6
Conor was used to securing crime scenes, not messing them up.
He stood in the hallway, just outside the bedroom where he’d found Belinda’s body thirty minutes earlier.
He knew that the fact that he was allowed to stay here was just a courtesy.
If he hadn’t had a long and respected career as a Connecticut State Police detective and hadn’t worked closely with Rhode Island law enforcement on a high-profile murder case, they would be treating him differently.
Even so, he understood that he would have to be questioned.
He felt sick. His shoes were covered with blood.
He had stepped in it, and he had it on his hands and on his face, and on his sleeves and the front of his shirt, from when he had lunged forward, leaned down, turning the victim’s face toward him—from when he had been convinced it was Kate, when he had crouched beside her, wanting to take her in his arms.
The responding officers cleared the room where Belinda’s body had been found, and Conor moved downstairs.
The crime scene team arrived and took numerous photos of Belinda’s body and the bedroom.
They had him remove his shoes and bagged them, giving him a pair of paper booties to put on over his bare feet.
Conor was directed to take off his shirt so they could examine his body for cuts or scratches, potentially defensive wounds made by the victim during the attack.
They took photographs, paying special attention to his hands.
The murder scene was horrific. Belinda’s throat had been slashed.
The carotid artery had been severed. With her heart still pumping, the arterial spray had been violent, pulsing onto the wall and ceiling, dripping down and pooling on the wooden floor.
Conor knew with that type of wound, death would have happened very fast.
The responding officers had called in the detectives. Conor looked for Joe, but Garrett was first to arrive. He walked straight to Conor.
“Where were you earlier this morning?” Garrett asked. It was a simple enough question, but Garrett delivered it with high velocity, as an accusation.
“Looking for Kate,” Conor said.
“And did you find her?”
“No,” Conor said.
“So you were looking for your fiancée, and you just happened to stumble into this house, to find a body? To find Belinda?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, Garrett,” Conor said. “And I am sorry about Belinda. I know you were—”
“You don’t know anything,” Garrett said harshly.
Conor stared at him, kept his cool. Despite everything, the shock of Belinda’s death and his worry about Kate, he managed to note that Garrett was acting more in anger than in grief.
“Why did you come here? To this house?” Garrett said.
“Someone texted me, then I saw the police car.”
“How do those two things go together?”
“The text said ‘help her,’” Conor said.
“Was that about Belinda?” Garrett asked.
“I have no idea—I don’t even know who it was from,” Conor said. “I thought it was about Kate.” In the back of his mind were other texts and calls he had gotten over the last year—anonymous ones—that he was sure had been sent by Belinda.
“That’s convenient,” Garrett said. “Let me see the text.”
Conor felt rage spilling out of Garrett, and he took a step back. “Maybe you shouldn’t be investigating this. You’re too close to it. Belinda was your girlfriend—”
“Don’t you say her name,” Garrett said. “And I am investigating this. I have questions for you.”
That could be challenging, if you don’t want me to say the name of the victim, Conor thought. In spite of how upset he had been at Belinda last night, he felt shaken to see her murdered so brutally—the girl next door, whom he had cared about when they were children.
“What questions?” Conor asked.
“What do you think?” Garrett asked. “Can we start with the murder?”
“I had nothing to do with that.” Conor felt as if his head were going to explode.
“You assaulted her last night,” Garrett said. “She’s got a big, long story about you. About your history.”
Conor shook his head. “Listen, Garrett, everything about this is messed up. But you know me. You’re my friend, it’s why Kate and I invited you to our wedding . . .”
“Back to the point,” Garrett said. “You came flying into this house—why?”
“Because I got that text, and I can’t find Kate. That’s all that matters to me.”
“You said you were out looking for her all night, that’s your alibi,” Garrett said.
“First, I was with my brother, then Joe. We were all searching. And that’s what we should be doing now!”
“You’re covered with blood,” Garrett said. “Want to explain why you were touching the body?”
“I told you, I thought it was Kate,” Conor said. “She’s wearing Kate’s wedding gown.”
“What?” Garrett asked.
“Yeah,” Conor said, pointing into the bedroom. “Belinda is wearing Kate’s dress. So when I saw her lying there, what did you expect me to do?”
And the thought hit him like a brick: Was Belinda the intended victim? Or had the murderer seen her in Kate’s wedding dress and thought—exactly like Conor—she was Kate? Did he think he was killing Kate?
“But it wasn’t Kate, was it?” Garrett asked.
“Listen,” Conor said, “someone wanted me here, maybe so I’d get blamed. It’s crazy . . . But, Garrett, I need to find Kate. Come on, let’s work together. We can’t lose more time.”
“It’s obvious there is a connection, considering that Belinda was murdered in Kate’s dress,” Garrett said. “What kind of history does Kate have with her?”
“You saw,” Conor said. “Last night. That’s the history, end of story.”
“Except it was pretty obvious that Belinda is—was—in love with you, and that clearly made Kate jealous. Not to mention, dressing up in her wedding gown. What was that about? I can imagine it causing a pretty violent reaction.”
Conor knew Garrett was baiting him, hinting that Kate could be a suspect. It took everything he had to not react the way he knew Garrett wanted him to.
“Belinda was your date, Garrett. I hadn’t seen her in years, and Kate met her for the first time yesterday.”
“I’ll tell you, Conor. I think you wanted witnesses. You waited for the officers to show up, and you came with your brother,” Garrett said.
“Witnesses to what?”
“You throwing yourself at the body. Your big excuse for contaminating the scene.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Hypothetically, if a person committed murder and was afraid that he’d left evidence behind, what better way to explain it than returning to the scene, plowing in, and tampering with everything? Destroying the evidence he had left during the murder?” Garrett asked.
Conor stared at him—it wasn’t a bad theory. But the way Garrett was accusing him, with such intensity, made Conor feel this had everything to do with Garrett’s personal feelings. He wished Joe would hurry up and get there.
“Hey, Conor,” Tom said in a warning tone as he entered the room. Conor was surprised the local cops had let him back in, but he knew it was hard to say no to USCG Commander Thomas Reid when he got into his command-bearing mode.
“What?” Conor asked.
“I called Uncle Mike, and he’s outside. He wants to speak to you before you answer any questions,” Tom said.
“You mean your uncle the judge?” Garrett asked.
“Yes,” Tom said.
“Oh, so you need a lawyer?” Garrett asked Conor.
“I don’t care about that,” Conor said to Tom, ignoring Garrett. “I just need to find Kate.”
“I’m having George give you a ride to headquarters. You can answer questions there,” Garrett said, stepping forward, putting his face in Conor’s. Conor jumped back. Why was Garrett being so aggressive? He had the sudden thought that maybe Garrett had something of his own to hide.
“Garrett, shut the fuck up. You’re not listening to me. I’m not going anywhere till we find Kate. There’s a murderer here, and she’s missing, so pull it together, okay?”
Tom tapped Conor’s shoulder. “You’re right, but calm down,” he said. “Come with me now.”
Conor felt like decking his brother, but he followed him outside.
He saw Maeve leaning against a stone wall.
Standing beside her was a detective Conor hadn’t seen before, taking notes.
The detective looked over at Conor, then resumed questioning Maeve.
Conor noticed the blue truck in the driveway and flashed to yesterday—it had sped past, and he’d been afraid it would hit Kate.
Conor and Tom’s uncle, Michael Reid, stood on the front porch.
At seventy-seven, he was still an imposing figure.
He was six three, with a head of thick white hair and sharp blue eyes that gave anyone who faced him in court the feeling he could see right through them.
Even here in his khakis and polo shirt, he had the bearing of a judge.
Conor was used to having his uncle joke around with him and Tom, in the Reid manner, just as his father had done. But at that moment, Mike looked stern.
“What have you said so far?” Mike asked.
“Nothing. Basically, just that I know that the victim—Belinda. And that she’s wearing Kate’s wedding dress.”
“That’s not nothing,” Mike said. “You know better than anyone not to talk to the police. That’s what trips up half the defendants who come to my courtroom. They open their mouths and they pay the price. And the victim is someone you not only know but have a troubled history with.”
“There was no ‘troubled history’ until last night,” Conor said, but again he thought of those anonymous texts, and a brief period that had preceded them.
“Well, you certainly made up for lost time,” Mike said. “The whole room saw the fight. It was spectacular, to say the least.”
Conor felt like walking away, but he knew he had to make himself clear, just so they could move on and find Kate. “Garrett’s got it in for me. He told me his theory. He’s already decided I’m guilty, and he’s looking for facts to make them fit.”
“What’s his theory?” Mike asked.
“That I killed Belinda early this morning and came back when there were witnesses, to make sure they saw me tracking through the blood and touching the body.”
“Ah, to explain the evidence you left behind when you murdered her,” Mike said. “And does his theory include the fact you wanted to shut Belinda up? From stirring up more trouble with Kate?”
“I think the damage was already done,” Conor said.
“Well, thinking like a prosecutor, here’s another theory: Maybe you thought you were killing Kate. Considering that Belinda was wearing her dress.”
“That’s insane,” Tom said, and Conor was grateful his brother was speaking up for him. “I want to know about this house. How did Belinda wind up here?”
“Good question,” Mike said. “Years ago it was owned by friends of Anne’s and mine—the Rancourts.
They spent half the year in Watch Hill, the other half in Paris.
But when Geoffrey died, the kids began to fight over the estate, and the house was sold.
Belinda must have known the current owners.
Is that their vehicle? Check the registration. ”
Conor turned to look at the navy-blue pickup truck in the driveway. For the first time, he noticed the number 1740 discreetly stenciled onto the driver’s door, encircled by prickly garland. “That nearly hit Kate yesterday—as if it were aiming for her,” he said. “You saw that, right, Tom?”
“The driver was definitely in a hurry,” Tom said.
Conor saw George beckon him toward the squad car.
“You have to find Kate for me,” he said to his brother and uncle. “Tell her they’re going to question me at headquarters.”
“Garrett is taking this ridiculously far,” Tom said. “Where’s Joe?”
“Find him, too, will you?” Conor said.
“I had assumed the questioning was pro forma, but I think you’re right. Garrett has it in for you. Give me your phone,” Mike said.
“It’s evidence,” Conor said. “They’ll want it.”
“As you well know, they will go through every call, every text, every internet search, to use against you. I’m not saying you have anything to hide, but you still don’t want the police to have it,” Mike said. “Not without a subpoena.”
“Give it to me,” Tom said sternly, holding out his hand.
Conor hesitated. What if Kate called him and he didn’t have his phone?
He was a cop, and he believed in the process.
He wanted to comply with the investigation.
But Garrett’s attitude was vicious, personal, and even though Conor would have to give consent—and his password—to have the contents of his phone searched, Conor didn’t want Garrett having custody of his phone at all.
He sensed that Garrett was using aggression toward him as a distraction, a way of hiding something of his own.
Tom kept his hand out, and Conor eventually slapped his phone into it. Tom quickly put the phone in his back pocket.
“I’m calling a friend of mine,” Mike said. “Leo Kennedy is one of the best defense attorneys in Rhode Island, has his own firm in Providence. I’ll have him meet you at the state police barracks. Don’t talk till he gets there.”
“For the record, I have nothing to hide.”
“That doesn’t enter into the equation,” Mike said. He dialed his friend’s number. He got voicemail and left a message. Then, to Conor: “Remember. Keep your mouth shut—on the ride to headquarters and when you get there—not a word.”