Mitch’s house was dark when Connor arrived at the dock. He tied off the boat and slipped the keys into the rusty mailbox bolted to the house next to Mitch’s front door. Then he tossed his bags into the Jeep and rolled down the narrow driveway, his headlights slicing through the murky fog.

  * * *

  Connor used the two-hour wait at Bangor International to plan his encounter with Jessica. He used an online address database to locate her mailing address. All he needed was her name and state. Almost too easy.

  Four Jessica Winslows appeared in the search results, but only one lived near Tampa. There was a unit number on the address, so Jessica lived in an apartment or condo. That made sense for a flight attendant who spent so much time away from home. He typed the address into a map website and was able to see a satellite view of her neighborhood. The image confirmed the place was an apartment complex. There was a parking lot in front of the building. He’d wait there for Jessica to come home, but he wasn’t sure yet how he’d gain access to the unit.

  He was thinking about that when his phone buzzed. He grabbed the phone in his left pocket, the one Little Freddie had given him, but it was silent. It was his personal phone.

  “I was about to head over to the island when I saw the Whaler,” said Mitch. “You in town?”

  “Heading to Tampa.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Following a lead. What do you need, Mitch?”

  “That big fella called me. Said to tell you the plate checked out and that your pops owes Round Jon quite a bit of money.”

  “That’s why they sunk my boat?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “I didn’t take Round Jon as the violent type, but guess getting stiffed on ten grand will make anyone a bit mad.”

  “Jesus Christ. So we should expect a return visit?”

  “Well, I got the impression your friend maybe stirred the pot a little bit. Assume Round Jon is going to be madder than he was yesterday.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Didn’t say, but I don’t think it’s good.”

  “I don’t have time to worry about that right now. If you talk to my dad, let him know to watch his back when he comes back to Maine. And maybe check in on the island while I’m gone. Just in case he sends some else.”

  “Will do. You be careful in Florida.”

  “No promises.”

  * * *

  Six hours later, Connor sat behind the wheel of a rental car on his way to Jessica Winslow’s apartment complex. She lived fifteen minutes from the airport, and he arrived quicker than he thought he would.

  The three-story complex included two buildings with twelve units each, six on the left and six on the right. A cluster of mailboxes stood next to a breezeway, which had concrete steps and thick wooded railings. Connor liked that each apartment had its own entrance. He wouldn’t have to get through a centrally locked door and then into her apartment. But he didn’t like that the breezeway was so open. Anyone could see him.

  He stepped out of his rental and approached the mailboxes. Jessica’s first and last name was on the box for unit three. It wasn’t a complete confirmation, but the lack of a second name or “The Winslows” on the box hinted she lived alone. That’s what he preferred. He didn’t want an audience when he talked to her. Glancing up at the building, he noticed motion-activated floodlights on the corners but no security cameras.

  Her unit was on the second floor of the breezeway at the front of the building. He could see her front door clearly from the parking lot, which meant everyone else could too. Connor could pick most locks in less than thirty seconds, but his tools were back in his Boston home. Even if he did have them, half a minute crouched in front of a doorknob could draw a lot of suspicion. A swift kick just to the side of the deadbolt would likely do the trick, but that option would be too loud, given the other units were so close. He’d have to find a quieter way.

  * * *

  Little Freddie’s phone rang.

  “What do you got?” he asked.

  “Harding’s boat issue wasn’t connected to the postcards.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Something about a gambling debt. His father’s.”

  “They going to be a problem?”

  “I took care of it.”

  “Good.”

  “There’s something else. Harding’s phone is in Tampa, Florida.”

  “Tampa?” said Freddie. “It must be something solid if he left Maine.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You better get down there. Retrace his steps and see what he knows.”

  * * *

  After two hours baking in his rental, Connor watched a black Volkswagen Beetle roll into the lot and park in the spot with a large yellow three painted on the asphalt. A woman in a white button-up shirt and navy-blue skirt stepped out of the car and collected a rolling suitcase from the trunk. He got out of the rental as she headed for the breezeway stairs. He moved quickly, staying on the balls of his feet.

  He had to time it just right. He didn’t want to be right behind her when she slipped the key in the lock, but he needed to be close enough to get to her before she closed the door. He lagged behind her, and she was so wrapped up in getting her suitcase up the steps that she didn’t notice him.

  Connor listened for the deadbolt, and as soon she unlocked the door, he bounded up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and made it to her door just as she was wheeling the suitcase inside the apartment. He pushed her through the open doorway, kicking the door closed behind him. It took her a moment to realize what was happening, and in the confusion, Connor had already wrapped his forearm around her mouth, muffling any scream. He leaned into her, forcing her against the hallway closet door. He waited for her to stop struggling before he spoke.

  “This may be hard to believe, but I’m not here to hurt you. I just need some information, then I’ll leave you alone. Do you understand?”

  She nodded her head against his arm.

  “Is there anyone else in the apartment?”

  She motioned there was not.

  “I’m taking my arm away. If you scream, bad things are going to happen.”

  The threat of violence was a powerful motivator, even if Connor had no intention of hurting her. He slowly removed his arm and waited to see how she would react. She didn’t scream.

  Connor motioned to the sofa in the living room. “Have a seat.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just want some information.”

  “People don’t break into apartments for information. You’re going to assault me. Or rob me.”

  “I’m not going to do either of those things. I just want to know why you’re mailing postcards from all over the country.”

  She looked up at him, and the fear in her eyes seemed to turn to relief. She stepped back and sat on the sofa.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “So, you are sending them?”

  She hesitated for a moment before nodding her head. “Who else knows it was me?”

  It was a peculiar question.

  “No one,” said Connor.

  “Why do you want to know about them?”

  “Because the person you’re sending them to hired me to find you.”

  Jessica Winslow was a tiny woman, maybe one-twenty-five soaking wet. She hadn’t fought back when Connor entered the apartment. Nothing about her suggested she was violent.

  “You don’t look like a killer,” said Connor.

  She looked surprised. “I’m not a killer.”

  “My client believes whoever is sending the postcards killed his wife and daughter.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “There are details in the cards that only the killer would know.”

  “I’ve never read the postcards.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course you—“

  “No. I’m only mailing them. He told me to mail them. Because I’m a flight attendant, I can mail them from different cities. I didn’t write them.”

  “Who gave them to you?”

  She hesitated.

  “Jessica, who gave them to you?”

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “Who?”

  She looked around the room and started to get up, but Connor pushed her back onto the sofa.

  “Who?” he asked again.

  She shook her head. “He’ll kill my daughter.”

  “Listen very carefully,” said Connor. “The man who hired me is a very dangerous person. He believes whoever is sending the postcards killed his family.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” she said.

  “I believe you.”

  “Then you need to tell your friend that I had nothing to do with it.”

  “If you didn’t have anything to do with it, why are you mailing the postcards?”

  “Because if I don’t, he’ll kill Stephanie. He said so.”

  She wasn’t budging, but Connor needed more information. He wasn’t about to physically force it out of her, but there were other ways.

  “Listen, Jessica. My client won’t care much about the messenger. He just wants the man who pulled the trigger. I have to give my client a name, and I’d rather not give him yours.”

  She was shaking now.

  Connor looked around the room. There was a television across from the sofa and a small computer stand with a PC in the corner. In the opposite corner was a small table with four framed photos, all of Jessica and someone Connor suspected was her daughter.

  “Tell me who is forcing you to mail the postcards, and I can protect you. I can protect your daughter too. Once I give my client his name, he won’t be around long enough to hurt anyone.”

  Jessica looked up at him. “I don’t know his name.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “I don’t know. He contacted me by phone one day. Out of the blue. He knew I worked for an airline. He threatened me and Stephanie.”

  “Your daughter?”

  Jessica nodded. “He said I had to mail something for him. He told me to go to a storage locker and get it. He said he’d hurt us, so I said I would. I thought it was drugs or something, but when I went to the locker, it was just an envelope. I thought it couldn’t be something illegal, so I did it. I never heard from him afterward, so I thought it was a one-time thing. But then he contacted me again a year later telling me to do the same thing.”

  “And you mailed them every year?”

  “Every year,” she said.

  “Did you ever go to the police?”

  “And risk my daughter?” She shook her head. “Of course not.”

  “How does it work now? He still contacts you by phone?”

  “A few times, he’s slipped a note under my door. Just to prove he knows where I live. Once, he left me photos of two people he killed and said my daughter and I would end up the same way if I didn’t cooperate.”

  “And you’ve never seen him? Never got a name?”

  “No.”

  “Did he give you instructions with the envelope?”

  “There is a postcard inside. I have to mail it at the airport. I just drop it in the box. I can’t read the postcard and I have to mail it from whatever city I’m in on June 7th. That’s it. That’s all he told me.”

  “And you never look at it?”

  “No. I don’t want to know anything about it.”

  “Do you have any way to get ahold of him?”

  “No.”

  “How did he find you in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. He knew I worked for an airline and that I had a daughter. He mentioned Stephanie by name, so I don’t know if he knew her or not.”

  “Did you ask your daughter about him?”

  She looked shocked at the question. “No. I didn’t want to bring her into this.” She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. The tears seeped through her silk sleeve. “I didn’t want her to know about any of this.”

  “And you don’t have any way to reach him. Any email or text?”

  “No.”

  Either Jessica Winslow was telling the truth, or she was an impressive liar. Connor was convinced she didn’t know who was giving her the postcards, but he also couldn’t shake the thought the daughter was somehow connected. Maybe not directly, but she may be able to provide additional information. Jessica wasn’t going to want to involve her, so Connor would have to push the right button.

  “Where can I find your daughter?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “Jessica. I’m going to be straight with you. Your postcard friend, eventually, he’s going to finish playing his little game with my client. And when he decides to pull the plug, what do you think he’s going to do to you? Or Stephanie? He’s already killed my client’s family, and you said yourself he left you an example of his handiwork. Do you think he’s going to just walk away? He won’t think twice about killing you. And Stephanie. Help me find him, and I can stop all this.”

  She thought for a moment. “Are you going to break her door down too?”

  “No. Tell me where I can find her, and I’ll keep it nice and civil.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You can trust me because we both want the same thing—for all this to stop. I promise you, once I get his name, this all goes away. You and Stephanie won’t be in any danger.”

  She was quiet for what seemed like two minutes, but Connor continued to stare her down. It was a tactic he learned in Army Intelligence. Remain quiet, and the person on the other side of the interrogation table will want to fill the silence. It was a way to keep someone talking. Eventually, they would tell you what you wanted to hear.

  Finally, she looked up at Conner.

  “You’re not going to hurt her?”

  “I’m here for the man behind the postcards. That’s all.”

  She thought for a moment longer.

  “She runs a bakery on Davis Island.”

  14

  A FAMILIAR VOICE

  There was one bakery on Davis Island. Cups and Cakes. It sold overpriced sweets to the kind of people who paid thirty-five dollars for a dozen cupcakes. There were two people in line when Connor arrived around four-thirty in the afternoon. The sign on the door said the place closed at five.

  As Connor approached the counter, he observed the woman on the other side of the cash register. She looked to be in her early-to-mid-twenties. Flour covered her pink apron but spared her shoulder-length brown hair. The white embroidery on the front of her apron gave her away. Stephanie.

  “What can I get for you?” she asked.

  “Do you have root beer?”

  “We don’t have any soda.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll take one of those.”

  She charged him three-fifty for a cup, spare change for the residents of Davis Island.

  Connor paid with a crinkled five-dollar bill.

  “Thanks.” He took the steaming cup and change and pointed to a table along the wall. “I’m going to sit over there and drink this.” He took a business card from the plastic tray on the counter. “Come see me when you close.”

  She forced a smile. “I have a boyfriend.”

  “Good for you, but I’m not looking for a date. I’m here to help your mother out of a very bad situation.”

  * * *

  As Connor sat at the small corner table, Stephanie stole glances at him between closing duties. She cleaned behind the counter and restocked the bakery case. She took her time. He made her nervous, but she hadn’t called the police yet, so she must be at least somewhat interested in what he had to say. She did disappear into the back room for ten minutes here and there, and Connor wondered if she had called her mother. Why wouldn’t she? She’d want to know why he was there and how she was involved. Or maybe Jessica had called her before Connor even got there. She’d want to warn her, give her a heads-up of what was coming.

  Forty-five minutes after he sat down, Stephanie approached the table.

  “What’s this all about?” she asked. “What are you talking about, helping my mother? And who are you?”

  “Connor Harding. Your mother is being blackmailed into sending threatening postcards to a very bad man.”

  “She never mentioned anything about that to me. And I think she would have told me.”

  “There’s a solid chance that whoever is blackmailing your mother also killed my client’s wife and daughter.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Whoever is blackmailing your mother is using you for leverage. He told her he’d kill you if she didn’t do what he wanted. That’s why your mother has been sending these postcards for the past decade.”

  “Decade?”

  “Right. And the fact he’s using you as leverage makes me think he knows you. And maybe you know him. He’s close enough to your family to know you by name and know your mother’s connection to the airline.”

  “Wait. Why does someone want my mother to send postcards?” She pulled out the chair across from Connor and sat down. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Someone killed my client’s family. Every year on the anniversary of their death, he receives a postcard. Taunts, grim details, that sort of thing. He’s convinced whoever is sending them is responsible for the murders. Given the intimate details in there, I think he’s right.”

  “And my mother is sending them?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think she’s involved in the murders. Someone is giving her the postcards to send from all over the country to hide their whereabouts.”

 

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