The Shadow Box(73)
When he got to Lockwood’s Harborfront, he parked along the seawall and drank his black coffee. In contrast with the quiet downtown area, this property—newly donated to become a park—was bustling. Wade had developed large tracts of the Easterly waterfront, and this had been one of his last untouched parcels. Until recently, a dilapidated mill, factory, and three rickety piers had filled the space. The land had been in the Lockwood family for two centuries, and it told the story of decline of manufacturing in coastal Connecticut. The Lockwoods had not just survived but thrived on investments and by buying and selling waterfront property.
Bulldozers and backhoes had graded the earth and dug holes for large root balls of already tall trees. An architectural firm had built an ornate Victorian-looking boathouse-restaurant where, eventually, people could have meals and rent sea kayaks. Landscapers were busy laying down turf, planting the expensively enormous trees, creating flower beds, and positioning benches.
At the far end of the park was an area enclosed by a tall anchor fence. Conor knew that some construction sites had temporary enclosures where they parked the heavy equipment at night, but he saw no vehicles. The ground was bare; no turf had been planted. He wondered what it was for.
A Friends of Lockwood’s Harborfront nonprofit had been established, but Conor knew that Wade and Leonora Lockwood were paying for most of this. He checked his watch, finished his coffee, and drove around the park’s perimeter, taking a long look at the fenced-in dirt as he passed. The area was about as big as the infield of a ballpark. Maybe that’s what was planned—a playing field. He drove into the lot behind a renovated brick building and parked his car.
The lobby was sleek, with marble floors and tall windows overlooking the harbor, as if it belonged in a glass tower in Boston instead of here in gritty Easterly. Conor went to the directory and saw that the office of Edward Hawke, attorney at law, was on the third floor and Lockwood Ltd. was on the fourth—the top floor.
Conor took the elevator and stepped into a wide-open modern space. Lockwood Ltd. was etched in glass behind a desk, where a young woman with long blonde hair sat at a computer terminal. Conor glanced around. In the waiting area were pale-beige leather armless sofas and chairs that tilted back in a way that didn’t look comfortable. The decor was far from old-world Catamount Bluff, not what Conor would have expected.
“You must be Detective Reid,” the woman said, smiling. Her hair was down to her elbows. She looked about college age.
“Yes,” Conor said. “I’m here to see Wade Lockwood.”
“He’s expecting you,” she said, leading him down a long corridor lined on both sides with closed doors. At the end was an office at least as large as the reception area, done in the same spare, contemporary style. The room had one wall of glass and a view across Easterly and out to Fishers Island. Lockwood sat at a desk facing the door, with his back to the window, and he stood when Conor entered.
“Detective,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Well, I’m interested in what you have to tell me,” Conor said.
“Yes, of course. Can Priscilla get you some coffee? Tea?”
Conor shook his head. “Thanks anyway,” he said.
Lockwood gave a nod, dismissing the young woman. He was tall but stooped, with snow-white hair and still bright-blue eyes. The office might’ve been cutting edge, but his blue blazer, red-and-blue-striped tie, and pressed gray flannels were pure old-boy network. He gestured for Conor to take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite the desk.
The sun, behind Lockwood, was in Conor’s eyes, making it hard to read Lockwood’s expression. The furniture placement was obviously designed to put visitors at a disadvantage.
“So, Mr. Lockwood, what did you want to tell me?” Conor asked.
“A man who gets right down to business!” Lockwood said. “No small talk, no ‘what a great view.’ I like that.”
“Well, you do have a great view,” Conor said.
“Thank you,” Lockwood said. “I grew up with it. My grandfather had his office right here—it looked a little different, as you can imagine. I used to visit him and my father after that. I’d look out at the sea, and all I wanted to do was sail away on it. I joined the navy, wanting to see the world and leave the grime of Easterly behind, and guess what? This place pulled me back like a magnet.”
“I can see why,” Conor said. “Now, you mentioned Claire.”
“Yes,” Lockwood said. “What is the status of the case?”
“We’re following leads,” Conor said.
“Another way of saying you have no idea where she is.”
“Where do you think she is, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I’m worried,” he said. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “About her and about the rest of the family.”
“You’re close to them?” Conor asked.
“Yes. Griffin’s the son I never had. The boys are like my own grandchildren. Losing Claire has devastated them. Griffin has a good poker face—has to for his job. But he’s beside himself.”
“How is their marriage?” Conor asked.
“No marriage is perfect,” Lockwood said. “From the outside, those two are very different. Griffin is a hard-driving prosecutor, and Claire is a sensitive artist, the soul of nature. Seemingly opposite ends of the political spectrum—he’s conservative; she’s liberal. But I’ll tell you, I never saw two people more in love. He was wild for her—Leonora and I tried to get him to slow down back when they first got together . . .”