“I should’ve unlocked the door myself.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Yeah, but I knew Drake was in a mood today.”
“You mean the part where he acted like a psychopath? That’s not a mood. That’s a lifestyle.”
Olivia had to hand it to Leah. She’d been lightening the glum atmosphere of the MHU with her wide smile for the last two years, when she’d relocated to Fog Harbor with her husband, Jake, who’d quit his nine-to-five in San Francisco and bought Shells-by-the-Sea, the fixer-upper B&B he’d repaired with the entirety of his retirement fund. Even last summer, the slowest tourist season on record, Leah hadn’t complained once. She reminded Olivia of her own mother, always putting on a brave face, the way she had the day they’d moved to Fog Harbor, turning her back on the Oaktown Boys—at their hideout, no less—when they’d offered her help. I don’t want to owe them a damn thing, she’d said. They’ve already taken enough from me.
“I really thought he’d made some progress. One step forward, ten steps back, I suppose.”
“You know, I still don’t understand why you even bother. You’re the chief. The head honcho. You don’t have to waste your time doing therapy with these guys. Especially Drake. He’s a lost cause. Kick up your feet like Jake does every fall when the tourists disappear. Do some paperwork.”
“Bor-ing.” The truth was she needed guys like Drake to hold up against her father, measuring him and what he’d done. Trying to make the pieces fit.
But Olivia had learned the hard way that people treated you differently when they discovered a convicted murderer in your family tree. That’s why she hadn’t told Leah—or anyone at Crescent Bay—about Martin Reilly. Why she and her sister used their mother’s maiden name. Olivia figured the warden knew though, since she’d answered the questions on the personnel form honestly, filling in her father’s name beside the blank that required her to identify any inmates with whom she had a family or personal relationship. The guards who might have still recognized her as the spirited teenager she’d been when she’d left Fog Harbor had either died or retired.
“Girl, you need a life, ASAP. Whatever happened with Graham Bauer?”
“Over before it started.” Olivia sighed, glancing at her computer screen, where she’d already begun typing the incident report. Her cursor flashed at the end of the word ‘vampire’. She should’ve never accepted a first date with Officer Bauer to begin with. Dating a cop is hard enough without a murderer for a dad. “Hey, speaking of paperwork, want to do our incident reports over lunch?”
“You know we’re always hungry,” Leah said, patting Baby Chapman. “But it’s only ten thirty.”
Olivia gaped at the oversized clock on the wall. Surely, it had stopped. But the second hand ticked on, steady as a beating heart, reminding her of the tattoo her father had inked on his own forearm in county jail after he’d received a life sentence. A distorted clock face that had always scared her a little. He’d told her once, You don’t do time in the joint. Time does you.
Chapter Five
Will glanced at the watch his dad had given him the day he’d taken his sworn oath as an officer of the law. Just like his father and his father’s father before him. His brother, Ben, too. Though Ben’s oath had been shot to hell two years ago. Literally.
“You got somewhere else to be, City Boy?” JB redirected the beam of his flashlight from the muck of the drainpipe to Will’s face. Will squinted into the harsh glare, feeling like a sewer rat blinded by the light. They’d been down here long enough, covering the same ground the officers had searched last night, looking for tracks that didn’t exist. For evidence that had washed away. For a smoking gun to tell them exactly how Bonnie had ended up here.
“Just making sure we don’t miss the autopsy. I want to get a better look at that garrote.” He swore his partner had horns beneath his salt-and-pepper buzz cut.
JB shifted the beam down the tunnel toward the faint hint of daylight at the end. The pipe had only two other main exits—the one by Earl River and another midway. A ladder leading to a manhole in the center of town. “Keep your eyes on the prize, alright?”
Will kept trudging ahead, tracking his own flashlight across the muddy cement bottom. Last night’s rain had already erased the officers’ footprints and left a good two inches of standing water in some places. “So, what did you think of the husband?”
JB cleared his throat, delivering a message about as subtle as a sledgehammer. They walked the rest of the way with only the sloshing of their boots between them.
The pipe opened at the beach overlooking the coast of Crescent Bay, exactly where the city map showed it would. Will followed JB down onto the rocky shore, cursing the cold as he zipped up his windbreaker.
The beach parking lot sat empty up the hill behind them, a small wooden staircase guiding the way down to the sand and the stone path that bordered it. About a half mile out, the Little Gull lighthouse rose up like a towering angel through the fog. Will let the wind run its rough fingers through his hair and inhaled the brine of Crescent Bay. Fog Harbor may have been three hundred miles from San Francisco, but out here, Will felt at home. He had to admit this place had its moments.
“Well, that was a goddamned waste of time.” JB puckered a cigarette between his lips. He flicked his lighter once, twice, three times, each meager flame extinguished by another brutal gust. Finally, the wind quieted long enough.
“Do you think our perp could’ve carried the body from here?” Will asked.
“It would take one hell of an effort. We walked a good three-quarters of a mile down that pipe. And I don’t know about you, but I’m plumb out of breath.”
Will left that one alone. “Maybe he had help.”
“Nah. Don’t think so. My gut’s telling me this is a one-man job.” JB patted his beer belly which was no doubt telling him something, either reminding him of the approaching lunch hour or reviewing the menu of snack options he kept stashed in the glove box. “Frankly, I like the husband for it. He’s conveniently out of town with the kiddos, knows exactly where she’ll be and when. He hires a guy. Tells him to slit the tire and stage the scene to look like a rape. Bingo.”
“But why?”
JB shrugged, chuckled. “You ain’t ever been married. Am I right, City Boy?”
Will gritted his teeth—he’d have to go another nine rounds on the heavy bag tonight—and shook his head. “Nope. Still single.” JB never missed a chance to rub it in. Will had been close once. Close enough to know he’d never get that close again.
“Well, there you go,” JB said. “They’d been married for ten years. Who the hell needs more of a motive than that?”
He wouldn’t bet against JB. The stats didn’t lie. It’s usually the husband. But Will didn’t see it. Not this time. When they’d stopped by the McMillan house that morning, James had the look of a man who’d just had his life blown up, Hiroshima-style. Still, he agreed with JB about two things: The McMillan house looked too nice, too fancy for two state employees; and James hadn’t told them the whole truth. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead before they’d asked him a single question, most of which he’d answered with curt one-word replies.