“Peterson phoned the station,” the Chief continues. “We met him at the Fish Pier a few hours ago.”

I nod. Taylor Peterson is an old friend of mine. We went through grade school and high school together. He’s a fifth-generation Chathamite, a quiet man whose family has always made its living at sea. I wonder if any of his ancestors ever hauled in a comparable catch.

The Chief takes a deep breath. “We had plenty of company,” he says, “even at that hour. The Coast Guard boarded and a crew from the ME’s office was waiting; they did the post right away.”

My throat closes. A postmortem posthaste. Only the DA can make that happen. Geraldine Schilling must think she’s looking at a real one. And when Geraldine sees a real one, she sinks her teeth in like a pit bull. No doubt the ugly details are spelled out in the warrant I’m holding, but I don’t read it. Not yet.

The Chief still faces me, but he tilts his head toward Louisa. “I’m guessing your client would like to get dressed before we go.”

I nod again.

The Chief turns and signals to the first cruiser in the driveway and a petite female officer emerges from the passenger side. We stand mute until she joins us—even Mitch Walker has finally fallen silent—and then the Chief arches his pale eyebrows at me. He’s asking if I’d like to be the one to tell my client she’ll have company while she dresses. If not, he’ll do it for me.

“Louisa,” I tell her, “Officer…”

I know this cop’s name but it escapes me at the moment, so I check the narrow silver badge on the pocket of her long-sleeved navy blue shirt. Young. It’s hard to believe I forgot that one. She looks like she’s about twelve. “Officer Young will go with you and stay in the room while you change. It’s standard procedure.”

Louisa sizes up the freckle-faced policewoman and then turns her wide eyes back to me. Her expression says I must be joking. Little does she know. In the world of indignities that awaits her, this one is minuscule.

“Just do it,” I tell her. “Go get dressed. And keep your mouth shut.”

The Chief signals to the idling cruisers once more and, simultaneously, they cut their engines. Officer Young’s partner steps out from the driver’s side of the first car, two more male uniforms from the second. I check the last page of the warrant as they cross the deck and approach the kitchen door. I find what I knew I would find: they have judicial authority to search the premises.

I step back so they can enter. The Chief and Mitch Walker come inside first, the trio of uniforms in single file behind them. The last one in deposits an evidence crate just inside the door and each officer takes a pair of gloves, a fistful of bags, and a black marker from it. With a silent gesture, the Chief directs each of them to a different section of the house. I check their name tags to refresh my memory as they receive their assignments: Stahley to the second floor; Glover to the foyer and living room; Holt to the sunroom and kitchen.

The sunroom.

Officer Holt’s hand is on the doorknob before I can speak. Not that I have a damned thing worth saying anyhow. He opens the door, then stops cold. He sends a surprised glance over his shoulder to the Chief, the faintest hint of a smile coming to his lips, and then stares into the sunroom again.

“Working,” the Kydd mumbles from inside. “I’m, uh, working here.”

If the place weren’t crawling with cops, I’d strangle the Kydd now instead of later.

Tommy Fitzpatrick crosses the length of the kitchen and stands behind Officer Holt. Mitch Walker follows.

The Kydd clears his throat. “Gentlemen,” he says, as if he’d been expecting them.

All three of them nod at him. “Mr. Kydd,” they say, almost in unison.

The Kydd emerges from the sunroom, careful not to brush against Officer Holt as he slips past. “I was, uh, working in there,” he says again.

All three cops take him in from head to toe: his stubbled chin; his beltless pants; his bare feet.

Now it’s my turn to clear my throat. I tap the warrant I’m holding when the Kydd looks my way.

“Ah,” he says, as if the universe makes sense to him now. “I can, uh, finish up later.” He gestures toward the sunroom as if he’s trying to sell the place. “Please,” he says to Officer Holt, “go right ahead. I’ll just, um…”

He looks over at me and I glare back.

“I’ll just wait right here. That’s what I’ll do.”

That’s what he’ll do, all right. I head back toward the kitchen door and out to the deck, leaving the Kydd to deal with law enforcement on his own.

Tommy Fitzpatrick is right behind me. I figure since Officer Holt is searching the sunroom, Mitch Walker must be enjoying a little private time with the Kydd. Mitch probably hasn’t had this much fun in years. I remind myself again to strangle the Kydd as soon as time permits.

The Chief leans on the deck railing beside me, both of us looking out at the crashing waves. Winds are brisk today, seas rough. “Have you read it?” he asks.

He’s referring to the warrant.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “Want to give me a sneak preview?”

He leans down a little farther, clasps his hands together and rests on his forearms. “Your client’s story didn’t check out,” he says. “She lied to us about where she was last Sunday.”

I keep my eyes on the waves and wait.

“She did go to her club,” the Chief continues, “and she played nine holes, just as she said. But she didn’t eat. She never made it to the grill.”

I turn from the water and look at him.

“Seems she had something else to do,” he adds.

Tommy Fitzpatrick knows me well enough to know I won’t react. He looks out at the waves and apparently decides to move on. “Official cause of death is drowning,” he says to the pounding surf.

I nod, knowing there’s more.

“Secondary to head trauma,” he says.

I feel a tiny surge of hope. Head trauma isn’t inconsistent with a boating accident. It doesn’t necessarily rule out suicide either.

“The body was bound,” Tommy adds. “Wrists and ankles.”

I’m embarrassed more than anything else. Embarrassed by my millisecond of hope. I should know better by now.

CHAPTER 15

Officer Glover lays a hand on top of Louisa’s head as she lowers herself into the backseat of the cruiser. She swats at him. “Don’t touch me,” she says, enunciating her Southern-speak precisely. “Keep your hands to yourself, young man.”

Glover backs away from her, looks first at the Chief and then at Mitch Walker. Mitch pops a stick of gum into his mouth and elbows the Kydd. “She’s a feisty one, hey, Counselor?” He grins and holds out the yellow pack, offering the Kydd a stick of Juicy Fruit.

The Kydd shakes his head. He looks pale, a little bit sick.

The troopers finished the evidence search quickly, filling their crate with items of little significance, as far as I could tell. The notable exception, of course, was Herb Rawlings’s handwritten apology. Officer Holt brought the solitary page from the sunroom, bagged it, and delivered it to the Chief instead of the evidence crate. Tommy Fitzpatrick scanned it quickly at first, then read it over more carefully, and then stared across the room at me. He asked nothing.

The Commonwealth’s lab technicians weren’t so speedy. The duo arrived in time to put an end to my oceanside conversation with the Chief and then spent hours dusting, brushing, and photographing. They scrutinized the entire house, even spent a good chunk of time in the basement. Their efforts struck me as overkill, given that Herb Rawlings perished at sea. The two huddled periodically, compared notes, and then continued their work. Unlike the Chatham cops, the state guys were secretive about the items they confiscated, carrying lidded crates out to their van every half hour or so. They didn’t wrap it up until more than three hours after they’d arrived. And by then, I was worried.