’m reviewing the file, but I’m primarily focused on—”
“Melissa Clarkson. I know. But they’re connected, Detective. Both interested in the lighthouse, both disappeared in October. Lily found something at that lighthouse, something that got her killed. If you don’t figure out what it was, that Clarkson woman will end up just as dead.”
The conviction in her voice made him pause. “What did your daughter find?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me, said she needed more proof before she could share it.
But she was frightened those last few days.
Kept looking over her shoulder. And then she was gone.
” A long pause. “Will you come talk to me? Please. I have Lily’s research notes, her photographs.
Twenty-five years I’ve kept them, waiting for someone who’d actually investigate instead of just filing paperwork. ”
Brooks glanced at his watch. “I can come by this afternoon. I have a few things to take care of this morning.”
“Thank you.” Relief flooded her voice. “107 Harbor Street. The blue house with white trim.”
After she hung up, Brooks sat for a moment, processing. Two missing women, twenty-five years apart, both connected to the lighthouse. Both interested in its history. And according to Martha Morgan, Lily had discovered something worth killing for.
His instinct—the one he’d learned to trust during fifteen years in law enforcement—said the cases were related. But proving it would require evidence, not feelings or the word of the local psychic.
“Daniels,” he called. “I need everything you can find on the lighthouse’s history. Ownership records, maintenance logs, any incidents reported there over the past fifty years.”
“That’s a lot of records.”
“Then you’d better get started. You can get me on my cell.”
Brooks grabbed his jacket and headed out. The Hotel Oceanview occupied a renovated Victorian on the waterfront, its turrets and gingerbread trim freshly painted in cream and sage green. The kind of place that charged premium rates for “historic charm” and “ocean views.”
The lobby smelled of coffee and potpourri. A middle-aged woman behind the desk looked up from her computer as he entered.
“Detective Harrington,” he said, showing his badge. “I’m here to see Daniel Clarkson.”
“Room 203. Second floor, end of the hall.” She lowered her voice. “Poor man. He’s barely left the room since his wife went missing. I’ve been bringing him meals.”
Brooks climbed the narrow staircase, noting the creaking boards and worn carpet runner. At room 203, he knocked twice.
The man who opened the door looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Mid-thirties, unshaven, wearing wrinkled clothes that suggested he’d slept in them. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
“Mr. Clarkson? I’m Detective Brooks Harrington. May I come in?”
Daniel stepped back without a word. The room was small, dominated by a queen bed with a white duvet. A laptop sat open on the desk, screen dark. Through the window, Brooks could see the lighthouse in the distance.
“Have you found her?” Daniel’s voice was rough, unused.
“Not yet. But we’re actively searching, and I need to ask you some questions.” Brooks pulled out his notebook. “Tell me about your wife’s interest in the lighthouse.”
Daniel sank onto the edge of the bed. “Melissa’s a photographer. Freelance work, mostly—travel magazines, some commercial stuff. She wanted to do a photo essay on New England lighthouses. We were making a vacation out of it, hitting different spots along the coast. It’s our anniversary.”
“Why Westerly Cove specifically?”
“She said there was something about this lighthouse. Some history she wanted to capture.” Daniel rubbed his face. “She’d been researching it for weeks before we came. Reading articles, looking at old photographs online.”
“What kind of history?”
“I don’t know. She got . . . secretive about it. Said she wanted to surprise me with the finished project.” His voice cracked. “I should have paid more attention. Should have asked more questions.”
Brooks kept his tone neutral. “When did you last see her?”
“The morning of the twelfth. We had breakfast together around seven thirty. She said she wanted to get to the lighthouse early, catch the light. She kissed me goodbye and left.” Daniel’s hands clenched. “That was the last time I saw her.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
“I’m not a morning person. And she liked working alone—said having me there would distract her.” He looked up at Brooks. “You think I should have gone with her, don’t you? That if I’d been there, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I think whoever took your wife planned it carefully. Your presence might have deterred them, or it might have resulted in two victims instead of one.” Brooks made notes. “Did Melissa mention meeting anyone in town? Making any local contacts?”
“She talked to the woman at the historical society. Mrs. Pennington, I think? Melissa said the woman was ‘difficult’ but had access to records she needed.”
Brooks underlined the name. “What records?”
“I don’t know. Melissa didn’t share the details.” Daniel stood and paced to the window. “Detective, my wife is a good person. She doesn’t have enemies. She doesn’t get involved in anything dangerous. She takes pictures of buildings and landscapes. How does someone like that just . . . disappear?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Brooks stood. “I need you to think carefully. Did Melissa seem worried or frightened in the days before she disappeared? Did she mention feeling like someone was watching her?”
Daniel was quiet for a long moment. “The night before. We were having dinner at that restaurant on the harbor—Aldrich’s, I think it’s called.
Melissa kept looking over her shoulder. I asked what was wrong, and she said she felt like someone was staring at her.
But when I looked, I didn’t see anyone paying us particular attention. ”
“Did she describe the person?”
“She couldn’t. Just a feeling.” Daniel turned from the window. “I told her she was being paranoid, that she was overthinking the project. God, I was such an ass.”
Brooks closed his notebook. “Mr. Clarkson, I need you to stay in town and stay available. If you remember anything else—any detail, no matter how small—call me immediately.”