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?