“I doubt it too,” Clare says.
“You have ideas about who sent it, then?”
“No,” Clare says, a lie.
“What did you find on this Grayson guy?” Somers asks Germain.
Germain opens the file on his desk. “It’s not a common name. I can see about eighty records in total. There’s a decently long record for a Grayson Morris who grew up in Newport, which is three hundred miles north of here. He’d be about forty by now. I’ve got his school records. Two arrests, one for assault, one for drug charges, both a decade old. Nothing since. No record of him anywhere since. And he didn’t serve time for either of the—”
“Malcolm grew up in Newport,” Clare interrupts.
“Did he?” Somers says. “Well, well, well.”
“His parents were from Lune Bay,” Clare says. “But they moved when he was young so his father could start his business. He lived in Newport until his family died. He finished at boarding school, then went to college to study forensic psychology. Only came back after he met Zoe.”
Both Somers and Germain nod in approval.
“Is Newport a big place?” Somers asks.
“No,” Germain says. “Ten thousand, give or take.”
“So odds are, two guys roughly the same age would know each other. You have a mug shot?”
Germain unclips a photo from the file and extends it across the desk. Somers reaches for it before Clare can, an act that Germain seems to notice because he looks to Clare for her reaction. Somers is in control. Of course she is.
“Hard to tell if this is the same guy,” Somers says. “Shooter had the hoodie on. Glasses, which he probably knew would screw with facial recognition.”
“Plus, these mug shots are ten years old,” Germain says. “Still, his mug shot is in the system. Presumably the facial matching scan would have caught something if the resemblance was in any way clear.”
“His mug shot would be in the local system,” Somers corrects. “Not the federal database. Not for misdemeanors. A scan wouldn’t find it.”
“Right,” Germain says, folding his arms across his desk. “We’ll have to run our own manual search, then.”
The tension between them is thick. Germain clicks his pen and writes something in the file. He looks small behind the desk, too young for this job. Still, what does Somers have to gain by pushing him offside?
“I’m going to float a theory,” Somers says. “How long have you been a detective?”
“Eleven months,” Germain says.
Somers smiles. “Still counting in months. I like that. And your time on this case?”
“Six,” Germain says. “Six… months.”
“Right. So this case was dead cold when it landed on your lap. You got both the Jack Westman murder file and the Zoe Westman disappearance, right? And Malcolm Hayes going vamoose. That’s on your plate too?”
She waits for Germain to nod.
“You’ve got this architectural masterpiece of a detachment here, don’t you?” Somers continues. “Half-empty, but lots of beautiful nooks and crannies. Just now, Clare and I were down the street digging up Jack Westman’s autopsy, which was easy enough to do, because your coroner is dirty as a pig in shit. Lune Bay has seen about five murders in a decade, most of them open-and-shut cases, domestics or robberies gone wrong, but the most high-profile murder of all isn’t solved. Jack Westman. This business magnate who was in deep with all kinds of city councilmen, politicians, builders, landowners, businesspeople. Hell, I’m sure he was friendly with the local priest.”
“Not all unsolved murders can be blamed on dirty cops,” Germain says. “If that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I hope not,” Somers says. “I know I’ve got a few of unsolved ones on my desk. But a live-action video of a murder turning up five years later, not to mention an autopsy with some decently revealing tidbits that were never brought to bear. Am I wrong to say that it all feels a little swept under?”
“I can’t speak to the efforts of my predecessors,” Germain says. “What I know is since she arrived”—he gestures to Clare—“things have taken a turn for the better. Lots of action. An arrest, even. I mean you, Clare. You were the arrest, weren’t you?”
At this Clare sits erect. She needs this to stop, this back and forth that excludes her, casts her aside, speaks of her as if she isn’t here. Speaks of her as if she is to blame. She slaps a hand on Germain’s desk, quieting them both.
“Listen,” Clare says, her voice strong, steady. “We all want the same thing. You both have unsolved cases on your hands. That arrest of mine will go away, just like you said it would, because you and I are working together, Germain. Because you need me. I know Austin Lantz loves a hot local story. Imagine the headline: Rookie private investigator swoops into town and solves the Westman murder in about a week. Ends up with a video of the shooting in her in-box.”
Clare pauses to absorb the look of wonder Somers gives her. She has taken control. No longer the pawn.
“What I need from you,” Clare continues, “is the groundwork. The stuff I don’t have access to. The records, the facial matching. Any more digging you can do on Grayson Morris. I need you to call that officer you sent and tell him to leave Charlotte to me. I’ll talk to her.”
“I can’t do that,” Germain says. “You’re not on this case in any official capacity.”
“So what? What good have your official officers done here, Germain? Just give me a few hours. Charlotte trusts me. I think she does, at least. There’s a chance I’ll get somewhere with her. Can you honestly say the same?”
Somers wears only the slightest smile, and when Clare looks her way, she lifts her eyebrows at her as if to say, keep going.
“Can we agree?” Clare says. “You use whatever resources this beautiful building affords you to track things down, and I’ll deal with Charlotte? You have my word that I’ll report back whatever I find.”
At this Clare stands. She makes her
