26
He had sent Dave Liggett, a Connecticut State Trooper who reported to him, to Cloudlands.
He told Dave to look in the top drawer of the library desk, to retrieve the envelope that held the hair and baby tooth, and take it to the crime lab for analysis.
Conor had extended his and Kate’s stay at the Ocean House.
Not only did they need time together, but they also both wanted to be near the center of the investigations.
He walked through the lobby and found Tom in the Bistro, sitting at one of the tables by the fireplace and typing on his laptop.
“Hey,” Conor said, taking a seat across from his brother. “What are you doing?”
“Hey,” Tom said, looking up. “Making notes about the case. Laying out a chronology and documenting what we found on Psyche. Anything new here?”
“Maeve is missing,” Conor said.
“Kate’s gallery assistant? She found Belinda’s body?”
“Yes,” Conor said.
“Did they hold her for questioning?”
“They’re questioning everyone. She was first on the murder scene, and she hired Suzanne to do the calligraphy. Big connections there. So, yes, Joe spent time talking to her. But she’s not a suspect.”
“That you know of,” Tom said. “It’s possible Joe and Garrett are keeping that confidential, even from you.”
“Certainly possible,” Conor said. “But I seem to be back in Garrett’s good graces.”
“That’s good to hear. When did Maeve go missing?” Tom asked.
“Yesterday. 6:13 p.m.”
“That’s specific. Where did you get that?”
“We checked the security footage and saw the time stamp.” Conor told Tom what had been on the video and the conclusions they had made based on Maeve dropping her necklace and the fact that the note was missing.
“So, someone doesn’t want you to find the note,” Tom said. “Fingerprints, DNA, handwriting? And the fact it was found at that psychiatric hospital. Doesn’t a place like Maynard-King treat the human psyche? Did someone there name the boat?”
“Maybe,” Conor said. “But there’s also the myth of Cupid and Psyche. Kate says that ties in with Beauty and the Beast. This guy is obsessed with it.”
“The boat is the key. The handcuffs and all that blood,” Tom said. He handed Conor the paperwork he had gotten from the marina owner, stating that Suzanne had paid for dockage throughout the summer, until late September.
“Why would she pay for it? The boat owner would,” Conor said.
“Maybe she was the owner,” Tom said.
“That doesn’t make sense—it was obviously used as a place to hold women before the guy took them to the mansion,” Conor said, remembering Grace’s disjointed story about the boat transporting girls from the mainland.
“Suzanne was involved somehow,” Tom said. “The dock records prove it. Come on, we’ll find out who owns Psyche.”
The Reid brothers walked down the hill, into town.
Conor knew that Tom’s office at his main post in New London was more equipped to research maritime matters, but the USCG maintained a space next to the harbor, on Bay Street—tucked between a clothing boutique and an antique store—that held a secure computer system.
Several years ago, Tom and Conor had uncovered an art-smuggling operation centered in southeastern New England. It had started with one painting stolen from Kate’s gallery and had escalated into a major investigation of art theft and how it was a cover for larger crimes.
Tom had requested that command restore an outpost of the decommissioned USCG Lifesaving Station to active but secret use, and they had acquiesced.
Watch Hill was a prime location to monitor northbound-ship traffic through three critical bodies of water: Long Island Sound, Block Island Sound, and the Atlantic Ocean.
Tom punched a code into the keypad beside the door, then leaned close to a small lens so an eyeball scanner could verify his identity.
He and Conor were buzzed inside. The officer in charge greeted them, and they walked to a desk at the far end of the long room.
The space had once been an antiquarian bookshop that specialized in volumes of local history; several remained on shelves that lined a windowless wall.
Conor pulled up a chair beside the desk.
Tom had his laptop, but he set it aside and logged in to a desktop computer.
Conor knew that his brother could access databases connected to many aspects of inshore, nearshore, and offshore marine interests.
This office computer would have a higher level of security and access than Tom’s personal one.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask the harbormaster who owns the boat? Or wasn’t there a registration on board?” Conor asked.
“The harbormaster runs a pretty loose show out there, and from what I could see, there was no paperwork on the boat. The state police will do a thorough search—I didn’t want to be in their way—but I suspect the boat is documented.”
“What are you talking about?” Conor asked, watching Tom type parameters into the computer.
“There are two ways to register a boat. One is with the state where the boat owner lives and where it will be docked. The other is to document it with the federal government—that means me.”
“You?”
“The Coast Guard,” Tom said. “Documentation, as opposed to standard registration, makes it easier to travel to foreign waters. It helps with clearing customs, and it gives the owner US protections.”
“International travel,” Conor said, jumping on that. “You think Suzanne—or whoever—plans to sail Psyche abroad? Like Europe?”
“It’s one possibility, but we don’t know yet,” Tom said. “You see it with yachts that race outside the States—ones who do the Bermuda Race, St. Maarten Heineken Regatta, St Barths Bucket, Antigua Race Week, things like that . . . Canada, the Caribbean—the destination doesn’t have to be Europe.”
“So Psyche is a racing yacht?” Conor asked.
“No. The fireplace and some of the other modifications add weight that wouldn’t work for racing,” Tom said.
“Like the restraints,” Conor said in a flat tone.
“Definitely. But she’s a Hinckley and obviously has a pedigree. She could be making international trips for other reasons.” Tom paused, squinting at the monitor. “Yep—here she is. Psyche is documented.”
“Does it show the owner?” Conor asked.
Tom nodded, pointing at the screen. “Leprince de Beaumont Associates.”
“Holy shit,” Conor said.
“What?” Tom asked, looking at him.
“Same as the house,” Conor said. “Joe was supposed to check with the registered agent to get through the corporate firewall—to try to track down the principal of the LLC.” He was already calling Joe when Tom stopped him.
“Hold on,” Tom said. “There’s an address.”
Conor leaned over and read Leprince de Beaumont Associates, 13 Lovecraft Lane, Narragansett, RI 02906.
It gave a phone number with a Rhode Island area code.
Tom searched the address online, and Conor punched the number into his cell phone and put the call on speaker.
They got the information at the same time.
Conor was reading it on Tom’s screen when his call was answered.
“Maynard-King Hospital,” the operator said, and Conor could hardly believe it. His pulse sped up.
“I’m trying to reach Leprince de Beaumont Associates,” Conor said.
“You need the business department,” she said.
“The business department?” Conor asked.
“Yes,” she said. “LP de BA—Leprince de Beaumont Associates—is the corporation that owns the hospital.”
“Is their office there in the hospital?” Conor asked.
“Not in the hospital, but on the grounds,” she said. “They have their own building. Let me put you through to them.”
“Thanks,” Conor said. The line rang, and he got voicemail.
“You have reached the office of Darla Vandeveer. I am not available right now, but please leave your name and number, and I will return your call as soon as possible.”
Conor hung up without leaving a message.
“No one’s there,” he said. “But I have a name—Darla Vandeveer.” He immediately called Joe. There was no answer, so he texted him the information.
Tom was staring at the Maynard-King website. The home page contained a short, unsigned message saying that MK was a safe place for all people, a sanctuary full of compassion and the desire and experience in promoting healing.
Conor watched his brother click on the What We Treat tab.
It listed the many services the hospital offered, the conditions its physicians treated.
Conor read over his brother’s shoulder as Tom opened each link on the list. When he got to Psychological Trauma, they saw that the page was blank except for some hyperlinked letters: VIS.
“What’s ‘VIS’?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s see,” Conor said.
Tom clicked on the link.
The new screen contained a photo of women with blurred-out faces, standing in a circle and holding hands. Conor read the page:
Victims of Involuntary Servitude
According to the United Nations, human trafficking affects every country around the globe.
While you may think it can’t happen in your city or town, it can, and it does.
Victims of sex trafficking—most of them women, many of them minors—are being held captive in some of the loveliest, “safest” neighborhoods in America.
We at Maynard-King offer trauma-informed care for victims of trafficking. We understand the effects of trauma on the mind and body. We know that survivors have been torn away from their families and held against their will, often restrained.
In some cases, they are forced to work with no pay. Some are required to perform sex acts with a promise of freedom after they comply with their captors’ demands. The sad truth is that many are never released; they may disappear, never to see their families again.
Even for those who do regain their freedom, life can be its own prison.
Cruel treatment at the hands of some of their captors takes a psychological toll that may be difficult—even impossible—to recover from.
Self-hatred is a persistent emotion, accompanied by feelings of worthlessness.
Victims often blame themselves for what they have been through.
They may turn to addiction or other self-destructive behaviors.
Nightmares and night terrors are common.
An inability to form healthy and satisfying relationships is but one effect of being held in involuntary servitude, but it is perhaps the most tragic.
Maynard-King is a safe space to receive care.
Survivors can connect with each other, heal by discussing shared experiences, all in the safe embrace of our compassionate community.
Self-hatred will melt away, replaced by self-respect.
You will learn lessons that will serve you well.
When you complete the initial treatment recommended by your doctor, you will be ready for the finishing school of life.
We prepare you for life.
We care.
We will love you until you can love yourself.
You are not alone.
“Okay,” Tom said. “So now we know that Psyche is used for trafficking humans.”
“The handcuffs, yeah,” Conor said. He reread the last paragraph. Something was pricking at his memory, but he couldn’t bring it to the surface.
Tom had been saying that documented vessels often made international trips, and Conor knew that the common perception was that women were trafficked into the United States, across borders from other countries.
But the fact was, much trafficking was local—sometimes across state lines, but often victims were transported within a much smaller distance.
“Yeah. Can it be a coincidence, that what we’ve been thinking happened on Psyche is what they treat here?” Tom asked.
“The company that owns the hospital also owns the boat and also owns the house where Belinda was killed,” Conor said. “Leprince de Beaumont Associates.”
“And what? They traffic women, then treat them at the hospital?”
“Or they ‘treat’ trafficked women at the hospital,” Conor said. “Then traffic them again—on the boat and the island. They know the victims have already been broken down—that makes it easy for them. They harvest them—women at their most vulnerable.” He felt rage even saying it.
Tom nodded. Joe was busy getting warrants.
Conor knew that would take time, especially when he told Joe what they had just discovered.
He watched his brother scroll through the website, looking at the photos of the Maynard-King hospital grounds, ending on the contact page with a map of the property.
“It’s waterfront,” Tom said. “Directly on Narragansett Bay.” He typed the location into a website that had nautical charts and found the one that corresponded to the Maynard-King location.
It showed water depths, reefs and other dangers, aids to navigation, and the shoreline.
He zoomed in to the hospital property and pointed. “They have a dock.”
“That makes transporting victims easier,” Conor said. “And it makes our investigation easier too.”
“Yeah,” Tom said, nodding. “Coast Guard business. You said you have a name? A contact at Leprince?”
“Yes. But let’s not call her. Face-to-face would be better. Do you feel like a road trip?” Conor asked.
Tom didn’t even have to answer. They were walking outside toward Tom’s truck when Kate caught up to them.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“The place where you found the note,” Conor said. “Maynard-King.”
“Do you know how to get there?” Kate asked.
“We’ll use GPS.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “I can show you.”
Conor held her gaze for a few seconds, saw her start to smile. “It’s always good to have a guide,” he said.
“Then let’s go,” she said, and they continued on to Tom’s truck. Conor checked to see if Joe had texted back, but he hadn’t. They all climbed into the truck and headed out of Watch Hill, driving east toward Narragansett.