The Girl on the Bridge

by James Hayman

  “Do you want to sit down?” asked Rachel. “Or would you rather we did this standing up?”

  He turned and headed back into the room, but didn’t sit.

  “Where is Josh?” she asked.

  McCabe said nothing.

  “You’re not looking at me.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” said McCabe, turning to face her. “But I am now.”

  “Where is my husband?” Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Is he dead? He is, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s dead.”

  Rachel stared at McCabe for a long minute.

  “That stupid bastard,” she said.

  Not the response he was expecting.

  “That selfish, lying, cheating, stupid sonofabitching bastard. What in the fuck’s name was the matter with him?”

  No pretense of grief. No reaction, but a face drawn in rage. Arms wrapped around her body.

  “Bet that bastard didn’t die in an accident, did he? Wasn’t struck down by some random heart attack? No. Not Josh. Josh didn’t take his leave of our picture perfect marriage with his last thoughts focused on his loving wife. No. My asshole husband fucked himself to death with some slut he barely knew. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  A brief silence McCabe wasn’t sure how to fill.

  “Well, he did, didn’t he? Goddamn him, I am so fucking pissed off.”

  McCabe stood there and watched her rage play out.

  Finally, in a calmer voice, “Who was he fucking this time?”

  “Your husband was alone on the mattress when he was murdered. The same mattress you saw in the picture. Arms and legs still tied. I doubt Josh was thinking about much of anything but survival at the time.”

  “Funny. Probably the first time it ever occurred to him he wasn’t immortal. All that bastard ever thought about was making more money and fucking more women. I’m not sure he even enjoyed it all that much. Just wanted to run up the score. Two million dollars here. Five more women there. Only difference being that the money didn’t have to look young and sexy and the women did. So he was still tied to that filthy bed when she killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus Christ. Murdered while fucking some slut. Maybe that’s what I’ll put on his tombstone. Here lies the great Joshua Thorne. Murdered while fucking.”

  McCabe thought of the dried semen on Josh’s thigh. “Maybe not while fucking but pretty close,” he said.

  Rachel sighed deeply. “Well, it’s poetic justice, I guess. A suitable way for Josh to go. No need to lie either to myself or to you any longer.”

  “What were you lying about?”

  “Just that I can’t count the number of women he screwed while he was married to me. And those are just the ones I know about. Sonofabitch just couldn’t keep his pants on. Couldn’t keep his magnificent cock to himself. And you know what the weird thing is? What truly makes me want to kill the bastard all over again?”

  “What?”

  “I know I’m a whole lot sexier, a whole lot smarter and a whole lot better-looking than ninety percent of the bitches he screwed around with. Of course, that’s just the ninety percent I know about. What about you, McCabe? Even all beat up it’s easy to tell you’re a better-looking guy than most. And no wedding ring? Are you really married and you just slip your ring into your pocket whenever you’re in the mood to go tomcatting around?”

  “I’m not married.”

  “And you’re not gay? No. I can tell. You’re definitely not gay. You’re just a normal horny guy who’s better-looking than most. Would you behave like Josh if you were married? Married, let’s say, to me? I could tell by the way you were looking at me this afternoon from the minute I walked out of that elevator that you liked what you saw. That you wanted me. I mean, you did, didn’t you?”

  “You’re a beautiful woman. There’s no way you can hide it. But no. That’s not how I would behave if I were married. To you or anyone else.” McCabe didn’t bother explaining to Rachel that his attitude toward marital cheating had been defined eight years ago, the only difference being the guys his wife screwed around with didn’t have to be good-looking. They just had to be rich.

  “Well, then, what the fuck was Josh’s problem? I want you to look at me.” Rachel untied her robe, opened it wide and showed him her naked body. “Go ahead, don’t be shy. I’m not. This is what Josh had available to him any time he wanted it. Wouldn’t a woman who looked this good be enough for you? A woman who was also usually sensitive, generally thoughtful and loving. Would you have to screw around with some Norah Fucking Wilcox, whoever the hell she is?”

  “Cover up, Rachel. You don’t want to be doing this.”

  “No. I don’t think you would but let’s find out. This is a test. Not of you but of Josh. To see if it’s all guys or just Josh who was as fucked up as he was.”

  Instead of covering up, she let the robe slip to the floor. Gazing at her large but perfectly shaped breasts, the body firmed by endless exercise, the narrow stripe of pubic hair pointing down almost like an arrow, McCabe felt his breath coming faster, felt himself growing hard.

  “Come on, McCabe. Let’s find out if you aren’t really just like Josh. Maybe all guys are. Wouldn’t you like to fuck me now? You can if you want to. It’d serve my asshole husband right.” She moved closer and stroked his wounded cheek. “Come on. Let’s go to the bedroom, McCabe. Don’t be shy. Fucking you might just be the most fun way I can think of to get even with one of the great fuck artists of all time. The most appropriate way for me to shit on the memory of my loving husband the same way he shit on me over and over again for seven years.”

  “Put your robe on, Rachel.”

  “Fuck my robe. If you won’t come to the bedroom at least enjoy the view. I’m sure it’s one of the best in Portland.” She left the robe lying on the floor and walked over to a sideboard where she threw ice cubes into a pair of highball glasses. She filled both nearly to the top from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Held one out to him. “Take it, McCabe. Come on in, the water’s fine.”

  McCabe’s heart was beating faster. The temptation was nearly overwhelming. Just to walk across the room, take the drink from her, take a long slug of it, then put it down and slide his hands all over her beautiful body and take her to the bedroom. But no matter how sexy she was, it wasn’t something he could let himself do.

  “Fuck me, McCabe. Do it for Josh. Do it for me. Hell, do it for yourself.” Looking down at the growing bulge in his trousers, she reached out and put her hand on his hard dick and gently squeezed. As she squeezed she leaned in, slipped her other arm around his neck, pulled him close and brushed his lips with hers. “Feels like you really want to,” she said softly, invitingly.

  Rachel’s siren song was nearly irresistible and unlike Odysseus he had no crew to tie him to the mast to keep him from straying into disaster. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” the little voice said again, and this time McCabe listened. He pulled her hand from his crotch, turned and walked to the closet door. He took down his still-wet overcoat and slipped it on.

  Rachel sipped her drink as she watched him go. “I’m sorry you don’t want to celebrate Josh’s death with me. It would have been such fun.”

  “We’ll talk again tomorrow. When you’ve had some time to process everything. Maybe you’ll have recovered your senses a little.” He walked out and closed the door to the Governor’s Suite quietly behind him. His heart was still beating faster than usual when he heard the crash of the whiskey glass as it shattered against the door. The elevator arrived to take him down.

  Chapter 29

  TEN MINUTES LATER McCabe was back in his empty condo on the Eastern Prom. He tossed his coat over a chair, turned on a single small lamp and headed straight for his favorite stash. A Waterford crystal whiskey glass, the last from a set of four his sister Fran had given him as a wedding present nearly twenty years ago. And in its place of pride on the top shelf, the “good stuff.” The Scotch he saved for special occasions. Twenty-five-ye
ar-old Macallan single cask malt whiskey, which had set him back two hundred and seventy-nine dollars for just one bottle. Plus fifteen cents for the deposit. He checked the contents. About half a bottle left. Just about enough, if he drank it all, to relieve him of his angst if not his desire for a murder victim’s wife.

  Half a bottle would equal a one hundred and thirty-nine dollar and fifty cents bender. Not counting, of course, the fifteen cents he’d get back if he returned the bottle, which he never did. A serious and expensive night’s drinking, especially on a cop’s salary. But between being beaten up, dealing with Joshua Thorne’s mutilated corpse and almost allowing himself to be seduced by Thorne’s widow he figured he’d earned himself a little leeway. He poured a generous double shot of the Scotch, took a long swallow, closed his eyes and savored the smooth warmth of the stuff as it slid down his throat. Savored the way it almost instantly eased his tension and produced a pleasant glow.

  He took another smaller sip and then, leaving the bottle out on the counter for a possible return engagement, he took the glass with him to the bathroom where he flipped on the light and peered in the mirror. Jesus. The flesh around and above his eye was black and the eye itself almost swollen shut. He could see out of it but looking at the swelling he wasn’t sure how. The skin on his upper cheek and above the eye was purple, both swollen and painful to the touch. Despite the therapeutic effects of the EMT’s ice pack, his face still bore a more than passing resemblance to Robert De Niro’s at the end of the big fight scene in Raging Bull. And unlike De Niro’s face this wasn’t the work of a Hollywood makeup artist. The idea that Rachel would even consider getting it on with somebody who looked like he currently did seemed preposterous. Telling him with a straight face he was a good-looking guy more than ridiculous. She’d told him she wanted to fuck him to get back at her dead husband. Prove that two could play the same game and, at that particular moment, the bruised and battered McCabe provided the only available opportunity for retribution. He knew, had he accepted the invitation, it almost certainly would have proved disastrous. To the case. To his career. To his life.

  He took the drink and being careful not to spill a drop went back to the living room and climbed onto his favorite perch. A window seat that just fit his body as long as he kept his knees bent. He took another sip of the precious twenty-five and gazed out the window at the streetlights along the prom, the occasional car going by, the wintry whitecaps whipping across the surface of Casco Bay, the waves reflecting lights shining on the nearby islands.

  He conjured up Rachel Thorne’s nearly perfect body in his mind. McCabe had done some stupid things in his life but giving in to desire and having sex with the wife of a murder victim the night her husband had been murdered would have been without question the all-time, undefeated, unchallenged, stupidest thing McCabe had ever done. If she ever told anyone about it, he could kiss his career as a cop goodbye. And a whole lot of other things as well.

  Still, try as he might, he couldn’t get Rachel out of his mind. Standing there by the sideboard, holding out her hand to him, urging him to come to the bedroom. The question he had about the entire scene was why. Especially when half his “you’re a good-looking guy” face was, at the time, the color of an unpeeled and not particularly good-looking eggplant.

  Was it, as she said, a way to get even with her cheating husband? Or maybe Rachel, like Josh, was just an unrepentant sex addict, one who got uncontrollably turned on by cops with fucked-up faces. An idea so ridiculous it actually made him laugh, which, in turn, made him realize his face only hurt more when he laughed.

  If he asked Rachel why she’d behaved the way she had, she’d probably tell him again it was just payback against Josh. That she was just getting back at him for all the times he’d cheated on her. Maybe even getting back at him for being a rapist. The fraternity rape at Holden College. Maybe other rapes as well. Maybe even spousal rapes she had denied just yesterday.

  That’s when one final possibility struck him. One he hadn’t thought of. What if Rachel tried to get him into bed, not to get even with Josh, but because she herself had murdered him? Being intimate with the lead investigator, especially if they did it more than once, would compromise the investigation in ways he couldn’t begin to imagine. For starters pillow talk would give her an inside track on the investigation. She’d know what he was thinking and why. She could probably even steer any suspicion of murder away from herself and on to somebody else. Evan Fischer, for example. If he were to arrest her and the case went to trial, any halfway competent defense lawyer would have a field day grilling him on cross, tearing his testimony to shreds.

  Detective, isn’t it true that you were involved in a sexual relationship with the victim’s wife?

  He couldn’t lie. His DNA would be all over the bedroom in the Governor’s Suite.

  And isn’t it true that you became angry when she broke off that sexual relationship?

  And doesn’t the fact of your anger cast just a shadow of a doubt on the veracity of your testimony against the defendant?

  Having an affair with McCabe would give Rachel a weapon she could use to control him. Control his ability to investigate. No jury would ever convict. And there’d be no second chance to convict even if new evidence came to light. You can never be prosecuted for the same crime twice. She’d be safe. Her six million dollars in insurance money would be safe. And McCabe’s career would forever be fucked.

  Was she really being that manipulative when she’d tried to tempt him into her bed? Or was it, as she said, just the desire of a woman scorned not once but dozens of times to even the score with her constantly cheating husband. He had no way of knowing.

  McCabe finished the Scotch in his glass. Deciding he didn’t need any more he put the bottle back on its shelf, stripped off his clothes, took a shower, trying hard to keep the hot water off his bruises. He dried off and climbed into bed alone and fell into a deep sleep.

  As he slept, he dreamt he saw Rachel Thorne standing at the end of his bed. Moonlight coming in through the oversized windows lit her perfect body in a shimmering glow. She was smiling down at him. “Don’t you want me? Don’t you want this?” she asked, her hands indicating her body.

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  He looked at her. She moved to the bed and climbed on top of him and steered him into her moist warmth. They moved together in perfect rhythm and after they came she slid off him and tied his hands and feet to the bed with expensive silk scarves. He looked up at her as she produced a large kitchen knife, drew it back and thrust it down between his legs. McCabe woke with a sudden scream, his hands moving down to make sure all his working parts were still there.

  When the horror of the dream finally faded and his breathing slowed, McCabe climbed out of bed. Walked to the kitchen and poured himself another stiff shot of the good stuff. He went back to his perch on the window seat to drink it.

  Chapter 30

  “CAN WE TALK? In private?” asked Rachel.

  McCabe’s tight grip on his phone at 109 reminded him how edgy he still was about last night’s attempted seduction.

  “Why don’t you come here to headquarters?” he asked. “We’ve got plenty of private places to talk.”

  “I won’t do that. There are some things you need to know about Josh’s death,” she continued. “And I don’t want to be videotaped. Or have others listen in. There are also some things I want to ask you.” After a short pause, she added an anxious, “Please.”

  “All right. As long as you promise to keep your clothes on,” said McCabe, making his voice sound cold when he said it.

  “That’s one of the things I want to talk about. My behavior last night. I have to apologize for that and it’s one of the things I’d rather not have on video. Or have that short detective with the pug dog face drooling over. He was practically salivating when I came in with Mark yesterday.”

  She was talking about Cleary. He’d never thought about Brian that way but it fit. He did have kind of a p
ug face.

  “Have you had breakfast yet?” she asked.

  “Nothing you could call breakfast.”

  “Well, why don’t you meet me in the dining room here? They do breakfast and it’s quite pleasant. I’m there now. But you’ll have to bring my iPhone with you. There’s something on it I need to play for you.”

  Given her tone, McCabe was sure he’d learn more from Rachel in the relaxed setting of the Regency dining room than in the windowless interview room at 109. He decided he’d play good cop for now. Bad cop could come later if she forced the issue. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll grab your phone and see you in ten minutes.”

  The hotel’s restaurant was called Twenty Milk Street. McCabe had had dinner there a couple of times with his ex-girlfriend Kyra. They served a first class New York strip steak at night and had a decent selection of single malts but that was really all he knew about the place. The large room was mostly empty when he arrived. Rachel was waiting at a table in the corner, a discreet distance from the half dozen other diners. A bowl with a half-eaten order of yogurt and fruit mixed with some kind of grain sat in front of her. She rose and offered her hand. McCabe noticed that not only did she have her clothes on but that the clothes were all the same color. Black. Black woolen slacks. A black pullover. A black cardigan. Her hair was tied back with a black ribbon. Black patent leather shoes. It seemed she’d decided on widow’s weeds. Everything she wore was black except the large diamond engagement ring and plain gold wedding band that circled the fourth finger of her left hand and the fancy-looking gold watch that circled her left wrist.

  He allowed her to wait with her hand extended for a second before taking and shaking it. “Can we declare peace?” she asked before letting go.