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.
At the door, she stopped. “You’ll find him,” Camilla said. It wasn’t a question.
Remembering Norton’s request, I said, “I’ll do everything I can. That’s a promise.”
She turned her gaze back to the bed and her eyes went glassy. “Grandparents aren’t supposed to have favorites.”
He’s special. That’s another thing people say when somebody goes missing. I’ve heard relatives declare it about lost loved ones many times. The one who was taken is always the best. It’s a philosophy that highlights the injustice of what’s happened, and heightens the drama of it all; humans are hardwired for storytelling, and every good story needs drama. I doubted Jasper was the snowflake his grandmother thought him to be—but I had to admit in the looks department, he was remarkable. The man in the photograph Camilla had showed me, a candid shot taken in sparkling sunshine, might have been Jude Law in the nineties. Jasper’s hair and eyes were threaded with gold and his straight teeth generated a leading-man smile. His nose had a slight bend, a lacrosse or football injury from his teen years no doubt. It only added to his mystique.
“Special doesn’t begin to describe him,” Camilla said. “Do you know Jasper’s the only one who visits me? Three times a week in the city, just to keep me company. We play cards. He’s a young man with an important job and a busy life, but he always makes time for me, and never asks for anything in return. Most grandchildren don’t do that. Believe me. I know.” When she shifted her meager weight, the floorboards didn’t so much as whisper. “He deserves better. I’ve always thought so.”
I wondered what she meant by that last bit—better than gold watches and private islands?—but by then Camilla had moved into the hall. I watched her descend the staircase, each step a painstaking struggle. Only when I heard Tim’s voice greet her on the main floor did I go back into Jasper’s room.
Tim was getting nothing done down there beyond chatting up our witnesses and keeping them calm. I knew this, sure as I knew I had little time to assess the scene before I’d have to barricade the door and get downstairs myself. There was no way to conduct the interviews with other witnesses listening in, twisting the story to serve their own needs. We’d have to separate them, but with every minute that passed, the killer—if there was one, if that person was even still here—had more time to think the situation through and prepare their next move. More opportunity to gain the upper hand.
Early in my law enforcement training, one of my instructors said it’s nearly impossible to convincingly fake an alibi without first re-creating it step-by-step. Plan to tell the cops you were out getting wine at the time of your lover’s death? You better drive to that liquor store and browse the aisles for the elusive Australian Shiraz that supposedly brought you there. You couldn’t have killed your boss because you were at the gym all evening? Unless you follow through with that fictional workout, a cop’s not going to buy it. Only by living the lie can guilty people deliver believable accounts. It’s scary to know it can be done at all, but there’s something scarier still. Despite everything I’d been told, I’ve seen killers pull alibis out of a hat neat as a magician, no false bottom in sight. And I had no desire to give these people the chance to show us what they, too, could do.
Snapping on the fresh pair of latex gloves I’d hurriedly stuffed in my pocket—my cuffs and tactical flashlight I’d clipped to my belt—before leaving A-Bay, I pulled out my notebook again. Over the years I’d gotten in the habit of making my own analysis. It’s a game I play to keep my skills sharp. I like to compare my conclusions to those of the forensics team. My training included some crime-scene investigation and management, but just as you wouldn’t expect a liberal arts grad to be an authority on psychology based on a couple of courses, I’m no pro. Look, don’t touch: that’s my motto. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay with the guy or girl who gets to the scene next.
Blissfully alone, I walked the room a second time imagining Jasper and his girlfriend settling in the previous night. I peeked in the dresser and under the bed. The two of them had shared a suitcase. They’d unpacked and stuck the empty luggage in the closet. Did they live together back in Manhattan? I’d need to find out.
Aside from the sheets, which would have to be bagged and tagged, there were several other objects worth collecting. Two iPhones were charging on a nightstand. Wherever Jasper was, he’d left that lifeline behind. We’d need someone to have a look at e-mails and messaging apps. I spotted a little blood on Jasper’s pillowcase that made me scratch my head. Blood on the sheets and a smear on the pillow, but everything else was clean. The long, dark hair beside it presumably belonged to Abella, but it would have to be analyzed all the same. I pictured her resting soundly while someone sank a blade into her boyfriend’s belly, just inches from her own, and frowned.