by James Hayman
‘Mike, are you with me?’ Tasco was looking at him. ‘Hello? Is there something I’m missing here?’
McCabe shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry, Tom. Any record of Pollock ever using an alias? Either before he was sent up or maybe after he got out of prison?’
‘Not that we’re aware of.’
‘Do me a favor. Dig a little deeper. See if you can find out if Pollock ever used the alias Duane Pollard.’
‘So who’s Pollard?’
‘A local enforcer in Miami. My information places him in South Beach in March 2001. At the time, he was the live-in lover of a high-class pimp and pusher named Lucas Kane, who just happened to be an old dear friend of one Dr. Philip Spencer.’
‘Well, well, well. Didn’t know Spencer had such nice friends,’ said Fraser. ‘Where’s Kane now?’
‘Dead. He was murdered back in 2001.’
‘Really? Was Pollock/Pollard a suspect?’
‘No. According to Miami Beach PD he had an airtight alibi.’
‘Anything to show Spencer knew Pollard?’ asked Tasco.
‘They could have met at Kane’s funeral,’ said McCabe. Noticing a man nearby eyeing them, McCabe lowered his voice to just above a whisper and shifted his chair so the man couldn’t see his lips. Tasco and Fraser followed suit. The line between precaution and paranoia, as always, seemed thin.
‘Maybe at the funeral, Spencer asks Pollock to come to Maine to bash any necessary heads in his heart transplant scam,’ said Fraser. ‘After all, Kane doesn’t need him anymore, what with him being dead and all.’
‘Possible,’ said McCabe, considering it. ‘Pollock/Pollard loses his meal ticket in Florida about the same time Spencer’s hatching his transplant scheme in Maine. I mean, why else would a thug like that end up in Portland? Could you find anything about Spencer visiting France?’
‘Not much, even though the gendarmes were helpful,’ said Tasco. ‘There’s no record of anybody checking into the Hôtel du Midi in Montpellier under the name Philip Spencer at any time during November of last year.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. I checked with the hospital. According to their records, Dr. Spencer performed three heart transplants here in Maine that month.’
‘So he couldn’t have been in France?’
‘Technically, he could have, but he would have to have been traveling within a hell of a tight time frame.’
‘Do me another favor, Tom. Ask your contact in France if anyone checked in using the name Harry Lime.’
‘Okay, and if he did?’
‘Get the passport number and find out where and when it was issued. If it was mailed, find out where it was sent.’
‘So the guy in France wasn’t Philip Spencer?’
‘At least not our Philip Spencer. Sophie Gauthier just looked at his photo. She’s certain Spencer’s not the guy who recruited her.’
‘Basically you’re telling me we have nothing?’ said Tasco.
‘That pretty much sums it up.’
‘I’ve got to tell you Mike, it’s getting pretty old running up and down these blind alleys.’
‘Just hang in, Tom. It’ll pay off,’ said McCabe.
‘I hope so. What’s next?’
‘Next? Next we take a look inside Mrs. Spencer’s pretty green Lexus.’
39
Wednesday. 4:00 P.M.
McCabe hated surveillance, especially from the front seat of a rental car. This one was a Dodge Stratus. About as devoid of personality and creature comforts as a vehicle could get. It wasn’t even inconspicuous. In this neighborhood nobody but cops or Jehovah’s Witnesses would drive anything so dull – but it was all Fortier would pay for. He didn’t know how long the Bird was going to be impounded, but it could be a while. Even afterward, getting the windshield fixed, and maybe some other stuff, too, would take additional time. At least the Stratus had a CD player and a passable, though not great, sound system.
McCabe was parked in front of 24 Trinity Street. He’d already been there two hours waiting for the green Lexus to return. He’d invited Burt Lund to sit with him, and Lund was getting antsy. Tasco and Fraser waited across the street in a PPD Crown Vic. Mostly McCabe passed the time leaning back listening to Marcus Roberts play some very familiar Gershwin on the piano. He alternated the Roberts CD with one by Oscar Peterson, who created similar magic with Cole Porter.
‘Any word on what’s planned for Kevin Comisky’s funeral?’ asked Lund.
‘Yeah. Memo came down from Shockley’s office this afternoon. Service is scheduled for Monday at the cathedral. Color guard. Bagpipes. Twenty-one-gun salute at the gravesite. The whole nine yards. Cops will be coming in from all over New England to attend. Shockley plans to deliver a eulogy.’
‘That’ll be nice for the widow.’
McCabe glanced over at Lund. ‘Nice doesn’t bring her husband back.’
‘No.’
They lapsed into silence. The warrant to search the Lexus waited in McCabe’s pocket. Both McCabe and Lund agreed they wouldn’t serve it unless and until the Lexus was right there in front of them. Go banging on the Spencers’ front door while Phil Spencer was driving around loose and you’d invite some asshole lawyer to hold them up for days while he challenged probable cause.
An ATL for the Lexus had been issued to all patrol units. If the SUV was spotted, officers were to report the sighting and follow the vehicle but not intercept it. McCabe’s phone rang. It was Jacobi. ‘How you doing, Bill?’
‘I’m good. What fun and games do you have planned for us today?’
‘We’re over on Trinity Street waiting on a Lexus SUV. It’s the one I think was used to haul Katie Dubois’s body over to the scrap yard. I want you to go over it and find what we need to put this asshole away.’
‘The asshole being Dr. Spencer?’
‘You got it.’
‘Being an asshole is not necessarily a punishable offense.’
‘Don’t start, Bill. I’ve got good reason to think this guy might have been involved in the murder.’
Jacobi sighed. ‘So you’re looking for what? Prints, hair, fibers?’
‘Yeah, all that, but mostly blood. I don’t see how he could have hauled Katie’s body around cut up the way it was without getting some blood on the vehicle. Most likely on the cargo space in back. I don’t care how hard he scrubbed it –’
Jacobi finished the sentence. ‘Luminol will show it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, call me when your pigeon arrives and we’ll send over a flatbed. We’ll have to bring the Lexus down here to the garage to really go over it. I’ll also want to remove the seats and open up the spare tire well.’
‘That’s fine.’
Another hour passed before Harriet Spencer drove the green SUV through the gates of the Spencers’ inner sanctum. McCabe pulled the Stratus into the driveway behind her, effectively blocking retreat. He called Jacobi to send over the flatbed and then walked up to the Lexus’s driver’s side window. ‘Please exit the vehicle, Mrs. Spencer.’
‘What are you doing here? I thought I told you to leave my property and not come back.’
‘I’m serving you with a warrant, Mrs. Spencer, signed by District Court Judge Paula Washburn, authorizing us to conduct a thorough search of this vehicle in the police garage. A tow truck’s on its way now. We have reason to believe your car may have been used in the murder of Katie Dubois.’
‘You’re out of your mind. How dare you accuse us like this?’
‘We’re not making any accusations, Mrs. Spencer. We’re simply searching the car for evidence. If we don’t find anything, it will be returned to you with our apologies. This is Assistant Attorney General Bert Lund.’
Lund smiled. ‘How do you do, Mrs. Spencer?’
‘Mr. Lund will verify the validity of this warrant. You may also show it to your own attorney. Now please exit the vehicle.’
Hattie Spencer briefly examined the paper McCabe offered, then looked u
p at him. ‘May I take my groceries inside, or do you want to search those as well?’
‘Yes, but please don’t take anything else. I’ll have one of my men help you.’
‘Don’t bother, Detective.’ She gathered up half a dozen plastic bags from Hannaford’s and carried them to the kitchen door McCabe had used to leave the house three days before.
From the kitchen, Hattie Spencer called Philip’s cell. ‘The police are here. That detective McCabe and some others. They want to search my car. The Lexus.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Did they show you a warrant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alright. Don’t say anything to them. Nothing at all. I’ll call George Renquist. Then I’ll come back.’
Philip hung up. Hattie stood holding the dead phone for a minute. He sounded so calm. Philip always sounded calm. Finally she, too, hung up. She walked through the house and stood by the big front window watching the scene on the driveway.
She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Her world, the one she had so carefully constructed, so carefully cared for, for twenty years, seemed to be closing in on her. The men outside with their cars and vans and official pieces of paper were storming the barricades, and there was nothing she could do about it. Across the street she could see that nosy little suck-up Ellen Markham staring from the front step of her house. She was going to love telling her money-grubbing lawyer husband all about it tonight at dinner. As well as her friends, whoever they might be.
‘Imagine!’ Hattie could hear them saying. ‘The police were at the Spencers’ half the day. I hear it has to do with the murder of that girl. Katie Dubois? What do you suppose they were looking for?’
Yes, by tonight it would be all over Portland. Hattie went to the burled walnut drinks cupboard and filled a cut crystal water goblet about halfway up with gin. She could take their snide innuendos. She was tougher than that. She walked back to the window with the drink and resumed her vigil as she sipped. She wondered what they were looking for, what they might find. What exactly did happen last week while she was up in Blue Hill? She had a feeling she might know.
Philip’s car, the black BMW, turned into the driveway. It stopped behind the car that blocked the Lexus. A uniformed cop directed Philip to park on the street. He did, but when he emerged his face showed that strange, quiet rage she knew so well. He walked over to McCabe and the pudgy lawyer McCabe had with him. Bert Lump. Philip said something. McCabe handed Philip the warrant. He looked at it and said something else. She guessed he was quietly threatening them. That was Philip’s way. Letting them know how many important people he knew. Then their attorney, George Renquist, arrived. George looked at the warrant and said something to Philip. Philip and George turned away from the police. George said something. Philip disagreed. He walked toward the house. The front door opened and closed. He walked past the drawing room and climbed the stairs. She called to him. ‘Philip?’ He looked down at her but said nothing. He walked to the bedroom and closed the door. Hattie returned to her post by the window, sipped her gin, and watched a tow truck pull the Lexus up and onto its bed. Then they drove it away.
40
Wednesday 6:00 P.M.
McCabe followed the Lexus back to the police garage, then went upstairs to the detectives’ bullpen to wait while Jacobi’s team did their thing. He spotted Jack Batchelder at his desk. Jack was holding a half-eaten meatball sandwich in two hands, a paper napkin tucked in his collar to protect his shirt. He looked up, midbite. ‘What d’ya need, Mike?’ he asked.
‘Those open missing persons cases I asked you to check? How’re you doing with that?’
Batchelder sighed. McCabe guessed he wasn’t happy having his dinner interrupted. Jack carefully wrapped the remains of his sandwich in the waxed paper it’d come in, wiped his hands on the napkin, then reached for a file on his desk.
‘Your upper lip,’ said McCabe.
‘What?’
‘Your upper lip. Tomato sauce.’ McCabe pointed to the same spot on his own lip.
Batchelder reddened, then swiped at his mouth with the napkin. ‘Better?’ he asked.
‘Perfect. Now, what did you find?’
‘At first, not a whole lot. I went through all our open missing persons cases for the last three years.’
‘No young blond female athletes?’
‘Nothing even close. So I e-mailed every other department in the state.’
‘And?’
‘We found one. Couple of hours ago MSP sent over the file. Young snowboarder named Wendy Branca turned up missing last December at Sunday River. She was never found. I haven’t had a chance to review the whole file yet.’
‘Blond?’
‘Yeah. Blond and beautiful.’
McCabe took the file from Batchelder. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Thanks, Jack. Good job.’ He went to his own desk, opened the file, and began reading. Wendy Branca was a twenty-four-year-old sales rep for WMND, a Portland country music station. She was indeed blond and beautiful – and an athlete. An expert and avid snowboarder, she was good enough to have been an instructor at Breckinridge, in Colorado, a couple of seasons after college.
Last December, before Christmas, Wendy and a couple of girlfriends went up to Sunday River for a weekend of boarding and prospecting for guys. Saturday night they headed for a place called Giggles, which featured a big bar scene for the twenty-something crowd. All three women started the evening off with a couple of appletinis. The idea of actually drinking something called an appletini made McCabe cringe. After that the women started circulating. They talked and danced with a bunch of different guys. At some point, no one knew exactly when, Wendy disappeared.
Her friends told detectives they hadn’t worried. They just assumed Wendy got lucky and left with someone. Not that unusual, they said. Wendy attracted men like flies, and she liked having fun. They figured she’d turn up at the motel either later that night or, if things clicked, sometime the next morning.
When she wasn’t back by 10:00 A.M., one of the friends started calling her cell. Each time the message kicked in right away. Still they weren’t worried. They figured she’d turned the phone off because she didn’t want to be bothered. They left Wendy’s stuff with the motel desk clerk, checked out, and headed to the mountain. At 5:00 P.M. they stopped back at the motel and discovered her stuff was still there. That’s when they called the Bethel police.
The local cops talked to the motel manager and everybody who worked at Giggles. No one at the bar remembered Wendy except for one of the bartenders and a guy who played guitar in the band. He remembered her because A, she was ‘a hottie,’ and B, she kept requesting Dixie Chicks songs. Seems he hated the Dixie Chicks. Neither the guitar player nor the bartender saw who she left with.
After twenty-four hours Wendy still hadn’t turned up. The Bethel cops ran out of ideas and called in the state police. Teams of MSP detectives interviewed every male who’d paid with a credit card at Giggles that night. They also showed Wendy’s picture around at every other bar and motel in the area to see if she’d been spotted anywhere else. She hadn’t. They broadened the search to include men who paid with a credit card either at the ski area for lift tickets or at condos or motels within a twenty-mile radius. Still nothing. They checked with Cingular, who showed no activity on Wendy’s phone since early Saturday evening. The phone had been turned off since then. Detectives interviewed every known family member, friend, and acquaintance plus all of Wendy’s former boyfriends and lovers. Still nothing.
A massive search of the area yielded no results either. According to a Press Herald reporter, Wendy Branca just disappeared ‘into thin air.’ McCabe was pretty sure that wasn’t the case.
Katie Dubois and Wendy Branca. That still left one heart unaccounted for. Because he knew Darryl Pollock was gay and because he suspected Spencer swung both ways, McCabe pulled the files on missing young men. It took over an hour, but he found what he was looking for
. Around the middle of April, just weeks before graduation, a Bowdoin senior from Portland named Brian Henry disappeared without a trace. Henry was blond, handsome, a starting forward on the soccer team, and openly gay. Possibly a sexually desirable target, but, unlike with Branca, there was no obvious time or place where Spencer might have met Henry or picked him up. According to Henry’s roommate and partner, they enjoyed a monogamous relationship and neither of them frequented gay bars or other hangouts. It was unlikely Henry had simply taken off. He was a serious student and looking forward to starting medical school in the fall. Tufts Medical School.
It was nearly 8:00 P.M. The Tufts admissions office would be closed. McCabe Googled the name of the dean of admissions, then used Superpages to find his home number. The dean told him yes, prospective students were often interviewed by prominent alumni. McCabe asked him who, if anyone, interviewed Brian Henry. The dean said he wouldn’t be able to check the records until morning. McCabe told him why he needed the information sooner. The dean said he’d call back in twenty minutes. He did.
It turned out that Brian Henry had indeed been interviewed and that the interviewer was none other than a ‘prominent Portland surgeon and Tufts graduate, Dr. Philip Spencer.’ McCabe stuck both files in his drawer. Brian Henry made victim number three. He knew that unless he made progress fast, Lucinda Cassidy would be number four.
McCabe called Maggie at home. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be working any cases, but he needed her help. He told her what he had discovered about Wendy Branca and Brian Henry.
‘Do the dates Henry and Branca disappeared coincide with the dates Sophie gave you for the surgeries?’
‘Close enough. We know he kept Dubois alive for about a week after kidnapping her. He probably did the same with them.’
‘So Cassidy could still be alive?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, but time’s running out. Mag, I want you to do something for me.’
‘Something like work on the case?’
