“That’s the only damage,” Stanley said, pointing to the front. “We were hoping you could confirm that it’s your husband’s.”

“May I look inside?” Quinn asked.

Stanley said, “Go ahead. But please don’t touch anything.”

Stanley lifted the tape barrier and Quinn slipped under it. Stanley followed. He snapped on a latex glove and opened the driver’s-side door. The smell of leather and musk wafted out as Quinn stooped to look inside. Past her, Emily could see that the upholstery in the car was black leather, tufted like the breastplate of a Ninja turtle, and the steering wheel was clad in black leather with red trim.

Quinn bit her knuckle. Her shoulders shook and she started to cry. “It’s his,” she rasped.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We’ll find him,” Stanley said. He closed the car door and raised the tape for Quinn to step out.

A blue plastic tarp was spread out on the floor next to the car. On it was a black flashlight and a snow scraper. A flare kit and jumper cables. A pile of papers with an Audi owner’s guide on top. A gallon container of windshield fluid. A lug wrench. And a pair of aviator glasses with yellow lenses.

Could this have been the car she’d parked in front of at the coffee shop last night? It might have been a silver Audi. In the Java Connection the driver had been backlit and she’d been distracted by the spilled coffee. All she remembered clearly was a mustache and a close-cropped beard, along with a baseball cap and glasses—yellow-tinted aviator glasses, just like the ones lying on the blue tarp.

“Mrs. Newell, when did you last see your husband?” Stanley asked.

Quinn was now standing beside Emily again. She grabbed Emily’s hand and squeezed, though at that moment Emily could have used bracing, too. “Yesterday. He left the house at around noon. Or maybe one. I wasn’t paying attention. I knew he’d been looking at an auction listing and planned to bid on some of the items.”

“Auction.” Stanley slipped a pad from his pocket and jotted a note.

“Later he texted me to say he’d be back late and not to wait up.” Quinn rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. She thumbed through, then turned the screen to face Stanley. “Here’s his text message.”

“Do you mind?” Stanley said, taking the phone from her. He used his own phone to take a picture of her screen, then made another note. “And he sent this text to you from the auction?”

“That’s where he says he is. Can’t you people tell?”

“Depends on how he had his phone set up.” Stanley shook his head. “Everyone thinks police departments have the kinds of resources they see on TV. Where was the auction?”

“Somewhere down the Cape.”

“Hyannis,” Emily piped up, remembering Quinn telling her that.