Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

In the end McCabe told Barker to go back down to his apartment but not to leave town and to make himself available if he was needed for further questioning. Then he called 109 and told Dispatch to send over an evidence tech to see if the searcher had left behind any fingerprints or other evidence and then padlock the place and make sure nobody else snuck in. When the tech got there, McCabe left.

The snow was still coming down at 5:00 A.M. when McCabe got back to his own place on the Eastern Prom. The light in the living room was still on; Kyra was in the bedroom still asleep. He stripped down and slid into bed next to her. He had that ten o’clock meeting but still had time for a few hours’ sleep. With Casey at Sunday River, he wouldn’t have to wake up until about nine thirty to make it downtown by ten. Trying not to disturb Kyra, but feeling a need for her warmth, he pressed his body, spoon fashion, against the bend of her back. He rested one arm along the curve of her hip.

‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to worry.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘You didn’t. I’ve been awake pretty much all night. Anyway, welcome home.’

He pushed himself even more tightly against her. ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said. He meant it. He was glad he did.

Fifteen

Portland, Maine

Saturday, January 7

4:00 A.M.

Abby moved, mask on, head down, Spider-Man trudging through a fog of silence. The snow, whipped by gusting winds, was blinding. Forced by drifts to walk on the road, she could barely see the houses behind the mounds of snow, let alone make out their shapes or colors. Not even the ones on the near side of the street. The ones on the far side were totally invisible. She’d been walking for hours, or was it days? She was sure she was going around in circles. She couldn’t concentrate on where she was or where she was headed. She was just too tired. All she knew was that there were no people and there were no cars. There was only the snow and the wind and the endless empty streets. She’d never felt so alone in her life.

At least the Voices were quiet. The meds were doing what they were supposed to do, keeping the crazies locked in their box where they couldn’t jump out and torment her. Even so, all it would take was a little bit of bad shit and, boom, there they’d be, popping up like jack-in-the-box clowns, loud and vindictive. On top of that, the extra pills were making her dopey. Forcing her to fight for every clear thought through a fuzziness that seeped in and around and through her brain. Screw it. She didn’t have to think right now. She just had to keep walking. Street to street. Block to block. Don’t think. Just walk.

As she walked she repeated a low rhythmic chant. Gotta find Leanna’s house. Gotta find Leanna’s house. Gotta find Leanna’s house. Leanna Barnes, her friend from Winter Haven. Leanna would take her in. Abby knew she would. Bury her in the big extravagant folds of her flesh. Keep her safe. Leanna wouldn’t tell anyone she was there, either. Except Abby couldn’t find the right house or even the right street. She’d only been to the house a couple of times before, and then always in the summer when everything was green and gold and you could see where you were going. Not this blinding white, this emptiness where even the street signs were impossible to read. She was too tired and too cold to walk much farther. She was starting to go numb.

All she really wanted to do was lie down on top of the snowbank at the side of the road and drift off to sleep. She’d be covered up in no time. The plows’d dump more snow on top of her and that’d be that. The trash collectors wouldn’t find her body till spring. Trash. That’s all she’d be in the end. Frozen trash. She remembered seeing on the Discovery Channel how people who freeze to death feel warm before they die. They just slowly go to sleep and never wake up. It seemed a pleasant idea. Burning to death would be a lot more painful. One time, when she was off her meds, the Voices tried to get her to pour gasoline over her head and set herself on fire. Gonna turn you into a crispy critter, they told her. She went and found the gas can in the shed next to the house and a box of matches and almost did what they said. She remembered their mocking voices. Crispy critter. Fried golden brown. Crispy critter. She thought the fire would purify her, exorcise the evil, rid her of the Voices. At least she hoped it would. She unscrewed the top of the gas can and held it over her head. In the end, though, she chickened out. The idea of burning up scared her too much, and she put the can away. She wasn’t that crazy. But the Voices kept spewing their filth and ugliness. How they hated her. She must deserve it.

Abby looked up and saw a low dark thing moving toward her. A black form, now visible through the whipping snow, now obliterated by it. With each step it grew clearer and bigger. At twenty feet it began to take shape. Animal. Not human. A large dog, gray fur glistening under crystals of snow, cruel icy eyes shining through the night, more wolf than dog. She stopped, but the animal kept coming. She could hear its rumbling growl. Low. Menacing. Commanding. Her heart beat against the walls of her chest so hard she was certain it would break through. She knew what the creature wanted. She knelt on her hands and knees. It bared a fang long enough and sharp enough to penetrate the soft flesh at the back of her neck. She lowered her head and waited for release . . . but release didn’t come. Finally, after a minute or two, she looked up, and it was gone. She could see nothing in front of her but the snow-covered street and the windswept flakes still hurtling down through the night sky. She stayed where she was, kneeling in the snow. She could hear a child crying. She listened. After a bit she realized the sound was coming from her. She got up and started walking again.

She wrapped her arms around her body and rubbed to warm herself. She was still wearing the running clothes from four nights ago. After the cop dropped her off, she hadn’t taken the time to change or brush her teeth or even to wash. She didn’t know when Death was going to come walking in through the door. So she just stuffed the seventeen dollars and sixty-three cents she had in the desk drawer into one pocket, her wallet with her license and nearly maxed-out Visa card into the other, and took off. She had her cell in her fanny pack, along with the bottle of Zyprexa, but the phone was dead and the charger was in her bedroom back on the island. Dumb. She couldn’t worry about that now. All she knew was that she had to get to Leanna’s house. If only she could find it. She thought about a hot shower. God, that would be heaven. She’d take a hot shower at Leanna’s.

Ahead of her, up the hill, she saw the lights of a twenty-four-hour Mini Mart on Congress. She was sure she’d passed the place twice before. This time she’d go in, warm up, try to figure out where it was Leanna lived and how to get there. A comforting wave of heated air hit her as she opened the door. The woman behind the counter was munching peanut M&M’s out of one of those big yellow family-sized bags and watching a small black-and-white TV. She stiffened as Abby approached. Didn’t move. Just sat there staring, eyes widening in fear. Abby whipped around, expecting Death to be right behind her, but he wasn’t. Nothing was there.

‘What do you want?’ the woman asked in a quavery voice. ‘We ain’t got much cash here.’

Abby puzzled over that until she finally figured it out. She was still wearing the Spider-Man mask. She pulled it off along with her ski hat and stuffed both into her pocket. She ran a hand through her matted hair and forced herself to smile. ‘Sure is cold out there.’

‘Jesus Christ, girl. You scared me half to death. What the hell you doin’ walkin’ around with that thing on?’ The woman seemed to relax a little. ‘I almost hit the damned alarm.’ She took a deep breath, relaxed some more. ‘It’s cold, alright,’ she said. ‘Down near zero.’ Then, after a few more seconds, she added, ‘They say we’re gonna get more’n a foot.’

Act normal, Abby reminded herself. No crazy stuff. Not here. She nodded to the woman’s comment, as if considering its wisdom and, upon due consideration, concurring. ‘Probably got pretty near that much already.’ Abby smiled again, figuring you couldn’t smile too much. Then she walked over to the coffee station, took off her gloves, clipped them to the bottom of her jacket, and pulled out the smallest of the three sizes of cardboard cups. She pushed down the spigot on the hot chocolate machine and watched steamy brown liquid trickle into her cup.

‘Pretty near that much,’ the woman agreed, peering out the window. ‘It don’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon, either.’

Abby pushed one of the plastic lids onto her cup until it clicked into place. She walked back toward the counter. The cup felt hot under her hands. She shifted it from one hand to the other, thawing her fingers, enjoying the warmth.

The woman swept her arm toward a car shape outside the window, completely covered with snow. ‘That there’s mine. Hope I don’t have any trouble getting home.’

‘Hope not,’ Abby said, putting the cup on the counter.

‘That do it for you?’

Abby nodded.

‘Be a dollar fifty-eight.’

Abby counted out exact change from the seventeen dollars and sixty-three cents she had in her pocket, smiled again, and headed back toward the bathroom. She set the hot chocolate on the edge of the sink, locked the door, peed, and washed her hands, surprised how much the warm water stung her frozen skin. She stared for a minute at her face in the mirror. The last four days had taken their toll. She had dark circles under her eyes. Her hair looked dirty. She was surprised the woman wasn’t more scared of her with the mask off than with it on.

She only half noticed the big blond guy when she exited the restroom, and then only because all her systems were on high alert. He was standing in the grocery aisle pretending to study the plastic microwave cups of beef stew and Chef Boyardee pasta. His eyes followed her when she walked past him to the newspaper and magazine rack. She picked up one of the freebie newspapers, the West End News, and pretended to read. The guy was still looking at her. He wasn’t big. He was huge, six foot five, maybe more. Big neck and shoulders. He was wearing jeans and a lumber jacket. She turned back to the paper and sipped her hot chocolate slowly, trying to figure out what to do next. She couldn’t go back out in the cold. Not yet. She needed to stretch her drink out for as long as it took her to really get warm again. But he was making her nervous. She glanced over again. He smiled. At least it was a friendly smile. Not a leer. She quickly looked away. Shit, he was coming toward her. Act normal, she thought. Tough it out. Her heart was pounding. She could hear the Voices starting to rouse themselves from their slumber. Here comes Death, one of them said. Even though he didn’t look like Death. At least not like Death had looked in the bedroom at the Markhams’ place.

‘You okay?’ he asked, walking up close to her, cradling an armful of plastic Chef Boyardee containers. ‘You look kind of upset.’

Tell him to go fuck himself, the Voices said. Tell him to go stick his big fat dick in his big fat ass.

‘Yes. No. Yes,’ Abby said to the guy. The words came out in too much of a jumble. ‘I’m fine.’ She realized she was craning her neck to look up at him. He was so tall it was like looking up at the top of the Observatory. Or the Empire State Building. ‘I’m fine,’ she said again. ‘Nothing the matter with me.’ She was still talking too fast. Too loud. She had to slow it down. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m just walking to my friend’s house,’ she said. There. That was better.

‘Walking? In this? Are you crazy?’

The Voices cackled. They thought that was a good joke. She closed her eyes, determined to ignore them. ‘It’s not far,’ she said. ‘Just over on . . .’ She thought as hard as she could, and suddenly there it was. The name of the street. ‘Just over on Summer Street.’ Yes. Summer Street. Where she’d gone in the summer. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe you couldn’t get there in winter.

‘Y’know, Summer Street’s a good hike away. Why don’t I give you a ride?’

‘No. No.’ She concentrated on sounding normal. ‘That’s not necessary.’

‘Well, it might not be necessary,’ he said, scratching his head with his free hand, ‘but it’d sure as heck be warmer than you walking all that way. Probably safer, too, on a night like tonight. I wouldn’t forgive myself if somebody froze to death walking, when I could just take ’em over to where they were going in a couple of minutes. What do you say? My truck’s right outside. I left it running.’ He gave her a big toothy grin. ‘To keep it warm,’ he added.

She wasn’t sure why, but she felt herself giving in. This man just didn’t feel dangerous, and the idea of driving to Leanna’s in a warm truck was practically irresistible. She pointed at the half-dozen plastic containers resting in his arm. ‘You eat that stuff?’ she asked.

He blushed. ‘Yeah.’

Yes, it was okay. Death wouldn’t blush. She didn’t think a rapist would either.

‘Actually, I kind of like it.’

Death probably wouldn’t eat Beefaroni either, even though enough of that stuff could probably kill you. Abby let herself relax. The Voices slid back into their box. She followed the tall man to the front of the store.

‘Hey, Esther,’ he said to the woman behind the counter. He dumped the microwave containers in front of her.

‘How you doing, Joe?’ she said, waving a handheld bar code scanner over each. ‘You guys caught that killer yet?’

‘Not yet.’ He looked back at Abby. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Abby.’

He waited a few seconds before asking, ‘Don’t you want to know what my name is?’

She shrugged.

‘I’m Joe.’ He held out a hand. She shook it.

It was only when he reached for his wallet to pay for the Beefaroni that she noticed the gun poking out from under his jacket. Her heart started doing its pounding thing again. The woman behind the counter gave him his change and put the containers into a plastic bag.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, smiling again.

She followed numbly. The storm was, if anything, worse than before. As they headed for his truck, she thought that maybe she ought to make a run for it. But, in the end, she decided she’d rather die inside a warm truck than freeze to death out there on Congress Street. That wasn’t being crazy, she told herself. Just smart. He clicked the doors open, and they climbed in. He stowed the bagful of Chef Boyardee behind the seat on top of a pair of snowshoes and what looked like a rolled-up sleeping bag and some other stuff as well. Under it there was an ice ax. He saw her looking at it.

‘I’m on my way up to Katahdin,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a couple of days off, and I’m gonna do a little snowshoeing and some winter camping. Some ice climbing as well. That’s what that ax is for.’

She put the hot chocolate in the cup holder and rested her hands on her lap. If he was going camping in this weather, he was even crazier than she was.

He must have sensed what she was thinking, because he said, ‘No, really. It’s fun, Abby. Least it is if you have the right equipment.’

She didn’t say anything. Just tried to get another peek at the gun. He was putting on his seat belt and she couldn’t see it. Then he waited while she did up her belt. She watched him release the parking brake and turn in his seat so he could see to back up. When he did, there was the gun again, poking out.

‘Are you going to shoot me?’ She hadn’t planned on asking him that. The words just spilled out all by themselves. He stepped on the brake and stopped the truck halfway in and halfway out of the parking space.

‘What? What in hell are you talking about? I think maybe you are crazy.’

‘You have a gun. I saw it.’

‘Yes, I have a gun. I’m supposed to have a gun,’ he said.

‘Nobody’s supposed to have a gun.’ Maybe he was Death after all.

‘I am. I’m a cop. Really, Abby, it’s okay.’

He smiled again. That friendly reassuring smile that made the Voices yawn and go back to sleep. He took out a wallet from a jacket pocket and flipped it open. A badge and an ID card with his picture on it. Portland Police Department. Joseph L. Vodnick. He handed her a card and said, ‘Listen, Abby, if you’re ever afraid of something or worried or anything, you just call the number on this card and I’ll come right over. Okay?’

Abby looked at the card and nodded, but she didn’t say anything back. After that she just stared straight ahead as they drove, watching the wipers wipe the snow away.

Sixteen

Portland, Maine

Saturday, January 7

9:00 A.M.

McCabe inched toward consciousness, eyes closed, sunshine warming his face. Someone must have opened the blinds and let the sun in. The brightness hurt even behind his closed lids. Not a nice thing to do to someone who’d only had a couple of hours of sleep. He slid his hand over to the other side of the bed, felt around, and came up empty. Explored further. Nothing but sheet.

‘Looking for something?’

Kyra’s voice came from behind him. She sounded amused, and he thought she had a hell of a nerve sounding amused at this ungodly hour of the morning. He thought back and remembered all he’d drunk and all he hadn’t eaten the night before. Amazingly he didn’t have a headache. Just a hell of a thirst. Nothing that would qualify as a hangover. He figured that most of what he was feeling was from lack of sleep. He flopped over onto his left side and squinted at her. ‘What time is it?’

She was sitting in the bentwood rocker sipping coffee. ‘Nine fifteen.’

He absorbed this information. Nodded. Okay. Nine fifteen. Four hours’ sleep. Plenty enough for anyone. He opened his eyes farther. She was wearing an oversized New York Giants jersey with Tiki Barber’s number twenty-one on it and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. Both were his.

‘Can I get you some coffee?’

He grunted something vaguely affirmative. She pulled herself out of the rocker and headed for the kitchen. By the time she got back he was sitting up. She put a mug of coffee on the bedside table and handed him a large glass of orange juice.

‘Here. You looked like you could use this as well.’

‘Thank you.’ He chugged it down in a couple of gulps, then traded the glass for the coffee. ‘How was your show last night?’

‘Excellent. Over a hundred people. Two red dots and a lot of positive ego massaging from all and sundry.’

‘Including Kleinerman?’

‘Umm. Yes. He interviewed me. Said there’d be a piece in tomorrow’s paper.’

‘Tomorrow tomorrow or tomorrow today?’

‘Tomorrow tomorrow. Sunday. How was your murder?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Pretty ugly,’ he said, sipping at the coffee. ‘A young woman. Lawyer here in town. Somebody stuck a knife in her neck and stuffed her body into the trunk of her own car. She was frozen solid. The weird thing, at least for me, was that she was the spitting image of Sandy. I mean identical.’

She looked at him curiously. ‘Did that bother you?’

He didn’t respond for a minute. Finally he said, ‘Yeah. It did. At first. For a minute I had this crazy idea that it was Sandy and that I’d done it, like in my dreams. But once I got used to the idea that the victim wasn’t either my ex-wife or my kid’s mother and that I wasn’t the murderer, I calmed down.’ Not quite the whole truth, but close enough to holler at. Even better, it hadn’t bothered him telling her about the murder or Goff’s resemblance to Sandy, which he figured had to be a good sign.

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘You know the old cliché, everyone’s a suspect, which, roughly translated, means we haven’t got a clue.’

‘Which, roughly translated, means this case is going to take all your time and attention.’

‘For a while, yeah, I think it will.’

Kyra sipped her coffee, thinking about what he’d said. Finally she nodded. More to herself than to him. ‘Okay. I’m going to move back to my own place.’

‘For good?’

‘No. For the time being. Until this is resolved. Until we can really be together again.’

‘That isn’t necessary.’

‘I think it is. It’s what I was talking about yesterday. I don’t want to spend all my time wondering what you’re doing or what time you’re going to be coming home. If I’m at my place I won’t be thinking about it so much. Just let me know when it’s over, and I’ll come on back, happy as a clam, wagging my tail.’

He ignored the mixed metaphor. Or simile. Or whatever it was. ‘So we’re not going to see each other at all?’ He noticed his bare foot tapping on the floor. ‘What about having dinner together?’

‘We can do that. If you’re ever free for dinner, which, based on past experience, I don’t think is likely. The way I figure it is when you’re up to your ears in a murder we don’t see each other anyway.’

‘You won’t mind if I call you?’

‘I’d mind if you didn’t.’

‘Okay. I guess.’ McCabe brightened. ‘How about conjugal visits? Like they allow in prison?’

‘Really? They allow that? In prison?’

‘In New York they do. And I think California.’

‘How about Maine?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, there you go, then.’

While Kyra went off to take a shower and collect her stuff, McCabe threw on a robe and went into the living room to call Henry Ogden’s home number, the one Beth Kotterman had given him. The lawyer picked up on the third ring. McCabe told him who he was and why he was calling, but before he could ask for a meeting Ogden slipped smoothly into corporate bullshit mode, letting McCabe know that Beth Kotterman had called him late last night and informed him of Lainie’s death and what a shock it would be to everybody at the firm, especially to those who worked closely with her, as he did, in Palmer Milliken’s M&A practice area. Yes, it was a terrible thing, and the firm would have to do something special in the way of a memorial service. McCabe closed his eyes and let Ogden rattle on for a while, only half listening, trying to attach a face to the voice. Randall Jackson’s description of that last Friday before Christmas ran through his mind. Ogden sounded like Jackson said he looked. A rich white guy.

Finally McCabe cut in on the oration. ‘Excuse me, Mr Ogden. I understand how upset everybody must be, but I was hoping you and I could have a little chat in person.’

‘About Lainie?’

What the hell did he think McCabe wanted to talk to him about? ‘Yes. About Lainie, and about her murder.’

‘I’m not sure what I can add . . .’

‘As an attorney, I’m sure you understand how important it is that we talk to everyone who knew her, everyone who worked with her. We want to get as complete a picture as possible of Lainie’s life and why someone might have wanted to end it.’

Ogden tried to interrupt, but this time it was McCabe who kept talking. ‘I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. Later this morning or early this afternoon if that works for you.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not terribly convenient. Barbara and I are having guests from out of town over for lunch. She’s been planning it for some time, and you know how women are when husbands mess up their plans.’ He chuckled in a man-to-man way.

McCabe wondered if Ogden was trying to avoid a meeting – and if so, why? He wouldn’t let him off the hook that easily. ‘It’s important, Mr Ogden, and it shouldn’t take very long.’

‘Couldn’t we do this tomorrow?’

‘Today would be better.’

‘Oh, alright,’ Ogden said, not trying to hide his impatience. ‘If you can be here at ten thirty I’ll see if I can spare you half an hour or so.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Cape Elizabeth.’

McCabe checked his watch. It was nine thirty. No part of Cape Elizabeth was more than twenty minutes away. If he moved fast he could grab a shower and still be there easily. He’d rather meet with Ogden at 109, but then again, going to his house would give him a chance to see how the man lived. The only other problem was the ten o’clock meeting with his detectives. He’d have to ask Maggie to run it and fill him in later. He was sure she’d be okay with that. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you at ten thirty sharp.’

‘Good. Our cottage is at 367 Ledge Road. Do you know where that is?’

‘No, but I can find it.’

McCabe was showered, shaved, and out the door by ten. The parking area downstairs was plowed, and it took him less than five minutes to clear the snow and ice from the Crown Vic and pull out onto the Eastern Prom. He headed down Fore Street and then veered left by the statue of John Ford onto York Street heading toward the bridge. He’d be on Ledge Road with time to spare unless the bridge was stuck in the open position for the passage of a freighter or high-masted sailboat. It wasn’t. He followed Route 77 through South Portland and into Cape Elizabeth. The town was one of Portland’s most affluent suburbs and consisted mostly of broad, curving streets with large, comfortable colonials and Victorians set on oversized wooded lots. It housed a significant percentage of Portland’s doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers and, he guessed, the largest percentage of stay-at-home moms in the entire state.

It was a bright, clear day. Crisp and cold but still beautiful. Virginal snow lined either side of the roads. Following the directions he found on Google Maps, he turned left at Old Ocean House Road, left again at Trundy Point, then a slight left onto Ledge Road, which ran no more than a hundred yards inland from the open ocean and had to be one of the best addresses in town. Number 367 was on the left, marked by a large black rural mailbox. Just numbers. No name. The house itself, as well as the ocean behind it, was hidden from view by a dense stand of birch and maple, bare limbs covered in a delicate filigree of snow. He turned down a private drive that, at ten thirty on a Saturday morning, after a more than twelve-inch snowfall, was already neatly plowed and sanded. The drive curved through the woods for nearly a hundred yards before opening onto a white gravel parking area, also immaculately plowed. He pulled the Crown Vic into a parking area to the right of the house between a black Mercedes-Benz 500 S-Class – appropriate wheels for one of the top lawyers in town – and a ten-year-old Ford Taurus with a dented rear fender. No snow on the Merc. Ogden had already been out and about this morning.

McCabe got out and looked around. The hundred-year-old shingle-style cottage, as Ogden called it, was a cottage the same way Mt Washington was a hill. McCabe gauged the house at a minimum of six or seven thousand square feet set on at least three acres of spectacular ocean-front property. He was five minutes early but had no intention of standing around in the cold until the appointed hour. He headed up the path to the front door and rang the bell. Chimes echoed inside. The door opened, and a middle-aged woman, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and holding a plastic bucket, stood looking at him.

‘Mrs Ogden?’ he asked, pretty sure it wasn’t her.

‘No. I’m Chloe. I’ll go get her for you.’

‘Actually, I’m looking for Mr Ogden. I’m Detective Michael McCabe.’

‘I know who you are. Come on in. You’re letting all the heat out.’

McCabe moved into the front hall.

‘I recognize you. I saw you on TV last year. After that murder of the teenaged girl. Katie Dubois. That was you, right?’

They called Portland a city, but it was amazing what a small town it really was. Everybody knew everybody. In New York no one would have remembered. ‘Yup. That was me.’

‘I’ll get him. Take your shoes off before you walk anywhere. I just finished the floors.’ He did as he was told. ‘You can give me your coat.’

She went off, bucket and coat in hand, and disappeared down the hall to the back of the house.

McCabe looked around. Oversized cottage or not, the place was spectacular. High ceilings, fabulous moldings, and stained glass windows. From where he stood he could see at least two fireplaces. Both had wood fires burning away in them.

‘Lieutenant McCabe?’ A good-looking man, tall and slender, with expensively cut gray hair and a confident manner, walked toward him. Even dressed down in faded blue jeans and a Helly Hansen fleece jacket, and even with a day’s growth of gray bristle covering his pink cheeks, Ogden looked like a Hollywood casting director’s dream choice for an A-list lawyer. ‘Hank Ogden,’ he said, extending a hand. McCabe shook it. He recognized Ogden as one of the guys standing next to Goff, wearing black tie, in the photo Tasco had shown them.

‘Thanks for the promotion, Mr Ogden, but it’s Sergeant. Detective Sergeant, actually.’ McCabe held up his badge wallet. Ogden ignored it, so McCabe put it away. ‘Beautiful place you have here.’

‘Yes, it is. An early John Calvin Stevens. Built in 1897 and, except for the kitchen and bathrooms, still mostly original. It’s been in my wife’s family for some time.’

McCabe had heard of Stevens. The best-known Portland architect of the last century, he’d been the go-to guy for fancy houses in and around the city from about 1890 until the 1930s. Anybody who lived in a John Calvin Stevens house bragged about it. Even taciturn Yankees. They just bragged more discreetly.

Ogden led him into a small book-lined study. A fire was gently crackling in yet another fireplace, this one an Adam. He pointed McCabe to one of two red leather wing chairs. He sat in the other. He studied McCabe for a moment, then took a sip of coffee from a bone china cup with pink flowers printed on the outside. McCabe wouldn’t have minded coffee himself, but Ogden didn’t offer any, and McCabe wasn’t about to ask.

‘As I told you on the phone, Sergeant, my time’s limited, so let’s get right to it. What would you like to know?’

‘Tell me about Elaine Goff.’

‘What is there to tell? Lainie was a brilliant, beautiful woman and a fine lawyer. Well on her way to becoming a partner at the firm. She would have been one of the youngest we’ve ever had.’ He put on his sad face. ‘Her death is a tragedy beyond words.’

‘Do you know why anyone would want to kill her?’

‘I can’t imagine. I have to believe it was a random attack. Robbery or maybe rape as the motive. You know more about these things than I do.’