The second reason was the timing. I’d been told prank calls in the fall were unicorns, rare enough to be the stuff of legend. We were smack in the middle of October and the exodus was nearly complete. The majority of the seasonal residents, even the stragglers who tried to eke out a few more days of summer, had packed up their water trampolines and put their garish red-and-yellow cigarette boats in storage. The short-term tourists were back where they’d come from, too: Manhattan, Toronto, Montreal. This was the off-season in the Thousand Islands of upstate New York, nobody left but the locals. Just us.
Above all, though, I knew the call was legit because of the rain, sideways and lashing at that window by Tim’s desk. On the morning news the local weather guy—Bob? Ben?—said it was a nor’easter. The storm had started the previous day with lethal-looking green clouds that plunged the village of Alexandria Bay into premature darkness. It dumped freezing water on us all night and was expected to last forty-eight hours in all. Nobody wanted to be out in that weather, helping to dock a police boat. I couldn’t imagine anyone setting foot outside if they had a choice.
No, this call was the real deal. It was my first murder case in over a year, since the one that convinced me to trade Manhattan for total obscurity. I glanced around me. We weren’t the only investigators working out of our station, but we were the only ones present today, and now, somehow, I had to get to an island. “Grab your coat,” I said, watching Tim’s eyebrows inch upward. “We’re going for a ride.”
* * *
—
I used to think of boats differently, which is to say I rarely thought of them at all. A ferry to Ellis Island when my parents were in town and wanted to see the Statue of Liberty. A dinner cruise a few years back that ended with my date vomiting his shrimp cocktail into the East River. That was it for getting my sea legs. I hoped my inexperience wouldn’t be an issue today, but I knew it probably would.
It was a three-minute drive from the station to Keewaydin State Park, a straight shot up Route 12. I relished the warmth of the cruiser, savored the feel of my dry clothes while I had the chance. “What do we know?” I asked, flexing my fingers on the wheel. They were tucked into gloves I wished I’d thought to make toasty on the heaters before we left the station.
“That we’d rather be back inside with that coffee?”
I doled out half a smile. The coffee would’ve gurgled to the top of the pot by now. I could picture it steaming in the break room. By the time I saw it again, it would be cold, pungent sludge. “Besides that,” I said.
“White male age twenty-six, gone missing from a summer house. He was up from the city. It was the estate’s caretaker who called it in, noticed the guy’s absence first thing this morning.”
“Whoa,” I said, swiveling my head. “Missing? I thought you said murder.” Those weren’t the same thing at all. Had Tim been playing me in the office? Joke’s on Shane?
“Murder’s what the family wants to call it.” Tim shrugged, making it clear he didn’t put much stock in that claim. “There’s no body,” he admitted, way too late for my liking. “The man’s just gone.”
A missing persons case that may or may not involve a murder. Suddenly my hands were too hot. I peeled off the gloves, jammed them in the center console. “Name?”
“That’s where this gets interesting.”
“It’s interesting already.”
Tim grinned. “The guy? He’s Jasper Sinclair.”
I gave him a blank look.
“The Sinclairs are a New York family. In the fashion industry, I think,” he said. “They’re kind of a big deal. And this morning Jasper’s girlfriend woke up to an empty bed and the sheets soaked with blood.”
“But no body,” I said. “Huh, that’s . . . different.”
“Yeah.”
“So they’re pointing the finger at her?”
“Not clear on that,” Tim said. “I don’t see how a young woman could transport a grown man’s body through a house full of sleeping people without waking anyone up.”
“Trapdoor in the floor?”
He laughed. “Maybe so.”
“That’s assuming the attacker worked alone.”
“Attacker,” Tim repeated and winced.
I knew what he was thinking. Murder on Tim’s turf was a personal affront. “How many people in the house?” I asked.
“Eight, including the girlfriend. The missing man made nine. They all slept through the night, so the caretaker says, despite the storm.”
I squinted at him. “And it’s all family over there?” No crime was easy to stomach, whether the body was on-site or not, but family stuff? That was the worst. I’ve seen the terrible things fathers, mothers, brothers, cousins are capable of. Blood ties can be bloody.
“Family, the caretaker, the girlfriend, and a couple significant others. Like I said, full house. No sign of an intruder, apparently, but the caretaker seemed a little funny on that point.”
“Funny how?”
“Like maybe he was holding something back.”
We took a left off the highway and sailed through a puddle the size of a lily pond. The dock and slips were just ahead.
“I asked them if they’ve done a search,” Tim went on. “Figured there was a good chance the guy’s licking his wounds in the bathroom or a cupboard under the stairs. A big house like that, you never know.”
“How do you know the house is big?”
“They all are, Shane.” He tacked on an eye roll. “But this place is really something. I used to dream about living there when my dad would take me fishing nearby as a kid. No sign of Jasper, though. Not yet.”
“Other than his blood, that is.” I tapped my fingers on the wheel. “We’ll have to do a proper search. If it’s an island, there could be cliffs and stuff, right?”
“Plenty of places where people could tumble into the river in the dark,” Tim agreed.
“We’ll need forensics, too. For the blood.” It was worth pointing out. This was A-Bay after all, and I couldn’t be sure what I’d get. There were six investigators in my unit, and the region had twenty troopers—plus Sheriff McIntyre and the deputies in Watertown overseeing all of Jefferson County. That was sufficient manpower for a hundred thousand law-abiding citizens. The issue was the island. I noticed Tim didn’t question my decision to bring him along. BCI Investigators, even senior ones like me, largely worked alone, but if ever this job warranted a partner, it was today.
“’Course we will,” Tim said, sounding offended. “With island crimes, it’s closest car—or in this case, closest boat—but the others will be along. I’m sure they’ll all want a look. This kind of thing doesn’t happen much. Nobody around here even locks their doors. This isn’t New York City.”