The Girl on the Bridge

by James Hayman

  Heather sat in one of the love seats and signaled Bernstein and Maggie to take the one opposite her. She took a sip from a large glass of red wine that was on the table next to her. There was a mostly empty bottle next to that. Maggie wondered how much she’d had to drink prior to their arrival.

  “Can I offer you some wine? Or perhaps coffee? Or tea?”

  “No thank you. Nothing,” said Maggie.

  Bernstein continued. “Like I told you, Maggie is investigating a missing-person case in Portland.”

  “Yes. Joshua Thorne.”

  Maggie picked up the questioning. “You know Thorne?”

  “Not since college.” Heather shook her head and spoke, more to herself than to the two detectives. “Jesus Christ, first Charlie’s dead and now, like two weeks later, Josh Thorne goes missing? What the hell is going on?”

  “But you did know Thorne?”

  “Of course I knew him. We all went to college together. Holden College up in Willardville, New York. That’s where Charlie and I met. Charlie and Josh were good buddies back then. Fraternity brothers. Teammates on the football team. Lacrosse team as well.”

  “When was the last time you saw Josh? Or spoke to him?”

  “Me personally? Not for ages. Four or five years at least. Charlie and Josh haven’t seen much of each other lately either. I think the last time was back at their tenth reunion two years ago.”

  “Did you go to the reunion?”

  “No. I was class of ’03. One year behind them. But other than that, all I know about Josh these days is what Charlie told me. That he was making a zillion bucks a year and swaggering around like he owned the world and everything in it. The way Charlie described it, Josh kinda thought of himself as the Wolf of Wall Street? Y’know the movie? With Leo DiCaprio? Said Josh thought he could buy anything or anyone he wanted.”

  Maggie frowned. If Charlie described Josh that way it had to be recently because the movie only came out last Christmas. She knew because she’d seen it with Charles Kraft the night she and Kraft broke up. Just before New Year’s Eve. She’d ended up toasting the New Year in the back booth at Tallulah’s with McCabe, who was also on his own at the time.

  “At the reunion Charlie tried to pitch Brumfield Harris’s insurance business and Josh blew him off. Said he didn’t handle the company’s insurance stuff and then shut the conversation off. Charlie got kind of pissed about that. Said as an old friend and fraternity brother Josh could at least have offered to make some introductions to whoever did handle the company’s insurance. It’d take minimal effort on Josh’s part. But getting into the New York financial market would have been a big deal for Charlie.”

  “So Charlie was angry with Josh?”

  “I think hurt or wounded would be more accurate. In any case, I think that’s why they haven’t talked to each other since.”

  “You said you met Charlie at college?”

  “Yeah. I met him a couple of months after I got there but didn’t start dating him seriously till spring semester of my sophomore, his junior, year.”

  “How about Josh? Did you ever date him? Before Charlie, I mean.”

  Heather offered a small smile. “Joshua Thorne? I think every girl on campus had the hots for him. I mean, have you ever seen Thorne? The guy is Hollywood handsome. Least he was back then. Smart too.”

  “Were you one of the girls who had ‘the hots’?”

  Heather poured what was left of the wine into her glass.

  “Yeah, sort of. I mean, if he showed any interest before Charlie and I got together I probably would have jumped at the chance. But he never did. And then the thing with Charlie started and I fell in love with him. He asked me to marry him his senior year.” A sad smile crossed Heather’s face. “He proposed March 21. First day of spring. He thought that would be a romantic day to get engaged. ’Course in upstate New York, March 21 is still the middle of winter so when he got down on his knee he was kneeling in twelve inches of snow. Gave me one of the smallest diamonds you ever saw.” Maggie checked the diamond currently on Heather’s finger. Definitely not the smallest she’d ever seen. Heather must have traded the first one in somewhere along the way. “Charlie’s family didn’t have much money. Ring cost him his entire savings from his summer job.”

  Heather seemed lost in memories of what Maggie supposed were happier times and she decided to let her ramble on. “We were married the following year after I graduated. Josh was one of the groomsmen. After college Charlie got a job selling insurance here in West Hartford. I’d majored in voice and theater and I’d wanted to go to New York and see if I could get anywhere as an actress. Instead, because Charlie was already working for Northway and he was—” Heather used her fingers to make air quotes “‘—the man in the family,’ his ambitions were more important than mine. In the end I looked for a job in Hartford and became the weather girl for the local Fox station. Reporting live from the scene on multicar accidents during winter storms was as close to theater as I ever got aside from some local amateur productions. Then, of course, the kids came along and Charlie convinced me becoming a full-time mom was—” more finger quotes “‘—the right thing to do.’” Heather downed the last of her wine, got up and pulled a new bottle from a wine rack under one of the bookcases. She opened it and poured a glass. “Sure you guys won’t join me? I kind of hate drinking alone.”

  Maggie shook her head. “No can do. Not while we’re working but thanks anyway.”

  Heather sat and sipped quietly for a minute. “Still think I could have been a damned good actress if I’d let myself take a chance.” There was more than a hint of self-pity in her voice now. “If I hadn’t let Charlie talk me out of it. Too late now. For all of us.”

  Chapter 20

  AT ABOUT THE same time that Maggie pulled in behind Toni Bernstein’s Taurus, McCabe turned his own unmarked Ford Interceptor off Stevens Avenue and onto Hartley Street, a search warrant signed by Judge Washburn tucked securely in his breast pocket. He parked on the far side of the street, half a dozen houses down from 339. The spot gave him a good view of the place without much chance of being spotted by anyone inside. He sat quietly for ten minutes waiting for lights to go on, or shades to go up, or any other signs of activity. He saw none. The house seemed uninhabited.

  Deciding he’d waited long enough, he fished a pair of latex gloves and Tyvek booties from the center console and stuffed them in the side pocket of his black overcoat, an older and shabbier version of the coat Mark Christensen had worn this morning, a relic from McCabe’s New York days working homicide for the NYPD. He exited the car and walked up the far side of the street, passing three or four parked cars, keeping an eye out for dog walkers, runners, any pedestrians at all. When he reached a point directly opposite 339, he looked both ways. Seeing nothing suspicious, he crossed over. Walked up the redbrick path and climbed three wooden steps badly in need of a paint job to a house that, from the outside, looked both unloved and uncared for. No wonder Bickle could only get six hundred bucks a week for it even in high season.

  The lockbox was attached to a wrought-iron railing on the left side of the landing where Bickle said it would be. McCabe pulled on the gloves and slid the booties over his shoes. Then he lifted the lockbox and, being careful not to smudge possible fingerprints, released the catch to a small sliding panel and pushed it up. Underneath were four numbered rotors, the numbers just visible in the faint glow of a streetlamp. Using the tip of a pen, he pushed each rotor carefully to the appropriate number. The box popped open. Empty. No key inside. He hadn’t expected that. Could Norah have simply taken the key with her when she left? Or thrown it away? Or was she still in residence? Technically the place was hers till Saturday so maybe she’d just gone out to buy groceries. Or to a restaurant. Or, for all McCabe knew, maybe he and Maggie were wrong about Thorne being dead. Instead maybe Josh and Norah were upstairs in bed fucking their brains out or, given the bondage shot, maybe Mistress Norah was giving Josh the spanking of his life and Josh was
loving it.

  There was also another, more lethal possibility. That Thorne was in the house either dead and still tied up, but that Norah hadn’t left yet. She was hunkered down inside, hiding in the dark, holding a gun and patiently waiting for the asshole on the porch to come bumbling through the door before blowing his head off.

  Standing off to one side, McCabe rang the bell. In response there was nothing but silence from inside. As he debated going in and checking the place out, McCabe could hear the familiar little voice in his head reminding him that one of the first things every cop learns is to never, ever enter a potentially dangerous situation without backup. There were rules against it in pretty much every department in the world. Rules McCabe had broken more times than he cared to admit or even remember. But rules that were, nevertheless, there for a reason.

  In the end he said, as he almost always did, the hell with the rules. He didn’t want to waste any more time. Especially if Thorne was still alive. McCabe pressed his back against the vinyl siding and moved silently to the edge of the door. He leaned in as close as he could and listened for sounds from within. There were none. If Norah or anyone else was waiting on the other side, they were doing so in total silence. McCabe slid his Glock from its holster. Squatting low, he reached across and turned the knob on the off chance it would open and he wouldn’t have to waste time picking the lock. To his surprise, it did open and McCabe pushed it in about six inches. The hinges emitted a small squeak, but no shots rang out in response. No shouts for help came from a wounded Joshua Thorne. He supposed it was possible Wilcox had left in such a hurry she hadn’t bothered either to lock the door or return the key. On the other hand it remained equally possible she was kneeling in the dark, waiting for him to present himself as an easy target.

  He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Then moved in fast and low, sweeping his gun in a wide arc across the room. No shots rang out. No bullets tore into him. Nothing moved. Silently he closed the door, rose and looked around.

  The room was cloaked in darkness, pieces of furniture appearing as little more than shadows. He stood motionless, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. After a minute the shadows began forming themselves into more tangible shapes. He found himself in a small sparsely furnished living room. He could see the side of a brown corduroy sofa in front of him and a low coffee table in front of that. Some sort of cabinet was pushed against the wall to his left. What looked like a bookcase dominated the wall to the right. A couple of straight-back chairs in the corners. On the coffee table, McCabe could just make out the shapes of what looked like two empty martini glasses, one turned over on its side. If Norah’s lips had sipped from one, her DNA should still be on it. Careless if she was about to commit murder. McCabe figured everybody in America who watched enough episodes of CSI would know they shouldn’t leave evidence like that behind.

  Maybe Norah didn’t watch TV. Maybe she preferred picking up men in bars and tying them to beds. He’d collect both glasses on his way out. Or have Jacoby do it. A precaution in case she was planning on coming back after he left and cleaning up.

  Under his feet, the floor was covered in something soft. He flicked on the flashlight app and pointed it down. Shag carpeting. Faded orange. The same style and color his mother still had on the living room floor in his childhood home. The height of fashion in Irish neighborhoods in the north Bronx thirty years ago. Brother Bobby had offered to replace the old shag half a dozen times. But Rosie McCabe always gave him the same answer. She wanted to keep the place the way it was when her husband, Tom McCabe Sr., had been alive and the kids lived at home. She said Dad always liked the feel of the rug under his feet. And so did she.

  Keeping his back as close as he could to the wall, McCabe shuffled quickly around the room, careful not to bump into anything or knock anything over. He passed a pair of windows covered with orange curtains. Under the curtains, closed venetian blinds. He raised a slat and peered out. No one approaching. No one watching from the street. He dropped the slat and continued around the room. Went around the bookcase that contained more touristy knickknacks than books. Relics, he supposed, from Bickle vacations taken years before. Beyond the bookcase, a TV stand with a thirty-two-inch flat-screen set on top. Beyond the TV he found a closed door. Reaching across, pulled it open and peered in. No hidden shooters inside. Just a coat closet with no coats. Just half a dozen metal hangers on the cross bar and a canister vacuum cleaner on the floor with what looked like a dark lump behind it. He pointed the phone light at the lump and it turned into a pile of men’s clothes. He bent down and pulled out the top piece. A finely tailored men’s suit jacket. Exactly like the one Thorne wore in the surveillance video. In the breast pocket was a leather wallet. The rest of Joshua Thorne’s clothes, including his underwear, were piled under the jacket. Unless he’d left the house buck-naked he was still here. McCabe returned the jacket to the pile and left the clothes where he found them. He’d go through Thorne’s wallet later.

  McCabe shut the closet door and started moving again. Reaching an open entryway, he ran his light around an empty dining room. The matched dining room set looked like thirty-year-old relics from Bob’s Discount Stores or whatever the ’80s equivalent was. Blinds were pulled down over the windows and closed tight. A repro print on one wall featured a brown-skinned girl in Mexican garb dancing while in the background a guy wearing a sombrero and serape strummed a guitar. A mirror in a wood frame hung on the other wall.

  McCabe guessed no one had eaten in this room anytime recently. It was about as inviting as eating in a morgue. Beyond the dining room, to his right, a steep, narrow staircase led up to a second-floor landing. McCabe debated going upstairs to see if he could find the bedroom where the bondage photo of Josh had been taken but self-preservation told him it was smarter to clear the rest of the downstairs first. Make sure no one was down here, hiding in the kitchen or possibly in the attached garage. Maggie would never forgive him if he let himself get shot in the back in the process of climbing upstairs to look for someone who was probably already dead. Nope. She’d never, ever let him hear the end of something as stupid as that.

  He headed for the kitchen. Moved in fast and found neither armed assailants, nor dead or dying bankers. Just an empty, ordinary kitchen with appliances that were old, plain and white. Formica countertops, a beige linoleum floor and a small wooden table with a pair of chairs completed the accessories.

  McCabe moved to a door with two rows of checked gingham curtains covering glass panels. He pushed the curtains aside and flashed his light out into a small, windowless one-car garage. A tan late-model Nissan Altima was parked inside. He opened the door and went in fast, checking to make sure no one was crouching down on the other side of the car or in any of the dark corners of the garage. No one was. He glanced back at the car. It had Maine plates but bore no bumper stickers, window stickers or other identifying marks. He pulled open the driver’s side door. No dead bodies or live killers lurking inside. Just a set of keys with a plastic Avis tag lying in the center console and beside them a book. A well-worn leather Day Runner. The kind of appointment book most people had stopped using back when they got their first smartphone or tablet. But also the kind that, unlike their electronic cousins, left no permanent or traceable records behind. McCabe picked up the Day Runner and stuffed it in his overcoat pocket to be examined after he’d finished searching the house. Other than that there was nothing. No coffee cups in the holders. No footprints on the rubber floor mats. No Burger King wrappers or other detritus lying around. Still, nobody drives a car even a short way without leaving some trace evidence. Hair, fingerprints, bits of dry skin, whatever. McCabe would leave that particular search to Bill Jacoby and his evidence techs who would do a much better job of finding whatever was there, which would probably include traces of previous drivers as well as some from Norah Wilcox.

  Bending down on the driver’s side of the car, McCabe found a trunk release button and pressed it. The latch popped open.

&n
bsp; He scurried low to the back of the car, wondering if there was any way the body of a six foot three, two hundred and ten pound guy like Joshua Thorne could fit into the trunk of a Nissan. According to McCabe’s father, a much decorated veteran of thirty plus years on the NYPD, the New York mob traditionally used the oversized trunks of 1980s Lincoln town cars to transport the bodies of their generally shorter but mostly fatter victims. Tom McCabe senior had even entertained the guests at one of his parents’ Saturday night dinner parties regaling them with a case in which two short, fat and very dead wiseguys had been stuffed together in what looked like a compromising position inside the trunk of a single town car. A Nissan Altima wasn’t, however, a town car.

  McCabe lifted the trunk lid and stared. A dead body was indeed tucked inside. Just not the dead body he’d been expecting. Instead of the former Holden College quarterback and current Wall Street millionaire, the car’s trunk contained the mortal remains of one very beautiful, very blonde and very dead hooker who just happened to bear a striking resemblance to the actress Gillian Anderson. Though the resemblance was hard to see with her hands and slender wrists reaching outward toward McCabe in a vain attempt to stop the bullet that had left a small hole almost perfectly centered in the middle of her forehead. McCabe flipped on his light and played it quickly over her body. She was still dressed exactly as she’d been in the video from the Port Grill. A black down coat was pushed in behind her. From the positioning of the body, McCabe guessed that the killer had forced Norah to climb into the trunk herself, no doubt at gunpoint, no doubt promising not to kill her if she cooperated. Norah’s empty eyes were open, starting to cloud over but still reflecting the bright light from McCabe’s phone back at him. He didn’t think she’d been dead very long. Risking the wrath of Jacoby, he stripped off a glove and laid a single bare finger on her neck just under her jawbone. Even lying in the cold of the garage, her skin temperature still retained some warmth. Dead no more than an hour and probably less. Which meant he may have just missed catching the killer. Whoever the killer was. Joshua Thorne? Maybe. Somebody else? A third person? Just as likely. Maybe even more so.