Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“What kind of a party was it?” Jason asked.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s June. Was it a graduation party? Birthday party? Sweet sixteen? Secret baby shower?”

Kennedy’s laugh was without humor. “It was the kind of party you throw when your parents are out of town for the weekend.”

“Was everybody invited, or was it private?”

“We don’t have the details yet. You know everything I know.”

Yeah, probably not. Kennedy was old school, one of these lone-wolf types who no doubt preferred to “play his own hand” or whatever bullshit macho phrase his generation used to excuse not being a team player. It made for good TV, but in real-life law enforcement, not being a team player was how people got hurt.

Sometimes you got hurt even when everyone on the team had their eye on the ball. Jason’s shoulder twinged, and he rubbed it absently.

There was a large heart-shaped sign by the side of the road on the outskirts of town. The sign read: IN OUR HEARTS FOREVER Honey Corrigan.

The sign had not been there the last time Jason had driven this road. It was probably familiar to Kennedy. He must have passed it a hundred times that long ago summer.

Neither of them spoke, and a couple of minutes later they were out of the dense green woodland and into the shady streets of the picturesque and rustic village of Kingsfield. It was classic New England. Pretty and quaint. White clapboard houses surrounded by wide lawns or gardens of old roses, renovated nineteenth century commercial buildings of red and yellow brick, war memorials—that would be the Revolutionary War—white churches with tall steeples, all artfully positioned around the large and lush village green. Nothing like California, that was for sure. But then that had been the point of spending summers here.

It was a quiet little place, but even so it seemed deserted for a Saturday afternoon.

“Just like you remember?” Kennedy’s voice jarred Jason out of his thoughts.

“Doesn’t seem to have changed much.”

And that was the truth. It was almost eerie how untouched by time the village seemed. Talk about back to the future. They passed Beaky’s Tavern. Bow windows and a hanging, hand-painted sign featuring a bewigged gentleman with a hooked nose like a hood ornament.

“When was the last time you visited?”

“Years.” His parents had sold their vacation home right after Honey had disappeared, and Jason had not been back since. He was not going to share that information with Kennedy—even if Kennedy had been listening.

Which he wasn’t. His attention was on the information his GPS provided in crisp, mechanical tones. His large hands moved with easy assurance on the steering wheel, his gaze raked the pretty little shops and cafes.

The police station was located in the center of the village, housed in the former Town Hall building. It was a two-story structure of faded brick, complete with a clock tower. Gray columns supported the front portico. The arched windows had a nice view of the Quaboag River, a blue shadow in the distance.

They parked in the rear beneath a row of maple trees, green leaves so shiny they appeared to be sweating in the heat.

“I’d expect to see a lot more cars here,” Jason said, studying the nearly empty lot.

“Everybody is out searching,” Kennedy replied.

His tone was neutral, but yes. Of course. Of course the entire town—or at least every able-bodied and available resident—would be out combing the extensive surrounding wilderness areas for the missing girl. This child was one of their own. The fact that hadn’t immediately occurred to Jason simply underlined how long it had been since he’d worked a violent crime.

Or at least since he’d worked a crime where there was an expectation of violence. People were always unpredictable. Especially when they felt cornered.

He walked beside Kennedy around the building, feet pounding the pavement in dusty rhythm. The air was hot and humid, scented of warm stone and daylilies. Kennedy didn’t say a word from the parking lot to the front portico. It would have been helpful to have some kind of briefing on what they were walking into, but Kennedy was not a chatty guy.

They pushed through the old wood-frame glass doors, passed a long row of bulletin boards papered mostly with flyers and notices for community events, though there were a couple of wanted posters too. A matronly-looking officer was busy answering the phones. She barely glanced at their IDs, indicating with a nod that they should proceed down the dark-paneled hallway and then calmly answering the caller on the other end of the line.

They located the incident room on the main floor. Folding chairs had been set up in neat rows to face the cluster of photographs of a very pretty girl—white, mid-teens, blue eyes, and blonde hair—plastering the front wall. The room was abandoned but for one lone uniformed officer who was erasing something on the large, portable dry-erase whiteboard. Jason’s heart sank as he recognized Boyd Boxner.

Hell. Of all the gin joints—or police stations—in all the world…

It had been a long time, but Boxner hadn’t changed all that much. Square shoulders, square jaw, square head. Well, maybe his head wasn’t square, but his towheaded crew cut gave that impression.

“Kennedy, FBI.” Kennedy offered his ID again. “This is Special Agent West.”

“We’ve been expecting you,” Boxner said. He glanced at Jason without recognition—nothing like a badge and shades for camouflage—and that was fine with Jason. “Chief Gervase is directing the hunt for Rebecca. He asked me to escort you to the search site.”

“Let’s get moving,” Kennedy said.

Jason threw him a quick, startled look.

“Or,” Jason said, “maybe we should set up base here and start reading through the witness statements. There are going to be a lot of eyewitness accounts to sort through, and it’s possible there’s some overlooked indicator as to why she might walk away voluntarily. Though I’d also like to swing by the girl’s house. Take another look around.”

A crime scene was a unique and fragile thing. You really only got one chance at it because with each subsequent visit by law enforcement, the scene—and your perception of it—changed, altered.

Kennedy looked as though he’d forgotten Jason was present. He’d removed his sunglasses. His eyes were blue. Arctic blue. A hard and unforgiving color. He turned back to Boxner. “We’ll liaise with Chief Gervase.”

Clear enough. Kennedy was the senior on this investigation. This was not Jason’s field of expertise. By the same token, he wasn’t only there to fill a second suit. He wasn’t trying to challenge Kennedy’s authority, but Kennedy was assuming the local police had already done the groundwork investigation. Jason didn’t like to assume anything.

He also didn’t like getting smacked down in public.

He said, matching Kennedy’s blank face and tone, “Why? Are they short of volunteers? Isn’t the point of our being here to look at the case from an objective and impartial viewpoint?”

Kennedy stared at him for a long, silent moment. It was not a friendly look. Nor the look of someone considering another viewpoint.

“You want me to leave you two to work it out?” Boxner was examining Jason more closely now.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with my colleague,” Kennedy said with ominous calm.

“Right. I’ll bring the car around.” Boxner was clearly in no doubt as to who would win this round. The old floorboards squeaked as he departed with the air of someone tiptoeing away from a bomb site.

Kennedy didn’t say a word until Boxner had vanished down the hall. He turned to Jason.