“Look, Cleo. I’ve been on that boat. I’ve searched it. If I could just take a quick look, I may be able to tell if something’s missing, which would help you guys out, right?”

Cleo searched the lot wildly as if looking for someone with a star to intervene. She turned back, eyes suspicious, cutting. “It’s against procedure. Chain of evidence. I can’t let you anywhere near these photos.”

“Then don’t,” I said. “Hold on to your camera. But if you just happened to review the shots while I’m standing behind you, there’s no rule against that, is there? That’s just you reviewing your work, and me just happening by.”

Cleo fingered the schnauzer pendant around her neck, as though it were some kind of talisman, as though it had the power to keep bad juju away.

“Two minutes,” I pressed. “One quick scan through, my hands stay in my pockets the whole time, and I’m gone like smoke. I swear.” The silence that followed threatened to stretch on forever. “One look,” I said. “And I take this to my grave.”

Cleo bit down on her lip and caved. “One pass, and only one. No rewinds.”

I released the breath I’d been holding. “Deal. Thanks.”

From behind the cover of the van door, Cleo queued up the shots of Tim’s boat, scrolling through images taken of the tiny kitchen, the gilded bathroom. The main cabin was where the most damage had been done. Everything was overturned, upended, strewn about. Wood paneling was torn from its foundation, the carpet pulled up. This wasn’t just a crime of opportunity. It wasn’t a burglary. Someone had been looking for something. Cleo flicked through at a steady pace and I stood behind her, my hands nowhere near the camera. She’d taken numerous shots of Tim’s paintings, too, the lighthouses. It looked as though someone had punched a fist through the canvases. I counted six. Six.

“Stop.” I placed a hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “The paintings. Did you find any others outside of the main cabin?”

Cleo frowned. “No. Why?”

I tapped her shoulder again. “Never mind. Keep going.”

She ran through the remainder of the photos, but it was just more of the same. Someone had done a complete and thorough job of searching Tim’s boat. They’d even sliced the custom cushions and tossed the stuffing about. I’d counted Tim’s paintings when I searched the boat, wondering why there were so many, wondering why they were all of lighthouses. There’d been seven, not six. All dated, all signed, all Tim’s. I was sure of the number. So what happened to the seventh painting? Had Eldon Reese taken it? Cap? They’d both been here. Would Jung have had any reason to take it?