The Kills (45 page)

Cassie
was more interested in the specs than I was, but the thought of the upkeep was
overwhelming. It had to cost more than a million dollars a year to keep this
toy afloat, with its crew of four and all that went with it.

Back on
deck, I leaned over to check whether I could see how far below water the boat's
bottom went. "What does she draw?"

"Six
feet. We just make it in here."

I noticed
a small motorboat tied up alongside us. A twenty-foot Boston Whaler. For most people,
that would have been more than enough of a vessel.

I looked
at the gold lettering on the rear of the
Pirate
's tender:
Rebecca.

I turned
to Hoyt. "Daphne du Maurier?"

"You
mean
Rebecca
? Is that what I
named her for? You really see murder in everything, don't you, Alex?" Hoyt
shook his finger at me.

"Happens
to be one of my favorite novels."

"Yes,
but my wife would never go out on the water with me, if that was the
inspiration for her name. James Gordon Bennett-the first commodore of the yacht
club-that's what his boat was called. She's named in his honor."

The
steward came back to whisper to Hoyt that our breakfast was about to be served.

"Is
there another phone line? Other than the cell, I mean."

"Certainly.
We've got satellite phones on board. Todd, will you show Ms. Cooper to the
cockpit?"

I wanted
to talk to Mike Chapman. I wanted him to know I was on Hoyt's yacht, and
confirm his whereabouts last night. This might be the only working phone I
would be near all day.

I reached
voice mail at his apartment and on his cell. I dialed Mercer Wallace. The
captain was working on his route chart right next to me, so I explained where I
was without telling the story of the previous night.

"When
are you coming back to the city?" Mercer asked.

"Uh-I'm
still not quite sure." I wanted to tell him as soon as the airport was
open and I could find some way to get to it, but I couldn't trust the captain
not to repeat that to Hoyt.

"You
alone there on the
Titanic
?"

"No,
no, no. Got one of my local friends here with me, and we're getting right off
after breakfast. We won't even leave the dock."

"Well,
hurry home, Alex. I'm trying to make progress. Seems that it most likely was
Mrs. Gatts's brother-in-law who followed you down to the church last week. His
supervisor says he signed out of court at five
P.M,
just up the street from you. Left the
building in his uniform, without changing, which is not his usual pattern.
Chief said he seemed in a hurry to go somewhere." That explained the navy
blue pants. "And he called in sick the next day-just didn't come to
work."

"Anybody
keeping an eye on him?"

"They
read him the riot act. If we can prove something, they'll suspend him."

"All
circumstantial, but it's a start. Anything else before I lose you?"

"Yes,
ma'am. Found out yesterday that Tiffany Gatts has some other family ties that
might interest you," Mercer said.

"Like
who?"

"Seems
her boyfriend Kevin had good reason to know about Queenie Ransome and her
collection of coins. Tiffany's cousin is the one who let the cat out of the
bag, about valuables being in Queenie's apartment."

"I
give up, Mercer. Who's her cousin?"

"Spike
Logan. Know who I mean? The Harvard guy who lives up on the Vineyard."

I took
another breath and thought about the intruder who had frightened me out of my
home, into the wind and rain. Spike Logan lived up here. Where the hell was he
during last night's storm?

Graham
Hoyt went down the ladder to the dock ahead of Cassie and me, helping each of
us off as we followed.

"When
I stop by here next June, young lady," he said to Cassie, "I expect
you to take the afternoon off for some waterskiing with the crew."

She
gushed with delight and ran back into the mini-market to buy a disposable
camera and snap some shots of the
Pirate,
while I thanked Hoyt for breakfast.

We shook
hands and he held on to my left elbow, hesitating before he spoke. "You
know, Jenna and I are spending the weekend with Dulles. Bringing him onto the
boat, cruising up the Hudson and around New York Harbor to try to get him
comfortable with us. Maybe, if you get back to town in time-I realize it's only
a 'maybe'-but I'd like you to think about meeting us for lunch, to get a sense
that Dulles is going to be okay with all this behind him."

The Hoyts
were obviously intent on adopting the boy, and I was beginning to think it was
hopeless for me to try to guess what would serve the child best in the long
run.

"Help
him understand that all this-this bad stuff-lawyers, courts, cops-that it's all
behind him, Alex. Give him some closure. Give him back his childhood, his life.
You represent the bridge between what's past and what kind of future he can
have."

"It's
a nice idea, but I'm not too optimistic we can end the emotional damage so
quickly." I looked away from Hoyt, knowing that the judge wouldn't condone
any further delays to dispose of the misdemeanor charges involving Tripping's
son, now that the rape case had been tossed. "I may not be able to 'give'
him those things any more readily than you can," I said, smiling at Hoyt,
"but maybe I can return his baseball jacket. He's entitled to that."

"Yankees,
I hope? They're the only thing in his life that provides pure joy. My wife
already got some play-off tickets."

"Well,
yes, he left his jacket at the hospital the night his father was arrested. We
thought it might be his security blanket. Maybe that can be my peace offering,
when I do see him."

Hoyt
clasped his left hand on top of mine, shook again, and boarded the yacht.
"Bet we beat you back to the city, Alex. Sure you don't want to try the
high seas?"

"No
thanks. Speak to you soon."

I trudged
back to police headquarters through the mounds of damp sand. It was several
hours until the island came to life again, as power was restored and the
pavement cleared. When Chip Streeter got word that the Menemsha Crossroads had
opened up, he offered to drive me home so that I could assess the damage and
change my clothes.

The sunny
fall day had everyone out picking up the debris around their houses. Several
utility poles were still down and there were branches scattered everywhere. We
pulled off State Road into my driveway, and as we came over the rise, things
didn't look as bad as I had feared.

I got out
of the car and kneeled to examine the tread marks that the intruder had left in
the mud. An expert could easily match the marks to a shoe brand, which was
likely to be all too common to be significant.

"Yup,"
Streeter said, "the state troopers took photos and measurements, and some
kind of cast of the prints. Dusted around inside, too."

This
wasn't the first time my home had been a crime scene. I knew that it wasn't
going to be pretty. We went in and looked over the mess that had been tracked
through. Once again, I felt shocked and unsettled at the sight of my belongings
in such disarray. There was still no electricity or water, so the cleanup would
be a job for my caretaker, when he returned to the island.

"Wanna
see if anything's missing?"

"Sure,"
I said, walking from room to room, checking the obvious places and opening
drawers and closets. Nothing seemed out of place. In the bedroom, I looked into
my sail bag and purse. "Missing some cash. About a hundred and fifty
dollars."

"See?
Probably just an ordinary break-in, somebody looking for a quick score."

There was
no point telling him about Spike Logan. I'd let Mike and Mercer work that
angle, and allow Streeter to keep thinking this was just a petty theft. The
island was so small, such an insular community, that there was no way of
knowing who was connected to whom. In my book, taking the money was just a
convenient way for my visitor to show me that he had been there, that he might
come again.

"I
figured I'd wait for you to change and drop you at the airport."

"That's
too much trouble. I can get myself-"

"I
got to go down-island to Shirley's Hardware to pick up some tools for repairs
at the station. I'd rather not leave you here alone."

I was
glad about that. "It will just take me a minute." I closed the
bedroom door, pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater from my closet, and
folded the borrowed chinos and shirt for Streeter to return.

We drove
to the airport, twisting our way around the assortment of storm-tossed things
in the roadway. I thanked him when I got out of the car and joined the short
line of impatient city folk waiting at the counter for word about air service
to New York.

It looked
like a special direct flight would leave for La Guardia at 6
P.M.

The day
was a wash. My cell phone, uncharged for more than twenty-four hours, was dead.
The telephone kiosks, which afforded no privacy, were in steady use by anxious
travelers trying to find alternate ways to get to Providence, Boston, Hartford,
and points west. I spun the paperback rack in the gift shop and found only the
good books I had read in hardcover months earlier. There was a British thriller
by a writer I'd never tried before, so I settled in a corner window seat and
killed the time with crime fiction.

Somewhere
in the northeast corridor, the airline had come up with a DC-3 to lug us home.
It rolled to a stop outside the terminal, looking as if it had just come over
the hump from Burma in a World War II flick. We boarded quickly, climbing up
the sloping aisle to get into our seats. The normally short flight took almost
ninety minutes, and it was close to 8
P.M.
when I walked out of the New York terminal to hail a taxi.

Hot
running water. I stripped down and turned on the shower full force. Mud was
still caked between my toes and under each nail. I must have been a sight to
all of the evening's air travelers. My matted hair looked several shades darker
than before the storm, and I scrubbed for minutes until I could even get a
lather going.

Dried off
and snug in a long nightshirt, I sat on the bed and played back the eleven
messages on the machine, hoping to hear one voice. I deleted Nina's news about
her son's admission to a Beverly Hills pre-k; my mother's concern about the
damage caused by the hurricane; three routine messages from Mike, who wasn't
really sure where to find me; an assortment of nonurgent friendly calls; and
found Jake on the ninth try.

"Hey,
guess you decided to stay on after all." His voice sounded cool and
clipped, and I had missed him by less than half an hour. "I'm off for
supper with a friend. Be home for the weekend." Too much silence. "We
need to talk, Alex."

The one
thing I needed less than root canal was to talk. Whatever happened to action?

Good old
action. Talk was going to expose every layer of difference between us, every
nitpicking reason we weren't good for each other. His walking in the door and
taking me in his arms and making me feel sexy and safe and adored was what I
wanted more than anything at this very moment. Talk was as overrated as
renewing marriage vows on top of a Hawaiian volcano to assuage a cheating
husband's guilt.

No answer
at Mike's place. I put on some music and sat at my desk, rereading the case
files on Paige Vallis-the rape and the homicide-to see whether I could make
sense of the directions things had taken in her life. No sense, no nothing. I
moved to the mountain of bills growing beside me and took out my checkbook.