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)
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 him through 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 expression darkened. “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?”
“He’s named after his grandfather. Not technically a junior but it’s how we keep the two of them separate. Senior was also the mayor.”
“You said influential?” Brooks noticed Sullivan’s jaw tighten.
Sullivan looked at Brooks for a long time, sighed heavily, and shook his head. Brooks nodded. Westerly Cove was a small town. Sullivan’s reaction said everything he needed to know. He’d have to ask about the very influential mayor and his family some other time.
“Westerly Cove is like any other small town. We all have our power players. You’ll learn in time. Until then, there’s something you should know about that lighthouse.” Sullivan opened his desk drawer and pulled out a photograph. Black-and-white image of a younger man in police uniform. The resemblance in the jawline and eyes was clear. On the back, someone had written “Thomas Sullivan, Missing 1978” in faded blue ink.
“Your father?”
Sullivan nodded, face grim. “He was investigating some . . . unusual incidents. Disappearances centered around the lighthouse area. One day he went out on patrol and never came back. We found his cruiser at the lighthouse, but no sign of him.”
“Any theories about what happened?”
“Plenty of theories. None of them made it into the official reports.” Sullivan returned the photo to his drawer. “Point is that lighthouse has a history of making people vanish. And now we’ve got another missing person in the same area.”
He made a note on his phone. Every town had its local folklore, especially small coastal New England communities where isolation bred superstition. Tall tales didn’t find missing tourists.
“What about the search? Anything at all?”
“Search team’s been over the area twice. Found some footprints on the path leading to the lighthouse, but the rain last night washed most of them away. The Coast Guard’s been checking the water, but . . .” Sullivan shrugged. “If she went into the ocean, we might never find her. The rip current is bad right now.”