Last Day (22 page)

“Those that have been made public, of course,” she said.

“Did you think of Harris?”

She paused for a long moment. Reid had worked with her before, found her to be thoughtful and thorough, an excellent officer studying for a master’s in psychology. She had lived in Zimbabwe as a child, and her accent was elegant and formal.

“I saw similarities with Mr. Harris’s past crimes,” she said. “But no, I did not think of him in relation to this case.”

“Why’s that?”

“He willingly undergoes anti-recidivism treatment. He takes two testosterone-suppressing drugs, and he goes to therapy once a week.”

“What kind of therapy?” Reid asked, feeling weary. Psychological, and even drug, treatment for sex offenders was controversial at best.

“I hear that tone in your voice,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Police officers are not inclined to believe it works. But it does. His doctor works with him on imaginal desensitization.”

“Right,” Reid said. “Get those dirty pictures out of his mind.”

“And thoughts. And desires to act.”

“What about actual pictures? Does he like pornography? And how hard is it for him to stay away from Victoria’s Secret?”

“Possession of any of those items would constitute a parole violation. And he would return to Ainsworth,” she said.

The prison where Harris had been incarcerated.

Warren asked if it was okay if she was present when he interviewed Harris, and he said sure. He grabbed his jacket from the hook behind his office door. The drive took twenty minutes, including a stop at a drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and a plain cruller. He burned his mouth on the coffee and scarfed down the cruller just before pulling up to Osprey House.

The big, sprawling yellow Victorian building had a wide porch and a large cupola, and a hundred years ago, it had been a resort hotel. Now it was the land of broken toys: people whose luck had run out, who were trying to hide from a spouse or the law, who were trying to kick drugs or wanted an anonymous place to take them, who had lost their driver’s licenses and enjoyed the fact that cheap booze was just a two-minute walk away, whose income didn’t cover anything nicer than a tiny bedroom with a microwave and a shared bath down the hall.

“Hey, Paul.” Reid waved to the manager sitting in the front office behind bulletproof glass. They had met on many occasions. Quite a few of Reid’s frequent flyers—people who often seemed to wind up in trouble with the law—found their way to Osprey House.

“What’s up, Conor?” Paul O’Rourke asked, coming out to shake his hand. He was in his midfifties, with white hair and a bristly mustache, bright eyes, and a ready smile. Reid knew that his job was hard and that he was as much a bouncer and social worker as hotel manager.

“I’ve come to see Martin Harris,” Reid said.

“Ahh,” Paul said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Considering it’s not yet 4:00 p.m., you should find him at least semicoherent.”

“Enjoys a drink?”

Paul nodded.

“Does he get belligerent?”

“Braggadocio after he’s had a few—you know, how he used to be a professor, and he’ll fight anyone who says he wasn’t. To look at him now, you’d never believe he was. But mostly he keeps to himself.”

“Has there ever been an incident? A woman complaining about him?”

Paul shook his head. “No. We’re aware he’s on the SOR, but we’ve never had a problem with him.” He pointed at the stairway. “Room 408.”

Reid walked up four flights. He wasn’t surprised that Paul would keep track of residents on the sex offender registry. The stairwell smelled
antiseptic, trying to cover stale cigarette smoke and ancient vomit. Every few weeks the morgue was called here to remove a body—mostly overdoses, some accidental and some suicides. The walls were soaked with the sadness of lonely people drinking themselves to death in their small rooms.

When he got to the top floor—the fourth—Reid walked slowly down the dark hall. Music and talk radio came from behind closed doors. There were eight rooms, two bathrooms. He heard a shower running. Room 408 was at the end on the right. Reid listened for a moment. Silence.

He rapped loudly. Music and talk radio in the other rooms stopped. There was something about a loud knock that announced a cop.

“Mr. Harris!” he said, knocking again.

After a moment, the door inched open. A short, stout bald man peeked out. He looked bleary eyed and was in a white-ribbed undershirt and baggy, faded blue boxers. He stank of last night’s vodka.

“Yes?” he asked. “May I help you?”

“I’m Detective Conor Reid. Are you Martin Harris?” Reid asked.

“I am,” he said, rubbing his eyes as if trying to wake himself up.

Reid heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Robin Warren entering the hallway. She was about forty, dressed in a stylish off-white suit and matching heels. She wore her long dark hair braided around the crown of her head. She and Reid nodded to each other.

“Robin, what’s this about?” Harris asked.

“I’d like to ask you some questions about Beth Lathrop,” Reid said.

Harris had a strong, instantaneous reaction. He gasped, covered his mouth with his hand.

“I read about that,” he said.

“Did you know her?” Reid asked, all his senses activated as he watched the emotions cross Harris’s face.

“No, I just felt sorry for her. And her family. Who would do that? Kill her and the baby?”

“Did you ever want to kill one of your victims?” Reid asked.

“Oh my God, no!” he said.

“Do you mind if we step into your room?” Reid asked. “And look around?”

“That’s fine,” he said, glancing at Warren. “But you’re not supposed to search, right, Robin?”

“He can, if there is reasonable suspicion,” Robin Warren said in a kind voice.

Reid stood in the room, barely big enough for a twin bed, bureau, closet, and microwave set on a countertop. The walls were blank except for a few postcards tacked above his bed. The wastebasket was half-full of empty nip bottles. Cans and cartons of chili, mac and cheese, and tuna, classic food pantry/soup kitchen fare, were stored on top of the microwave.

Piles of books covered the floor—Reid glanced and saw titles by Carl Sagan and textbooks about stars and planets; self-help books titled
Take Charge of Your Life NOW
;
The Past Was Never Your Friend
;
Say Hello to the Present (Your Greatest Gift)
;
Turn Those Inner Demons into Angels!
; and, most surprisingly, three novels by Danielle Steel.

“What are your ‘inner demons’?” Reid asked.

“Normal ones!” Harris says. “Everyone has them.”

“Okay,” Reid said. So far he was just standing there, turning in a tight circle, seeing what was obvious to the naked eye. He hadn’t opened a drawer or the closet door.

“I am very upset about this,” Harris said. “I haven’t done anything. Ask Robin! So how can you possibly say there’s ‘reasonable suspicion’?”

Reid leaned close to look at the postcards above Harris’s pillow. There were five, all tourist shots of towns in Connecticut. Vineyards in Stonington, docks in Mystic, the ferry in Hadlyme, and Main Street in Black Hall.

The shot of Black Hall showed the big white church and the Lathrop Gallery.

“You like Black Hall?” Reid asked, lightning shooting down his spine.

“I like all those towns,” Harris said, sounding nervous. “They’re beautiful. They have dark skies, perfect for seeing stars. Places I would like to live, buy a good telescope, and get back to my profession, when I get off parole.” He paused as if waiting for a question that never came, then clarified. “Astronomy. That is my profession.”

“Been to the Lathrop Gallery?” Reid asked.

“No, never.”

“I asked if you knew Beth Lathrop,” Reid said.

“And I said no!”

“How about her husband? Pete Lathrop?”

“No!”

Reid straightened up. “Well, Mr. Harris,” he said. “This is what they call
reasonable suspicion
. I’m going to call for some Silver Bay police officers to take you to the station. And then we’re going to search your room.”

“Robin,” Harris wailed.

“Just do what he says,” she said sternly.

“I need a drink before I go,” Harris said, sounding on the verge of tears.

“That will have to wait,” Reid said, snapping on latex gloves, staring at the postcard of the gallery, his heart beating faster, knowing he was about to see what Harris had hidden in his drawers and what was written on the back of the postcard.

25

There were often late-afternoon thunderstorms at summer’s end, but today’s weather looked clear and fine for the flight to Cleveland. Kate stood on the tarmac, greeting David Stewart, a regular client, who had a board meeting. An elderly man with sharp blue eyes and a full head of white hair, he and his wife summered on Fishers Island.

“Hello, David,” she said, and they shook hands.

“Kate, I haven’t had a chance before now to tell you we’re so sorry about your sister. Lainie and I are heartbroken.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“She was an extraordinary woman.”

“You knew Beth?” Kate asked, surprised.

“Yes, she and Lainie both volunteered on Thursdays at the New London soup kitchen.”

“Beth loved doing that.”

“She cared about the people so much. Lainie always said so. It didn’t matter who they were, where they came from. Drug addict or the artist down on his luck—she treated them the same way.”

“Well, she was known for helping artists,” Kate said.

“Yes, a true philanthropist. We really appreciated her recommending one fellow to teach art to our grandkids.”

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Very talented young man. Beth introduced him to Lainie, knowing that we love art and that we’d enjoy helping him out—but it turns out, he’s done so much more for us than we have for him. As a matter of fact, he’s heading out to the island again today. Third time now. The kids love Jed.”

“Jed?” Kate asked. “I don’t think I know him.”

“Oh, I thought you might. Beth told Lainie she was considering a show for him at the gallery. He was at the soup kitchen too.”

“A volunteer?”

“No, a client. He takes his meals there. Lainie says he’s a brilliant artist, graduated from the Black Hall Art Academy, but is rather down on his luck. Literally a starving artist. She says he’s a master at line drawings. She’s already bought two of his drawings, to help him out.”

Drawings. Kate’s heart skittered. She pictured the nude, the signature, first initial
J
.

“David, do you know Jed’s last name?” Kate asked.

“Hilliard, I believe. Yes, that’s it. Jed Hilliard.”

Kate was rocked by a full-body tremor.
JH.

David took his seat, and Kate entered the cockpit. She heard Jenny offer him coffee. She and Charlie ran through the rest of their preflight checks. Kate had to pull herself together. Had the mystery of the drawing been solved?

Her hands were shaking. She knew she shouldn’t fly.

“Charlie, you want to take the controls today?”

“Sure,” he said, sounding happy. She rarely gave him the chance.

He called the tower, and they were cleared for takeoff. Charlie began to taxi to the runway. He released the brake, but Kate barely noticed. Her thoughts raced: Beth at the soup kitchen, JH drawing her nude. The plane accelerated at roughly the same rate as her heart, gaining speed along five thousand feet of asphalt into liftoff. Charlie banked left over Fishers Island Sound, giving David a good look at the island, then turned west.

The Citation X was a fast jet, powered by large Rolls-Royce engines, flying a mile in six seconds. They landed in Cleveland less than two hours after takeoff. The crew had four free hours before David would be ready to fly home. Sometimes they hung out together, but Kate left them in the airport; all she could think about was Jed Hilliard.

She texted Lulu:

I figured out who JH is. CALL ME.

Then Scotty:

Did you know Beth had a friend named Jed?

Kate pulled the envelope from her shoulder bag and looked at the drawing again. It was undeniably a fine piece of work, but she didn’t care about that. Now that she knew the name of the artist, she looked for signs of what Beth had been feeling. Had it been a romantic relationship? She stared at Beth’s pregnant belly—could everyone be wrong about Pete being the baby’s father? No, it wasn’t possible. Her sister would never have cheated. She would have talked to Kate if she even had feelings for someone else.

She needed to feel close to Beth, so she took a cab to the Cleveland Museum of Art. Imposing and graceful, presiding over the Wade Oval, the neoclassical white marble building soothed her upon sight. She had been here before, on past trips with David, and although she usually liked to visit the current exhibitions, today she went straight to an old favorite in the permanent collection.

A painting from Claude Monet’s
Water Lilies
series occupied an entire wall of the East Wing’s Impressionism gallery. She took a seat on the wide bench and stared at it. It had been painted at Giverny, during the last years of Monet’s life, when he’d stayed home creating massive
paintings, triptychs of his beloved lily pond. Viewing this panel brought back the trip to France.

It brought back Beth. Her breathing slowed as she stared at the painting.

The October before the gallery incident, their parents had taken the girls to New York. They stayed at the Stanhope Hotel, across the street from the Metropolitan Museum and Central Park. While their parents met with a collector on Park Avenue, Kate and Beth went to the park. Kate skateboarded from the Obelisk down to Conservatory Water and around Bethesda Fountain while Beth ran along with her.

“Let’s go to the Met,” Beth said after an hour. “I’m cold.”

Kate was wearing a red wool hat and a navy-blue down jacket. Beth wore a camel-hair coat, but even so, Kate took off her jacket to put around her sister’s shoulders.

“Now
you’ll
be cold,” Beth said.

“Let’s head down to Poet’s Walk. You love the statues.”