by James Hayman
Even at quarter to nine on a Thursday night the place was busy, he assumed with people who’d just left the mall or the nearby Cineplex. The hostess looked about the same age as Katie Dubois. McCabe wondered if the two knew each other. The girl wore too much makeup, and her bare plump tummy flopped out over the waistband of her black pants. McCabe watched it jiggle as she showed them to an empty table in the middle of the room. He figured she wasn’t a soccer player.
He looked around. There were a lot of faces he didn’t know, and the idea of sitting in the middle of a crowded room suddenly seemed stupid. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. Maybe he was being more paranoid than he ought to be. Hell, they were in Pizzeria Uno. On the other hand, hadn’t the day before yesterday started with the murders of an innocent kid and a veteran cop? Hadn’t the maniac who killed both nearly succeeded in slashing McCabe to death as well? Maybe it wasn’t paranoia.
He spotted a corner booth where he could have his back to the room. He asked Flabby Tummy if she would seat them there, told her he was superstitious and he thought that was his lucky table. ‘No problem,’ she said, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I hate Friday the thirteenth myself.’
Casey slid in first, her back to the wall. McCabe sat next to her. Kyra took the bench across from them. The girl handed them menus, and a busboy filled their glasses with water. Meanwhile, McCabe scanned the room, looking for anyone looking at them. He checked possible exits. He calculated lines of fire. He brushed his right hand over his .45, making sure it was still there.
As it touched the weapon, his hand started shaking. Kyra noticed. Casey didn’t. Delayed stress reaction. He willed it to stop. It wouldn’t. He hid the hand under the table. He told himself to relax. That didn’t work either. He imagined the headlines. homicide HOMICIDE COP SUFFERS NERVOUS BREAKDOWN ORDERING THIN-CRUST PIZZA. He didn’t laugh.
‘Your server will be with you in a moment,’ Flabby Tummy said and left.
Kyra’s hand took his, under the table. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered, her blue eyes registering concern, the familiar little line appearing just above her nose.
‘Just a little edgy. Long day.’
‘Hi, I’m your server, Brian. How are you folks tonight?’
‘We’re great, Brian. How are you?’ Casey was smiling up at him. Damn, she’s flirting, thought McCabe. Thirteen years old and she’s flirting with a waiter who needs a shave. Twenty’s gonna be a rough seven years away. Kyra squeezed his hand tightly, smiled, and winked at him.
‘Can I start you folks off with something to drink?’
McCabe ordered a Coke for Casey, a white wine for Kyra, and Dewar’s on the rocks for himself. Somehow single malt, even if they had it, didn’t go with the ambience.
When the drinks came, he took a long slug of his own. It helped. Alcohol depressing the central nervous system was just what he needed. Maybe he’d just say the hell with it and become a drunk. Not uncommon among cops. Of course, neither was suicide. Okay, he told himself, either balance the traumas of the job with the traumas of your life or you get yourself another job. Another life.
That night in bed, the shaking came back worse than before, and with it the cold sweats. Kyra tried to calm it by laying her body on top of his and rocking him gently. She asked if this ever happened before. Just once, he said, the night after he shot TwoTimes, but that night he had no one to hold him. Sandy was gone and he had slept alone.
They didn’t make love. They just rocked until about two in the morning, when McCabe fell asleep. When he woke at five, she was still holding him. The shakes were gone.
45
Friday. 8:15 A.M.
It was exactly one week since Lucinda Cassidy was kidnapped on the Western Prom, and all McCabe could do was hope she was still alive. His flight to LaGuardia took a little over an hour and, for a change, they landed right on time. Melody Bollinger was waiting for him by the baggage carousel. As it turned out, she was zaftig and then some. She resembled an updated version of Joan Blondell, maybe twenty pounds rounder. She was wearing a pair of tight khaki pants McCabe figured she bought at least fifteen pounds ago. A blue blazer covered most but not all of the bulge. They had no trouble recognizing each other.
‘McCabe?’
‘Melody?’ The terminal was jammed with people. ‘Let’s go get some coffee,’ he said, looking around. ‘There’s a Starbucks upstairs.’
‘You know your airports.’
‘I’ve been here a few times before,’ he said. ‘I’m a New Yorker.’
‘I know. I did a backgrounder on you. Your career with the NYPD, your little run-in with the drug dealer – and, of course, the Dubois case.’
They found a table in the corner, and he bought them both some coffee. She declined his offer of a pastry. ‘I’m on Atkins, but thanks anyway.’
He handed her the coffee. ‘Alright,’ she asked, ‘what’s this all about? What’s Kane’s connection to your case?’ She flipped on her recorder.
He reached over and flipped it off. ‘Take notes,’ he said. ‘I’d just as soon not be on tape or quoted for attribution. Consider me an unnamed source. Plus I’d like you to hold off printing any of this.’
‘McCabe, you know better than that. I’m a reporter. You tell me something that’s news, expect it to be printed.’
‘Just hold off a couple of days. Say until Monday. You’ll have a better story if you do. If we clear it by then, I’ll make sure you get details nobody else will have.’
‘What if something happens in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime, print whatever you want as long as it doesn’t come from me.’
She thought about this. ‘Alright. Deal.’ She put the recorder back in her briefcase. ‘Now, why are you interested in Kane?’
McCabe showed Bollinger a postmortem photograph of the man Maggie had killed in Sophie Gauthier’s hospital room. ‘Do you know this man?’
She picked up the picture and examined it. ‘Sure. It’s Duane Pollard. Lucas Kane’s bullyboy. Who killed him?’
‘You’re sure it’s Pollard?’
‘I’m sure. Either him or his twin brother. Is this the guy the female cop shot in the hospital yesterday morning? The one identified as Darryl Pollock?’
‘You do your homework.’
‘Story came in from the AP last night. Is this Darryl Pollock?’
‘Yes. My partner shot him just in time to save my life. Saved a key witness’s life as well.’
‘Interesting. When did Duane turn up in Maine? And why?’ Bollinger started writing notes.
‘Let me ask some questions first. Do you think Pollock – let’s call him that, it’s his real name – do you think he killed Lucas Kane?’
She looked up. ‘No. His alibi was corroborated six ways to Sunday. He couldn’t have pulled the trigger.’
‘Could he have recruited someone else to do it?’
‘Unlikely. Kane was his meal ticket.’
‘Maybe they had a spat.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but I don’t think so. I don’t know what you’re looking for here.’
‘I’m trying to figure out exactly why this thug ended up in Maine trying to put a bullet through a key witness’s head. All I know so far is that Pollock’s ex-boyfriend, the late Lucas Kane, was buddies with a doctor in Maine who may be involved in the case.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I’d like to know what you know about the murder of Lucas Kane.’
‘About all I can add to what you read in the Herald is a couple of things I’ve always thought of as weird. Or at least questionable.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
‘Like whoever shot Kane shot him from an angle and chose a weapon guaranteed to blow away his dentures and turn his face into mincemeat. The only reason I can think of to do that is to make positive ID as hard as possible. Why?’
‘I don’t know. You wrote that the cops suspected a mob hit.’
‘Yeah, but that was bullshit. If in doubt, blame the mob. An
y mob. Everybody just nods and accepts it. It’s a convenient out.’
‘You think this wasn’t their style.’
‘I know it’s not. So do you. If they wanted to kill Kane, they’d just go bang-bang-you’re-dead. No reason to hide his identity.’
McCabe chewed on that for a minute. ‘Okay. That’s weird number one. What’s weird number two?’
‘The fingerprints.’
‘What about the fingerprints?’
Bollinger took a breath. ‘McCabe, you’re an experienced homicide cop. You know better than I do that when you check somebody’s house for prints, you generally pick up a lot of extraneous prints from whoever’s been there. Not just the people who live there but others. Visitors, delivery people. Whoever. Well, in Kane’s apartment there was a lot of that. A lot of partials and smears, here, there, and everywhere, just like you’d expect.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I have a good contact, a crime lab tech who examined the room where they found Kane’s body. He’s somebody I trust. According to my contact, none of those prints belonged to the victim.’
‘I thought the cops said there were a lot of Kane’s prints. That’s one of the ways they identified him.’
‘There were and it is. They found the victim’s prints all over the place. On the telephone. On the doorknobs. On tables. On the refrigerator. One on an empty beer bottle in the living room.’
‘But –’
‘Let me finish. These prints were all perfect. Nice fat plump perfect prints. Not a smear or partial among them. It was like somebody walked the victim around the apartment and planted his prints on things just before they shot him. Or maybe pressed his fingers against things just after.’
‘The FBI didn’t have a record of Kane’s prints?’
‘No. Kane was never fingerprinted while he was alive. Never arrested. Never served in the military, et cetera, et cetera. All they had for a comp was the victim himself.’
‘How about the DNA? Sessions said they were sure because of the DNA.’
‘Same sort of thing. The DNA they got was from hairs on the bed right where the techs would look. Saliva in the sink. A complete set of fingernail clippings in the wastebasket in the bathroom. Just seemed to me, and my pal in the crime lab, that it was all too perfect.’
‘There was no previous record of Kane’s DNA?’
‘Nope.’
‘So you’re saying the body wasn’t Kane’s?’
‘I’m saying it’s a definite maybe.’
‘So if it wasn’t Lucas Kane, who was it?’
‘I haven’t a clue. In those days South Beach was full of good-looking boys on the prowl. Some selling their bodies. Some just looking for a sugar daddy. If one of them happened to disappear, nobody would even notice.’
‘He’d have to be the same height and weight as Kane. Same hair color.’
‘Easy enough.’
‘How about the car?’
‘What about the car?’
‘You wrote that Kane’s prints – the corpse’s prints – matched the prints found in the car.’
‘They did.’
‘Same problem of perfection they found in the condo?’
‘No. The prints in the car were about what you’d expect. Partials from the victim on the door, the wheel, the gearshift lever, the seat belt lock, and so on. I don’t know about DNA.’
‘Anybody else’s prints anywhere in or on the car?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. I think it was clean.’
‘So maybe they wiped it down and then let the victim drive it around?’
‘That could be.’
‘Did you ever ask Allard or Sessions about any of this?’
‘Yeah. At first they pooh-poohed the whole thing, told me my imagination was working overtime, but I’m a persistent kind of gal, and I kept asking. After a while they just stonewalled me.’
‘Kane’s father came to the funeral, right?’ McCabe asked.
‘Yes. The famous pianist. I remember a sad old man. He came with a much younger woman who was supposedly his assistant. Maybe she was. Maybe she was more. I think the mother may be dead.’
‘Did anybody think to do a Y-chromosomal DNA match between father and son? That would have confirmed the body’s identity beyond a doubt.’
‘Wouldn’t have helped.’
‘Why not?’
‘Kane was adopted. On that note, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take a short break and find the little girls’ room.’
Bollinger rose and wandered off. McCabe got them both another coffee and considered the possibilities. Suppose Bollinger was right and the body they buried wasn’t Lucas Kane. Pollock would have to have known. He ID’d the body. Said it was Kane. Hair, moles, and scars in all the right places, Sessions told him. Even made some jokes about the guy’s pecker. ‘I never forget a penis,’ he said.
Suppose Kane had killed someone else to convince people he was dead. Why? So he could become Harry Lime? In the film The Third Man, Harry Lime faked his own death on the theory that the police would never go after a dead man. Had Kane done the same thing for the same reason? The choice of names seemed almost too obvious. Once again the risk-taker? What about the other name? Pollock’s alias, Paul Oliver Duggan. The name used by the assassin in Day of the Jackal.
McCabe replayed Spencer’s words again in his mind. A tragic, tragic loss. In some ways Lucas was the most talented of us all. Talented enough to perform transplant surgery on elderly patients after fifteen years of not being a doctor? Seemed like a reach. Talented enough to be someone’s assistant? Holland’s. Wilcox’s. Or even Spencer’s. Maybe they were all in on it. The Asclepius Society. Killing healthy young people to bring the dead back to life.
McCabe let his mind range over the possibilities. What about the victims? Katie Dubois. Lucinda Cassidy. Elyse Andersen. Wendy Branca. Brian Henry. All blond. All athletes. All physically attractive. All but one female. The Harry Lime name was linked to both Dubois and Andersen. Dubois was raped before being murdered. Dubois and Andersen had their hearts cut out. The fate of the others remained uncertain.
McCabe wondered about Kane’s sexuality. In Miami he lived an openly gay lifestyle. Maybe he was bisexual. Common enough. He remembered reading Kinsey Institute statistics claiming 11.6 percent of white males between twenty and thirty-five were equally attracted to men and women.
Bollinger returned. He handed her her coffee. ‘What do you know about Kane’s sex life?’
‘Ah, now we’re getting to the fun stuff,’ said Bollinger.
‘Seriously. I know he had an ongoing relationship with Pollard – excuse me, Pollock – but beyond that?’
‘Lucas Kane was a sexual predator. Men. Women. It didn’t matter. He was vicious and voracious.’
‘You mean AC/DC?’
‘No. That’s too gentle a word for it. Sex defined nearly everything Lucas Kane did. He consumed people. Used them and abused them. Most of his targets were young and fit, but lack of beauty never deterred Lucas. If he wanted something, he used sex to get it. He even hit on fat old me on more than one occasion.’
‘Did he score?’
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Lucas Kane was physically attractive, very attractive. Beautiful, really, but I found him psychically repellent. Like a snake. Lucas would take you, suck you dry, and throw you away. Darryl Pollock was the only human being I can think of, and I use the term “human being” loosely, who was tough enough or insensitive enough or sociopathic enough not to care. A match made in heaven. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s change the subject. Lucas’s sex life gives me the creeps.’
‘Okay. Tell me about Stan Allard’s suicide.’
‘I guess that’s weird thing number three. I don’t think it was suicide.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What happened is, a little after Kane’s death, Stan’s marriage finally broke up and he moved into this grubby little place called the Endless Dunes.
Basically a hot-sheets motel a couple of blocks from the beach. The way Sessions tells it, Stan was so depressed about splitting with his wife that he just wanted to end it all.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘Stan wasn’t depressed. He was overjoyed. A few days before the supposed suicide, I had a couple of drinks with him. You know what he said about the breakup? “Best thing that ever happened to me. I should have walked out on the bitch years ago.”
‘Then we started bullshitting about the Kane murder, and I told him about some of my concerns about the fingerprints and DNA. All he said was, “I’m working on that.”
‘I said, “What do you mean you’re working on it? I thought the case was closed?”
‘He said, “It wasn’t cleared. It isn’t closed. I’m working on it.” Listen, McCabe, Stan Allard was a smart, tough cop. A survivor. I say there’s no way he shot himself.’ Bollinger paused.
‘You think it was Pollock and Kane.’
‘One or the other. Or both. Duane did most of Kane’s dirty work, but they both liked hurting people. Probably liked killing them.’
‘They killed Allard because Allard was getting too close to proving Kane wasn’t dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sessions didn’t do anything about it?’
‘I’ve got some pretty good sources who tell me Sessions was on Kane’s payroll. Hired and paid for. He wanted everyone thinking Kane was dead. Again nothing I can prove. Or even print.’
‘How do you think they did Allard?’
‘I think Kane and Pollard, sorry, Pollock, may have been waiting in Stan’s motel room. When he gets home, they render him unconscious, sit him in a chair, wrap his hand around his gun, stick it in his mouth, and bang. There were powder burns inside Stan’s mouth and evidence of saliva on the barrel of the gun.’
‘What kind of gun?’
‘A Glock 17. It was Stan’s.’
‘Where did they find it?’
‘On the floor by the body.’
‘Nobody heard the shot?’
‘Nobody they could find. Nobody willing to talk. Remember, the guest list at the Endless Dunes is mostly hookers and other romantic types who don’t want to get caught.’
