Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Twelve

It was a little after one thirty in the morning when Maggie pulled the Explorer up in front of an oversized gray house on Seal Point. McCabe studied the place from the passenger seat. There were just the two of them. Bowman and Daniels had been left behind, and Cates had rejoined his search teams. The fewer people who tramp around a crime scene the better, even one that might already be compromised. Forensics 101.

Different cops work in different ways, and McCabe liked to look at a crime scene with the eye of the filmmaker he once dreamed of becoming. He broke events down into discrete scenes, choreographed the movement of the principal players through each scene, considered the lighting, and shot the action with the camera in his mind from as many angles as he could. Later he’d edit the mental footage until it told a complete and, hopefully, coherent story. For McCabe it was the closest he could come to actually having been there.

He sat next to Maggie in the dark, not talking, just looking out the window and listening to the slap of the wipers. Heavy gray tarps, stretched end to end across the middle of the front yard, were already nearly invisible under new snow. Finally he asked, ‘Any useful prints under those things?’

Maggie nodded. ‘A few.’

‘Bowman’s?’

‘No. His are all clustered away from the others. Looks like he was being careful not to destroy evidence.’

Good. At least the asshole had done something right.

‘Someone, I think Abby, entered the property, wearing ice cleats. You can see some cleat prints on top of the ice. She broke through in a couple of places. She took a circuitous route, staying close to the shrubbery over there on the right. Then she stayed close against the house till she reached the porch steps.’

McCabe remembered the full moon Tuesday night. Assuming Abby got to the place around ten or eleven o’clock, it would have lit the front yard almost like daylight. She was trying to stay in the shadows. Not be seen by whoever was in the house. The layer of crusty snow extended up the steps and onto the porch. Blown in by the wind off the sea. ‘She go in the front door?’

‘No, but she must’ve thought about it. There’s a couple of her cleat prints right in front of the door. Everything’s kind of messed up in that area, ’cause that’s how they came out, but there is a nice clear trail of cleats going around the side of the porch to the back. Best I can tell, she checked out the garage, then went into the house through the back door.’

‘And came out the front?’

‘Yeah. With somebody chasing her. Coming out, she went straight down the middle, and the bad guy came after her.’

‘What do you have from him?’

‘Everything’s pretty messed up. Looks like somebody, the bad guy I think, slipped and took a fall. Still, we got a couple of decent imprints. Looks like he was barefoot.’

Must have been desperate. Running barefoot on snow and ice in ten-degree weather. McCabe wondered if he was totally naked. Might have been if he raped Goff just before killing her.

‘A couple of partials of his feet are pretty clear. One heel and two toes. Good indication of size. Should be able to make casts of them.’

‘See anything that looks like it might have been Goff’s?’

‘No. He might have carried her in. Remember, she didn’t come out again. Goff only had a one-way ticket.’

A one-way ticket to the Hotel California. The old Eagles song started up in McCabe’s head. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Goff didn’t. Quinn barely did.

‘When’s Jacobi coming?’

‘Tonight. Weather report’s calling for a heavy snow drop, so he wants to get out here and get as much of the scene tied down as possible before the snow wipes out any more of it. They’re already finished at Goff’s. He’s arranging barge transport for the van.’

McCabe sighed. ‘Long night.’

‘Bill’s okay with that. Says Bernice will love spending the overtime.’ Maggie looked over and gave him one of those lopsided grins of hers, with one side of her mouth going up more than the other. A brunette version of Ellen Barkin. ‘So will I,’ she added. ‘If I ever get to go shopping.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. A couple of sets of tire tracks leading into and out of the garage. Looks like two different vehicles to me.’ Then, as if sensing his thoughts, she said, ‘Todd Markham told me he hasn’t been on the island in months. He wasn’t sure about Isabella. When he’s traveling on business, which apparently he does a lot, he says she likes coming up here instead of staying in Boston.’

‘A little lonely, I would’ve thought.’

Maggie just shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe she’s antisocial. Or maybe she’s got a friend.’

‘Has she been up here in the last month or so?’

‘We’ll have to ask.’

‘Did you ask him what kind of car she drives?’

‘Yup. A Caddy Escalade.’

McCabe nodded. ‘Any of the tracks readable?’

‘I think so. There’s a couple of nice fat frozen tire prints just inside the door. Different tread patterns. I figure one could be the Escalade, the other the Beemer.’

Would the freak have taken Goff’s car over on the ferry? With Goff inside? Or maybe tied up in the trunk? Then back again with her body? Pretty careless if he did. There were no surveillance cameras on board, but there were plenty of witnesses who might remember a new BMW convertible going across in January. Who might have noticed the driver. Who might be able to describe him. Or her. McCabe checked his phone. There was a signal, but it was weak. With the bulk of the island between Seal Point and the nearest cell tower, that was no surprise. He called Cleary again and managed to connect.

‘ATL in place?’

Cleary told him it was.

‘Okay. Next thing I need you to do is find the home number for the director of the Casco Bay Lines. Wake him up if you have to, but get the crew rosters for every ferry between Portland and Harts Island from the night of the twenty-third until the last boat tonight. Both coming and going. Get the crews’ home numbers, cell numbers, whatever. Just find them. We need to know ASAP if anyone remembers seeing the BMW and if they can remember the driver. Or if anyone actually remembers seeing Goff. Also see if anyone remembers a Caddy Escalade. Massachusetts plates.’

‘Got it.’

‘Also find out if anybody saw Abby on any boat leaving Harts between Wednesday morning and tonight. If you need help, call Fortier. He gives you any shit, tell him to call me.’

‘No problem.’

McCabe smiled. He knew why he loved Cleary.

They found flashlights, stuffed evidence gloves and paper booties in their pockets, and exited the Explorer. The two of them walked south along Seashore, to the bend in the road where the Markhams’ house disappeared from view. Then they turned and looked back. Abby had first seen the candlelight somewhere between here and the path leading up to the porch. They walked back, trying to see things the way Abby saw them as she jogged toward the house four nights ago. It had been an icy night, clear and bright with a full moon and no snow. Native Americans used to call the January full moon the wolf moon to honor the ravenous hunters who once roamed these regions in winter. Driven by cold and hunger and the absence of prey, lone wolves howled their discontent at the heavens. To survive, they needed something warm to kill.

McCabe tracked Quinn’s progress as she rounded the curve into a straight patch. The large wall of windows in the center of the second floor came into view. Had Abby seen candlelight right away? Jogging on an icy road, even with cleats, she might have been looking down, keeping an eye on the icy patches and only glancing up occasionally. McCabe walked gingerly himself; Maggie did the same. He imagined himself in a head-over-heels pratfall, a Keystone Kop slipping on a banana. He’d just as soon avoid a side trip to the hospital with a broken bone.

He reached the stone steps leading up from the road to the front path. By now Abby must have seen the light flickering in the window. He imagined her standing there debating what to do. Did she have a phone? If she did, why didn’t she call the cops? Maybe she figured they wouldn’t believe anything reported by someone they thought was crazy. She would have been right.

What was Abby feeling as she stood there? Curiosity? Fear? Something less rational? Was she already in the middle of a full-blown psychotic episode by the time she looked up, saw the light, and decided to enter the house? For what it was worth, he didn’t think so. How many ‘psychotic nutcases,’ as Bowman called her, ran four miles a night? Bowman had also said, Abby makes a few bucks keeping an eye on some of the summer cottages for the owners. She has keys to all of them. This was one of them. That’s why she went in to investigate. Cause and effect. A deliberate decision. A rational, even courageous, decision. It didn’t seem like the behavior pattern of a schizophrenic who was ‘off her meds.’ He made a note to find and interview Abby Quinn’s doctor as soon as he could. Check Bowman’s assumptions. Check his own.

Of course, even if Abby was totally rational when she entered the house, no jury would ever take her testimony seriously. No prosecutor would even put her on the stand. He imagined a defense lawyer interrogating her on cross, Abby sitting there helpless. You do have a history of seeing things, don’t you, Ms Quinn? Yes. Hallucinations? Yes. Things that aren’t there? Yes. Things that never happened? Yes. Hearing them as well, according to your medical records. Yes, once again. The killer, if they ever caught him, had little to fear from Abby Quinn in a court of law. McCabe, if he ever found Abby, would have to use her in a different way. Perhaps to lead him to the murderer, but not to count on her testimony to convict. It would take something other than Abby’s testimony to right the wrong of Lainie Goff’s murder. He shoved the thought away. He didn’t need to be thinking about that now.

Instead of adding their own footprints to the chaos that was already there, Maggie and McCabe went around to the driveway at the side of the house and headed toward the garage. McCabe slipped on the latex gloves and raised the door a couple of feet. He and Maggie squatted. She pointed at one set of tire treads and then the other. Both were clearly visible, frozen into icy permanence, and would stay that way at least until the temps went above thirty-two and stayed there for more than a day or two. Jacobi would be able to read and photograph them without any problem.

McCabe slid the garage door shut and followed Maggie up the four steps that led to the back of the porch. He shined his light at the area around the door. Like Bowman said, no sign of a B&E. He tried the door. Still open. They waited while Maggie found the key inside the lantern where Markham said it would be and slipped it into a paper evidence bag. If the bad guy used that key to gain access, his prints might still be on it.

McCabe wondered if Lainie walked to her death. Wondered if she was still conscious at that point. Blood tox results would show any drugs used to knock her out, but they wouldn’t have those until well after she thawed. They bent down and donned their paper booties. McCabe pushed the door open, and they went in. He flipped half a dozen dimmer switches and adjusted a ceiling-full of bright floods downward. They worked their way around the room, checking for bits of evidence Bowman might have missed that would tie the scene to Lainie or, even better, to the man who took her life. Except for the fact that the heat was on, nothing seemed out of place. They went upstairs.

The room in which Lainie Goff died was nearly as big as McCabe’s entire apartment, at least if you counted the luxurious bathroom and the two walk-in closets, each spacious enough to serve as individual guest rooms. Through the wall of windows, he could see the rocks and the open sea beyond. Everything in the room was neat, tidy, and in its place. He wondered why the bad guy bothered to light candles. The full moon shining through the wall of windows would have provided more than enough light to dispatch the victim without alerting the curious jogger passing by below. Had he intended some kind of ritual murder, a ceremony of death? All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword. Or did he simply find rape and murder by candlelight romantic? Perhaps the true reasons could only be understood by the killer himself.

Thirteen

Portland, Maine

Saturday, January 7

3:00 A.M.

‘I’m not in real good shape to talk right now,’ Janie Archer told McCabe, ‘but you said it was urgent, so, hey, here I am.’ He was standing on the deck of the Francis R. Mangini, waiting for one of the crew to finish tying the fireboat up to her regular slot on the Portland side.

Archer was slurring her words. McCabe could hear a male voice shouting something unintelligible in the background. He was tempted to tell her to get some sleep and he’d catch her in the morning, but it already was morning, and from the sound of her she might be out of commission for most of the rest of the day. He decided to get what he could now.

He followed Maggie up the slippery ramp to the pier. ‘Ms Archer. My name’s McCabe –’

‘Yeah, I know. You’re a cop. You said that on the message.’ He heard a giggle. Then Archer must’ve pressed her hand over the receiver, because he could just make out her next muffled words. ‘Stop it, Brett. I’m talking.’ Then a loud whisper, ‘To a cop.’

Maggie mouthed the words ‘Good night’ and signaled she was headed home to bed. McCabe threw her a distracted wave and watched her disappear into the night. It was snowing even harder on this side. Three or four inches already, and the wind was swirling it into drifts. They predicted a big one, and it looked like, for once, they’d be right.

‘Are you sure you can talk now, Ms Archer? Sounds like you’re busy.’

‘No. I’m okay. It’s alright. You said it was about Lainie. What is it? What’d she do?’

Had Janie Archer been next of kin, McCabe would have been required to arrange for someone from the NYPD or another agency to visit her apartment and inform her of Lainie’s death in person. But she wasn’t. She was only a friend. ‘Ms. Archer. I’m sorry to have to tell you, your friend Elaine Goff is dead.’

He heard an intake of breath. ‘Oh shit.’

My sentiments exactly, thought McCabe.

‘Lainie’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lainie’s really dead?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid she is.’

‘I thought she was in Aruba.’

‘She never made it to Aruba.’

‘What happened? Was she driving that fucking Beemer too fast again?’

‘No. It wasn’t an accident,’ he said.

‘Not an accident? Then what? She didn’t OD or anything like that?’

No attempt to hide Goff’s drug habit. Maybe with Goff dead Archer figured it didn’t matter. ‘Was she a heavy user?’ he asked.

‘Occasional. Social. It wasn’t a big deal with her.’

McCabe reached the five-minute parking zone to find his car covered in a layer of snow. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had a chance to scrape it off. ‘Do you know the name of her dealer?’ he asked, unlocking the door.

There was hesitation on the other end of the line. ‘Uh . . . gee . . . no. No, I don’t.’

He climbed in and started the engine. ‘Ms. Archer, Elaine Goff’s body was found earlier this evening. If you can give us the name of her dealer, it would be a big help.’ He waited. There was no response. He decided to press harder. ‘Your friend didn’t just die. She was murdered. Drugs were found in her car. There may be a connection.’

Now there was shock. ‘Murdered? Lainie was murdered?’ He could hear the depth of it in her voice. People like Janie Archer, nice people, middle-class people, people with real homes and good jobs, never believed the people they knew, their friends or family, could ever be the victims of anything as ugly as murder. That sort of thing didn’t happen to them. Not in a city like Portland, Maine. Not anywhere. In their minds it only happened to poor people, black people, people in the projects.

‘Do you know the name of her dealer?’

‘She never told me his name. She called him the hotdog man. “Gotta go see the hot-dog man,” she’d say.’

It didn’t mean anything to him. He wasn’t sure if ‘the hot-dog man’ was a dealer’s tag or if selling hot-dogs was what the guy ostensibly did for a living. Easy enough to find out unless he was a total amateur. The narco guys were aware of most of the pros in town. Even the part-timers. There were a few seconds of silence.

‘You’re really a cop? This isn’t some kind of stupid joke?’ The slurring of words was gone.

‘I’m really a cop. Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland, Maine, Police Department, and no, it’s not a joke.’

‘Funny. I was pissed off ’cause she hadn’t sent me a card from Aruba. Stupid me. You better give me some ID. A badge number or something I can check later.’

McCabe repeated the number slowly so she could copy it down.

‘That’s McCabe? M-C? Not M-A-C?’

He told her M-C was correct. After that he could hear her talking to her boyfriend again, this time more calmly. ‘Alright, Brett. It’s time for you to go home.’ Pause. ‘No, I’m sorry, but tonight’s over.’ Brett said something McCabe couldn’t make out. Then he heard Archer again. ‘Yes, something’s happened, and no, I don’t need your help. Just go.’ Pause. ‘Thank you.’ Then another pause and a muttered ‘Asshole.’ Finally he heard a deep breath, and Archer was addressing him again.

‘Where did you get my name?’ she asked.

He pushed the defroster to high, but the car hadn’t yet warmed up enough for it to accomplish much of anything. He realized he was shivering. ‘Elaine Goff listed you as her emergency contact at Palmer Milliken. I got your number from the head of HR.’ Behind him he could hear the loud scraping of a snowplow. He hoped the guy didn’t block him in behind a wall of snow, forcing him to dig his way out of the parking space.

‘Jesus, Lainie was murdered,’ Archer said. This time it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, delivered in a flat voice. Quietly, without affect, as if Janie Archer were merely trying the idea on for size. As if by saying it aloud, she’d be able to tell if such a thing was even possible.

McCabe waited for her to say more, but there was only silence on the other end of the line. ‘Ms. Archer, do you know if Lainie had any family? Anyone who should be notified of her death?’

‘What? I’m sorry. What did you say?’

He repeated the question.

‘No. I’m probably the closest thing to family Lainie had.’ Archer’s voice morphed from disbelief to sadness as if she’d just accepted the reality of her friend’s death and was beginning to mourn. ‘Janie and Lainie they called us. We were so close it was almost like we were two sides of the same person.’

‘What happened to Lainie’s parents?’

‘Her mother died while we were in college. At the end of sophomore year. After that and right through law school, she spent Thanksgivings and Christmases and a couple of summers with my family in New Jersey. Lainie was the sister I never had.’

‘How about her father?’

‘She never knew her real father. He was killed in a car accident when Lainie was a baby.’

‘His name was Goff?’

‘I’m not sure. I think so. It may have been her mother’s maiden name.’

‘There were no siblings?’

‘No. She was an only child.’

‘You just said, “She never knew her real father.” Was there ever a stepfather who might still be around?’

‘She had a stepfather, but he hasn’t been part of her life since she was a kid.’ Archer hesitated again. ‘I don’t think she’d want him notified of anything.’

‘But he’s alive?’

‘Not as far as Lainie was concerned.’

‘Can you give me his name?’

‘Albright. Wallace Albright. He lives in Maine. Camden, I think.’

‘What was Lainie’s problem with Mr Albright?’

Archer didn’t answer right away. When she did, all she said was ‘I think you better ask him that.’

McCabe thought about pressing the issue but decided instead to wait until he talked to Albright. He changed the subject. ‘How’d she pay for school?’

‘She had a scholarship. And loans. And summer jobs. After her mother died, she also had the equity on her mother’s house and the proceeds of a life insurance policy. Couple of hundred thou altogether. She used that to live on all the way through Cornell and for a little time after. Until she started at Palmer Milliken. It was barely enough. Lainie had expensive tastes. Always did. Officer . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name again?’

‘McCabe. Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe.’

‘Officer McCabe, you said Lainie was murdered – but you didn’t tell me when or how. Do you know who did it?’

‘There isn’t very much we can tell you yet. We only found her body a few hours ago, and the investigation is just getting under way.’

‘Are you sure it was Lainie you found?’

‘As sure as we can be. Because death was the result of a homicide, there’ll have to be an autopsy. Probably at the end of the week. After that it looks like it’ll be up to you to make funeral arrangements once the body is released.’

‘I guess so,’ Archer said. ‘Somebody has to be there for Lainie, and I guess I’m it. I’m the only one she has. What kind of . . . I don’t know how to put this delicately. What kind of shape is her body in? Did the killer . . .’

‘She’s not mutilated or grotesque in any way, if that’s what you’re getting at. She’s simply dead.’ There was a brief silence; then McCabe asked, ‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm her?’

‘No.’

‘Or any reason anyone would want to see her dead?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Did she ever mention a Palmer Milliken life insurance policy to you?’

‘No.’

He asked her a few more pro forma questions; then, just as they were about to hang up, she said, ‘Ogden.’

‘What?’

‘Ogden.’

‘What about Ogden?’ Lainie left the office looking pissed. Ogden left ten minutes later. Was he pissed as well? He looked like he always looks. Like a rich white guy.

‘You ought to talk to him about Lainie. Talk to Henry Ogden.’

‘Were they having an affair?’

There was only a slight pause and a sigh before Archer answered. ‘Talk to Ogden.’

Before he could ask her anything more, the phone went dead. He didn’t call back.

McCabe pulled out of the ferry terminal and turned right onto Commercial Street. At a little after three o’clock on a snowy January morning, the streets were empty in a way New York’s never would have been, not even in the middle of a blizzard. There was no traffic, and there were no people. Bars and hotels were shut up tight, and the last of the Old Port revelers had long since gone home. With an overnight parking ban in effect, there weren’t even any parked cars. Nothing moved but the snowplows, scraping their way up and down the streets, orange lights flashing, giant insects on the prowl.

The Crown Vic’s heater was finally generating some warmth, and he turned the blowers on high. He took a left by the Japanese restaurant on India and a right at the treatment plant on Fore Street, steering the big Ford gingerly through the snow, hoping that the Eastern Prom had been plowed and that the car’s rear wheel drive would get him up the hill.

The road turned out to be passable, and it took only a minute or two longer than usual to reach the big white Victorian at the top. He looked up. Kyra had left a living-room light on to welcome him home. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

But instead of turning left into the building’s parking area, he pushed on through the deepening snow, straight up the Prom all the way to Congress, where he took a left. He drove three blocks, made another left, and then another, completing the circle. He pulled to a stop across the street from the building.

He sat in the dark, engine running, and imagined Kyra waiting upstairs. This afternoon’s lovemaking seemed weeks and not mere hours ago. Here he lies where he longed to be. It was true. Still, something else tugged at him.

Did you love her then? Do you still love her now? Richard Wolfe had asked him during their sessions.

Not in the way you mean.

In what way, then?

In the only way I ever loved Sandy.

He needed time and space to understand why he reacted the way he did down at the Fish Pier. Why he was pushing Kyra so hard to marry. That would be impossible to do with her lying next to him. He knew that no matter how silently he crept into their room, she’d wake and smile. No matter how carefully he pulled off his clothes and slid between the sheets next to the warmth of her, she’d open her arms and wrap them around him in greeting. She’d ask about what happened at the Fish Pier and later on Harts Island. He’d tell her to go back to sleep, promise to tell her about it in the morning. She might do that. Might give him space to think. But she might not. And if she didn’t, if, instead, she raised her head and propped it up on one hand and looked at him with those glorious, inquisitive eyes and said no, no, it was alright, he could tell her now, well, that just might be a problem. Because he wasn’t ready yet to talk to her about the feelings Goff’s resemblance to Sandy had triggered in him. He needed to understand all that himself first.

He glanced over at the snow-covered mound that was his own car. The classic ’57 T-Bird convertible he and Sandy splurged on the first year they were married. The Bird was the only project that ever held both their hearts for more than a minute. And that included the daughter she never really wanted, the pregnancy she threatened to abort. He remembered how the two of them spent weekend after weekend working on the car together, restoring it to a gleaming newness that drew stares and admiring whistles from everyone who laid eyes on it. A thing of beauty and a joy forever. Sort of like Sandy herself. At least the beauty part. The car and Casey were all that remained from the ten years he invested in a failed marriage. Except, of course, for the rage and desire he sometimes felt in his dreams. Tonight on the Fish Pier those things made him feel, on some level, like he was being unfaithful to Kyra. He wasn’t happy with that. It was something he needed to deal with.

McCabe slipped the car into drive and plowed his way back into the road. Once again he turned left toward Congress Street. This time he didn’t drive in a circle.