41
Conor stood on the dock next to Rosebud, restraining his uncle by grasping one of his arms while Tom held the other.
Mike tried to wrench himself free, then gave up and stood still, stone faced.
Miranda could have run away, but she moved close to Mike and looked up at the Reid brothers, from one to the other.
“It’s not Mike’s fault,” she said. “You don’t get it.”
“Don’t say another word, Miranda,” Mike said loudly, even though she was just inches away from him.
“Mike, stop it. I want to tell them everything,” she said. “This is ridiculous, them holding you this way.” She turned from Mike to the brothers. “Let him go!”
“Um, no,” Tom said. “Uncle Mike, what the hell?”
At first, Conor was too furious to say anything. They all stood there, breathing hard, as if they had just been in a sprint. Conor stared into Mike’s eyes and saw how his uncle stared back without flinching.
“Tell us,” Conor said. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and Miranda here called me to say Kate was the next to be taken, and you’re keeping some kind of big crazy secret? Like, how you know this woman? And now you’re advising her not to say anything to us?”
“You don’t understand,” Miranda said. “You need to hear this, but I won’t tell you anything until you take your hands off him.”
Tom looked at Conor, and Conor nodded. Tom released Mike’s arm, but the two brothers stayed vigilant. Conor couldn’t begin to figure out what was going on—how his father’s brother could be embroiled in the pursuit that had led them back to the Maynard-King dock.
“Go ahead, Uncle Mike,” Conor said. “Tell us how you know Miranda.”
“That could be privileged information,” Mike said. He was tall and stooped, and a shock of his thick white hair fell into his eyes. He looked every bit of seventy-eight, but his voice and the glare in his blue eyes were defiant.
“You’re saying you’re her lawyer?” Tom asked. “You’re a judge.”
“I’m an officer of the court,” Mike said. “So yes, for the moment, I am her legal counsel.”
“Look,” Conor said. “With Kate missing, I don’t care about privilege or you acting as her legal counsel. I don’t even care about how you know her.” He turned to Miranda. “Where is Kate?”
“I don’t know . . .” Miranda began.
“Conor,” Mike said. “This is the situation. Miranda doesn’t have information about Kate’s whereabouts. If she did, she would tell you. I would insist on it. But for her to say more would be to incriminate herself, and I have to advise her against that.”
“If she knows anything—I don’t care what it is,” Conor said, his voice rising.
“I need to hear it. Because any information will help me find Kate. And if I don’t get it, I don’t care whether you’re my uncle or just some asshole defense attorney protecting your client .
. . she is going to tell me where they took Kate. ”
They all stood there in a silent quadrangle, an atomic level of emotional energy building.
Up among the four of them. Conor glanced over and caught Tom’s expression.
The sharp look was warning him to cool off, to quit pushing.
Conor exhaled. As a detective, he had always been able to remain calm and objective.
But this was about Kate. So he registered Tom’s warning but didn’t take it to heart.
“You’re going to tell me, Uncle Mike,” Conor said, grasping his uncle by the throat. “I swear to god . . . if you are part of 1740, and you know where Kate is, I will kill you.”
Mike reached up and smashed Conor’s arm away, landing a chop that cut to the bone and made Conor flinch.
“You back off,” Mike shouted, nearly toppling over as he stumbled back. “You are my nephew, and I love you. But how dare you accuse me of this? I have spent my whole career working for good, and I love Kate as if she was my own daughter.”
“Then what are you doing with her?” Conor asked, pointing at Miranda. “She just got off Leo’s boat . . . He’s involved, isn’t he? He’s part of it all, right? And so is she.”
Miranda stepped forward, trying to get between Conor and Mike. “Mike, I am telling them. It’s my choice, okay?”
Mike looked fierce, shrugged with defeat.
“Yes, Leo is part of it,” she said, looking straight at Conor. “And so is Judge Flook. But I am not.”
“Then why were you on Leo’s boat?” Tom asked.
“Come aboard and see,” Miranda said, sweeping her arm as if to invite everyone to board Rosebud.
“Miranda,” Mike said, stepping in front of the gangway to prevent anyone going onto the boat. “Stop right there.”
“Why should she stop right there?” Conor asked.
“Because she has rights,” Mike said. “If you want to make a case against Leo that will hold, that will permit an effective prosecution, you have to do this correctly. Conor, if you go aboard without a warrant, you know what will happen—anything you find will get thrown out by the trial judge. And you can put Miranda in jeopardy. Do this right, Conor. Call Joe Harrington or Garrett Milne or any other Rhode Island law enforcement officer that you want. But respect criminal procedure. Don’t mess this up. ”
“Uncle Mike,” Conor said with steely calm. “Right now, I don’t care about criminal procedure. Or a case. Or a prosecution. I only care about Kate, you know that. So let me go by.” He pushed past his uncle and stepped aboard Rosebud’s deck.
The cop in Conor knew he should put on the brakes. But thinking of Kate, he stormed down the steps into the cabin.
The interior was very spare, not like that of Psyche—the opposite of Psyche’s old-world charm. The cabin contained electronics for navigation and entertainment, a well-equipped galley with storage and a stainless steel sink and stove, and seating on banquettes and swivel chairs.
The banquettes had white vinyl cushions. Conor sensed Miranda behind him.
“You’re in the right place,” she said.
“What am I looking for?” Conor asked.
Miranda pointed at a seam in the banquette cushion. There was a long, thin brownish line, with streaks, as if someone had tried to clean a stain.
“Some blood seeped in there,” she said. “And Leo tried to clean it. He got most of it, but some soaked into that seam, and he couldn’t get it out.”
“Whose blood?” Conor asked, afraid to hear.
“The last girl’s,” Miranda said. “The one you found dead off Point Judith.”
Now Uncle Mike and Tom had come down into the cabin, too, making it very crowded. “What’s her name?” Conor asked.
“I just know her as Girl #2,” Miranda said. “That’s what they do, take away their names and give them a number.”
“When you say ‘they’ . . .” Conor began.
“1740.”
There was a metallic, rancid smell to the cabin.
Blood sometimes smelled like copper; because the boat was a sportfishing vessel, Conor would have assumed it would be from the large fish Leo hauled in on his excursions.
But this was different. There was human sweat—fear—mixed in, and it reminded him of the odor he’d noticed on Psyche.
“How did she die?” Conor asked.
Miranda was silent.
“Were you here when it happened?” Conor asked.
“Conor,” Mike said. “Let me speak with Miranda privately, and then she might be able to tell you what you want to know.”
“Up on deck,” Conor said, gesturing for everyone to leave the cabin.
He exchanged a glance with Tom. His brother went up to keep an eye on Miranda and their uncle, and Conor stood still in the main salon.
He used his iPhone to take photos of the bloodstain and the area around the settee.
He saw that a pink object—maybe a stone—had skidded under the table, but when he crouched down, he realized it was a broken fingernail.
He remembered the hands of the young woman he’d seen in Galilee, of how she was missing a nail.
He took photos of it but left it where it was.
Tom had gotten Uncle Mike and Miranda off the boat, which was now clearly a crime scene.
Conor looked around. As far as he could tell, they had not attracted the attention of anyone at the hospital.
The grounds looked quiet. A few people strolled the paths up the hill, by the main hospital building, but there was no sign of security.
“Where is Leo now?” Conor asked.
“Before we get to that,” Mike said, “I want to explain something to you. It’s important.”
“Will it help me find Kate?”
“Conor, that’s what this is all about.”
“That would be a start,” Conor said. “Because it seems to me you are in the middle of all this.”
“Can I tell that part of it?” Miranda asked, and Mike nodded.
“Belinda was my cousin,” Miranda said. “She talked about you all the time, Conor. When we were young, it was just like a girl with a crush. She kept it going, long after she moved away from New London. She stalked you, Conor. Got you to go away with her for the weekend. I think she wanted to get pregnant—she would do anything to have you in her life.”
“That’s insane,” Conor said.
“I know. She was furious that you didn’t want to see her after that. She had another relationship and did get pregnant.”
“With the baby in the picture she showed Kate,” Conor said.
“Yes. But they broke up, and she wound up here, at the hospital. She had a lot of problems, Conor—it was awful to see her that way. We had hope that she’d get well. She didn’t.”
“And she married the doctor.”
Miranda nodded. “Yes, and it wasn’t a happy marriage. Meanwhile, her daughter was living in the nightmare. Our family wanted to help, but Belinda was too sick—she shut us out. Anyway, last year, she got back in touch with me. She sounded better, happier. More stable.”
Conor’s chest was so tense, he felt like he was having a heart attack.
“What does this have to do with Kate?” he asked.
“Just listen,” Miranda said. “Last winter, Belinda told me that you and she had started texting. Then that you decided to meet for dinner. She said you went away for the weekend and planned to be together, to get married.”
“None of that ever happened,” Conor said.