Carter led Tinsley Smith through a dimly lit hallway of the police station, her square-toed pumps clapping against the tile floors. “I couldn’t stand being at home any longer without answers. I was in my car, on my way to his apartment, just to be there in case he returned, and the next thing I knew, I was on the highway. I need to know that you’re doing everything possible to find him. I don’t know how to convince you that something is desperately wrong.”
He reached for the doorknob of the interview room that was their intended destination. As he escorted Tinsley inside, he found himself newly irritated by a flashing fluorescent light that should have been changed weeks ago. Until now, whatever fears this woman carried about her son were formed back in Rhode Island, where he presumed she had a beautiful home and could surround herself with comforting friends. This was different. She had driven hours to the place her son was last seen. She was in a police station. It was real now. And if his growing fears about David Smith turned out to be correct, she would at some point go back and replay every detail of her time in this police station, including this room. Its smallness. The sterility. The chip in the wood on one corner of the table. And this fritzy fucking light.
She smoothed the back of her skirt as she took a seat, insisting again that her son always responded promptly to texts and calls and would never turn his phone off for such a long period of time.
“We do have a new development that’s significant,” he said. “We located the woman who came here with your son.”
She brushed a wisp of hair from her face as she relaxed back into her chair. “Oh, thank god, that’s wonderful. And she’s all right?”
He nodded. “Yes. In fact, that was the woman I walked into the precinct with.”
“With the pink bag?”
“Yes. She’s the one.”
“And does she know where David is?”
“I’m afraid not. By all appearances, she left the Hamptons for the city on Saturday—alone.”
Mrs. Smith winced as she realized the implications of the timing.
“Are you certain of that? How do you know she’s not involved in whatever’s happened?”
“I have some details to follow up on, but she returned immediately when she learned your son was missing and has been cooperative. I’ll be double-checking her timeline, to be sure, but it looks for now like it all squares up. But since you’re here, I’d like to ask you some questions that might be helpful to the investigation.”
“Anything, of course.” She shifted her handbag from her lap to the edge of the table.
“Does your son have any enemies?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “He has a tight group of friends he’s known since childhood. He’s well liked at work. Trust me, I have been racking my brain trying to figure out what could have possibly happened. When I was looking online about crimes committed out here, I saw some articles about robberies. Is that common? Is it possible someone targeted him to rob him?”
“Anything is possible, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s operate on the assumption that David is fine. We just need to find him.”
Mrs. Smith nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. Stay positive. Besides, David would never resist a robbery attempt. He was mugged in San Francisco about five years ago, in fact. They pulled out a knife and he handed over everything as calmly as he could possibly muster.”
Carter also doubted it was a random robbery. In a world rife with twelve-thousand-dollar handbags on display, it was plain dumb to shoot someone over a car or some spare cash.
“I’ve spoken to his friends. Your son was seeing the woman who was here with him fairly regularly but was dating other people as well. Is it possible he ran into a jealous husband or boyfriend?”
“That’s something I wouldn’t know. We talk about many things, but not that. I’ve always figured he’ll tell me when and if someone will be around for the long term.” She pressed the chipped spot on the table corner with her index finger.
“Your lawyer was able to get an itemized list of your son’s phone records. One number has been frequent for the last six months but then stopped suddenly a few weeks ago.” He recited a number with a 959 area code. “The area code covers Hartford, Connecticut. David’s friend Simon told me that your son had been seeing a woman who lived in Hartford. In fact, he originally planned to come here with her, but there’s evidence that she may have lied to him about her identity. The number’s disconnected now.” If David really had been catfished, Carter suspected the number had come from a burner. If the catfisher bought a throwaway phone, he’d never know who was actually on the other end of the line. If, on the other hand, someone had used their own phone, but simply used an app to mask their real number, he’d be able to unveil the account holder. He had already drafted subpoenas to the major burner-app companies. “Did your son mention anything about this person?”
“No, I know nothing about any of that.” Mrs. Smith’s tone had turned frosty.
“The woman your son was here with—her name’s Christine. She said David described himself as having a love addiction.”
She placed her hands on the table. “I’m sorry, I don’t like the road this conversation is taking. It sounds like you’re blaming David for whatever is going on.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Smith. I’m just trying to learn more about your son and anyone he may have had contact with.” The truth was that one type of addiction often correlated with others. Carter did not find drugs in David’s hotel room, but he could have gotten bad dope or made a deal that went wrong. “David apparently told Christine that he attributed his need for female attention to the death of a college girlfriend.”
“The only girl David has ever brought home to meet me, still to this day. It was tragic. She drowned the summer after college graduation. She was a perfect match for him—from an excellent family and full of spunk. David was visiting her that weekend in Maine. Some of the camp counselors had the night off. They were all drinking. I sent him for therapy so he’d know it wasn’t his fault, but David always blamed himself. The kids at the camp composed an original song for her funeral—it was a music camp. That’s how she and David first met. A college friend of mine founded the camp, and I was a big supporter.” Carter could tell that talking about her missing son was providing comfort, so he allowed her to continue reminiscing. “I had to drag David there for the annual donors’ concert, but then he met Marnie, and I could tell he was smitten. The camp was very competitive, and, even so, Marnie stood out as the star. She was an extraordinary talent. When he called me to say her body was found in the lake, he just broke down. He wasn’t even like that when his father passed away—I suppose because his death was long expected and maybe even something of a blessing. But Marnie? Yes, I suspect it did affect his future dating relationships, but I guess it’s not something he would share with his mother.”
When Christine had mentioned the college girlfriend’s death, she said it took place at a camp. Now that Tinsley Smith was talking about a competitive music camp, something was tugging at the corner of Carter’s brain. He’d seen a reference to a music camp recently, reminding him of his own childhood dreams of being able to afford sleepaway camp. The closest he ever got was the three-week half-day sports camp at the local Y.
“What was the name of the camp?” he asked.
“Wildwood.”
Ooh, baby, baby, it’s a wildwood. The same reaction he’d had when he first saw the camp name on May Hanover’s LinkedIn profile.
He assured Mrs. Smith he’d continue to keep her up-to-date on the investigation and offered to help her find a hotel if she was planning to stay in the area.
“I’m going to stay with a friend in Wainscott, but thank you so much, Detective. And I’m sorry if I’ve sounded pushy in my voicemail messages and at the front desk. Now that I’ve met you, I can see that you are working diligently. I’m just so scared.”
“I understand.”
He was surprised when she gave him a brief hug at the police station door.
Back at his desk, he scrolled through his text messages and found the photograph of the neatly handwritten note that the DA investigator in Manhattan had sent him. It had come from May Hanover. Her cell phone number, followed by numbers for two other names: Lauren Berry and Kelsey Ellis. He opened the browser on his laptop and searched for Lauren Berry first.
He was entering Kelsey Ellis’s name when Debra McFadden appeared, a bag of Skittles dangling from one hand. “A call just came in about a suspicious vehicle parked on Old Stone Highway. You better get out there.”