The Shadow Box(56)

Conor took photos of the can and its contents, then turned toward the candy store, wanting to get the attention of someone from the forensics team. Griffin Chase was staring at him and started walking over. This was predictable. Conor was going to slam Markham for calling Chase.

“What have you got there?” Chase asked.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to let us do our work.”

“You’re investigating my wife’s disappearance, and it’s going to be my case. That’s her gallery,” he said, pointing at the yellow Victorian house. “I want to see what you’ve found.”

Here comes the shitshow, Conor thought. He was about to cause himself as much grief as he’d ever had in his career. “As of now, this is a crime scene,” Conor said. “It’s an open investigation that involves your family.”

“How fucking dare you?” Chase said, brushing against Conor—but hard, as if he wanted to knock him down.

Conor held him firmly by the shoulders, keeping him away from the recycling bin.

“Mr. Chase,” Conor said. “You honestly do not want to interfere with my investigation.”

“You’d arrest me?” Chase asked.

“Yes,” Conor said.

“I’m going to call Steve Langworthy, then Jim Magnus,” Chase said, referring to the state police chief and the chief state’s attorney. “And they’ll talk to the governor. If this is the way you want to play it, you can deal with the consequences.”

“Understood,” Conor said. They had a twenty-second stare-down; then Chase turned and walked away with his minion Markham a step behind.

The moment had been invaluable. Chase had shown his capacity for rage. He nodded for Duncan Jones, a local police officer, to establish a perimeter around the site.

This bag could contain leftover cheese and smoked salmon from Friday’s opening, but from the blood on the bag, he suspected something a lot worse—evidence connected with Claire’s disappearance.

Conor thought of the knife. He ran through his interviews with Ford and Alexander Chase. Alexander had been obsequious, defending and protecting his brother. Ford’s hostility had been glaring and so had Dan Benson’s. Motive was possible in both cases, but in spite of what Markham had said about ease of access to the Chases’ kitchen, would Benson really have had the opportunity—or knowledge—to enter the kitchen and steal a knife?

If someone from outside the family had wanted to attack Claire, they would have come prepared or known that weapons would be available at the house. Benson had said he stayed away from Sallie’s business life, but could it be possible he’d accompanied her to the Catamount Bluff houses while she was working on them?

When Conor glanced back at Chase, he saw him deep in conversation with Markham, and again he pondered their relationship. He didn’t like not knowing whether Markham was a good cop or too loyal to Chase to be trusted in the investigation.

Conor wanted to tear open the bag, but they needed to dust it first as well as inventory the rest of the garbage can’s contents. He would continue searching other recycling bins along the street. He would tell Markham to call the town and have them stop today’s collection. Then he’d get his guys to start checking footage from security cameras up and down Main Street.

“Hey, Detective,” Jones called, pointing into the can.

Conor looked inside. Wedged beneath where the bottles, glasses, and black trash bag had been was one of Claire’s shadow boxes. Conor had seen it at last Friday’s opening. And he had seen Griffin Chase walk out of the gallery with it under his arm: Fingerbone.





31





TOM


Blue Marine LLC had salvaged the wreck of the Sallie B—the parts of the hull that hadn’t been destroyed by fire—and towed it to the coast guard pier in Easterly. Tom Reid stood silently staring at what remained of the Sallie B.

Conor had sent him a photograph of a floating foam key chain marked SB. It had been found with items connected to Conor’s case, and Tom needed to know how it intersected with his.

Tom’s fellow coast guard investigator, Matthew Hendricks, had been focused on the Sallie B’s fuel system. Tom found him in his office at the head of the dock. A diagram of the factory specifications of a brand-new Loring 42 and a map of the interior of the wreck as she was now were tacked to a board behind his desk.

“What have you found?” Tom asked.

“Gas leaked into the bilge,” Matt said. “The minute they started the engine, the boat became a ticking time bomb. Either the spark came from the engine or someone turned on the stove. And the boat blew.”

“How did the engine look in general?” Tom asked.

“It’s clear the owner kept the boat well maintained—the marina faxed over the service records. The engine was serviced a week before departure to get ready for the trip. Pistons and valves are all in good condition. I’m looking at the mechanic’s checklist, and I don’t see the fuel feed.”

“Running time from their slip to the explosion site was about thirty minutes,” Tom said. “Wouldn’t the boat have exploded within a shorter time period?”

“Unclear,” Matthew said. He opened a file on his computer, turned the screen so Tom could view the images.