“News travels fast here.” Resignation was clear in the Chief’s tone. “Can you meet me at the station in fifteen minutes? I’ll brief you there.”
He hesitated. This was the involvement he’d come here to avoid. But refusing a direct request from his new chief would be poor politics. “On my way.” He ended the call.
“Duty calls?” Even though it was a question, Brooks felt it was more of a statement.
“Apparently. How did you—” he cut himself off and shook his head. People in Austin warned him about small town. Your business was their business. He took a final sip of coffee. “Thanks for the caffeine.”
“Detective,” she called as he reached the door. He paused, looking back. “When you go to the lighthouse, look for a woman’s scarf caught on the rocks just below the north side path. Blue with silver threads. It might help.”
He frowned. “How do you know the missing woman wore a scarf like that?”
Vivienne’s expression remained calm. Something flickered in her unusual eyes. “I didn’t say it belonged to her.”
Before he could question her further, the older women demanded her attention. He stepped back onto Harbor Streetwith more questions than when he’d entered. The shop owner’s words lingered as he made his way toward the police station.
Look for a scarf caught on the rocks. Blue with silver threads.
How could she possibly know such a specific detail? A guess. Or maybe she’d overheard something from the search teams. Towns like Westerly Cove—at least from what he had read or heard—were notorious for rumors and speculation. More so during missing person searches. Thanks to the rise in podcasting, specifically those of a true crime natured, people convinced themselves they were detectives. Honestly, Brooks had always appreciated the help, as long as people weren’t getting in his way or breaking the law.
The police station sat on a side street two blocks from the harbor. Still close enough Brooks could see the lighthouse and hear the harbor bell. He paused at the door and read the placard:Dedicated to the Morrisons for a life of service to our community. He would have to read about the Morrisons or at least ask around.
Brooks opened the door to the modest, one-story building and stepped inside. This police department was nothing like the one he worked at in Austin. It was quiet here. Missing were the sounds of suspects screaming for their lawyers, the shrill noise of multiple phones ringing, and the unmistakable sound of work. When people stepped into the Austin PD, you could hear them work.
Here, it was quiet. Dull. It was as if nothing happened here except a kitten being stuck in a tree, which Brooks suspected the fire department would take care of.
The lobby held eight chairs. All vacant. And there wasn’t a desk sergeant to greet him. He stood there, thinking about his next step. Normally, he’d wait for someone to escort himthrough the building, but something told him he could walk around, and no one would care.
Just as he stepped past the desk, Chief Sullivan came around the corner. “It’s great to finally meet you in person,” he said as they shook hands.
Sullivan was mid-fifties, with graying hair, and a weathered appearance likely from dealing with the public for decades. After a quick tour of the station, Sullivan poured Brooks a cup of coffee. One quick sniff told Brooks everything he needed to know—The Mystic Cup was superior—and the stuff at the police station was sludge.
“Tell me about this missing person.”
“Melissa Clarkson from Boston,” Sullivan said, leading him back to his office. “Thirty-four years old, here with her husband for their anniversary. She went out yesterday morning to photograph the lighthouse. Never came back.”
“Why didn’t her husband go with her?”
“Said she’s the independent type and this isn’t out of the ordinary.”
“Huh,” was all Brooks said.
Husband: suspect number one.
“Where are they staying? I’d like to interview.”
“The Hotel Oceanview,” Sullivan said. “I have a search scheduled. He should be there.”
Sullivan’s office was spartan. Metal desk, two chairs, filing cabinets along one wall. A small pile of what looked like iron filings sat in Sullivan’s pencil drawer when the chief reached for a pen. Another odd detail to file away.
“Any other leads?” He settled into the uncomfortable visitor’s chair.
Sullivan shook his head. “Husband says she was fascinated by local history. Spent most of yesterday at the historical society, asking questions about the old families.” His expressiondarkened. “Mrs. Pennington mentioned she was interested in the lighthouse and something about the Aldrich family.”
The lights flickered when Sullivan said the name. Both men glanced up at the fluorescent fixtures. The chief continued as if nothing had happened. His hand moved to his pencil drawer, fingers brushing the iron filings.
“The Aldriches . . .” Sullivan paused. “Winston junior is our current mayor. Has been for over a decade. Runs the biggest insurance company in the county. His father, Gerald, maintains the lighthouse—the family’s had control of it since the 1920s. Very influential around here.”
“Junior?”
