by James Hayman
McCabe shrugged. ‘I chase murderers. Like Everest, they’re there – and catching them can be challenging.’
Spencer smiled. ‘You’re joking, but I’m serious. You know, I’ll be going up to Acadia in a few weeks for a training climb up the Precipice. It’s a fairly easy climb, but it does have a few tricky patches. Short, steep verticals that can be tough for a beginner. Would you like to give it a try?’
McCabe was surprised by the invitation, wondered why it was offered. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? You look reasonably fit. I know you don’t lack courage. Tom Shockley told me you ran into the Twin Towers and saved someone’s life on September 11.’
‘Tom Shockley’s got a big mouth.’ McCabe wasn’t surprised Spencer knew Shockley. Portland was a small town. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, either, by Shockley’s indiscretion. It was the nature of the beast. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t something I planned. Like an ascent of Everest. Or Denali. I happened to be in a meeting at police headquarters on Center Street that morning. It’s about a five-minute drive from the Towers. When the first plane hit, we all rushed over to see if we could help.’
‘But you ran into the building?’
‘Only because that’s where help was needed. Look, Dr. Spencer, I’m a cop. What I did a lot of other cops did, too. I was just luckier than some. I made it out alive. It wasn’t fun. Or challenging in the way you mean. It’s also personal, and I have to tell you I don’t appreciate Shockley talking about it. To you or anyone else.’
‘How does he know about it?’
‘He didn’t hear it from me.’
‘Interesting.’
‘If you say so. Did Shockley say anything else?’
‘Just that you were a top New York homicide cop who’d gone through a nasty divorce. That you came to Portland because you wanted a safer, more wholesome environment to bring up your daughter.’
Spencer’s beeper went off. He glanced at the screen. ‘Detective, I’m afraid I have to run out on you. They’ve started harvesting my heart.’ As he stood up he added, ‘I’ll be happy to read Dr. Mirabito’s autopsy report and talk to her about whether the wounds on the body were consistent with a harvesting procedure. From your description I suspect they were. As to whether or not a black market in hearts for transplant is even remotely possible, and I don’t think it is, you might want to talk to our transplant co-ordinator here at Cumberland. She can tell you far more about the logistics than I ever could.’
Spencer put his hand on McCabe’s elbow and led him toward the door. They passed the Denali photo. Looking at it close up, McCabe was struck even more than before by something in Spencer’s expression, something in the attitude. He still wasn’t sure what.
‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Detective. Good luck in catching whoever it was who cut up that girl. Please let me know if there’s any other way I can help.’
McCabe interrupted Spencer’s dismissal. ‘Just one last question,’ he said.
‘Okay, but make it quick.’ Spencer headed toward the elevator bank.
McCabe followed. ‘You know that Denali picture? Who are the other three guys?’
‘I told you, old friends from medical school. Why do you want to know?’
‘Are they all transplant surgeons?’
‘So that’s it. Listen, I told you this murder was not about heart transplants.’ Spencer pushed the down button harder than he need have.
‘But those men are transplant surgeons, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, two are, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Not all three?’
‘One’s dead.’
The elevator arrived. McCabe followed Spencer in. Spencer pressed five for himself and the lobby for McCabe. ‘What are the names of the two who are alive?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, this is ridiculous.’
‘Humor me.’
The doors opened at five and Spencer stepped out. McCabe followed. Spencer stopped and turned to face him. ‘You’re not going any farther.’
‘What are their names? I can find out on my own. It’ll just take longer.’
Spencer didn’t say anything for a minute. He just stared at McCabe with distaste, as if he had eaten something unpleasant. ‘The man on the left, next to me, is DeWitt Holland. He’s at Brigham in Boston. The one on the far right is Matthew Wilcox, who’s at UNC in Chapel Hill.’
‘Who’s the dead guy? The one you’re looking at in the picture?’
‘His name was Lucas Kane.’ Spencer’s attitude softened. ‘A tragic, tragic loss. In some ways Lucas was the most talented of us all.’
‘How did Kane die?’
‘Lucas was brutally murdered about four years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Spencer turned his back and walked away.
‘Just one last question, Dr. Spencer,’ McCabe called after him, the image of Peter Falk’s Columbo popping into his mind. ‘Where were you around midnight last Thursday night?’
Spencer turned. ‘At home. In bed.’
‘Your wife was with you?’
‘Yes. We usually share a bed.’
McCabe rode alone to the ground floor. He passed through a swirl of people in the lobby without noticing them. He left the building and headed toward the Bird. A gaggle of smokers, mostly hospital workers, stood clustered in the corner of the parking lot sucking on their weeds. McCabe was tempted to see if he could bum a smoke from one of them. He’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker for years, and burning tobacco still smelled good to him. He only broke the habit after Casey was born.
10
Saturday. 8:30 P.M.
It was nearly eight thirty when McCabe got back to the condo. He was carting a plastic bag filled with frozen dinners and wondering if Casey had managed to scrounge up anything to eat. Before he could fish the keys out of his pocket, the door swung open. Kyra stood on the other side, a concerned expression on her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Your wife called,’ she said.
‘My wife?’
‘Your ex-wife, if you prefer.’ She took the bag of groceries and went to the kitchen. ‘You know?’ she called out. ‘Cassandra? The drop-dead gorgeous one in the picture Casey showed me.’ Kyra stuck the food in the freezer, took out a cut crystal highball glass, and poured him three fingers of Scotch. She put the bottle back, then paused, took it out again, and poured herself a short one, diluting it with ice and a little water.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that ex-wife. Did she say what she wanted?’
‘She’s flying up here. She wants to see Casey.’
He stood quietly for a moment, absorbing the information. ‘When?’
‘The end of the week.’
‘Does Casey know?’
‘Yes. She took the call. They talked for a couple of minutes.’ Kyra handed him his drink, sat down on the couch, and sipped her own. He’d never seen her drink hard liquor before.
‘How did she react?’ he asked.
‘From what I could hear on this end, she pretty much blew Sandy off. Said she didn’t want to see her. Sounded cool. Hung up after a minute or two. I asked her who it was on the phone. She told me.’
‘She okay?’
‘I don’t know. Abandonment isn’t easy to come to terms with.’
McCabe sat on the broad window seat and gazed down at a million lights shining across the bulk of an enormous white cruise ship as it pulled out of Portland harbor. The Princess something. Kyra flipped off her sandals and stretched her legs out on the couch. She looked very much at home.
‘Where’s Casey now?’ he asked.
‘I gave her some dinner and drove her to Sarah Palfrey’s house. Presumably to watch TV and do some homework. Aside from anything else, that gives you a chance to sort out how you feel before you discuss it with her.’
McCabe was hit by a sudden surge of anger. ‘I know exactly how I feel,’ he said. ‘Sandy’s got no right to suddenly drop back into Casey’s life. Not after three years of sil
ence.’
‘You’ve never told me much about your relationship with Sandy.’
‘You never asked.’
‘I’m asking now.’
McCabe sighed. The anger ebbed. He didn’t like talking about his failed first marriage, but maybe it would help – and maybe Kyra did have a right to know. He sucked in a breath, held it for a minute, let it out slowly, and then began to talk.
‘My relationship with Sandy was different in just about every way from what we have between us. It was built on lust, not love. That was true at the beginning, even truer at the end. For the last few years there was nothing between Sandy and me but sex. That never stopped. She could always turn me on, and she loved proving it. My emotional life focused on Casey – and, I guess, on my job. You know how I am. When I get involved in a case I can’t just turn it on and off. It consumes me. Sandy couldn’t deal with that. She hated it.’
McCabe swirled the Scotch in the Waterford glass. A wedding present from his sister Fran. One of a set of four. Sandy had taken two to her new life. He’d broken one in the move to Portland. This was the last.
Kyra watched him as he finished the drink. ‘Didn’t you love her in the beginning?’
‘I thought I did. Unfortunately, Sandy didn’t have much use for my love. She loved herself more than enough for both of us. In the end, any feelings I might have had for her withered away.’
‘Why didn’t you split earlier? File for divorce?’
‘I thought about it.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘Fear of losing Casey. In most divorce proceedings the mother gets custody. The father gets to visit. I wasn’t about to let that happen. I was totally in love with my daughter from the instant she was born, and I wanted her with me.’ McCabe rose from the window seat and went to the kitchen to pour himself another Scotch. He held up the bottle. ‘You want another?’
‘Not for me. I’m not sure you should have one either.’
‘I’m all right,’ he said. He poured the Scotch and returned to the window. ‘In the end, Sandy solved the problem for me. She started screwing around with some rich banker. Not her first affair, by the way. Just the first who asked her to marry him. She walked out and never looked back.’
‘Then you got Casey. The perfect solution, right?’
‘Not quite perfect. I assumed at the time that Sandy would want to see her daughter occasionally. Y’know, one day a week, one weekend a month, alternate school vacations, whatever.’
‘She didn’t?’
‘No. She didn’t. She hardly even bothered to call. She was always too busy shopping. Or getting a pedicure. Or whatever the hell else it is that Sandy does with her time. Casey was ten years old and in an emotionally fragile place, and here was her own mother telling her she didn’t care enough to take a cab across town or even pick up the phone to talk to her. I found that unforgivable at the time. I always will.’
‘Did you ever talk to Sandy about it?’
‘I tried. Maybe not hard enough, but I did try. Unfortunately, every conversation with Sandy ultimately ended up being about Sandy. How busy her new life was. How difficult it was adjusting to a new husband. Especially one who doesn’t want children. How she wasn’t sure she was ready emotionally to be a mother again. Sandy just went on and on. I can repeat each of those conversations verbatim. Each time it would get to a point where I couldn’t listen anymore and I’d slam down the phone in a rage. It would take me weeks to work up the energy to try again.’
‘There’s been no contact at all in three years?’
‘No. Just some expensive Christmas and birthday presents. The last one didn’t even come with a card. It just arrived. We figured it was from Sandy because we didn’t know anyone else who’d send her something from Tiffany’s.’ There was an edge in his voice again, the anger coming back like an old familiar friend.
McCabe walked to the kitchen to pour himself another Scotch. Then he decided not to. The last thing Casey needed if she wanted to talk about any of this was for him to be incoherent. He rinsed out the Waterford glass and put it on a high shelf where it wouldn’t get accidentally bashed. Then he sat down again by the window.
‘You know, when the job came up in Portland, I told people – myself included – living in a smaller city would be healthier for Casey. The job would be less demanding. I could spend more time being a father. It was all true, but I was also using distance to help Casey rationalize Sandy’s neglect. I figured being three hundred and fifty miles away might soften the impact of having a mother who didn’t care enough to ever find out how she was doing.’
‘Do you think it worked?’
‘Not really. When Casey showed me Sandy’s picture this morning, it was obvious having a mother was something she’s been thinking about. I asked her if she wanted to see Sandy again. She said no. Then she asked me if we were getting married. You and me. She wanted to know if that would make you her mother.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘That we might be someday, but we weren’t there yet.’
‘That was the right answer.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. For now, anyway. Let me ask you something else. You might find this hurtful, and you can always tell me to shut up and mind my own business – but since you’re talking about us getting married, I guess it is my business. You just said moving away from Sandy, moving to Portland, was all for Casey’s benefit. Wasn’t it, at least a little, for yours as well?’
He wasn’t sure where this was going. ‘How so?’
‘After the divorce, wasn’t there some small part of you that rejoiced? Some small part that shouted, “Whoopee! I get the prize. I get to keep this beautiful little girl and Sandy doesn’t. I get all of Casey’s love and Sandy doesn’t get any”? By packing up and moving six hours away, weren’t you trying to make sure it stayed that way?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ McCabe spoke quietly. ‘Am I glad Casey’s living with me and not with Sandy? Absolutely, but if you’re asking if I’m happy my thirteen-year-old daughter feels abandoned by her own mother and, as a result, more dependent on me, the answer is no. No way. Not then. Not now. Not ever.’
‘Okay, if that’s true and the answer really is no, shouldn’t you welcome Sandy’s efforts to reconnect? Seems to me Casey’s got a right to get to know her mother. You said yourself that might have been what she was asking to do when she showed you the picture. What an amazing coincidence it is that Sandy calls up the very same day. I realize, if they do see each other, it won’t make up for what’s already happened, but don’t you think it might be a start?’
McCabe stared into Kyra’s eyes and said nothing. Maybe she was right. She probably was. Yet, for now, there was still too much anger, too much hurt for him to admit it.
Finally Kyra stood up. ‘Okay. I’m going back to my own place now. Sarah’s mother said she’d bring Casey home. When she gets here, try not to react purely emotionally. Think hard about what you say about Sandy and how Casey should react to the idea of seeing her again. Think how it will affect your relationship with your daughter. Not just now but for a really long time.’ She leaned down and kissed McCabe on the lips. He barely noticed. Then she left.
McCabe dialed Sandy’s number in New York. She picked up on the second ring. He was a little surprised she was home on a Saturday night. ‘Hello, McCabe,’ she said. ‘I thought I might be hearing from you.’ She spoke in that smooth, throaty growl he knew so well and once found irresistible. Like a young Lauren Bacall leaning against the door in To Have and Have Not. ‘You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.’
‘How are you, Sandy?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, and yourself?’
‘Couldn’t be better. Thank you for asking.’
‘What can I do for you, McCabe? I mean, now that we’ve established that we’re both feeling fine. We are feeling fi
ne, aren’t we?’
‘Not entirely. I don’t think you should come up to Portland. At least not now. Casey doesn’t want to see you, and neither do I. Aside from anything else, I’m in the middle of a major murder case.’
‘I know. It even made the New York papers. Banner headlines in the News and Post. MURDER IN MAINE. TEENAGED GIRL RAPED AND MUTILATED. Quite Gothic. Your boss certainly has a way with words. I’m not sure Casey wouldn’t be safer here in Manhattan. All we have is your common garden-variety crazies.’
‘As I said, Casey doesn’t want to see you.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘She did, in fact. Even before you called.’
‘Well, we may have a problem with that, McCabe. In case you’ve forgotten, I am Casey’s mother, and I intend spending some time with my daughter before any more time passes.’
‘Your daughter? You have the brass to actually call her that after walking out because Daddy Big-Bucks didn’t want to “raise other people’s children.” That was the phrase, wasn’t it, Sandy? “Raise other people’s children.” You know me. I never forget a phrase – or anything else, for that matter.’
‘Let’s not let this get nasty, McCabe. As Casey’s mother I have a perfect right to see her and spend time with her. I don’t want to have to go to court to protect that right, but I will, and thanks to Peter – or Daddy Big-Bucks, as you so charmingly call him – I can afford the best lawyers in the business. So please let Casey know, if you don’t mind terribly, that I’ll be coming up Friday and taking her down to Boston for the weekend. She and I have a lot of catching up to do.’
McCabe hung up the phone, poured himself another Scotch, then poured it down the sink. He reached for the phone again and called Bobby.
Estelle answered. ‘McCabe residence.’ He should have been prepared for Estelle’s shrill greeting. She’d worked for McCabe’s brother for ten years. Somehow he never was.
‘Hi, Estelle.’
‘Michael, darling, how are you?’ Her piercing tones assaulted his eardrums.
‘I’m doing okay. How are you?’
‘Aside from my gallbladder, not bad.’
