The Shadow Box(61)

The rear Connecticut license plate was visible in one single frame—as the truck drove away from the gallery. Conor looked up the registration, but no such number existed. The plate was a fake or, more likely, had been altered. The right front bumper and passenger door looked damaged, as if the truck had been in an accident at one time.

Conor spent a long time watching the driver get in and out of the vehicle. His facial features were hidden by the hat, showing Conor that he’d taken trouble to disguise himself. If the discarded items had not been found, police would have had no reason to look at security footage in the center of Black Hall. The streets around the gallery had already been thoroughly searched and canvassed in the two days immediately following Claire’s disappearance.

The driver must have thought the drain and gallery bin were perfect places because the police had already checked this stretch of road. That indicated that the perpetrator was local, was most likely following the investigation closely, and had a sense of dark and hostile humor: it must have amused him to dispose of Claire’s shadow box in the recycling bin outside the gallery where her work was displayed.

“What are you up to?” Jen asked, walking into Conor’s office.

“Watching the tapes again. Give me a fresh take, will you?” Conor asked. “Look at this guy and tell me what you see.”

Jen pulled up a chair and watched the monitor. Conor played the clip that had been recorded outside the Starfish shop—the driver getting out of the truck, crouching by the drain, standing up, and getting back in the front seat. Next, he ran the gallery clip—showing the same basic movements with a decent side view of the truck.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the passenger door.

Conor leaned closer. “Looks like a piece of duct tape,” he said.

“Covering something? An insignia or company name?”

“Good catch, Miano,” Conor said.

“Another thing,” she said. “The driver moves as if he’s stiff. Uncomfortable. Look—there—the way he arches his back.”

They were silent, watching the clips again and again. Jen was right about the driver—he stood, arched, touched the lumbar region. Maybe it was just stiffness. What about Griffin Chase, all those hours spent in his desk chair? Who connected with the case had been injured? Dan Benson, during the boat explosion. Or Alexander Chase? Word had gotten around about him smashing up his Porsche. Ford was an athletic kid. And all the men on Catamount Bluff seemed like sports-playing Ivy League types. And Wade was old, kind of creaky.

“We sure it’s a guy?” Jen asked.

“Not completely but there’s something in the movement that seems . . .”

“Guy-like?” Jen asked, smiling. “Not saying you’re sexist, but women can throw out evidence too.”

“You’re right. But who? Sloane Hawke? I can see her having it in for Sallie Benson but not for Claire. They were close friends.”

“Jackie Reid?” Jen asked. “Considering it’s the gallery’s recycling bin.”

“No. Trust me,” Conor said.

“There’s the Claire–shadow box connection—that’s big. And just because she’s your sister-in-law doesn’t mean you know that she wouldn’t . . .”

“I know,” Conor said. “I just do. Let’s move on.”

“Okay, understood,” Jen said. “The big question is, How do these two cases go together other than superficial ways? It’s a small town, lots of acquaintances involved.”

“Starting with Ford’s feelings for Sallie,” Conor said.

“Right, maybe Claire tried to interfere. Told him it was a bad idea to go after Sallie? Even laughed at him? And he killed her.”

Conor pondered that. “That could be. Raging hormones, Claire confronts him, and he attacks her in the garage. I can see that. And making the big jump to the explosion not being accidental . . .”

“In spite of coast guard findings . . . ,” Jen said.

“Because we think in terms of murder, it’s what we do,” Conor said. “So if it wasn’t an accident, why would he kill Sallie if he loved her?”

“Because she didn’t want him. She loved Edward. Ford’s ego couldn’t take it. And if he couldn’t have her, no one else would either,” Jen said.

“So unrequited love. And fury at his stepmother. Where would he hide Claire’s body?” Conor asked. “No traffic went in or out of Catamount Bluff late that Friday, other than a FedEx truck.”

“He took a boat? He bribed a FedEx driver?”

“The driver’s clean.”

“Boat, then,” Jen said. “Or he could have just thrown her into the water. Waited for the outgoing tide.”

Conor nodded. There was something haunted about that Catamount Bluff stretch of coast. He thought of Ellen Fielding, of how she had washed up less than a mile from the Chase house, in the cove. The tide and currents had carried her there.

Where had they carried Claire?

He hit play again to watch the clip of the truck in front of the gallery one more time. He squinted, scrutinizing the piece of duct tape. He enlarged the image as much as he could, and he saw the barest arc of something painted in gold from under the top edge of the tape.

“What does that look like to you?” he asked. “Is it part of a letter?”