by James Hayman
“Yeah, I do.”
McCabe took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. But we don’t have a shred of either physical or circumstantial evidence linking Rachel to either killing. No prosecutor in his right mind would take her to court on what we’ve got. On the other hand, Fischer? A slam dunk. If the DNA from the whiskey glass I found in the house on Hartley Street matches Fischer’s, which I’m willing to bet it will, we’ve got a conviction. In fact, I think we ought to go back to the cabin and take him with us right now.”
“I agree. Let’s take him with us.”
“You agree?”
“Yeah. I agree.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“Because of Fischer. I keep thinking what he said. ‘The way I feel now the rest of my life may well be very short.’”
“And you think he meant it?”
“Yeah. I do. We take him in. We place him under suicide watch.”
“You want me to do the honors?” asked McCabe.
“No. You scare him too much.”
Maggie went back to the cabin and asked Evan Fischer to stand up and turn around. Then she cuffed him.
“What’s this for?” asked Fischer.
“Evan Fischer, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Joshua Thorne and for the murder of an unidentified woman we’re calling Jane Doe. Oh, and also for firing a loaded gun at two police officers.” Maggie read Fischer his Miranda rights and walked him out to the TrailBlazer.
Before leaving, McCabe called Wally Eckridge, told him about the arrest and asked him if he could possibly have a team of evidence techs go over the place for any trace of a woman named Rachel Thorne. On the way back to Portland, McCabe drove. Maggie sat in the back with Fischer. And no one, including Evan Fischer, said a word. He just sat quietly in the backseat and stared blankly out of the window watching New Hampshire and then Maine roll by.
Chapter 39
MCCABE CALLED RACHEL Thorne late Friday from 109 using his cell phone rather than the department’s landline. That way only his name would show up on her caller ID.
“McCabe, Michael,” she answered. “I wasn’t sure when, if ever, I was going to hear from you again. Do you have any news for me?”
“Yes. I thought you’d want to know. We have Evan Fischer in custody.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
“We haven’t gone public yet so I’d like you to keep that information confidential for now.”
“Why?”
“It will help us get a conviction.”
“All right.” Rachel sounded puzzled. “But thank you for telling me. I was sure he was the guy. I was sure there was something wrong with that creep when we met in Brooklyn. I only wish I’d called the cops on him then when he first threatened to kill Josh. It was my fault, really, for not taking him seriously.”
McCabe decided it was time to change the subject. “How are you holding up?”
“Better than yesterday. And definitely less crazy than I was Wednesday night. I really have to apologize again for my behavior. You must have thought I was out of my mind.”
“Hey, listen, everybody reacts to traumatic news in unpredictable and sometimes dramatic ways.” McCabe chuckled. “Though I have to admit yours was more unpredictable and dramatic than most.”
There was a soft laugh in response on the other end of the phone. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“Listen,” said McCabe, “there are some details we have to pin down about your meeting with Fischer in Brooklyn if we’re ever going to get a conviction. Can you stop by headquarters tomorrow, say, at ten o’clock?”
MCCABE WATCHED RACHEL emerge from the elevator at 109 at 10:10. She was once again dressed in newly purchased black. A grieving gesture for her loss? More likely a show for the benefit of the video camera she knew would be pointing at her from the light fixture in the interview room. She wore a black silk shirt open at the neck complemented by a simple strand of pearls. A black skirt that ended just below the knees. Black pumps with two-inch heels. Plain diamond studs pierced the lobes of her ears. She wore the same gold and diamond wristwatch she’d worn when she’d played him the recording of her conversation with Fischer. It was perhaps the only thing that didn’t fit with the modesty of the outfit.
He met her at the elevator and led her across the floor, the eyes of half a dozen male detectives watching her with unfeigned interest. Maggie just watching. They went into the same small interview room where they’d met three days earlier. He sat across from her and waited in silence.
“Your partner’s not joining us?”
“I thought we’d do this alone.”
“Good. I’m glad. What is it you wanted to talk about?”
“I was just wondering if you’re a congenital liar or if your lies just seemed like a good idea at the time?”
McCabe was staring directly into Rachel’s eyes, waiting for even the slightest tell. The slightest hint of nerves or discomfort. A blink. A twitch. A glance toward the video camera or the door. There was none.
“Your face looks much better,” she said. “The swelling’s gone down quite a lot. You know you really are quite an attractive man. Though someone should take the time to dress you better.”
“Answer the question, Rachel.”
“I have no idea what your question was about,” she said.
“I want to know why you lied to me about your conversation with Evan Fischer.”
“Lied to you? How could I have lied to you? It was all there on the recording. Every word we said.”
“Fischer doesn’t think so. I played it for him and he says less than half of it is there. He says you turned the recording off when you left the bench on the prom. And didn’t turn it on again while the two of you went to your apartment to continue talking.”
“Really? Well, then, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong liar. I’m not in the habit of inviting strange men back to my apartment. And even you have to admit Mr. Fischer is more than a little strange.”
McCabe pressed Play on the digital recorder. “This is Fischer telling us what you talked about in your apartment.”
“By the time we both had . . . God, I don’t know how many drinks but really a lot . . . we started playing a game. Or what Rachel called a game. She named it Double Jeopardy. Like from the TV show.”
“And how did this game go?”
“She decided I was the contestant so I had to go first.”
“Go first and do what?”
“Invent a way to kill Josh in which I wouldn’t be caught. Of course I suggested something stupid. Like waiting for him to come home from work, hiding behind the door and blowing his brains out as he walked in. She laughed at that idea and said, ‘Oh no, you’ve got to be a lot more clever than that. And I’m not sure I’d want all that blood and bits of Josh all over the apartment.’
“I asked Rachel what she meant by ‘clever.’ She said that if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail I had to think up a way to kill Josh that nobody would figure out. ‘Like what?’ I asked.
“‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘You’re the contestant and I’m the moderator. You know? Like Alex Trebek. I make the rules and ask the questions. If you come up with the right answer you win the prize.’
“‘And what is the prize?’ I asked.
“‘The ultimate one,’ she said. ‘At least for you. Revenge for the rape and death of your wife. For me a big pile of money. And not having to put up with a cheating husband anymore.’”
“And how well did you do in this game?” Maggie’s voice.
“Not very. I’m not very imaginative.”
“When you were playing your game of How Do We Kill Josh, did Rachel ever suggest hiring a prostitute to lure Josh Thorne to his death?” Again Maggie was speaking.
“No. I mentioned it. Remember, I was the contestant. She was the moderator. I came up with that idea in response to something she said. That there were only two things in the world t
hat truly interested Josh. Money and fucking. I told her I didn’t have access to the kind of money that would interest him. But fucking seemed like a good idea. So I suggested hiring a really hot woman to use as bait to lure him to a place where he could be killed anonymously. That turned out to be the only idea of mine she liked. She gave me an A plus for it.”
McCabe hit the OFF button.
“A complete and utter lie from beginning to end,” said Rachel. “He’s making the whole thing up.”
“Would you describe your condo in Brooklyn Heights?”
“Did he describe it? Is that why you think I’m lying?”
“Describe the apartment.”
Rachel did. And while her description contained far more detail, it pretty much matched everything Fischer had said.
“Maybe you could explain to me, if Fisher is lying, why his description of your apartment almost exactly matches your own?”
“MetroLife. The August 2013 issue.”
“What?”
“MetroLife. It’s sort of an upscale New York shelter magazine. They did a special issue on the lifestyles of what they called Wall Street’s Young Guns. They ran three pages of photos showing our apartment in detail. They also had profile descriptions of Josh and myself. Our favorite artists. Our favorite restaurants. The place we rent in the Hamptons. Photos of both of us. Including one I assume you’ll find interesting of me by the pool in East Hampton in a particularly teeny-tiny bikini.”
McCabe stared at her. The bitch—and that’s how he’d begun to think of her—had an answer for everything. He’d check the magazine but he was sure the photos would be there and that they’d contain images of everything Fischer had described. He didn’t know where to take it from here.
“Of course there’s another possibility,” said Rachel. “One I didn’t think of at first because I just didn’t make the connection. It was New Year’s weekend. Josh and I were skiing in Killington. We left after work Friday and got home late Monday night and when I got home things weren’t quite how I leave them. Especially in my closet and my dresser drawers. My underwear drawers. I’m not quite OCD but pretty close. I fold things a certain way, line them up a certain way. The things were all there but they were folded differently. It really creeped me out. Josh pooh-poohed it. Said I’d probably just packed for Killington in a hurry. But I knew I hadn’t.”
“Anything taken?”
“No. We have some original art and a fair amount of expensive jewelry as well as a lot of electronics and none of it was touched.”
Including, thought McCabe, a fancy gold and diamond wristwatch.
“Patek Philippe?” he asked, pointing at it.
“Yes. A birthday present from Josh. And that would have been there at the time.”
“Did you report the break-in to the police?”
“No. Josh said there was no point since nothing was taken. No evidence of forced entry. No proof anybody really had broken in. But I was kind of shaken up. I don’t like the idea of some creep pawing through my underwear.”
“But you didn’t do anything about it?”
“We did. At my insistence. Josh had a fancy security system installed. We didn’t have one before.”
“No idea how the guy got in?”
“I assume he must have picked the lock. I’m told that’s not particularly hard.” Rachel paused. A frown line appeared between her eyes. “Why are you staring at my watch?”
McCabe shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t really. I was just thinking how pretty it was. How lucky you were to have been married to a man who would have given you something as beautiful as that. How terrible you must feel about your loss.”
Rachel gave McCabe an odd look. “Thank you. I think.”
Chapter 40
BILL BACON WAS getting both a sore ass and a sore ear sitting at his desk calling the johns listed in Norah Wilcox’s Day Runner. So far he’d called twenty-seven of the big spenders and struck out twenty-seven times. A shitty batting average in anybody’s league. Of the twenty-seven he’d called so far, fourteen hung up when he told them who he was and what he wanted. He called all fourteen back three times and left the same voice mail each time. “This is Detective William Bacon of the Portland Police Department. We’re working on a murder case and need the name and contact information for a woman you met with on such and such a date in such and such a room in such and such a hotel. We will keep both your name and any information you provide absolutely confidential.”
He hadn’t yet tried McCabe’s tactic of threatening to tell their wives but if this kept up he might be forced to give it a go. After completing his third voice mail to john number twenty-seven, Bacon got up and refilled his coffee cup with liquid that, after four hours in the carafe, looked and tasted more like black mud than anything else. Then he went back to his desk and tried number twenty-eight, Herbert Kaslow, whose area code indicated he was located in Pittsburgh.
A woman answered. “Mr. Kaslow’s office.”
“Is Mr. Kaslow in?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Detective William Bacon of the Portland Police Department.”
“I’ll see if he can take the call.”
A few seconds later, “This is Kaslow. What can I help you with?”
“This is Detective . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, Mavis already told me who you were. Whaddya want?”
“Last December 4 you stayed in room 1505 of the Essex House Hotel in New York.”
“What about it?”
“At approximately ten-thirty P.M. a young woman, an escort, came to your room.”
“What the hell business is that of a cop from Oregon?”
“Maine.”
“What?”
“Portland, Maine. Not Oregon.”
“Oregon. Maine. Whatever. What business is it of yours who I meet with?”
“The woman you met with on December 4 was murdered here in Portland late last Tuesday night.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re kidding.”
“Not kidding.”
“Whaddya think? I had something to do with it?”
“No. We don’t think you had anything at all to do with it. I just need you to give me the name of the woman you met with and what number you called to arrange your date with her.”
“What? You don’t even have her name? How the hell did you find me?”
“The name we have for her is a phony. An alias. We found your name and number listed in her date book. Also the date and time of your meeting at the hotel.”
“Jesus Christ. That poor kid. I only know her as Hallie. No last name. Just Hallie. Probably not her real name either. She works—pardon me, worked—for a group called Elegant Escorts. I see her pretty regular when I go to New York. And you know something? I really liked her. I mean, as a person and not just for, you know . . . other things. I’m really sorry to hear what happened.” There was a long sigh from Herb Kaslow. “Just a minute, let me get you the number. But please, you gotta promise me you won’t tell them it was me who gave it to you. I got a feeling they won’t like knowing I gave it to a cop. Even a cop from Maine.”
AFTER RACHEL LEFT 109, McCabe took a walk around the Old Port. There was something about the gold watch on Rachel’s wrist that was scratching at his brain, a sense that it was important, but he couldn’t figure out what the hell it was. Or why it mattered. He walked to the bottom of Exchange Street, then crossed over to the other side and started walking back up.
In his mind he re-created the exact moment when the elevator doors opened and he first laid eyes on Rachel Thorne. He could see the gray slacks she wore, the gray cashmere pullover, the dark blue leather jacket. He remembered the wedding and engagement rings on her left hand. But the damned jacket she wore had covered her wrist. She might have been wearing the watch but there was no way he could be sure. And she’d kept the jacket on the whole time they were talking. He went through the entire conversation line by line. He remembered a few ti
mes when the left sleeve of the jacket rode up. There’d been no flashes of gold. None at all. Still, could he be sure? And even if she hadn’t been wearing it, maybe she just had the damned thing stowed away in her shoulder bag.
That’s when it hit him. McCabe turned around and headed straight back to 109 and then to Starbucks’s cube on the second floor.
“Sergeant McCabe. How can I help you?”
“The video from the Port Grill. You still have it?”
“Of course. I copied it into my computer.”
“Run it for me, will you?”
Starbucks booted up one of his computers, his long fingers dancing amazingly fast across the keyboard. The video came to life.
“Jump to where the woman comes into the bar.”
Starbucks did and Norah Wilcox entered the scene.
“Now slow it down. I want to go through all of it frame by frame.”
McCabe watched Norah walk across to the seat three down from Joshua Thorne. “Keep going. Stop on each and every frame where we can see her left wrist.”
Norah’s wrist came into view as she turned to hang her jacket on the back of her barstool. Starbucks froze the scene. Then moved it forward and then back again one frame at a time, finally stopping on one where Norah’s wrist was pointed in the direction of the surveillance camera.
She was definitely wearing something gold. Maybe a watch. Maybe just a bracelet. “Push in on her wrist. Tight as you can without losing focus totally.”
Starbucks enlarged the frame by minuscule degrees. The gold flash on Norah Wilcox’s left wrist became blurrier and blurrier but also revealed some marks McCabe felt certain was the face of a watch. Surrounded on each side by what just might be small diamonds. Not perfect but not bad.
“All right, let’s go through the rest of the scene. See if there are any frames where we get a better look at that watch.”
McCabe stood over Starbucks’s shoulder as they watched Norah, moving in time lapse fashion, climb up onto the barstool. As she rested her hand on the bar the watch slipped beneath the cuff of her blouse and disappeared. Andie walked over to take her order. Joshua Thorne’s head turned to get a better look at Norah. Andie turned away to make Norah’s drink. Norah’s wrist disappeared from view. Thorne said something. Then he got up and walked toward Norah. As Thorne approached, Norah turned slightly on her stool to her left to face him. Her left arm went up onto the back of the barstool, the sleeve of the blouse rose slightly and for just a frame or two the face of the watch was pointing directly at the lens of the camera. They couldn’t ask for a better angle. Or more clarity. Starbucks moved in on the watch and the image became progressively blurrier.
