The Girl on the Bridge

by James Hayman

  “How much can you improve the resolution? I need to be able to identify that watch as accurately as possible.”

  “The quality of the original footage is surprisingly good for a restaurant surveillance camera,” said Starbucks. “Definitely high def. Probably 1,920 by 1,080 pixels. I might be able to get a little closer and make it a bit clearer. But I don’t think you’ll ever be able to read the brand name of the watch or tell what time it is.”

  “Just do your best.”

  “Okay. Give me some time. Say, twenty minutes to fuss with it.”

  McCabe nodded. “Call me when it’s as good as you can make it.”

  McCabe went back to his desk and went to the Patek Philippe webpage. He went through their selection of women’s watches, which ranged in price from ten thousand bucks to over a hundred and forty. He went through the lineup and found a model that looked identical to the one Rachel had been wearing. And as best he could tell also pretty damned close to the one on Norah’s wrist in the video. Solid gold. Two vertical rows of diamonds on either side of the rectangular face. Diamonds instead of numbers on the face. A list price of $41,800. For those interested in a bargain, McCabe found an online jeweler willing to sell it for a mere $36,780. McCabe shook his head in a display of democratic disgust. That little trinket on Rachel’s wrist cost more than most families in Maine made in a year. More than some families made in two years. McCabe printed out an image of the watch and took it with him back down to Starbucks.

  “This is the best I can do, Sergeant.”

  Starbucks’s best was pretty damned good. The face of the watch nearly filled the screen and, while still pretty blurry, McCabe was certain the watch Norah was wearing at the Port Grill was identical to the one Rachel was wearing this morning. And while it was remotely possible they both might own the same watch, the odds against that had to be ridiculously high. He was also sure that the left wrist on the body in the trunk of the Nissan had been unadorned, which might mean that by taking the watch from Norah’s wrist Rachel was simply reclaiming her own property. On the other hand if it was Rachel’s watch, one Josh had given her for her birthday, wouldn’t Josh have been suspicious when he saw Norah wearing an identical one in the bar? It didn’t make much sense.

  McCabe asked Starbucks to e-mail him the frame that offered the best image of the watch. The question that kept bugging McCabe as he headed back to the fourth floor was had Rachel stolen the watch from the wrist of her dead victim? Or had Rachel lent it to Norah for the occasion? And if so, why?

  Bill Bacon stopped at McCabe’s desk. “Can we talk?”

  McCabe put his computer to sleep and followed Bacon into the conference room. “Any luck?”

  “Yeah, it took a while but after twenty-seven no answers and no callbacks a guy named Herb Kaslow from Pittsburgh finally talked to me. Seems Norah’s regular working name is Hallie. No last name. At least none that Kaslow knows and I’m pretty sure Hallie’s a phony name as well. Anyway, she works for a group that calls itself Elegant Escorts. When I called the number Kaslow gave me, a woman named Monica answered. I told Monica I was a high roller from Cleveland and wanted to set up a date with Hallie. She said she was sorry but Hallie wasn’t available but all their escorts provided excellent company. I said I was particularly interested in Hallie and asked when she might be available. She said she wasn’t sure. Hallie was traveling. I asked if Hallie had any good friends whose company I might enjoy as much. She asked what I had in mind. I said dinner at the hotel and some titillating conversation.”

  “Titillating?”

  “Sorry, boss. Couldn’t resist it. Neither could Monica. She laughed and told me that Elegant Escorts was a small company and while all their girls were titillating she thought I might find Hallie’s best friend, Tara, the most titillating of all. I asked if Tara really was a friend and Monica said yes, the two of them were very close. We set up a time and I gave her the credit card Fortier set up for me and made the date. She charged the card a thousand bucks for the agency fee and said any further gifts I might want to give Tara were strictly between her and me.”

  “What name am I using?”

  “Barry Simpson.”

  “Barry Simpson, huh? How come you didn’t tell her my name was Bart?”

  “I resisted temptation. I told Monica I was president of a steel tube manufacturing company in Cleveland.”

  “Okay. Good. Where and when am I meeting Ms. Tara?” asked McCabe.

  “Suite 3015 at the Grand Hyatt.”

  “Suite?”

  “Yeah. I figured it’d be better if you didn’t talk to Tara about her friend’s murder in a bedroom. Room’s all paid for. Tara’s going to meet you in the room at exactly eight o’clock.”

  McCabe checked the time. It was already three-thirty.

  “I made reservations for you on the four-thirty Delta flight to LaGuardia. You should be able to make it no problem.”

  McCabe locked his weapon in his desk drawer. He was already late and didn’t have time to fill out and hand in the paperwork that was required for him to carry it on the plane.

  Chapter 41

  THE KNOCK ON the door of McCabe’s suite at the Grand Hyatt came precisely at eight o’clock. McCabe opened the door to a smiling twenty-something wearing a low-cut blue minidress covered with spangles and blue stiletto heels. She was a very pretty brunette with large and definitely titillating breasts.

  “Mr. Simpson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, I’m Tara. May I come in?”

  McCabe opened the door wider. When Tara was inside he put the Privacy Please sign on the door, flipped both interior locks and followed her in.

  Tara looked around the place approvingly. Instantly spotting what seemed to be a familiar bottle chilling in a silver ice bucket, she smiled broadly. “Mmm, my fave. May I have a glass?”

  McCabe popped the cork from the bottle of Veuve Cliquot. He filled one of two champagne flutes and handed it to Tara.

  “You’re not having any?”

  “In a little while.”

  Tara took the drink to a small club chair. Crossed one leg over the other, making sure he couldn’t miss the fact that she’d arrived commando-style.

  “Well, Barry, what would you like to do this evening?”

  “Talk.”

  “And after we talk?”

  “Well, why don’t we play that by ear?”

  “Don’t you have a little present for me?” she asked with a coy smile.

  “What I have for you is some sad news. Hallie worked with you at Elegant Escorts and she was your friend, is that right?”

  The coy smile disappeared.

  “She is my friend. We share an apartment.” The crossed legs tightened, cutting off McCabe’s view. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m a homicide cop from Portland, Maine. Sergeant Michael McCabe.” McCabe flipped his badge wallet onto the table between them. Tara started to get up. McCabe blocked her exit. “Sit down, please. I’m not after you. I’m investigating the murder of this woman.”

  He handed Tara a postmortem photo showing Norah Wilcox from the neck up. The bullet hole in the middle of her forehead looked very black and very ugly. Norah herself looked very dead.

  Tara sat back down on the edge of the chair and stared at the picture, wide-eyed. “Oh my God. Poor Hallie. I told her that whole fucking deal was too good to be true.”

  “I need you to tell me about ‘the whole fucking deal.’ Was Hallie her real name?”

  “No. It was Sheila. Sheila Wachowski. She was from Chicago. South Side. Same neighborhood I come from.”

  “Her family still live there?” McCabe would have to inform the Chicago PD. Ask them to locate and inform next of kin.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she got on real well with her family.”

  “And what was the deal? The one that was too good to be true?”

  “I really don’t know that much about it. Just that she was gonna get twenty-five
thou for one night in Maine.”

  “Tara, your friend has been murdered. I’m sure you want us to catch the person who did this.”

  Tara nodded tearfully, black mascara lines forming under her eyes. “All I know is that the date was supposed to be a birthday present for some rich guy. But he wasn’t supposed to know about it. Hallie was supposed to go up to Portland and pick up this guy in a bar and spend time with him. Then take him to this rental house and show him a good time. And she was going to get twenty-five thousand dollars for that. I told her for that kind of money there had to be a catch. Hallie just smiled at me when I said that, and said, ‘There sure as hell is.’ I asked her what but she wouldn’t tell me. Said it was supersecret. She couldn’t tell anyone. But that she knew what she was doing. That’s all I know.”

  “Can you tell me who hired her?”

  Tara shrugged. “Somebody rich.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “I dunno. Why would a woman arrange something like that? Hallie was supposed to be a surprise birthday present for the guy so I figured it was probably one of his rich buddies.”

  “You think Monica would know?”

  “I don’t think so. Sheila just told Monica that she had to be away for a few days. That there’d been a death in the family. Funny.”

  “What?”

  “Her saying there’d been a death in the family. That turned out to be the truth. She just didn’t know the death was going to be hers.”

  “Did Sheila have any other friends or maybe a boyfriend she might have told more about it?”

  “I don’t think so. She was very secretive about the whole thing. Would you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “If you catch the fucking guy who murdered my friend would you please let me know?”

  McCabe took her cell number and said that he would. He also asked her for her real name.

  “Jen O’Leary.”

  “Here, Jen.” McCabe held out the envelope containing ten one hundred dollar bills that Fortier had grudgingly approved for the project. She took it. Started for the door. Stopped and turned and handed it back to him.

  “I can’t take this. It feels too much like blood money.”

  McCabe nodded. “Your call.”

  Chapter 42

  MCCABE’S ELEVEN O’CLOCK flight back to Portland was delayed forty minutes due to lousy weather. He passed the time nursing a Dewar’s on the rocks in a typical airport bar in Terminal C at LaGuardia. To his surprise the place actually had Macallan 12 but to his further surprise they wanted twenty-two bucks for a single shot and no way he was going to pay that. Mostly because it was ridiculous but also because there was no way Fortier would reimburse him for what Bill considered his extravagant tastes. On the other hand Bill would be overjoyed that he still had the envelope with the thousand bucks in it that he’d carried just in case Tara aka Jen O’Leary had wanted to make a deal for information. Sadly she had no information to bargain with other than the fact that Norah Wilcox’s working name was Hallie and her real name was Sheila Wachowski. He’d learned nothing at all he could use to prove whether it was Rachel Thorne or Evan Fischer, or maybe both of them working in tandem, who’d been responsible for any or all of the three murders.

  The woman at Gate C14 announced over her loudspeaker that Flight 2334 to Portland would be delayed an additional fifteen minutes.

  He called Maggie.

  “How’d you do?”

  “I struck out.”

  “Totally?”

  “Not totally. At least I got Norah’s real name. Sheila Wachowski. But Ms. Wachowski revealed none of the details of her secret assignment to either her best friend, Tara, or her employer, Monica. Basically I got bupkes except that Norah’s assignment took her to Portland and that her next of kin notification will have to go to the Wachowskis, who apparently live somewhere on the south side of Chicago.”

  “Norah didn’t even slip up and reveal the gender of her client with a careless he or she reference?”

  “Nope. Nothing. Just that she was being paid twenty-five thousand dollars for basically one night’s work in Maine.”

  “Okay. So what do we do now?”

  “I haven’t got a single idea in my head except maybe that I’ve got time for one more Scotch.”

  “Okay, fine. But don’t come back drunk.”

  “I won’t. See you in Portland.”

  McCabe ordered a refill on the Dewar’s and stared with minimal interest at an NBA game between the Brooklyn Nets and the Cleveland Cavaliers. The Nets were getting creamed.

  He sat there staring blankly at the screen and toting up what he knew and how he might be able to use it.

  He’d learned Norah’s working name. Hallie. Her boss’s name. Monica. The fact that they both worked for an outfit that called itself Elegant Escorts. And that someone had paid Norah/Hallie $25K to seduce Josh Thorne, tie him to a bed and shoot a photo of him, which she then e-mailed to New York. Pretty thin. On the other hand, as a seasoned poker player, he knew that sometimes a better option than folding a bad hand was a bluff. A bluff designed to convince Rachel Thorne that he was holding more and better cards than he actually was. He took out his phone and began composing a text to Rachel.

  On my way back from New York where I had very informative conversations with Monica, Norah Wilcox’s boss at Elegant Escorts, and a young hooker who calls herself Tara (real name Jen O’Leary). Hallie and Tara shared an apartment, shared clothes and shared practically everything else including clients and information about who had signed her up and paid for her fatal trip to Portland, Maine ($25K). I think it’ll be in your long-term interest if you help me fill in the few holes that are left in this investigation. Please meet me first thing tomorrow morning at my office.

  McCabe read the text over two or three times. He wasn’t sure the fish would go for the bait, but he figured what the hell; he didn’t have any other good ideas at the moment. Just as his flight was called for boarding, he hit Send.

  Thanks mostly to the hour and the time of year, Delta’s late flight back to Portland was more than half empty and McCabe got to stretch out by himself in one of the exit row seats. Just as the flight lifted off from the runway McCabe closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. He didn’t wake up until he was on the ground again, this time in Portland.

  Once out of the plane he headed across the road to the short-term parking lot where his prize possession, a classic ’57 Ford Thunderbird convertible, was waiting to take him home to his condo on Portland’s Eastern Prom.

  Chapter 43

  IT WAS NEARLY one in the morning on yet another cold, wet and overcast Maine night when McCabe parked the T-Bird in its assigned space. He climbed out and looked up. All the windows on all three floors of his building at 324 Eastern Prom were dark, the inhabitants likely enjoying a warm and probably well-deserved sleep. It had been a long, tiring and not particularly successful day and he was eager to join them in slumber. He locked the car. Found the key for the outer door of the building and slipped it in the lock.

  He didn’t see the slender figure moving to the door just behind him.

  He pulled the door open and stepped inside. It wasn’t until he reached the fourth stair on his way up that he realized that the familiar click of the door’s automatic closing mechanism had come a few seconds late. He turned and saw Rachel Thorne standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in black tights and a black Gore-Tex jacket, her face and body dimly lit by the inadequate hall light. But the light was not nearly dim or inadequate enough for McCabe to miss the fact that she was pointing a gun at him. A Glock 26. The so-called Baby Glock. Small. Light. Easy to conceal. And, at this range, very, very deadly. Especially in the hands of an experienced shooter. It seemed Rachel had fallen for his bluff. Unfortunately not quite in the way he’d hoped.

  “Put both hands behind your head and continue climbing the stairs. Any sudden and unexpected moves on your part and not only will you die but so
will any and all of your neighbors curious enough and stupid enough to come out to see what’s going on.”

  McCabe did as he was told. As he reached the third-floor landing she told him to stop and take off his overcoat and lay it gently on the floor. He briefly considered taking off the coat and tossing it toward her, simultaneously rushing down to grab the gun from her hand. But he had a feeling Rachel was a steady and competent marksman. He’d most likely be dead before the coat left his hand. Again he did as he was told and let the coat slide to the floor.

  “Now your sports jacket.”

  He dropped that on top of the overcoat. There was no holster resting against his hip.

  “Where’s your gun?” asked Rachel.

  “I’m not armed.”

  “Bullshit. Cops are always armed.”

  “Not when they’re rushing to catch a last-minute flight to New York. Too much paperwork to fill out and not enough time to get it done.”

  She looked at him like he was lying. “Lift each of your trouser legs one at a time.”

  He did. There was no ankle holster on either side.

  “Empty your pockets and turn them inside out.”

  “What? Do you think I’m carrying a knife?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  Again he did as he was told.

  “Now take off the rest of your clothes and leave them on the floor.”

  “Are you planning to rape me?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. I just happen to think you’re less dangerous naked than you are dressed.”