Next, he looked at the photo of the victim. Chris was no pirate boy with a buzz cut. She was a girl with wispy brown curls pulled back with barrettes. Christina G. McGuinness, age four, of Bridgton, Maine, was Evelyn’s niece. She also was Caucasian, and three feet four inches tall, about forty-three pounds.
Clancy’s chest burned with confusion. He didn’t want to read any more, but he did, hitting only on the words that jumped out at him: violation of court-ordered custody ruling . . . car recovered . . . Logan remote parking lot . . . dummy plate and tag . . . security video footage . . . altered appearance . . . short blond hair . . . facial and body recognition software identified the suspect . . .
Clancy jumped to his feet and spun around, not sure what he was looking for, but aware that it sure as hell wasn’t in his office. Dummy plate and tag? That was awfully sophisticated.
“You okay, Chief?”
Fuck, no, he wasn’t okay.
He continued reading. Additional video . . . boarding the MBTA red line train with the girl . . . exiting at South Station . . . may have boarded a Peter Pan bus to Woods Hole, Massachusetts . . . possibly intending to travel via ferry . . . current location unknown . . . may be traveling under the alias “Cricket Dickinson.”
Clancy raised his eyes from the paper and stared at Chip, his thoughts circling around his next step. What would it be and how would he do it?
“Wouldn’t it be wild if she’s here?” Chip’s face lit up and his voice went even higher. “I mean, think about it. What better place to hide? Just put on some costumes and run around with all the other whacky people—who’s gonna notice? I bet you she and the girl are here, right under our noses!”
Clancy’s brain spun too fast for his mouth to catch up, but Chip was absolutely correct. Right under our noses. There had to be a back door out of this situation, a hidden exit, some way he wouldn’t have to do what had to be done, but he didn’t see it. Clancy was a police officer, sworn to uphold the laws of the State of Massachusetts and the municipality of Bayberry Island, and bound to standards of mutual assistance and cooperation with all federal agencies. He had no choice but to take Evie into custody. And why was that concept such a big deal, anyway? Clancy might have been crazy about her years ago, but he barely knew her now. And a warrant was a warrant, right?
And yet . . .
“What time is it, Chip?”
He checked his phone. “Six forty-four.”
“Are the ferries running on schedule?”
“We haven’t received notice of delays on any of the lines.”
“Good. Good.” Clancy sorted it out in his head—if the first ferry Evie could possibly catch pulled in at seven thirty and left at eight, that meant he had just over an hour to figure out what he was going to do. With Evie. With his duties. With his principles.
His heart told him the sweet, fun, and affectionate girl he met eighteen years ago must have her reasons, and might very well have done nothing wrong. But that wasn’t his call. Guilt or innocence was determined by a judge or jury. His only responsibility was to accept that some judge, somewhere, believed there was enough evidence to support a felony warrant. His sworn obligation was to arrest and detain the subject of that warrant.
But, damn. He had an unshakable feeling that taking her into custody would be the absolute wrong thing to do. Why, he couldn’t say, but he knew that failing to help her would be the biggest mistake of his life.
But the evidence . . .
“A felony criminal arrest warrant has been issued by the State of Maine for McGuinness, the child’s maternal aunt . . .”
Clancy wanted to scream. So what if he had a hunch there was more to the story? This wasn’t the first time he’d wrestled with finding a balance between intuition and reason, and it wouldn’t be the last. All cops went through this—good cops, anyway. Balancing evidence with gut feeling was part of the investigation process. In Clancy’s experience, evidence always mattered most, but whenever he completely ignored his gut he got himself in trouble.