Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Brooks made a note. Robert Morgan’s death—another convenient timing. “Did Lily share her research with anyone before she disappeared?”
“Just what’s in this box. Her notebooks, photographs, maps. I made copies before Chief Morrison took the originals.” Martha’s hands clenched. “But I know my daughter. She was careful. If she thought she was in danger, she would have made backups, hidden copies somewhere. I’ve searched for twenty-five years and never found them.”
“What makes you think she made backups?”
“Lily documented everything twice, filed everything in multiple places. She wouldn’t have gone to that lighthouse with all her evidence in one location.” Martha met his eyes. “The last time I saw her, she said she was going to her best friends Sarah’s house. She never came home.”
“Does Sarah live in town?”
Martha shook her head. “She left after graduation and never came back.”
Brooks continued to look through things. “Did anyone ever find Lily’s camera?”
“Never found anything. Not her body, not her camera.” Martha’s voice broke.
Brooks studied the map, noting how the marked locations formed a pattern connecting the lighthouse to several prominent buildings downtown. Including, he noticed, the building that now housed the historical society.
“Mrs. Morgan, I need to take this with me. It might be relevant to Melissa Clarkson’s disappearance.”
“That’s why I called you. These cases are connected, Detective. I’ve felt it from the moment I heard about that poor woman going missing. Someone in this town has been hiding something for a very long time, and they’re willing to kill to keep it hidden.”
Brooks carefully packed Lily’s research back into the box. “I’ll look into this. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll investigate.”
“That’s all I ask.” Martha walked him to the door. “And Detective? Be careful.”
Back at the station after he made two sets of copies, one with his phone and the other with the copier, and locked the copy in the station’s safe, Brooks spread Lily’s research across his desk. The notebooks detailed an organized investigation into the lighthouse’s role during Prohibition—smuggling routes, corrupt officials, money changing hands. Lily had been building a case, documenting crimes that had occurred decades before she was born.
But why had it gotten her killed? The people involved in Prohibition-era smuggling would be long dead by 1999. Unless . . .
Unless the smuggling had never stopped.
Brooks pulled up his computer and started cross-referencing Lily’s notes with current town records. The tunnels she’d documented—did they still exist? The buildings she’d identified as connected to the smuggling operation—who owned them now?
The pattern that emerged made his stomach tighten. Several of the buildings were owned by the same family. A family that had been prominent in Westerly Cove for generations.
The Aldrich family.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown
The Mystic Cup closes at 8. Tea helps with difficult cases. V.H.
Brooks stared at the message. Vivienne Hawthorne had obtained his number somehow. Daniels seemed like the likely culprit, not that it mattered. For all he knew, Vivienne’s abilities told her everything she needed to know about him. His thumb hovered over his phone. He had thoughts of telling her no, but instead he added her name to his contacts. If anything, he now had her number if he ever needed anything.
He checked his watch. Nearly six. He could finish reviewing Lily’s research, or he could take Vivienne up on her offer. He knew better than to get involved with a civilian who was involved with one of his cases. But . . . well, he didn’t have an alternative that made sense. Vivienne Hawthorne piqued his interest in more ways than one.
At seven-forty-five, Brooks locked Lily’s research in his desk drawer and headed for his car. There was a chill in the air and fog was already rolling in from the harbor. He stood there for a moment, taking in his new town. There were people out, walking along the sidewalk. Some going into the restaurants or pub. Others drove. Waving at him as they went by, as if they’d known him for years instead of not at all. Off into the distance, he heard the foghorn, and then the thumping of someone playing their base too loudly. Austin was like this, in a way.
Only in Austin, people waved their middle finger while playing their music at ear piercing decibels.
He reached his vehicle and stopped. Long scratches marred the driver’s side door. Deep gouges that looked deliberate. Brooks knelt to examine them, using his phone’s flashlight.
The marks were precise. Too deep for keys or casual vandalism. Three parallel scratches, each about eight inches long, carved deep enough to reach the metal beneath the paint.
Someone wanted him to know he was being watched. Someone with access to the police station parking lot.
He’d been in Westerly Cove less than forty-eight hours, and already someone felt threatened.
Brooks photographed the damage, then climbed into his car, checking the back seat before starting the engine. As he pulled out of the parking lot, watching his mirrors to see if someone lurked in the shadows.