The Cutting mm-1

by James Hayman

  Maggie missed the light at Pearl. While they waited, McCabe watched a group of office workers cross the street in front of them, probably escaping early for a September weekend. He envied them their freedom. When the light changed, Maggie drove across India and up Munjoy Hill, where Fore Street turns into the Eastern Prom. Casco Bay glittered before them.

  As she pulled in behind his condo, McCabe broke the silence. ‘Did you ever talk to DeWitt Holland?’

  ‘On the phone,’ said Maggie. ‘Not much joy in it. Said he hadn’t seen Spencer in a couple of years. I made a date to interview him in person tomorrow.’

  ‘Did he seem nervous?’

  ‘Not especially. Claimed he didn’t know anything about the murder, hadn’t even seen it on the news. “I don’t pay attention to things like that” is how he phrased it.’

  ‘Telling the truth?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He was pretty smooth.’

  ‘Maybe you better call your homicide buddy on the Boston PD. If Holland was involved or knew anything about it, he could be next on Killer Kane’s hit list.’

  Maggie reached for her cell and dialed. ‘His name’s John Bell,’ she said to McCabe as she flipped the phone to speaker mode.

  ‘Hey, Mag,’ Bell’s voice boomed out, ‘how goes the investigation? When are you coming down?’

  ‘John, I’ve got my partner, Mike McCabe, with me. You’re on speaker.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine. What’s up?’

  ‘We’ve had another murder up here. Victim was a top heart surgeon. We think Dr. DeWitt Holland, a heart surgeon at the Brigham, may be the killer’s next target.’

  ‘Jesus, somebody have something against heart docs? Can you give me a little background on this?’

  McCabe slipped a note under Maggie’s nose. How much do you trust this guy?

  She scrawled underneath, Completely.

  ‘Mag, you there?’

  ‘Sorry, John.’ Maggie told Bell what they knew, starting with Katie Dubois’s murder and ending with Philip Spencer’s.

  ‘How does that connect with Holland?’

  ‘Spencer, Holland, and another transplant surgeon named Matthew Wilcox all did their residencies with Kane in New York in the eighties,’ McCabe said. ‘They were big buddies. Called themselves the Asclepius Society after the Greek god of healing. They stayed friends at least through the nineties, climbing mountains together, stuff like that. When Kane dreamed up this illegal transplant idea, naturally he needed a surgeon or two to help. Now we think Kane’s closing the business down and wants to get rid of anyone who knows anything. He’s already killed Spencer and Spencer’s wife. He may have killed Wilcox. We don’t know for sure if Holland’s involved, but if he is, he’s in grave danger. I suggest you get him into protective custody or at least have him covered if Kane comes calling.’

  ‘I’ll e-mail you what we have on Kane,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Any pictures?’ asked Bell. ‘Our guys will want to know who they’re watching for.’

  ‘An old one, taken maybe ten years ago,’ said McCabe. ‘Shows the four friends on top of a mountain. We’ll have our computer guy age Kane a little and send it down.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Bell. ‘You still coming down, Maggie?’

  ‘Yeah, but not today. How about I let you know?’

  ‘I’d love to see you. It’s been what? Five years?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Maggie switched off the phone.

  ‘Flame still burning?’ asked McCabe.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Maggie. ‘Anyway, like you, he’s taken. Married with a new baby.’ She smiled at him. ‘Good luck with the ex,’ she said. ‘You’ll want to spend some time with Casey, and I’ve got a lot that needs doing.’

  Though a good height for her age, five-four and still growing, Casey looked small in his big chair, feet not quite reaching the floor. Her red duffel, the one for overnights, waited on the floor by her side. Bunny sat perched on her lap. Casey fiddled with the animal’s remains, mostly just ragged ears.

  McCabe figured he could use something to fiddle with, too. A bunny for grow-ups. He thought how good a cigarette would taste right about now. It’d even make Sandy happy. She could report him for secondhand smoke. He pushed the urge away.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Ready to go?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re taking Bunny?’

  She looked up, her oval face, framed by dark hair, more like Sandy’s every day. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, as if expecting him to object.

  ‘Okay.’

  She had on one of her new outfits. He supposed the rest of the new clothes were packed in the bag. Sitting there she reminded him of the last kid at summer camp, the one whose parents always arrived late to pick her up. He sat opposite on the white couch. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll have a good time.’

  She looked at him as if he’d said something stupid, then looked back at Bunny.

  They didn’t say anything else for a while. Finally he got up and knelt in front of her chair. He took both her hands in his. ‘Casey, I know how hard this is after three years. Really. I do. I think one of the reasons your mother wants to see you is because she realizes how much she’s missed by not being part of your life and how sorry she is about that. I also think maybe you’re feeling that by spending time with Sandy you’re being disloyal to me. You’re not. I think it’ll be good for you to get to know your mother again. When I say I hope you have a good time, I’m not talking about staying at a fancy hotel or going to shows or any of that stuff. I want you to have a good time being with your mother. Not because I love her — that’s way over — but because I love you. Does that make sense?’

  McCabe kissed his daughter. Then he went back to the sofa and sat down. After a couple of minutes she got up and climbed into his lap and hugged him. They sat together like that until, at five minutes after four, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Hello, McCabe.’

  ‘Hello, Sandy.’ She looked as gorgeous as ever. Wealth agreed with her. He felt his heart beating hard in his chest. He breathed deeply to try to slow it down.

  ‘May I come in? Or are we just going to stand here in the hallway?’ He moved to one side, and she walked into the apartment. ‘Hello, Casey,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you again.’

  Sandy offered Casey her hand. Casey took it, and they shook. ‘Are you all ready?’

  ‘I just have to go to the bathroom.’

  ‘Okay. Off you go.’ Casey went down the hall. McCabe figured she needed a minute to adjust.

  ‘Nice view,’ said Sandy, gazing out at the boats in the bay.

  ‘That’s one of the nice things about living in Portland. The water’s never far away. You’re staying at the Four Seasons?’

  ‘Yes, the suite’s booked under Peter’s name. Ingram.’

  ‘I remember. Will he be there?’

  ‘No. He’s in Europe on business. It will just be us girls.’

  ‘Casey will have her cell phone with her, but why don’t you give me yours just in case.’ She recited the number.

  ‘Here’s mine,’ he said. He handed her a slip of paper with the number on it. ‘Call if there’s any problem. Any problem at all. You should get her back by five on Sunday. She’ll need Sunday night for her homework.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Casey returned, unzipped her bag, and stuffed Bunny inside. McCabe looked at his daughter. ‘Remember what I said about having a good time.’

  For the first time, she smiled. She was trying to reassure him. ‘I will,’ she said.

  He watched them from the window as they got into Sandy’s rental car. A Chevy Impala. He’d been expecting her to turn up in something fancier. A Mercedes. Or a Jag. Or a Lincoln at the very least. They pulled out of the visitors’ parking space and drove off. McCabe went to the kitchen and poured himself a Scotch. Still a little early, but fuck it. He didn’t go out for cigarettes.

&nb
sp; 49

  Friday. 4:30 P.M.

  He called Maggie. After leaving his place, she’d driven to Spencer’s office, retrieved the Denali picture, and taken it back to Middle Street, where Starbucks produced a high-res scan of Kane’s face, then aged it by ten years. Maggie e-mailed the resulting image to John Bell, to MSP, and to every sheriff’s department and local jurisdiction in the state. Shockley’s office released it to the TV stations and newspapers. Kane was long gone, but at least the searchers would know what he looked like. Aside from that they knew nothing. Not what kind of car he was driving or what direction he was headed in. He could be driving back to Florida for all they knew. McCabe asked Maggie to e-mail the picture to Aaron Cahill in Orlando along with an update.

  Next he called Tasco, who was still at 24 Trinity Street. Jacobi and an additional team of techs from the state crime lab in Augusta were going over the place. So far they’d found nothing of significance except Hattie Spencer’s cell phone, turned off, in a kitchen drawer under the toaster. Terri Mirabito came on the line, her voice weary. ‘I’ve got one Spencer scheduled for tomorrow morning, one for the afternoon. A two-for-one special. No extra charge. I’ll e-mail you the particulars.’

  McCabe found a Maine road map, a ruler, a piece of string, a red marker, and a yellow highlighter. He spread them all out on the kitchen table and began reconstructing Sophie’s ride to the surgery site. From her description, McCabe was certain Pollock headed north on 95. Through the first tollbooth at York. Then another thirty-five miles to Portland, where he could have stayed on 95 or diverted to 295. Slightly shorter that way, but it didn’t much matter. Both were four-lane interstates, and they came together again a little south of Augusta. Three tolls either way. Based on Sophie’s estimates of time, locations of tollbooths, and the assumption that Pollock was careful to stay at or just slightly above the speed limit, it still made sense that he exited at Augusta and drove maybe forty to sixty miles on local roads.

  McCabe lined up the string with the scale of the map and marked it at forty and again at sixty miles. He drew a red semicircle on the map in an arc, west to east, forty miles from the exit and another parallel arc at sixty. He colored the area between the two red lines with yellow highlighter. Hundreds of square miles.

  Lucas Kane was someone I knew a long time ago, Harriet Spencer said. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.

  In Blue Hill?

  Near there.

  Blue Hill was inside the yellow zone.

  McCabe booted up Casey’s computer. He went to the Web site for the Town of Blue Hill. On it he found a phone number for Priscilla Pepper, Town Clerk, Tax Collector, and Registrar of Voters.

  ‘Town of Blue Hill.’ An older woman’s voice. Her accent pure Downeast.

  ‘Priscilla Pepper, please.’

  ‘This is she.’

  ‘Ms. Pepper, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland Police Department.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m conducting an important investigation. I wonder if I could trouble you for some tax information about a couple of properties in or near Blue Hill.’

  ‘Well, I can help you if the property’s in Blue Hill. Not if it’s near.’ Priscilla Pepper spoke in clipped, measured tones. McCabe realized she couldn’t be hurried.

  ‘Do you have any record of a property belonging to a man named Maurice Kane? K-A-N-E.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ No reaction to the name. Maybe she wasn’t a classical music fan. More likely, Ms. Pepper didn’t think it seemly to comment on a neighbor’s fame.

  She returned after a couple of minutes. ‘I have the record. Mr. Kane owns about twenty-five acres, eight miles north of town off Range Road.’

  ‘Not on the water?’

  ‘No. Just a small pond.’

  ‘Is there a house on the property?’

  ‘Two structures. One big one. Over three thousand square feet. Also a secondary structure. Supposed to be a guest cottage. Eight hundred square feet. Primarily a summer property. Mr. Kane’s not registered to vote here.’

  ‘Is it winterized?’ Kane would have a tough time transplanting hearts in an unheated building during a Maine winter.

  ‘Nothing in the assessment says anything about either house being seasonal.’

  ‘Could you give me directions to the Kane place?’

  ‘Know how to get to Blue Hill?’

  ‘I can find it.’

  ‘Take Pleasant Street north out of town. That’s Route 15. After about three miles, fork right onto Range Road. Go two, maybe three miles. You’ll pass a big farm on your right. After another mile, make a right onto a dirt road. Follow it about two miles and you’ll see a mailbox. Says 113. No name on it. Drive another mile or so down a private road to the house. Never been down there myself, but the tax map says the road’s unimproved. Turns into a long driveway for Kane. Don’t think you’ll find any people there this time of year. Folks like that usually clear out right after Labor Day.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, Ms. Pepper.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Oh. One last thing. Could you check one more record for me?’

  ‘Well, Detective, I was about to leave. It is after five o’clock, you know.’

  ‘Last favor, I promise. Any permits for construction anywhere on the property in, say, the last five years?’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  McCabe waited again.

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I do see one thing. Strikes me as kinda funny, though.’

  ‘Funny in what way?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to put a finished basement under a small summer guest cottage? Seems like a big waste of money, if you ask me.’

  *

  Using the satellite imagery available on Google, McCabe pinpointed the location. He couldn’t see any house, but the area appeared heavily wooded. The house might be hidden.

  Next he Googled Maurice Kane. Over a million hits. Most focused on Kane’s career. Dozens of biographies but no obituaries. The maestro was apparently still alive. McCabe scanned some of the documents. Kane was born in Bath, England, in 1919, which made him eighty-five or eighty-six today. A certifiable prodigy, he played his first public concert when he was seven and studied under some of the most celebrated musicians in Europe. In September of ’39, Kane joined British intelligence, working as a translator and interpreter for the duration of the war. For six years, he performed only occasionally, mostly in London. After the war his career blossomed. Critics raved about ‘the witty, apparently effortless muscularity’ of his style. Others extolled his ‘supreme virtuosity.’ He moved to New York in 1961. McCabe found dozens of recordings, but no new albums released since the late nineties. Concert tours stopped around then as well. A European tour in 1997 was canceled due to a mild heart attack. Another was canceled two years later, the reason given as ‘nervous exhaustion.’ McCabe probed further. Kane was hospitalized early in 2000 for ‘chest pains.’ A reference to congestive heart failure. There was no mention of surgery. No mention of anything after 2001.

  The phone rang. Maggie. Calling from Trinity Street. ‘Thought you were coming back here?’

  ‘How’s the search going?’

  ‘Still going.’

  ‘Find anything interesting?’

  ‘Not a whole lot.’

  ‘Lucas leave any prints?’

  ‘Not that anyone’s found yet. Back to my original question. You joining us?’

  ‘No. You and Tasco and Jacobi can finish the search. I’m driving up to Blue Hill.’

  ‘What’s in Blue Hill?’

  ‘Lucas Kane’s boyhood home.’

  ‘You think that’s where he went?’

  ‘I think maybe it’s where he goes to cut up people.’

  ‘And you intend to go alone?’

  ‘That was my plan.’

  ‘A pretty dumb plan, if you don’t mind my saying so. You already got your ass in a sling for meeting Sophie
in Gray without backup. Why don’t you call out the troopers? There’s a barracks nearby in Ellsworth.’

  ‘For what? So they can come storming in on a possibly empty house with flak jackets and combat gear? Based on what? A hunch? A gut instinct?’

  ‘Based on this being a dangerous guy who’s already killed more people than I care to count. Shit, McCabe, you always think you can do everything alone — and you call Kane a risk-taker. Even the Lone Ranger never went anywhere without Tonto.’

  ‘Mag, all I know at this point is this is where Kane spent summers as a kid. Absolutely nothing says he’s there now. He could be anywhere. If I need help, then I can call in the troopers.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Not necessary, Maggie.’

  ‘Bullshit. Look what happened the last time you said that. You need some kind of backup, and I guess it’ll have to be me. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Be here in ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ll stop in at 109. Just to make sure we have everything we need.’

  50

  Friday. 7:00 P.M.

  McCabe drove, following the route he’d constructed on the map. They left the turnpike at Augusta and headed east in slow traffic along Route 3. On a Friday night in September, the roads were still crowded with weekenders, in spite of predictions from the cheery voice on NPR of cool, overcast fall weather. They stayed on 3 through South China and Belfast. NPR was right about cool. The temperature was dropping, and Maggie flipped on the heater. They went through Bucksport, then turned south, leaving 3 and continuing on 15 toward Blue Hill. Nearly four hours after leaving Portland, McCabe found the turnoff from 15 onto Range Road. Five minutes later they passed the dirt road Priscilla Pepper had told McCabe would be there. The night was dark now, and cold, with temperatures in the upper thirties. They passed a mailbox on the left. McCabe stopped, reversed, saw the numbers 113, reversed again, and found a place to leave the car where it wouldn’t be seen. He planned to approach the place on foot. They got out of the car into an inky black night without a moon. Too damned cold for the light jacket he was wearing.