by Luanne Rice
Seconds after spotting the sailboat, he lost sight of it. The vessel passed Block Island into the open ocean, and with no light behind it, the silhouette dissolved. Although the last three days had been calm, a gale was forecast, and by dawn the Atlantic would be roaring.
Glasses held to his eyes, Tom radioed Luis Santiago, the deck watch officer, up on the bridge.
“Twenty degrees off the port bow,” Tom said. “A sailboat running south-southeast without lights. I had her but I lost her.”
“I got her on radar. A smuggler or just a goddamn idiot?” Luis asked.
“Going south is the wrong direction for smuggling drugs,” Tom said.
“Then check box number two. A goddamned idiot who missed the September exodus. His voyage to Saint Barts or wherever will have to wait. We’re going to ruin his night.”
Nehantic sped toward the invisible boat and minutes later approached what appeared to be a ghost ship. The yacht glided across the glassy sea, its wake white and rippling in the floodlights of the cutter. Its transom was illuminated, and Tom read the name and port: Rembrandt, Newport, Rhode Island. The cockpit was empty, but the boat steamed along, obviously on autopilot.
“Yacht Rembrandt!” Luis said, his voice booming out the speaker. He didn’t have time to say anything else—two heads poked out of the companionway, and a man and woman scrambled up on deck.
“Hello!” the man called. “We’re fine! Everything’s okay.”
“Running lights,” Luis said.
“Oh, shit,” the man said. “Sorry—it got dark so fast we didn’t even notice. Flip them on, will you, Sally?”
And the yacht’s running lights—white masthead and stern lights, the red port and green starboard lights—came on. That should have been enough. Maybe a citation for ignoring rules of the road. It might have been stupid to be heading south in November, but it wasn’t illegal.
But in the spotlight’s glare, Tom spotted firearms, and not just any: just behind the nav station were two AK-47 assault rifles. They looked like the Chinese Norinco Type 56s they’d taken off the narco-sub a week before. The man glanced at Tom, noticed his line of vision, and inched toward the wheel, moving toward the guns. Tom drew his sidearm and pointed it at the captain and Sally.
“Hands up!” he said.
“You’re making a mistake,” the man said. “We’re heading south for the winter, and we . . .”
“Hands up!” Tom shouted. The man and Sally complied. The entire Nehantic crew had responded. Several crew members were standing along the port rail, weapons drawn and pointed at the two people aboard Rembrandt; others were hurrying down to the deck where Tom stood. A call was made to headquarters—a request for air-and-sea backup. The raid boat was readied and lowered. Tom led the boarding party.
They handcuffed and searched the two people on board Rembrandt—Joshua Anderson and his wife, Sally. Both had Glock 9s in hip holsters hidden beneath their red fleece jackets. The hands of both suspects were covered with deep scratches. Tom took photos of their hands to show that with the blood already coagulating and scabbing, the injuries couldn’t have been caused during the arrest.
The boarding team secured the weapons. The yacht was a Nautor Swan, one of the most luxurious and seaworthy production sailboats made. Tom heard Joshua babbling about pirates, how you can’t be too careful these days, how the Glocks and Chinese AKs were for self-defense, how the rules of the high seas were different, how boat invasions were just as deadly and prevalent as home invasions.
Tom scrambled down into the cabin. At first he thought the gold-framed museum-looking paintings on Rembrandt’s walnut-paneled walls were just part of the Swan’s decor. He spotted a thin edge of metal between two of the walnut panels and leaned closer to examine it. He wondered if it was a hinge, so he ran his hands over the wall, pressing as he went, and a door opened. Inside the secret compartment were at least ten more paintings in heavy gold frames and several canvases that looked as if they’d been sliced out of their frames.
He pulled out one of the framed paintings and propped it up on the chart table. It depicted a night scene of beauty and mystery. A large stone house was bathed in gauzy silver light. The moon glinted through dark-green leaves and illuminated a young girl dancing in the yard. The painting conveyed passion and urgency. The lower left corner was signed B. Morrison. Tom looked on the back of the painting. The canvas was protected by a sheet of brown paper. A yellowed card taped to the paper gave the painting’s title and other information: Moonlight by Benjamin Morrison, 1906.
Ever since the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston had been robbed in the early-morning hours of March 1990, New England law enforcement officers and military had been on the lookout for over a dozen stolen works of art. Rumors had flown—they’d been stolen by the Irish mob to pay for guns; or a gang of drug dealers had ordered them stolen as ransom to have their leaders released from prison; or the old favorite ORDIAMITB theory: One Rich Dude in a Mansion in the Bahamas who wanted to keep the paintings in a locked room for only him to see.
One of the most important missing paintings was The Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt van Rijn. Could Rembrandt, the name of the yacht, be a play on that? Tom wouldn’t know a Rembrandt from a Picasso, but Moonlight looked like it belonged in a museum, and the idea occurred to him. He told his theory to his commanding officer, and he figured that if there was anything to it—if the paintings had come from the Gardner—the FBI would take it from there.
But the source of the paintings was much more local. It hadn’t hit the news yet, but they had been stolen from the Harkness-Woodward Gallery earlier that day. And Tom’s brother had been first on the scene.
Glancing across the chopper, Tom knew that case had inaugurated Conor’s career and got him promoted to the Major Crime Squad. Conor was gripped by that long-ago case. He rarely talked about it, but Tom had seen a change in him after he’d rescued the sisters. He began drinking too much, and when Tom called him on it, Conor said he couldn’t sleep, that he figured scotch was better than sleeping pills. Eventually Conor had cut way back on the booze, but he’d never returned to the easygoing way he’d had before.
Tom knew Conor would never forget what he had seen in that basement, and right now Tom felt uneasy, wondering whether it could be clouding his judgment about Pete. He could read his brother’s mind, see the gears turning, and knew that Conor 100 percent wanted Pete for Beth’s murder.
There were overlaps, and Tom saw that it made logical sense to think that Pete could have been inspired by his father-in-law’s crime: twenty-three years earlier a husband, although a hundred miles away, had set in motion a violent act that had caused his wife’s death.
Garth Woodward’s wife had died during the course of the crime, so the charge had been raised to felony murder. Some believed it hadn’t been an accident at all—that Garth had wanted Helen killed, had ordered the Andersons to make sure the gag was so tight she would choke, so he could collect insurance not only on the paintings but on her life.
Is that what Pete wanted too? To collect the insurance on Beth? Tom forgot to worry that Conor was rushing to judgment and watched his brother stare at his suspect with the unrelenting attention of a hungry panther tracking its prey.
Tom smiled at Pete Lathrop.
You’re in for it, he thought.
7
It was hard to believe that just that morning, Kate had found her sister’s body. Every minute that ticked by took her farther away from Beth yet made the realization she was gone even more horrifying. Flying to Maine and back, trying to find anything halfway comforting to say to Sam, had filled the hours with heartbreak.
The kettle whistled, and Kate poured boiling water into Mathilda’s Blue Willow teapot. The scent of Earl Grey, Beth’s favorite tea, nearly knocked her over. Sam was wrapped in a blanket, watching TV. Kate had told her to keep the news turned off, but Sam wanted to see everything. Kate heard the somber voice of a newscaster broadcasting from outside h
er sister’s home at 45 Church Street, Black Hall.
Kate lived on the top floor of an 1833 warehouse on Bank Street in New London. Although gentrifying, the maritime neighborhood was still rugged. Bars had always lined the street, but now cafés and a hair salon had moved in. The sturdy granite Custom House with its Doric columns, now the New London Maritime Society’s museum, was next door.
The terrible day had turned to night. Late-afternoon summer light had blazed through skylights and tall windows, and now there was darkness. The Thames River with all its boat traffic flowed by. Train tracks ran along the riverbank. Two Orient Point ferries passed each other near the New London Harbor Light, exchanging short horn blasts—everything reminding Kate that time was passing, more time without Beth.
Telling Sam about Beth had been unthinkable, a nightmare; Sam was still in shock. Now it was time to tell Lulu. The four of them—Kate and Lulu, Beth and Scotty—had been best friends forever, and Kate owed it to Lulu to make sure she heard it from her—no one else. But all her calls went straight to voice mail.
Scotty had not simply called but had been waiting at the airport when Kate had landed after getting Sam: a tearful, grieving welcoming committee of one. Kate hung back while Scotty went straight to Sam. She embraced her tightly—the way Beth would have. Sam actually put her head on Scotty’s shoulder for a minute—after all, Scotty’s daughter Isabel was Sam’s best friend, and Scotty was practically a second mother to Sam.
“Have you talked to Lulu?” Kate had asked Scotty when they’d met at the airport.
“I can’t reach her,” Scotty had said. “It’s weird and so not Lulu. She always answers her phone.”
Now Kate could barely breathe. Lulu didn’t inspire worry. She was the most independent woman Kate knew, other than herself. But her skin felt charged with the knowledge that the worst could happen, as it had to Beth. She needed Lulu to call so she could know Lulu was okay.
She leaned against the kitchen counter for a minute, pulling herself together, then loaded a tray with the teapot, cups, and a plate of oatmeal cookies.
“Tea,” Kate said, setting the tray on a low table in front of Sam. Popcorn lay on the floor at her feet, tongue out and eyes friendly. His tail thumped.
“Look, it’s our house,” Sam said, gesturing at the TV. “There you are, Popcorn.” The screen showed the dog on a red leash, a police officer leading him into the back of a patrol car. Popcorn had been at the Black Hall station until Kate and Sam had picked him up on the way home.
“Turn it off,” Kate said.
“They keep showing pictures of us,” Sam said. “Me, Mom, and Dad. Mostly Mom. Where did they even get those pictures?”
“Not from me,” Kate said.
“Some rancid so-called friend probably sold them. Now, look, here comes the body bag again. That’s the other thing they keep running, the medical examiners carrying her out of the house.”
“Why are you watching that?”
“Because I want to know and see everything that happened to her,” Sam said.
Kate tried to grab the remote, but Sam held it out of reach. At least she’d muted the sound. Kate poured two cups of tea. Sam was sixteen, long legged, and beautiful, a brilliant student getting ready to look at colleges. But right then, curled up on the sofa, she seemed like a tiny girl. Her lower lip wobbled, but she didn’t cry. She had always been stoic. Kate took her bike riding one time when she was six. She skidded on sand and fell off, scraping her elbows. I’m brave, Sam had said. Shake it off, don’t cry. And she hadn’t until they’d returned home, and the minute she had seen Beth, she’d thrown herself into her arms, sobbing. Only with her mother could she let her feelings out.
Kate’s phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen. The state police had flown Pete back to Connecticut from the Vineyard, and he had just been to the morgue. Now he wanted to pick up Sam.
“It’s your dad,” she said, showing her the message.
“I just want to stay here,” Sam said. “I can’t talk to him yet.”
Kate stared at her niece. She could think of many reasons why Sam might be mad at her father; she just wasn’t sure how much Sam knew about the issues between him and Beth.
“Can you tell me why?” Kate asked.
“It’s too hard,” Sam said.
“I know, honey. We’re all so sad. But he’s your dad. You need to see each other.”
“Not yet,” Sam said.
“Sam, you’re each other’s family.”
“Stop!” Sam said, her voice rising.
“Listen, Sam. You need each other.”
“You’re the one who’s not listening. I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”
Kate felt shocked by Sam’s fury.
“Okay,” she said, trying to sound calm.
Sam took a deep breath. She gave Kate a quick glance.
“Thanks,” Sam said, holding Kate’s gaze for a few seconds. Kate felt her wanting to say more, but then Sam looked away.
“There’s one thing we can’t put off,” Kate said. “The detective wants to talk to you too. I spoke to him on the phone, and he’s coming over.”
“I am not ready to talk to anyone,” Sam said.
“I know the feeling,” Kate said. It was 8:00 p.m., barely twelve hours since she had found Beth.
“So don’t let him in.”
“Sam, he has to interview us,” Kate said. “It’s important.”
“Nothing’s important anymore,” Sam said. “Not without Mom.”
Kate closed her eyes. How would a world without Beth make sense for either of them?
“I could have stopped it,” Sam whispered.
“No,” Kate said. “Don’t think that.”
She sat beside Sam on the gray tweed couch. She thought back to when she and Beth were the girls whose mother had died in an art robbery gone wrong. The cops had asked them countless questions. The details of what they’d been through blurred together. Every time Kate told the story, it seemed a little less real. The experience began to feel like a dream, something she had made up. Because how was such a thing possible in life? To be tied to your mother and sister, the knots so tight you couldn’t slip free? To have to just sit there, listening to your mother choking and feeling her body going limp and tilting over, unable to move and save her life?
“You couldn’t have stopped anything. It’s not your fault—not one bit,” Kate said to Sam.
“Doesn’t feel that way,” Sam said. “If I hadn’t been at camp . . .”
“Then you might have gotten hurt too.”
Sam tipped her head back, gazing up at Kate. Her eyes were pale blue, like her father’s, and she had Mathilda’s dark hair, like Kate. But she had Beth’s full lips, her heartbreaking smile.
“Killed, you mean,” Sam said.
“Yes,” Kate said.
“You know what I hated?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“Seeing Mrs. Waterston at the airport,” Sam said, her voice breaking. “She was Mom’s best friend. What’s she going to do without her?”
Kate’s heart cracked. She watched tears leaking from Sam’s eyes. It was as if her niece couldn’t cry for her own pain but only while imagining someone else’s. And she wasn’t wrong about Scotty: Kate knew something was bothering Scotty, and her only true confidant was Beth. Scotty had put on weight, and she constantly berated herself for letting herself go. Sometimes she smelled like wine a little too early in the day. Whatever Scotty was going through, she could share it with Beth.
The buzzer rang. For a second Kate thought it might be Lulu. After running to the door, Kate checked the image on the video monitor: Conor Reid stood at the entrance to her building. She pushed the intercom button. “Yes?” she asked.
“Hello, Kate,” he said, staring straight into the camera. “May I come up to speak with Samantha?”
She hesitated, glanced over at her disheveled niece, watched Sam slash tears from her eyes.
“It’s the
detective. I’m really sorry, Sam. But we need to talk to him,” she said, waiting for a response.
“I’ll do it for Mom,” Sam said finally.
Kate punched in a series of numbers. Because she had once been held against her will, she had bought the best biometric security system available. The voice-recognition software measured her particular patterns—the velocity of air expelled from her lungs and across her larynx. She could have said anything, and depending on her mood, her words could get very colorful. But mindful of Sam on the sofa, she quoted a line from a favorite poem: Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer . . .
The lock tumblers whirred and clicked, and she heard the downstairs door open.
“What’s that you just said?” Sam asked, curious in spite of herself.
“It’s from ‘The Second Coming’ by William Butler Yeats,” she said. “Mathilda taught it to me.”
Sam nodded, and Kate half smiled, glad to provide a momentary distraction. Sam had always been fascinated with her aunt’s ever-changing alarm system, had loved watching Kate offer her left eye to the iris-reading camera or stare at the screen so the software could recognize her face.
Kate opened the loft door, and Popcorn came loping over to stand by her side, tail wagging. They both watched Reid climb the stairs. His blue blazer looked as if it had been balled up in the back seat of his car; it had been a long day.
“Hello, Kate,” he said.
“Hello, Detective Reid,” she said.
“Conor’s fine,” he said.
She nodded. “Thanks,” she said.
“Hello, Popcorn,” he said, petting the dog, whose tail was going faster than ever. “We made friends at the house.”
“Popcorn makes friends with everyone,” Sam said.
Both Kate and the detective turned to look at her. Kate closed the door and watched Conor cross the loft, offer his hand to shake Sam’s.
“Samantha,” he said. “I am very sorry about your mother.”