Nick and their pals—so Beth and Scotty and Kate and Lulu get to be beach girls for a week!
Reid pictured Pete somewhere off the coast, on a beautiful boat sailing on the deep blue sea, feeling safe and smug. The gallery president who didn’t do anything. Another husband who wanted it all—just like Kate and Beth’s father—and figured it was his for the taking.
He photographed the empty frame and the page of drawings. He stood beside the bed, his gaze moving from Beth’s head wound to the strangulation marks around her neck to the ripped lingerie on the floor. Had she been hit or strangled first? If it had been a rape-murder, would Beth’s attacker have stolen the painting as a trophy? Again, his instinct told him that a stranger had not done this.
Reid heard the house phone ringing downstairs. He left the bedroom, and the techs entered. He hurried downstairs, and just as he got to the kitchen door, the landline stopped ringing. He imagined the call going to voice mail. He pulled out his cell phone, and, reading the house phone number printed on the telephone base, he dialed and heard Beth’s voice:
Hi, you’ve reached the Lathrops, and we’re probably out walking Popcorn, so leave your message, and we’ll call you just as soon as we get back from the beach! Then BEEP.
A few seconds after he hung up, the phone rang again. Reid picked up but didn’t say anything. He just held the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said. “Beth? Bethie! Are you there? Why haven’t you been answering? You having too much fun with the girls? I’ve called your cell, and you’re not calling me back, and I’m going a little crazy . . .”
“Who is this?” Reid asked, although he already knew.
“Who the hell is this ?” the voice asked.
“Detective Conor Reid of the Connecticut State Police. Who am I speaking to?”
“Pete Lathrop. Did I dial a wrong number? I’m calling my wife.”
“You have the right number,” Reid said.
“Where is she?”
Reid paused for a beat. “Mr. Lathrop, I am very sorry to tell you that your wife is deceased.”
“Christ, no!” Pete shouted. “You’re lying. You’ve got to be. God, Beth!” The phone clattered, as if he had dropped it.
Over the course of Reid’s career, he had had occasion to play 911 tapes to juries: perpetrators phoning in supposed discoveries of their own crime scenes. You could almost always tell real from manufactured shock. Pete’s reaction was so instantaneous, so canned, it came off as rehearsed.
“What is your position?” Reid asked.
“We’re approaching Oak Bluffs, on Martha’s Vineyard,” a different voice said.
“Who’s on the line?”
“Leland Ackerley. A friend of Pete’s. And Beth’s.”
“What’s the nearest Coast Guard station?” Reid asked.
“Menemsha.”
“Okay, then. Go to Menemsha, and I’ll meet you there,” Reid said.
4
Sisters were forever. They were made from the same blood and bone. Kate remembered when she was six and Beth was five, Beth had pointed at their mother’s belly and said, “We came out of the same stomach!” It was true. Since the minute Beth was born, until today, Kate had never known a moment on earth without her sister. She had always been able to feel her sister’s breath in the summer breeze, hear her voice whenever their favorite songs played on the radio, hear her laughter when anything reminded her of one of their private jokes.
Kate had to tell Sam. That’s what kept her going right now—the fact that Sam would need her, and Beth would want Kate to take care of her child. But even that thought was too insane—the fact that Kate had to tell Sam her mother was dead—because Beth couldn’t be dead. Kate couldn’t stand it if she was: this could not be true.
Pretend she’s not, she said to herself. Talk to her as if she is here. Right here with me. Sisters together forever! Right, Beth? Are you with me?
But then Kate pictured her sister on the bed, the
Reid pictured Pete somewhere off the coast, on a beautiful boat sailing on the deep blue sea, feeling safe and smug. The gallery president who didn’t do anything. Another husband who wanted it all—just like Kate and Beth’s father—and figured it was his for the taking.
He photographed the empty frame and the page of drawings. He stood beside the bed, his gaze moving from Beth’s head wound to the strangulation marks around her neck to the ripped lingerie on the floor. Had she been hit or strangled first? If it had been a rape-murder, would Beth’s attacker have stolen the painting as a trophy? Again, his instinct told him that a stranger had not done this.
Reid heard the house phone ringing downstairs. He left the bedroom, and the techs entered. He hurried downstairs, and just as he got to the kitchen door, the landline stopped ringing. He imagined the call going to voice mail. He pulled out his cell phone, and, reading the house phone number printed on the telephone base, he dialed and heard Beth’s voice:
Hi, you’ve reached the Lathrops, and we’re probably out walking Popcorn, so leave your message, and we’ll call you just as soon as we get back from the beach! Then BEEP.
A few seconds after he hung up, the phone rang again. Reid picked up but didn’t say anything. He just held the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said. “Beth? Bethie! Are you there? Why haven’t you been answering? You having too much fun with the girls? I’ve called your cell, and you’re not calling me back, and I’m going a little crazy . . .”
“Who is this?” Reid asked, although he already knew.
“Who the hell is this ?” the voice asked.
“Detective Conor Reid of the Connecticut State Police. Who am I speaking to?”
“Pete Lathrop. Did I dial a wrong number? I’m calling my wife.”
“You have the right number,” Reid said.
“Where is she?”
Reid paused for a beat. “Mr. Lathrop, I am very sorry to tell you that your wife is deceased.”
“Christ, no!” Pete shouted. “You’re lying. You’ve got to be. God, Beth!” The phone clattered, as if he had dropped it.
Over the course of Reid’s career, he had had occasion to play 911 tapes to juries: perpetrators phoning in supposed discoveries of their own crime scenes. You could almost always tell real from manufactured shock. Pete’s reaction was so instantaneous, so canned, it came off as rehearsed.
“What is your position?” Reid asked.
“We’re approaching Oak Bluffs, on Martha’s Vineyard,” a different voice said.
“Who’s on the line?”
“Leland Ackerley. A friend of Pete’s. And Beth’s.”
“What’s the nearest Coast Guard station?” Reid asked.
“Menemsha.”
“Okay, then. Go to Menemsha, and I’ll meet you there,” Reid said.
4
Sisters were forever. They were made from the same blood and bone. Kate remembered when she was six and Beth was five, Beth had pointed at their mother’s belly and said, “We came out of the same stomach!” It was true. Since the minute Beth was born, until today, Kate had never known a moment on earth without her sister. She had always been able to feel her sister’s breath in the summer breeze, hear her voice whenever their favorite songs played on the radio, hear her laughter when anything reminded her of one of their private jokes.
Kate had to tell Sam. That’s what kept her going right now—the fact that Sam would need her, and Beth would want Kate to take care of her child. But even that thought was too insane—the fact that Kate had to tell Sam her mother was dead—because Beth couldn’t be dead. Kate couldn’t stand it if she was: this could not be true.
Pretend she’s not, she said to herself. Talk to her as if she is here. Right here with me. Sisters together forever! Right, Beth? Are you with me?
But then Kate pictured her sister on the bed, the
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