The Cutting

by James Hayman

  Suppose Kane had killed someone else to convince people he was dead. Why? So he could become Harry Lime? In the film The Third Man, Harry Lime faked his own death on the theory that the police would never go after a dead man. Had Kane done the same thing for the same reason? The choice of names seemed almost too obvious. Once again the risk-taker? What about the other name? Pollock’s alias, Paul Oliver Duggan. The name used by the assassin in Day of the Jackal.

  McCabe replayed Spencer’s words again in his mind. A tragic, tragic loss. In some ways Lucas was the most talented of us all. Talented enough to perform transplant surgery on elderly patients after fifteen years of not being a doctor? Seemed like a reach. Talented enough to be someone’s assistant? Holland’s. Wilcox’s. Or even Spencer’s. Maybe they were all in on it. The Asclepius Society. Killing healthy young people to bring the dead back to life.

  McCabe let his mind range over the possibilities. What about the victims? Katie Dubois. Lucinda Cassidy. Elyse Andersen. Wendy Branca. Brian Henry. All blond. All athletes. All physically attractive. All but one female. The Harry Lime name was linked to both Dubois and Andersen. Dubois was raped before being murdered. Dubois and Andersen had their hearts cut out. The fate of the others remained uncertain.

  McCabe wondered about Kane’s sexuality. In Miami he lived an openly gay lifestyle. Maybe he was bisexual. Common enough. He remembered reading Kinsey Institute statistics claiming 11.6 percent of white males between twenty and thirty-five were equally attracted to men and women.

  Bollinger returned. He handed her her coffee. ‘What do you know about Kane’s sex life?’

  ‘Ah, now we’re getting to the fun stuff,’ said Bollinger.

  ‘Seriously. I know he had an ongoing relationship with Pollard – excuse me, Pollock – but beyond that?’

  ‘Lucas Kane was a sexual predator. Men. Women. It didn’t matter. He was vicious and voracious.’

  ‘You mean AC/DC?’

  ‘No. That’s too gentle a word for it. Sex defined nearly everything Lucas Kane did. He consumed people. Used them and abused them. Most of his targets were young and fit, but lack of beauty never deterred Lucas. If he wanted something, he used sex to get it. He even hit on fat old me on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Did he score?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Lucas Kane was physically attractive, very attractive. Beautiful, really, but I found him psychically repellent. Like a snake. Lucas would take you, suck you dry, and throw you away. Darryl Pollock was the only human being I can think of, and I use the term “human being” loosely, who was tough enough or insensitive enough or sociopathic enough not to care. A match made in heaven. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s change the subject. Lucas’s sex life gives me the creeps.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me about Stan Allard’s suicide.’

  ‘I guess that’s weird thing number three. I don’t think it was suicide.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What happened is, a little after Kane’s death, Stan’s marriage finally broke up and he moved into this grubby little place called the Endless Dunes. Basically a hot-sheets motel a couple of blocks from the beach. The way Sessions tells it, Stan was so depressed about splitting with his wife that he just wanted to end it all.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Stan wasn’t depressed. He was overjoyed. A few days before the supposed suicide, I had a couple of drinks with him. You know what he said about the breakup? “Best thing that ever happened to me. I should have walked out on the bitch years ago.”

  ‘Then we started bullshitting about the Kane murder, and I told him about some of my concerns about the fingerprints and DNA. All he said was, “I’m working on that.”

  ‘I said, “What do you mean you’re working on it? I thought the case was closed?”

  ‘He said, “It wasn’t cleared. It isn’t closed. I’m working on it.” Listen, McCabe, Stan Allard was a smart, tough cop. A survivor. I say there’s no way he shot himself.’ Bollinger paused.

  ‘You think it was Pollock and Kane.’

  ‘One or the other. Or both. Duane did most of Kane’s dirty work, but they both liked hurting people. Probably liked killing them.’

  ‘They killed Allard because Allard was getting too close to proving Kane wasn’t dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sessions didn’t do anything about it?’

  ‘I’ve got some pretty good sources who tell me Sessions was on Kane’s payroll. Hired and paid for. He wanted everyone thinking Kane was dead. Again nothing I can prove. Or even print.’

  ‘How do you think they did Allard?’

  ‘I think Kane and Pollard, sorry, Pollock, may have been waiting in Stan’s motel room. When he gets home, they render him unconscious, sit him in a chair, wrap his hand around his gun, stick it in his mouth, and bang. There were powder burns inside Stan’s mouth and evidence of saliva on the barrel of the gun.’

  ‘What kind of gun?’

  ‘A Glock 17. It was Stan’s.’

  ‘Where did they find it?’

  ‘On the floor by the body.’

  ‘Nobody heard the shot?’

  ‘Nobody they could find. Nobody willing to talk. Remember, the guest list at the Endless Dunes is mostly hookers and other romantic types who don’t want to get caught.’

  ‘So Sessions doesn’t blow the whistle …’

  ‘Because Kane can prove he was on the take.’

  ‘He leave a suicide note?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any sign of a choke hold or drugs in Stan’s blood?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you can’t prove a thing.’

  ‘Damn, you’re good, McCabe.’

  46

  Friday. 10:30 A.M.

  McCabe half expected Sandy to turn up on his flight back to Portland. Thank God, she didn’t. Sitting next to Sandy, chatting about her coming weekend with Casey, would have been more than he could have handled. Anyway, it was early. Sandy was probably still in her West End Avenue apartment, picking out the perfect wardrobe for parental visitation. Something conservative and motherly. Sandy was good at playing roles, equally good at dressing for them.

  The plane was one of those small commuter jobs with undersized seats. He looked around to see if he could snag an empty row before squeezing into his assigned aisle seat. No such luck. The flight was packed. Next to him a distracted businesswoman in full New York chic rummaged through her Ferragamo briefcase. He smiled at her. She smiled back as she extracted a Wall Street Journal and stowed the briefcase under the seat. Then she immersed herself in the paper, signaling a lack of interest in small talk. McCabe leaned back in agreement, closed his eyes, and thought about his conversation with Melody Bollinger. Was Lucas Kane dead and buried in Florida or alive and cutting out hearts in Maine? He was ready to bet on the latter.

  His cell phone vibrated shortly after the plane bumped down at Portland International Jetport. Maggie’s name appeared in the window. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Good news, bad news. The good news is I’m back on the case and on my way to search Spencer’s house. Thought you might want to join us. Unless you’re still in New York.’

  ‘No, I’m here. Just touched down. What’s the bad news?’

  ‘We don’t know where Spencer is.’

  ‘He’s gone?’ McCabe looked out the window. The plane seemed to be crawling to the gate. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘We don’t know. The cop watching his house doesn’t know. The hospital doesn’t know either. Woman at the Levenson Heart Center said he was supposed to be in surgery this morning. He never showed up.’

  Spencer would never miss surgery, would he? The plane stopped about a hundred yards short of the terminal. ‘When was the last time anyone spoke to him?’

  ‘At 6:00 A.M.,’ said Maggie. ‘Hospital called him at home. He answered.’

 
Maggie was interrupted by the voice of the captain. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid there’ll be a short delay while we wait for a gate to open up. Shouldn’t be more than a minute or two.’

  ‘Shit,’ McCabe said. Too loudly. The woman next to him gave him a look. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. He looked out the window. Couldn’t see anything.

  ‘A teenage boy died early this morning,’ Maggie continued, ‘from injuries in a car crash. Spencer was supposed to be installing his heart in a thirty-two-year-old woman named –’ Maggie paused. Seemed like she was checking her notes. ‘– Lisa Lynch.’

  ‘He never showed up?’

  ‘You got it. They called Dr. Codman to cover. Almost lost the heart and the woman.’

  Why would Spencer not show up? There were a lot of reasons, none of them good. ‘You tried the house yourself, and his cell?’

  ‘Yeah. Voice mail picks up on both. I think we were wrong about him not being involved. I think he flew the coop,’ said Maggie.

  McCabe doubted it. Even if Maggie was right and Spencer was involved, taking off would practically be an admission of guilt. Okay. They had the earring, and the blood from the Lexus, but even taken together that wouldn’t be enough to convict. Not with a lawyer like Sheldon Thomas. Hell, they couldn’t even prove Spencer was driving the Lexus. The evidence they had was a lot less damning than OJ and his Bruno Magli shoes. Thomas would have told him that.

  The plane inched forward again.

  Maggie’s voice was in his ear. ‘I think maybe he’s guilty and Tasco rattled him more than you thought during that interview. He decides we’re getting close to nailing him and bango, he hits the road.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe,’ McCabe said. Although he wasn’t buying it. The plane reached the gate. The pilot turned off the seat belt sign, and people all around him started getting up. ‘What about Hattie?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t know where she is either. I think they took off together.’

  The woman next to McCabe was looking at him again. He was still in his seat, and she wanted out. He stood up and banged his head on the overhead. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked, pushing his way into the aisle and rubbing his head.

  ‘We’re just leaving 109.’

  ‘Have you put out an ATL yet?’ He didn’t want to use Spencer’s name.

  ‘Yeah. For both the BMW and the Porsche. Every department in Maine plus the New Hampshire staties.’

  The flight attendant opened the door, and the line of people started inching out.

  ‘We’ve got public transport covered as well. Buses. Trains. The airport.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll run into them on the way out,’ said McCabe. The idea made him smile. Grimly.

  The line stopped again. In front of McCabe, a girl around twenty, probably a college kid, was blocking the aisle, struggling to release a duffel bag way too big for the overhead space. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket and wrestled it down for her. They started moving again.

  He could hear Maggie shouting from inside his pocket. ‘Hey, McCabe, you still there?’

  He pulled the phone out. ‘Yeah. I’m trying to get off the plane. Call you right back.’ He flipped it off.

  Up ahead, the flight attendant chirped her mandatory farewells. ‘Bye-bye.’ Smile. ‘Bye-bye.’ Smile. ‘Bye-bye.’ Smile. Finally he was free.

  He called Maggie back. ‘Meet you at Trinity Street?’

  ‘I just sent a car to the airport to pick you up,’ she told him. ‘Should be there any minute.’

  By the time McCabe reached the exit, the black-and-white Crown Vic was pulling into a no-parking zone right out front, lights flashing. He slipped into the front seat. ‘Alright, hit it,’ he told the officer driving. ‘Lights and siren, 24 Trinity Street.’

  Dave Hennings called as they turned out of the airport and onto Congress Street. McCabe asked the driver to silence the siren.

  ‘Howdy, partner, how you doing?’

  ‘Not so great, Dave. A suspect just turned up missing. We’re about to search his house. You have anything for me?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a good thing I love you like family. I had to flaunt my Homeland Security creds big-time on this one. Threaten our nation’s air carriers with the Patriot Act. Imply Wilcox was a suspected terrorist. Anyway, it turns out he made three short round-trips between Raleigh-Durham and Portland over the past year. Trip number one was last December. First class out of Raleigh-Durham on United 3281 December fourteenth, changed planes in D.C. He returned on the seventeenth, also on United.’

  Wendy Branca, thought McCabe.

  ‘Second trip was April nineteenth, return on the twenty-third. Same flights.’

  Brian Henry.

  ‘Third trip was just last week. Left North Carolina on US Air 621 and changed in Newark.’

  ‘What days?’

  ‘Left Raleigh-Durham Tuesday the thirteenth and returned Friday morning the sixteenth. How’s that jibe with what you got?’

  ‘You hit the trifecta, Dave. Three dates. Three victims. They all coincide.’

  ‘Well, my friend, that means you’ve got serious cause for concern. Because Dr. Wilcox may be back in Maine as we speak.’

  Oh, Christ. Lucinda Cassidy.

  ‘He flew out of Raleigh-Durham Wednesday afternoon on American 1560, landed in Fort Lauderdale.’

  ‘Lauderdale? I thought you said Maine.’

  ‘Hold on. I’m getting to that. His return flight’s Sunday morning. From Portland. No info on how he gets from Lauderdale to Portland. Airline calls it “arunk.” Arrival unknown. Just to be sure we had the right Matthew Wilcox, I called his office at UNC. Assistant said he was out of town. Wouldn’t be back until Monday. I asked her if she knew where he was going. She said no. Not real friendly for a southern gal. So I took the obvious tack and scared the bejesus out of her. Told her she might be aiding and abetting terrorist activity.’

  ‘Jesus, Dave. You could get your ass in a sling for that.’

  ‘Nah. I’ll be alright. She didn’t sound like she wanted any trouble. Anyway, she finally told me he’d gone to Boca Raton on personal business and then was heading to Maine for the weekend.’

  ‘Did she say where in Maine?’

  ‘Said she didn’t know. I also checked his cell phone. It’s been turned off since he left town.’

  ‘Let me have the number,’ said McCabe. Hennings gave it to him. ‘The airline have any information on where he’s staying in Maine or possible car rentals?’

  ‘No. None. I called Hertz and Avis directly. Nothing there either. I haven’t had time to check the others. Also haven’t checked the chain hotels. Of course, there’s a million independents up there in Maine. He could be at any one of them.’

  ‘Or none, and he could be using an assumed name.’ The driver pulled up around the corner from Spencer’s house on Trinity Street. Tasco and Fraser were already there in one car, Maggie in another. Half a dozen uniformed officers completed the search team.

  ‘Good hunting.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  ‘My pleasure. By the way, we’re now officially even on favors. You may even owe me a couple.’

  ‘Absolutely. Love to Rosemary.’

  The detectives huddled in the street discussing strategy. Because Lucinda Cassidy might be a hostage, McCabe told the others he wanted to enter quietly and not force a confrontation. They deployed the uniformed officers to the sides and rear of the property to cut off avenues of escape. Tasco and Fraser covered the driveway. Maggie and McCabe headed for the house.

  Twenty-four Trinity Street had an empty, forlorn look about it. Windows shut. Shades drawn. On the front step, Maggie stood to one side of the door, her back against the house, McCabe to the other. He rang the bell. They waited. Rang it again. Quietly, McCabe tried the handle. Locked. They could either break in or pick the lock. Again McCabe preferred the quiet option. Less likely to panic anyone
hiding inside. The front lock was an Ilco tubular model. Pickable but not easy. Plus you needed special tools they didn’t have.

  They slipped around to the kitchen door and looked in through the glass. Empty. A coffee mug on the round oak table, nothing else out of place. He tried the knob. Locked, an older-style Schlage pin-and-tumbler dead bolt. He took out the small leather wallet he’d brought from Maggie’s car and withdrew a slender tension wrench and one of three stainless steel picks, each shaped like a delicate dental tool, a small hook on the end. He knelt, putting the lock at eye level. Maggie drew her weapon and waited.

  McCabe inserted the wrench in the keyhole and turned it a quarter turn to the right. Then he slid the pick in, probed, found a pin, and eased it onto the narrow ledge of the cylinder. One by one, he lifted the remaining pins. When all five were clear of the shear line, he turned the wrench. The lock slid open.

  Inside, weapons drawn, the two detectives looked and listened to the silence. A slow drip from the kitchen faucet. The ticking of a clock. A motor turning on in the fridge. The coffee mug on the table was filled about halfway with clear liquid, traces of lipstick marking the rim. McCabe sniffed. The scent of gin. A familiar ploy of drunks the world over. Every morning, for years, Tom McCabe senior sipped his Bushmill’s from a bone china teacup. ‘Pa’s tea,’ he called it. Mom never spoke of it. Never let the kids say anything either. Not to the old man. Not to anyone. She grew angry when Tom junior, Tommy the Narc, brought it up the day they put the old man in the ground. Sixty-one years old. A liver ailment. Mom only forgave Tommy his indiscretion after he himself was dead.

  Four interior doors led from the kitchen. The first opened on an empty butler’s pantry. The second, a set of back stairs leading up to the second floor. Behind the third, more stairs, this time down to what looked like an unfinished cellar. The last door led into a broad central hall. They decided Maggie would stay in the kitchen to block anyone exiting from either the back stairs or the cellar. McCabe would check the other rooms.