Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

‘Your money’s still on Ogden?’

‘As the searcher, yes. Like Burt said, Ogden has a lot to lose if the whole world finds out he was cheating.’

Maggie went back to building her sugar towers. ‘Okay, so we’re saying Ogden’s not the killer and Barker’s not the killer. Who’s left? Kelly?’

‘The evidence points that way. What we need to do is establish a motive.’

They split the bill fifty-fifty and headed back to 109.

Nineteen

Cleary was waiting on the other side of the elevator door when McCabe and Maggie stepped out onto the fourth floor at PPD headquarters. ‘You guys got a minute? Wanna bring you up to date, and there’s something you ought to see.’ He led the way into the small conference room and closed the door.

‘What did you find out?’

‘Bunch of stuff,’ said Cleary. ‘First off, Quinn doesn’t have a car and didn’t rent one. At least not from any of the agencies in Portland. Didn’t take a taxi anywhere either. Her mother’s car is a ’97 Subaru Outback, but Quinn didn’t use it. It’s still parked under a pile of snow at a lot off India Street. Possible friends’ cars we don’t know about.’

‘How about the terminals?’

‘Airport’s closed till later this morning. Quinn hasn’t been spotted there or at the train or bus stations.’

McCabe pursed his lips. ‘Anything from the ferry crews?’

‘That’s the good news. Nobody’s seen the BMW, but we do have a sighting on Quinn.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘According to one of the deckhands, she returned to the mainland on the last ferry last night.’ Cleary sat down next to the TV monitor and pulled chairs into position for the others. There was a freeze-frame image of a nervous-looking man in his twenties on the screen. ‘Left Harts Island at eleven fifty-five. Arrived in Portland twelve fifteen.’

Eleven fifty-five. The ferry McCabe watched from the galley of the Francis R. Mangini as the two boats passed midway across the bay.

‘I was going through the crew roster, interviewing the deckhands one by one.’ He tilted his head toward the monitor. ‘This one told me he saw Quinn.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Maggie.

‘Bobby Howser,’ said Cleary. ‘Howser and Quinn know each other. They were classmates at Portland High. At first Howser denied seeing her, but something in the way he said it, well, it was pretty easy to tell he was lying. So I bring him in, stick him in an interview room, and go at him for a while.’ Cleary smiled. ‘Y’know? Good cop. Bad cop.’

Maggie smiled. ‘Oh yeah? Which one were you?’

‘Both.’ Cleary smiled back. He was rhythmically banging his right fist into his left palm.

‘You didn’t rough him up, did you, Brian?’ McCabe asked. His tone was teasing, but the question was serious. Cleary had potential, but he was a born brawler. McCabe knew he might have to keep a tight rein on him.

‘Nah. I wouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want to have to cut short a promising career. What did Howser tell you?’

‘Kid was pretty scared once he realized this wasn’t a game. He hung tough for about five minutes and then blurted out the whole story.’ Cleary hit PLAY, and the frozen image came to life. Howser was sitting at the table in the small interview room at the end of the hall, eyes darting around, looking everywhere but at where Cleary would have been. A hand entered the frame and slid a photograph across the table. Cleary’s voice came out of the speaker. ‘Alright, Bobby, I’m going to ask you again like I did down at the Bay Lines. Have you ever seen this woman on the boat?’

Howser glanced at the image, then looked away again. ‘No. Well, yes, but not recently.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

Howser looked around nervously. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s her name?’

Howser didn’t answer right away. Suddenly Cleary’s hand came down hard on the table. Howser flinched, the sound of the slap reverberating like a rifle shot. ‘Bobby. I asked you a question,’ Cleary said, his tone measured yet, for all its softness, full of menace, ‘and I expect an answer.’

‘Quinn. Her name’s Abby Quinn.’

‘Abby Quinn. Good. That’s better. When was the last time you saw Abby Quinn?’

Howser closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He opened them again. For the first time he looked at Cleary. ‘Last night,’ he said. ‘She jumped on the eleven fifty-five about thirty seconds before we pulled out. There were only a couple of other passengers. Hardly anyone takes that boat this time of year.’

‘How long have you known Quinn?’

‘All my life. We’re both from the island. Grew up there. She’s still living there. I’ve got my own place in town now.’

‘Did you talk to her last night?’

‘Like I said, she jumps on at the last minute and comes running up to me.’ Howser paused. ‘You know Abby’s crazy, don’t you?’

‘No,’ said Cleary. ‘I didn’t know. What do you mean by crazy?’

Howser shrugged. ‘She gets weird sometimes. Does weird stuff. Says weird stuff. She’s been in and out of that mental hospital in Gorham a couple of times.’

‘Winter Haven?’

‘Yeah. Winter Haven.’

‘Was she doing weird stuff Friday?’

Howser nodded. ‘Kind of. She came running on wearing this stupid ski mask. I could tell it was Abby, though.’

‘How? You said she was wearing a mask.’

‘I dunno. Her shape. Her voice. The way she was moving and talking. Like I said, I’ve known her all my life.’

No surprise there. It’s not that hard to recognize someone under a mask. Not if you know them well enough. Which left the obvious question hanging. Did the killer know Abby? And if so, how well? McCabe didn’t give voice to the thought. He didn’t have to. He knew Maggie was thinking the same thing. On the screen Howser was still talking.

‘Anyway, she pulls the mask off and tells me somebody’s chasing her. She looks upset, so I ask her who’s chasing her. She says Death. That’s what she said. Death. I mean, that’s weird right there, isn’t it? Then she puts her face about an inch away from mine and makes me promise not to tell anybody that I’d seen her. Says I have to swear I won’t tell. On a stack of Bibles. Cross my heart and hope to die. Like we were still in third grade or something. “Swear you won’t tell,” she said. “C’mon, swear it.” She wouldn’t stop till I actually used the words, “I swear I won’t tell.”’

‘Did you? Use the words?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What, exactly, did she make you swear?’

‘I just told you.’ ‘Tell me again.’

‘That I wouldn’t tell anyone that I’d seen her. Not even the cops, she said. Not even you guys. Death would get her if I did. Like Death was some dude she knew.’

McCabe wondered, was he some dude she knew? Cleary didn’t ask the question. Instead he asked, ‘How’d you feel about that?’

Bobby Howser looked down. Spoke in a low voice. ‘I gotta tell you. When Abby gets crazy like that she scares the hell out of me. She’s tried to kill herself a couple of times, y’know. She wasn’t like that as a kid. We were pretty good friends back in middle school. Right through high school. She was normal. Like everyone else.’

‘How is she now?’

Howser gave Cleary a frustrated look, as if he were tired of repeating himself. ‘I already told you. Crazy. You never know where the stuff that comes out of her mouth comes from.’

‘Okay, so you swore to her you wouldn’t tell. Is that why you lied to me about seeing her?’

Bobby looked down, embarrassed. ‘Yes.’

Cleary’s voice softened. ‘It’s alright. You did the right thing. She needs help, and we’re trying to help her.’

Bobby looked up, a flicker of hope on his face.

‘Then what happened?’ asked Cleary.

Howser shrugged. ‘She locks herself in the head. Stays in there the whole way across. When we got to Portland, I had to knock on the door to let her know we arrived. She comes out, puts that stupid mask back on, and runs off into the night.’

‘What else was she wearing?’

‘Running clothes. A black Nike jacket. Nike shoes. Air Pegasus. I noticed ’cause I have the same kind. She was carrying a small backpack. And a fanny pack.’

Cleary hit stop. Howser’s image froze again. ‘That’s pretty much it,’ he said. ‘I told the kid that what he told me was confidential. If he told anybody anything he’d be in deep shit. He said he wouldn’t. I made him swear.’

‘Cross his heart and hope to die?’ asked McCabe. Cleary grinned.

‘And he didn’t know where she went?’ asked Maggie.

‘Nope. Like he said, she just ran off into the night. Gone. Poof. Just like that.’

McCabe supposed it was progress of a kind. Knowing for sure Abby was on the mainland. Knowing she was still alive, at least as of midnight last night. Knowing what she was wearing. Of course, the downside was it gave her a whole lot more geography to get lost in. Or get killed in. Or freeze to death in. Finding Abby had to be job one. For the cops and the killer. McCabe had the advantage of greater resources. An advantage that would be neutralized if the killer knew her well. Knew who her friends were. Knew where she was likely to go. It was going to be a delicate balancing act. Eddie Fraser leaned into the room. ‘There’s something on the Monument Square videos you guys ought to see.’

Cleary switched off the monitor and said he’d get the information on what Abby was wearing out to all units. They followed Eddie over to Starbucks’s cube. The area wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet, but they all managed to squeeze in. It was lined with an array of the latest electronics. The young Somali’s face broke into a huge grin as they entered. ‘Sergeant McCabe,’ he called out. ‘We’ve found something good here, I think.’ After only seven years in America, Starbucks spoke English almost without an accent. Only the occasional odd construction and a formality gave him away. ‘I’ve been helping Detective Fraser review the surveillance videos from the lobby of Ten Monument Square. Both Thursday the twenty-second and Friday the twenty-third.’

‘Cleaning crews came into the building both nights and left again later when they finished their work,’ said Fraser.

‘Here’s the lobby just before the cleaners arrived Thursday,’ said Starbucks. There were two video monitors mounted side by side on a shelf just above Starbucks’s head. He directed their eyes to the one on the left. ‘As you can see, the camera has a wide-angle lens and is shooting down from a height of ten-point-five feet.’ The time code read 12/22/06. 6:05:40 PM. The lobby’s revolving door and two sets of regular doors on either side were all clearly visible. So was the steel door Randall Jackson said led down to the lawyers’ private garage. Starbucks hit play, and McCabe watched a cluster of people enter the door on the left. Because of the angle, he was looking more at the tops of heads than at faces. They walked about eight feet into the lobby and then turned in a group like a school of guppies and exited through the garage door. ‘Where are they going?’ asked McCabe.

‘There’s a supply room downstairs where the cleaning stuff is stored. There’s also a small locker room where they stow their coats and bags while they work, and a unisex toilet.’

‘The entrance to the lawyers’ garage is there, too, right?’

‘Yeah. I went down and looked around,’ said Fraser. ‘You go down one flight of stairs to a short corridor, turn left for the supply room and locker room. Go straight ahead for the restroom. Turn right for the garage. There’s also a freight elevator at the end of the corridor that takes the cleaning and maintenance crews to any floor in the building. Also an emergency exit to the street. Locked from the outside. Sets off an alarm if you open it from inside.’

‘So theoretically our killer could have walked through that lobby door down to the basement and ended up anywhere in the building?’

‘Yeah,’ said Fraser. ‘The question is how he got out again. I checked the alarm on the emergency exit. It was on and working. The only other ways out are up through the lobby or out through the lawyers’ garage. You need a key card to open the gate in the garage.’ Ogden, of course, had a key card. So did Lainie. So did every other lawyer at Palmer Milliken, all 192 of them. If they descended to the garage level via the freight elevator, they wouldn’t have shown up on the videos. He asked Maggie if Jacobi had found Goff’s key card in her car. He hadn’t. ‘Watch the rest of the video,’ said Fraser. ‘Starbucks picked up on something I didn’t notice first time through.’

‘Here are the cleaners arriving twenty-four hours later, on Friday night,’ said Starbucks. On the right-hand monitor McCabe and Maggie watched a virtual replay of Thursday night’s action. The cluster of people arrived at 6:08 instead of 6:05. Everything else was the same. They came in through the same entrance. Turned right at the same point and left the lobby through the same steel door.

‘See the difference?’ asked Fraser.

‘No.’ If there was something different, McCabe wasn’t sure what it was. Not the first time through, anyway. ‘Play Thursday again,’ he requested. Starbucks did. ‘Okay, freeze it right . . . there.’ Starbucks stopped the video just as the cleaning crew cluster stretched out to pass through the steel door. ‘Okay, now roll Friday and freeze at the same point.’

This time he caught it. The extra man. At least he thought it was a man, based on size and the way the figure moved. Bundled up in a long dark coat with a hood, you couldn’t tell for sure. On Thursday six cleaners went through the door. What appeared to be three men and three women. On Friday there were seven. The seventh was pretty well hidden while the group was bunched up, shielded from the camera, practically invisible. Even as number seven filed through the door he kept his head down and turned away from the camera. He had one hand raised and blocking his face from the camera like a starlet avoiding the paparazzi. No question. He knew it was there. ‘Gotcha, you bastard,’ McCabe muttered. ‘You check with the cleaning company?’ he asked Fraser.

‘Yup. Joe Maguire of Capitol Maintenance Corp. told me six cleaners were assigned to the building both nights. The same six. Maguire’s son, Joe junior, dropped them off at Ten Monument Square in a company van, which is why they all arrived together. He also picked them up at the end of the shift. He said there were only six going each way each night. That’s all the van holds, not counting the driver.’

‘So the bad guy waits outside until the cleaners arrive and sneaks in with them?’

‘Looks that way,’ said Fraser. ‘Maguire gave us names and contact info for all six cleaners. Sturgis is out tracking them down now. See if they remember the extra guy coming in with them.’

‘How about the security guard? Name’s Randall Jackson. He might have seen the guy’s face.’

‘Spoke to him already. He never noticed anyone extra at all. Just the cleaners.’

McCabe sighed. He wasn’t sure how much they were going to get out of this. ‘Can you show me the video of the cleaners leaving Friday?’

Starbucks fast-forwarded to the early morning hours. The steel door opens, the six cleaners file into the lobby and leave the building. No number seven. Lainie Goff’s probable killer checked in, but he didn’t check out. The time code read 12/24/05. 2:04:32 AM.

‘Nobody else left after that?’

‘Nope.’

‘So he kidnaps her, and they both leave in her car.’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Let’s find our best shot of the guy.’

Starbucks rolled back to where the cleaners entered the building. Then he advanced the video frame by frame, until he settled on the best view they had of cleaner number seven. It wasn’t great. His head was down. His hand was hiding the side of his face. The hood hiding the hair. A small patch of white chin was all that could be seen. Starbucks tightened the frame to a close-up of the head. That made it too blurry to see much of anything. All you could tell was that the person was Caucasian and taller than the other cleaners. The heavy hooded coat hid everything else. Normal enough in this weather. McCabe stared at the frozen image. Assuming this was the killer – and that was still an assumption – it was further evidence that Hank Ogden wasn’t their guy. No need for Ogden to be sneaking into his own building when he was already upstairs in the Palmer Milliken offices both earlier in the day and later that night. He supposed it could all be a deliberate trail of disinformation designed to lead the cops away from Ogden as the killer. Maybe that was what all that other stuff was, too. The Bible notes. The trip to Harts. The body left on the pier. Maybe it was all a setup to divert suspicion. But McCabe didn’t think so. If at 6:08 on that Friday night Ogden was still sitting in the partners’ meeting and not sneaking into his own building, well, that’d pretty well settle the issue. Assuming, of course, that cleaner number seven was, in fact, the killer.

Twenty

Dr Richard Wolfe returned McCabe’s call a little after seven. ‘You said it was urgent. What’s up? Is it the dreams again? Are they coming back?’

‘No, it’s not the dreams,’ McCabe said. ‘In fact, it’s not about me at all. I’m calling as a cop. I need to talk to you about one of your patients.’

‘Really?’ Wolfe paused to consider that. ‘Well, that could be a problem. You do understand professional ethics forbid me to reveal private information about any of my patients. To you or anyone else.’

‘Yes, I understand that. But there are circumstances under which you would be able to talk, aren’t there?’

‘Yes. If I have knowledge that the patient has committed a crime. Or is about to commit one. Or if you can document that the patient or someone else will be put in danger by my failing to speak.’

‘Then I don’t think you’ll have any ethical issues here. One of your patients has been involved in a crime and may be in serious danger. We need your help.’

There was a long pause on Wolfe’s end of the line before he spoke. ‘Alright. Can you tell me which patient?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Where are you?’

‘In my office. Trying to finish a paper I’m writing for one of the journals.’

‘Why don’t we meet there in, say, twenty minutes?’

‘Alright. That’s fine. I need to break for some dinner anyway. If you haven’t eaten yet, why don’t you join me? I’ll order some takeout, and we can eat while we talk.’

‘Deal.’

‘Good. What do you feel like? Chinese? Thai? Pizza?’

‘Your choice.’

‘Ring the buzzer to the right of the front door. The building’s locked on weekends. Office 301.’

‘I remember.’

‘Yes. Of course you do. If I don’t come down and get you right away, it means I’m on the phone. So just wait and don’t buzz again. Okay?’

McCabe decided to walk. It was ten minutes from 109 Middle Street to 23 Union Wharf, and the air was warmer than it had been in a month. Upper twenties, according to Weather.com, and still rising. Leaving the building, he overheard a couple of uniforms talking about a January thaw. Sunday temps, they said, might hit fifty or more. He imagined frostbitten Portlanders leaping out of their long johns into shorts and T-shirts, hoping for a winter tan. He might even join them. McCabe headed east on Middle, turned left, and walked down Exchange. The Old Port shopping district was crowded with people, some even pausing to check out shop windows instead of just darting from car to doorway and back again.

He called Kyra. Wherever she was, he could hear voices in the background. ‘I’m having people over for drinks,’ she explained. ‘Reestablishing connections. Letting my friends know I’m still alive.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘Mandy’s here. Said she served you and Maggie lunch today. And Joe Turco. You know him.’ Turco ran a letterpress printing operation in the old bakery building where Kyra’s studio was. Limited edition portfolios. Art books. Other high-end print jobs. McCabe had met Turco a couple of times. ‘We’re heading over to Joe’s studio in a while to look at the proofs for a new edition he’s printing . . .’

Kyra talked some more about the portfolio edition. McCabe only half listened. He was missing her already, and she’d only moved out this morning.

‘How’s your murder going?’ she finally asked.

‘I guess we’re making progress. Hard to tell sometimes. Actually, I have a question for you.’

‘About the murder?’

‘Yes. You know most of the good art photographers in town, don’t you?’

‘Most of them,’ she said. ‘The ones I don’t know personally, I know by reputation.’

He described the shots on Lainie Goff’s bedroom wall. ‘I’d like to know who shot them.’

‘Industrial detritus and naked lawyers? Interesting range. Does Goff still look like Sandy? With her clothes off, I mean.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s it?’ Kyra teased. ‘Just yes? No elaboration?’

He didn’t answer, so Kyra changed the tone. ‘The prints weren’t signed?’

‘No.’

‘Interesting. If they’re as good as you say, they’re worth less without a signature. Besides, most serious photographers want people to know their work.’

‘Maybe Goff asked the photographer not to sign them. Maybe she didn’t want people to know who was photographing her in the nude.’

‘Possibly. Or maybe the photographer isn’t a pro. Just a talented amateur. Or,’ she said, a tinge of conspiracy creeping into her voice, ‘maybe Goff and the photographer were lovers and she wanted to keep the affair a secret?’ McCabe smiled. Kyra was getting into this. ‘I’ll nose around for you,’ she said. ‘See if any of my friends have any idea who’d shoot that kind of stuff.’

‘Thanks. Just be discreet. Don’t tell them why you want to know,’ said McCabe. She said she wouldn’t. He continued, ‘Any chance of me seeing you tonight?’

‘None. I’ve got to make my willpower last more than one day, don’t you think? Anyway, I love you.’

He sighed, told her he loved her, too, and put the phone back in his pocket. He turned right onto Fore Street and jaywalked to the other side. Overly polite Maine drivers stopped in the middle of the block to let him pass. Had he tried the same thing in New York, they would have been swearing and laying on their horns. Or maybe just running him over. He glanced at the sex toys in the windows of Condom Sense. Pasta boobs and marzipan penises. He wondered who bought that stuff. A few doors down was Edward Malinoff, Purveyor of Rare Wines. Malinoff also carried a great selection of single malts and the odd box of contraband Cuban cigars, the latter available only to Malinoff’s friends at astronomical prices McCabe couldn’t afford. Not a problem. McCabe hadn’t smoked a cigar in years.

He turned left at Union Street by the Portland Harbor Hotel, went down the hill past Three Dollar Dewey’s, crossed Commercial Street, and walked out onto Union Wharf, one of the many piers that form most of Portland’s working waterfront. Wolfe’s office was in an old three-story wooden building toward the end. He could see lights shining from a wall of windows on the third floor. A shiny black Lexus IS 350 was parked directly in front. He figured it had to be Wolfe’s. The rest of the building looked dark and empty. McCabe climbed three steps, pressed the buzzer for 301, and peered through the glass into the dark lobby. Once a warehouse or maybe a fish processing plant, the building’s interior space had been updated in a style McCabe liked to think of as SoHo Modern. Shiny black walls, exposed pipes crisscrossing the ceiling, big windows looking out on the harbor.

Dr Wolfe apparently wasn’t on the phone, because he pushed the door open less than a minute later. McCabe’s former shrink was in his mid-forties, six-one or maybe a bit more, with close-cropped gray hair that was considerably shorter than McCabe remembered it. He wore round rimless glasses that seemed to intensify the blue of his eyes. Dressed in a black pullover, black pants, and black canvas walking shoes, he looked more like the film director McCabe once dreamed of becoming than a successful Portland psychiatrist. More LA cool than L.L. Bean.

‘Good to see you,’ said Wolfe. He ignored the elevator and pointed McCabe toward the black steel stairs. They started up. ‘Been about a year, hasn’t it?’

‘A little over.’

‘How have you been doing?’ Wolfe asked, the question clearly medical, not social.

‘Fine,’ said McCabe. ‘How about yourself?’

‘No more nightmares?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Not quite the truth, but what the hell.

‘Still taking the Xanax?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Glad you don’t need it. Still drinking?’

‘Some.’

‘Too much?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Wolfe shared the top floor with another psychiatrist named Leah Peterson. ‘Let’s talk in my office,’ he said.

The contrast between the office and Wolfe’s treatment room next door, where the Abby Quinns and Michael McCabes of the world came to tell their tales, was startling. Two different worlds both inhabited by the same man. The treatment room was small and cozy with a big comfy couch facing the doctor’s chair and walls lined with books and bric-a-brac. Designed to put patients at ease. The office was nothing like that. Instead it mirrored the cool, hard-edged modernity of the lobby. All shiny glass and chrome with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the harbor. McCabe looked out. A pair of tugs were pushing a large container barge toward the International Marine Terminal. The lights of cars moved in a steady parade across the Casco Bay Bridge.

There was a separate seating area with four chrome and leather chairs surrounding a free-form glass table.

‘I ordered Thai,’ said Wolfe, pointing McCabe toward one of the chairs. ‘From the Siam Grill.’ McCabe knew the place. High-end Thai and creative martinis on Fore Street. Some of the best Asian food in town.

‘Coconut shrimp. Fresh spring rolls. Hot basil duck. Should be here in twenty minutes or so. Work for you?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Scotch?’ asked Wolfe, producing a bottle of Dewar’s from his desk drawer.

‘Is that allowed?’

‘Why not? You’re not here as a patient.’ Wolfe poured himself a drink from the bottle.

McCabe resisted temptation. He was working even if Wolfe wasn’t. ‘Not at the moment. You have any water?’

Wolfe went to a small fridge behind his desk, added some ice cubes to his drink, and found a bottle of Poland Spring for McCabe.

‘Thanks. Helluva view.’

‘Yes. Leah Peterson and I are both sailors and kayakers. When we can’t be on the water we like being as close as possible.’

‘You own the building?’

‘The two of us do. How’d you know?’

McCabe smiled. ‘You and the design seem to fit each other so well.’

Wolfe returned the smile with obvious pleasure. ‘Thank you.’

They sat. The smiles faded. ‘Now, who’s my patient?’ Wolfe asked. ‘The one you say is involved in some crime?’

‘Woman named Abby Quinn.’

‘Abby?’ Wolfe looked surprised. ‘What on earth has Abby been doing?’

McCabe decided to lay it out. ‘Witnessing a murder.’

Wolfe took a minute to absorb the information. ‘The Elaine Goff murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Abby saw it happen?’

‘Yes. You knew Goff, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but not well. We served on a board together. Sanctuary House. We saw each other once a month at board meetings.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Goff or Abby?’

‘Goff.’

‘At the last meeting. They take place the second Tuesday of each month. That would have been . . .’ Wolfe flipped through the pages of a Day Planner. ‘Tuesday, December thirteenth. From seven till nine.’

‘And Goff was there?’

‘Yes. As I recall she came in late. The meeting had already started.’

‘Who else attended?’

Wolfe rattled off a list of names. None of them rang any bells for McCabe except John Kelly.

‘How long have you been treating Abby?’

‘Since her first stay at Winter Haven. Right after her first suicide attempt. A little over three years now.’

‘So you know her well?’

‘Yes. Probably as well as anyone.’

‘Who were her friends?’

‘Abby doesn’t really have any. Not close ones, anyway. I wish she did.’

‘Who would she turn to if she needed someone to take her in? Perhaps to hide her?’

‘Abby’s hiding somewhere?’ Wolfe asked. ‘Is she in danger?’

‘She may be. Where do you think she’d go?’

‘I don’t know. I would’ve hoped she’d come to me.’

‘But she hasn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Is there anyone else?’

Wolfe considered the question. ‘Maybe John Kelly. He might take her in. Give her sanctuary, as it were. There’s also Lori Sparks, the woman she works for on Harts Island.’

‘Kelly said he hasn’t seen her. So did Sparks.’

‘I don’t know, then. Are you sure Abby actually saw the murder take place?’

‘Yes.’

Wolfe sipped at his Scotch. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. Abby’s been doing so well lately. This could be a major setback.’

‘Did you think she was cured?’

‘No. Abby’s schizophrenic. There’s no cure for what she has. It’s more about treatment and control. The last thing she needed was a major trauma.’

Wolfe peered at McCabe through the rimless glasses. He looked puzzled. ‘One thing I don’t understand, though. Since you apparently don’t know where Abby is, how is it you know she saw the murder?’

‘The night Goff was killed, Abby ran to the police station on Harts Island and told the officer on duty that she saw it happen.’

‘And?’

‘And he didn’t believe her.’

‘Because of her illness?’

‘Yes. He thought she was hallucinating.’

‘I see.’ Wolfe nodded. ‘And what, exactly, has convinced the Portland Police Department to change its collective mind?’

‘Abby told the cop details of the murder she couldn’t have known unless she was there. Unless she actually saw what she said she saw. By the time he reported it to us, she was already gone.’

‘Was she able to identify the killer? Was it someone she knew?’

‘No. That’s where this gets messy and where I may need your help as her doctor. All she could tell us was that he was a naked male. When the officer asked her for a description, she couldn’t provide one. Just said his face exploded in fire and he had icicles for eyes.’

‘That’s it? No further details?’

‘The conversation wasn’t recorded, but as far as we know, that’s it. She said it a couple of times.’

Wolfe sighed. ‘She is hallucinating. Which either means she’s off her meds or the trauma’s making them less effective.’

‘Does that happen?’

‘It can under extreme stress. I was worried something was wrong when she didn’t show up for her session Wednesday.’

‘When did you last speak to her?’

‘Two weeks ago. Just before Christmas. Abby’s sessions are Wednesdays at eleven. That would have been, let’s see . . .’ He flipped again through his Day Planner. ‘December the twenty-first.’