coffee.
He’d managed to give up smoking in the hospital, and no amount of
frustration was driving him to go through that again.
He rubbed his eyes. What he really needed was a body. Or a weapon.
Clothing. Hell, even footprints or tire tracks. But the wind and the tide
had destroyed any obvious marks, and the beach had been
disconcertingly, discouragingly bare. Not even a cigarette butt. Well,
except for the firefighters’, carefully restricted outside the perimeter.
Caleb was—had been—a good investigator. He’d combed and sifted
the scene, photographed and preserved everything, however apparently
insignificant. But he’d found nothing to identify Maggie.
Or her attacker.
A rap sounded on his office door.
“Come in.”
Edith poked her head inside, curiosity flashing behind her glasses.
“Detective Sam Reynolds.”
Caleb seriously considered not getting to his feet—his leg hurt like a
son of a bitch—and then did it anyway. “Detective. ”
97
Reynolds had smooth brown hair, quick eyes, and neat whiskers. A
field rat, rather than a lab rat.
“Sam. CID.”
Like Caleb needed to be told. He raised his eyebrows. “You’re it?
You’re my Evidence Response Team?”
The investigator smiled, revealing large white teeth. “Somebody die
that I don’t know about?”
“Nope.”
“Then I’m it.” He sat in the molded plastic chair that was all the
town of World’s End could afford for its visitors. “What’ve you got for
me?”
“Food wrappers, beer cans, one rubber flip-flop, a couple fishhooks,
and a load of fire debris.” Caleb didn’t need the look on the other man’s
face to tell him he had squat. He nodded to the sealed cartons on the floor
behind him. “It’s all in there. Taped, dated, and labeled. Agency number,
item number, description, and source.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Major crime division,” Caleb explained briefly. “Portland.
“Good for you. Makes my job easier. Paperwork?”
“All but the case synopsis. I can fax it to you this afternoon.
The whiskers twitched. “Meaning you want me to take your boxes
and get out of your hair.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d save me the trip,” Caleb answered
carefully. “I’m on my own here.”
“You call the sheriff’s office?”
In a one-man jurisdiction, the county sheriff’s department was your
best resource. Which still put Caleb’s nearest backup forty minutes away
by boat.
98
“Yeah. He’s accessing the NCIC missing persons database for me.”
“I thought you said the victim was still alive.”
Caleb massaged his leg absently under the desk. “She is. She’s not
talking.”
“Uncooperative?”
“She doesn’t remember the attack. Or anything else.”
Except him. She remembered him.
“ What were you doing on the beach last night ?”
“ Looking for you .”
Reynolds scratched his mustache. “Not a crime to lose your
memory.”
“No.”
“If she really did lose her memory.”
Their eyes met a moment in perfect understanding. Female victims
of domestic disputes often lied or claimed loss of memory to protect
themselves or their abusers. If Maggie knew her attacker . . .
Caleb shook his head. He wanted to trust her. More, he wanted her to
trust him.
“The doctor suspects concussion,” he said. “She may never
remember. Which is why I’d really appreciate your help.”
Reynolds shrugged. “I’m here. I’ll transport your boxes for you. But
I can’t promise we’ll find anything.”
They hauled cartons in the rain, in and out of Caleb’s Jeep, down the
dock and onto the ferry. By the time they were done, Caleb was sweating
under his yellow police slicker and his leg felt as though he’d gone three
rounds with Vlad the Physical Therapist. But it was worth the pain to
save half a day traveling to the crime lab in Augusta.
99
Caleb signed off on the evidence log and drove the two blocks
He’d managed to give up smoking in the hospital, and no amount of
frustration was driving him to go through that again.
He rubbed his eyes. What he really needed was a body. Or a weapon.
Clothing. Hell, even footprints or tire tracks. But the wind and the tide
had destroyed any obvious marks, and the beach had been
disconcertingly, discouragingly bare. Not even a cigarette butt. Well,
except for the firefighters’, carefully restricted outside the perimeter.
Caleb was—had been—a good investigator. He’d combed and sifted
the scene, photographed and preserved everything, however apparently
insignificant. But he’d found nothing to identify Maggie.
Or her attacker.
A rap sounded on his office door.
“Come in.”
Edith poked her head inside, curiosity flashing behind her glasses.
“Detective Sam Reynolds.”
Caleb seriously considered not getting to his feet—his leg hurt like a
son of a bitch—and then did it anyway. “Detective. ”
97
Reynolds had smooth brown hair, quick eyes, and neat whiskers. A
field rat, rather than a lab rat.
“Sam. CID.”
Like Caleb needed to be told. He raised his eyebrows. “You’re it?
You’re my Evidence Response Team?”
The investigator smiled, revealing large white teeth. “Somebody die
that I don’t know about?”
“Nope.”
“Then I’m it.” He sat in the molded plastic chair that was all the
town of World’s End could afford for its visitors. “What’ve you got for
me?”
“Food wrappers, beer cans, one rubber flip-flop, a couple fishhooks,
and a load of fire debris.” Caleb didn’t need the look on the other man’s
face to tell him he had squat. He nodded to the sealed cartons on the floor
behind him. “It’s all in there. Taped, dated, and labeled. Agency number,
item number, description, and source.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Major crime division,” Caleb explained briefly. “Portland.
“Good for you. Makes my job easier. Paperwork?”
“All but the case synopsis. I can fax it to you this afternoon.
The whiskers twitched. “Meaning you want me to take your boxes
and get out of your hair.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d save me the trip,” Caleb answered
carefully. “I’m on my own here.”
“You call the sheriff’s office?”
In a one-man jurisdiction, the county sheriff’s department was your
best resource. Which still put Caleb’s nearest backup forty minutes away
by boat.
98
“Yeah. He’s accessing the NCIC missing persons database for me.”
“I thought you said the victim was still alive.”
Caleb massaged his leg absently under the desk. “She is. She’s not
talking.”
“Uncooperative?”
“She doesn’t remember the attack. Or anything else.”
Except him. She remembered him.
“ What were you doing on the beach last night ?”
“ Looking for you .”
Reynolds scratched his mustache. “Not a crime to lose your
memory.”
“No.”
“If she really did lose her memory.”
Their eyes met a moment in perfect understanding. Female victims
of domestic disputes often lied or claimed loss of memory to protect
themselves or their abusers. If Maggie knew her attacker . . .
Caleb shook his head. He wanted to trust her. More, he wanted her to
trust him.
“The doctor suspects concussion,” he said. “She may never
remember. Which is why I’d really appreciate your help.”
Reynolds shrugged. “I’m here. I’ll transport your boxes for you. But
I can’t promise we’ll find anything.”
They hauled cartons in the rain, in and out of Caleb’s Jeep, down the
dock and onto the ferry. By the time they were done, Caleb was sweating
under his yellow police slicker and his leg felt as though he’d gone three
rounds with Vlad the Physical Therapist. But it was worth the pain to
save half a day traveling to the crime lab in Augusta.
99
Caleb signed off on the evidence log and drove the two blocks
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