Death in the Family Page 3

  “And Miss Beaudry is . . .” I pulled a notepad and pen from the pocket of my coat.

  “Abella Beaudry.” Norton spelled it out and watched my hand glide across the pad, making sure I got it right. “She’s Jasper’s girlfriend,” he said.

  “And you heard her screaming this morning?”

  “Shrieking at the top of her lungs. Camilla—Mrs. Sinclair—was right behind me when I got to their room. She saw everything. God, I wish she hadn’t.” Norton’s frown sank deep into his skin and stayed there as water trickled down his face.

  “What’s ‘everything’?” I said, leaning in. “What did she see?”

  “The bed. The . . . blood.”

  “Who else was in that room this morning?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Not even to take a peek?”

  “No. Just Miss Beaudry, Mrs. Sinclair, and me. I thought it would be better to keep everyone out so you could . . . well, do your thing.”

  “Thanks for that.” Three people leaving footprints, fingerprints, and DNA in the room wasn’t good, but it sure as hell was better than eight. I ran down my mental checklist. “Any blood on Abella? Body or hands?”

  “A little on her clothes, maybe. I’m not sure. By the time we got there, she was across the room, hiding in the corner like a mouse.”

  “What happened next?”

  “She—Mrs. Sinclair—sent me to call 911.”

  “You called as soon as you noticed Jasper missing,” I said. Paraphrasing drives some witnesses crazy, but it’s crucial for re-creating the scene. “That means you found him at, what, eight a.m.?”

  “No.” His mouth twisted and a dimple appeared in the center of his clean-shaven chin. “I didn’t call right away,” he said. “I told Mrs. Sinclair and Abella to stay inside while the rest of us went looking for Jasper. Everyone was hoping there was a simple explanation. We thought we’d find him. Injured, maybe, but . . .”

  “But alive.”

  Misery is a master of disguise. I’ve seen beauty buckle under its weight, unsightly faces turn sublime. Norton’s grief manifested itself as an anguished, misshapen smile. “We looked everywhere,” he said. “All through the house, all over the island. Down here by the river. In the woods.”

  “Did you see any blood along the way? Any indication of where he might have gone, or . . .”

  “Or where he was taken,” Tim said, staring hard at Norton.

  “No,” he replied. “Nothing at all.”

  “Did you search as a group?” I asked.

  “We split up.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t like that. Assuming they weren’t all in it together, which seemed unlikely, splitting up meant someone had the chance to cover their tracks or finish what they’d started during the night without being seen.

  Tim asked him to describe the search parties, and I recorded them in my notebook. Camilla Sinclair, Jade Byrd, and Abella Beaudry—the girlfriend—stayed together inside. Flynn and Barbara Sinclair, along with a man named Ned Yeboah, searched the house, while Philip Norton and Miles Byrd combed the island. I didn’t yet know who those names belonged to. They were strangers to me, strange. I made a point of memorizing the composition of those groups, though. There was a reason they broke out the way they did, and I’d have to find out what it was.

  By Norton’s account, the search lasted forty-five minutes. I thought about my drive into work that morning and how grateful I’d been for my nice, warm car as I listened to the caretaker describe circumnavigating the island in fifty-mile-per-hour winds. I wasn’t surprised they didn’t find anything. Much of Tern appeared to be forest, and it was late autumn. The leaves were down. This was no immaculate lawn we were talking about, but a contained wilderness with plenty of places to hide. I’d heard some of these islands had natural caves down by the water’s edge.

  If Jasper left the house during the night, whether under his own power or by force, I thought, he might still be out here. To do this right we’d need a proper search party, maybe even a dog. Norton’s efforts, while valiant, weren’t nearly enough.

  The storm battered the near-empty boathouse like a drum. “I have to tell you,” I said. “We find it strange you called this in as a murder.”

  Norton blinked. “How do you mean?”

  “It sounds like a missing person situation. No body, and all. So why phone it in as murder?”

  His mouth made a downward turn once again. “Well,” he said, “that wasn’t my idea.”

  “Whose idea was it, Mr. Norton?” Tim said.

  “You know, I’m not actually sure. Everybody was upset. There was a real panic going on, chaos, like, and when I went to the kitchen to make the call they were shouting it.” He swallowed, looking green. “Jasper’s been murdered, they said.”

  “I see. And you don’t agree?”

  “I guess there’s a chance he could have left Tern on his own.” As soon as he said it, Norton reached out and knocked on the boathouse’s wooden wall. “For luck,” he explained when I gave him a look. “God knows we could use some.”

  “But the boat’s still here,” I said. “How could Jasper leave? Unless . . .” I glanced up at the mounted nameplate. “Loophole?”

  Norton said, “No, no, Mrs. Sinclair sold her a while back. There are no other boats on the island.”

  “Someone could have picked him up,” said Tim. “Last night, when everyone was asleep. The dock’s a long way from the house, I doubt anyone would’ve heard it. There are boats out on the water at all hours around here, people coming back from a late dinner, night fishing. Even if someone did hear, you get used to the sound of a motor. Learn to ignore it.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Norton said.

  “So maybe the question we need to be asking,” I said, “is whether Jasper had a good reason to leave without telling his family and friends.”

  “Like did he go to a hotel, or drive home,” Tim said. “He lives in New York, right?”

  “Yeah, but leave without telling anyone?” Norton repeated, testing the idea. “He came with Miss Beaudry, and she’s still here. I don’t know why he’d leave. Everyone’s here for the weekend, the whole family. That doesn’t happen often. You know how families are.”

  Another look passed between me and Tim. “It seems to me,” I said, “a person wouldn’t call a disappearance a murder unless they thought there was a chance the missing person was in danger of being hurt.”

  “Oh,” Norton said, flustered. “I guess you’d have to ask the family about that.”

  “We will. In the meantime, what can you tell us about Jasper?” I wasn’t interested in the man’s gender, age, or race. That was information we already had. What I wanted was to look under Jasper Sinclair’s bed and comb through the boxes at the back of his closet, where the secrets are kept. “You say you’ve known him his whole life. If you had to describe him—character, temperament, relationships—what would you say?”

  “Well,” said Norton, “I’d say he’s a good man. Everyone likes Jasper.”

  It always bothers me when a victim’s family and friends describe them as perfect in every way. What’s the implication there, that their beauty was too much for the killer to handle? They brought violent death on themselves? I hate that, hate everything about it. Perfection enrages some people, can raise their hackles something fierce, but isn’t motive for murder.

  “Where are they now?” I asked. “His family?”

  “Inside. Waiting for you.”

  “If you remember any more details, you’ll let us know?”

  Norton said he would. I expected him to make a move toward the house, but while his hooded head pivoted in that direction, he didn’t budge. To my horror, I realized he was tearing up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just . . . he’s a kid, really. Still so young.”

  “Don’t ap
ologize. Shock affects people in different ways,” I said, thinking, I should know. “You and the family must be close.”

  “I’ve worked here a long time. The others don’t come out to Tern often, but Mrs. Sinclair stays all summer, every year. She’s a wonderful lady. She doesn’t deserve this. You’ll find him, won’t you?”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “When you see her, please tell her that. She needs to hear it. Okay,” Norton said, breathing deep. “All right, then. Follow me.”

  We stepped out of the boathouse into the rain. Tim’s eyes swept the landscape, lingering on every brush pile and fallen tree, and we started up the long set of stairs. The climb to the house was brutal, and I was winded inside of three minutes. Those beautiful stone steps were even steeper than they’d looked from the water, and impossibly slick. All three of us wore rain boots with minimal tread. Tim’s a gym rat, and I stay in pretty good shape. But when we got to the top and crossed a wraparound porch to the house’s double entry doors, only Philip Norton wasn’t panting.

  “Cam— Mrs. Sinclair is still upstairs. The rest are through there.”

  “How’s she holding up?” I asked. “It’s a terrible thing, not knowing what happened to your son.” I kept my go-to line at the ready: No parent should have to outlive a child. I know how to make it sound unrehearsed, like I’m delivering it for the first time.

  “Oh no,” Norton said. “Camilla Sinclair is Jasper’s grandmother.” My gaze flicked to Tim—how did you miss that?—but he was stoic, taking it all in. “Jasper’s parents,” Norton said, “passed on.”

  “When was that?” I said.

  “Almost two years ago.”

  “Is she the owner of the house? Camilla Sinclair?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Has an apartment in the city, too. Please, this way.”

  Norton pushed open the door to reveal a wide entry with impeccable wood floors framed by a geometric border. The scent of the pine cleaner he’d used to make them shine like glass hung in the air. Somewhere on the main floor, a woman was crying. Her rhythmic sobs echoed down the hall.

  The moment I’m about to start investigating a homicide, even a nebulous one like Jasper Sinclair’s, is a moment like no other. I can’t explain how it makes me feel, and believe me, I’ve tried—for Carson especially. It’s somewhere between the sick feeling of waking up to find a day you’ve been dreading for months is here, and a slap you don’t see coming. It’s physical, visceral, gutting.

  For me, the moment doesn’t come when we get the call, but when I’m about to step into the crime scene and see the horror du jour. It’s my last chance to feel like an ordinary human being, sometimes for a long time, because I know the crime’s going to seep into my pores and cling to me like a nerve agent, slowly eating away at my body, mind, and resolve. It always does.

  And the thing is, I can’t shake it unless I get a solve. The cases that get away from me, that I nearly get killed trying to crack and fail to get a conviction on anyway? The biological effects of those don’t go away. They’re an eye twitch I can’t contain. Seeping blisters on my lungs that burn with every breath. By the time I told Carson about Bram, on that bright fall day in Queens, my cuticles itched inexplicably and every morning my pillow was soaked with cold sweat. I didn’t want to believe this would hinder my ability to do my job, but it sure as hell made me uneasy.

  Before I followed Norton over the threshold, I turned and took one last look at the river. From that height I should have been able to see for miles, but the storm erased the view. It felt like the island wasn’t one of thousands, but the only one, all alone on the wide, wild river. The family I was about to meet might as well have been the last people on earth. For the next twenty-four hours, they would become my everything.

  THREE

  It wasn’t how things were supposed to be done. If Jasper Sinclair went missing on the mainland, and that bed looked the way it did, the crime scene would have been hopping by the time I walked in. An EMT known for his gentle touch would be wrapping a heat-conducting blanket around Mrs. Sinclair’s shoulders and steering her away from the distressing sight. Folks from CSI would pull disposable booties over their shoes and pinch evidence bags between their gloved fingers as they walked the room. Tim’s job would be to neutralize lingering threats while I zeroed in on the witnesses. In other words, we’d have support.

  We had none of that today. The minute I set foot in Jasper’s bedroom I was no longer a plainclothes detective with the Bureau of Criminal Investigation but captain, crime-scene manager, and evidence tech. Until we got some help, it was all on us to secure the scene and interview everyone in the house. All I had to work with was Tim, and a bed that made clear why the Sinclairs called this murder.

  A bed that would haunt my dreams.

  It was made of reclaimed wood, a rustic yet modern look that must have cost thousands. Silky linens were bunched by the footboard, like someone kicked them off in a hurry. My God, but the blood. There was more than I’d expected—a lot more. On the side closest to the bedroom door, the fitted sheet was saturated with a dark stain that, to my revulsion, assumed the vague shape of a heart. If Jasper was average height for a guy, the stain would map with his abdomen. This was no nick; he’d been the victim of a calculated bloodletting. It looked to me as if someone eviscerated the man while his girlfriend dozed peacefully at his side.

  Camilla Sinclair, Jasper’s grandmother, watched from the doorway as I made my way around the room. She had to be in her nineties but she had great hair, white and glossy, cut in a bob. I could tell she’d been tall once, but now Camilla leaned on a cane in a way that made the vertebrae of her spine tepee the back of her shirt. Her free hand trembled as it gripped a framed photograph of her grandson, but her expression was stoic, her eyes watchful and dry.

  I’d already asked her about Jasper and how he’d spent the previous night, and while she’d been forthcoming with her answers, her story, like Norton’s, was conspicuously uneventful. Cocktails. Dinner. Bed. When the interview was done, I invited her to join her family on the main floor. Yet here she stood.

  “Mrs. Sinclair,” I ventured for the third time. “Ma’am? I need you to go downstairs. Sit down, let Mr. Norton get you a cup of tea.” If I’m being honest, I was worried about her health. Her skin was like old newspaper, flaky and gray. “I have to insist,” I said.

  I’d expected her to leave the room when we got to the island. I could understand why she’d stayed before that, but most people perceive the police’s arrival as a transfer of responsibility. We take the situation out of their hands, along with a heaping portion of the proximate horror, and they’re happy to let us. Not Jasper’s grandmother. She stayed put.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have preconceptions about what these people in their floating ivory tower would be like. I thought I knew what I was dealing with, assumed they’d be collectively cold, or so shattered they couldn’t get a word out through the sobs. People with that kind of wealth often feel untouchable, and it’s a shock when they discover they’re not. So far, Camilla Sinclair had maintained an unflappable demeanor, but I found it odd she’d made an effort to look presentable. Her crisp white shirt and pink-checkered slacks were tailored to complement her thin frame, and she’d dabbed on pink lipstick to match. Maybe it was habit for women of her generation to put themselves together no matter what. Either she’d roused herself very early, before the screaming started, or she’d left Jasper’s room after all and, despite her grief, took the time to do herself up.

  “My grandson has vanished,” Camilla said, her gaze still on the bed. “And you’re suggesting that I have a cup of tea?”

  “I know how upsetting this must be.” I stepped into her line of vision. The woman had stared at that bloodstain long enough. “But we need to find out what happened here, and there are procedures I have to follow. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  The
crinkled corners of her mouth dipped downward and her blue eyes flashed. “That’s your job,” she snapped. “I expect you to do it. My presence has no bearing on that.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Until we’re able to determine otherwise, we’re working under the assumption that a crime has been committed here. Even the slightest misstep could disrupt the scene, a scene that may be contaminated already.” I paused to let her picture Abella and Norton stomping around the room before our arrival. “It’s important we get this right. If your grandson is hurt—”

  “If!”

  “—then we have to make sure we do things by the book. There’ll be attorneys involved here, down the line. If Jasper was attacked, whoever did it will be represented by someone determined to identify every mistake we make and use them against us to dismiss our findings. To dismiss the charge.”

  Bulldog attorneys and gainful justice. I suspected this was language Mrs. Sinclair could understand, and immediately saw I was right. “His things,” she said. “He has a beautiful gold watch that belonged to my husband. A silver-plated lighter from my mother. I don’t want you taking them. Tell the others. Everything belonging to Jasper stays here.”

  “I can promise nothing will leave this room for now. There are other officers on the way, but I’ll make sure if they need to remove anything they talk to you about it first.”

  “I’m not referring to your colleagues,” she said. “I want you to tell them.”

  “Your family?” I frowned. Why worry that a family member would take Jasper’s stuff? Then again, her grandson was nowhere to be found while the rest of the Sinclairs sat warm and dry downstairs. “I’ll tell them.”

  She nodded and looked down at the framed photograph in her hand. “Where is he, detective? Where has my Jasper gone?”

  I said, “I’m going to have a closer look in here, all right? As soon as I know anything, anything at all, I’ll come down and tell you.”

  For a moment I thought she might collapse. I hurried over, prepared to catch her if she fell, but Camilla shut her eyes and drew a deep, yoga-style breath. When her eyelids lifted, she shooed away my hands and turned to leave, somber yet self-possessed once more.