by James Hayman
Tasco’s droopy bloodhound face was looking even more worried than usual. ‘Y’know, we’re not going to be able to cover all this stuff tonight.’
Maybe I should start calling him Deputy Dawg, thought McCabe. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Just get started and keep at it until something turns up. Also send some of the uniforms to start knocking on doors down at the Fish Pier.’
‘Okay, I’ll have a team take a whack at it,’ said Tasco, ‘but you gotta remember we’re talking about a commercial area here. Empty at this hour. Probably empty when the guy drove in with the body. Could be empty all weekend.’
‘We’re not waiting till Monday,’ said McCabe. ‘This happened in the middle of the city. Someone might’ve been around. Might’ve been watching. Maybe someone with a security camera. Maybe someone who works nights. Aren’t there people working at the Fish Exchange at all hours?’
‘Once upon a time,’ said Cleary. ‘Fishing ain’t what it used to be.’
‘Well, unless and until you have a better idea, let’s see what we can find. I’ll ask Fortier to get you enough people to help knock on doors.’
‘You want me to work the canvass?’ asked Maggie.
‘No. I’d like you to go downstairs and see how Jacobi’s doing cutting Goff out of the Beemer. After she’s on her way to Augusta, I want you to go with the techs to check out her apartment.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m going to talk to Beth Kotterman. See if I can find out who Goff’s next of kin is. Maybe find out who she palled around with at the office.’ McCabe stood and collected the small pile of printouts. ‘Anybody have anything else?’ He looked at each of his detectives. Nobody responded. ‘Okay. That’s it, then. Call my cell if you find anything meaningful. Otherwise, let’s meet back here tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. And don’t forget what the note said. All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword. “All the sinners” sounds like more than one to me. If that’s the case, he could already be looking for a new playmate. Let’s find him before he finds her.’
Seven
McCabe’s footsteps echoed off the marble walls and floor of Ten Monument Square as he walked across the semidarkened lobby toward a circular security desk. A young black man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a blue blazer watched him approach. The words METCO Security were stitched in gold letters above the blazer’s breast pocket. A gray-haired woman stood at the side of the desk, hands thrust into the pockets of her open wool coat. Under the coat she wore faded blue jeans and a blue U. Maine sweatshirt, clothes thrown on for an unexpected trip to the office. McCabe placed her in her early fifties. She looked anxious.
‘Ms. Kotterman?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m Beth Kotterman. You must be Sergeant McCabe?’
‘That’s right. I’m sorry to keep interrupting your Friday night.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Not in a situation like this. Do you know anything more about’ – she paused, searching for the right word – ‘about what happened?’
‘I’d rather talk in your office, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. Come with me.’
‘Uh, excuse me, sir,’ said the guard, ‘would you mind signing in first?’
‘He’s with me, Randall. He’s a police officer.’
‘Sorry, Ms Kotterman. Police or no police,’ said the guard, ‘he’s still gotta sign in. Rules say everybody signs in. Don’t say “except police.” ’ The guard smiled. He probably didn’t have a lot of opportunities to hassle cops, and he was enjoying the moment.
‘Not a problem,’ said McCabe, returning the smile. ‘Wanna see my ID?’
The guard shrugged. ‘Sure.’
McCabe flipped open his badge wallet, laid it on the desk, picked up the pen and clipboard, and scrawled his name in the first open space, adding the time 10:32 P.M. in the second. There was a long list of names above his own. He didn’t recognize any except Beth Kotterman’s.
The guard glanced at McCabe’s ID and handed it back. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. Does everyone who comes into the building also have to sign out?’
‘If they don’t work here, yeah. If they sign in, they sign out.’
‘What about people who do work here?’
‘They only have to sign in or out after 6:00 P.M.’
‘Does everyone show you ID?’
‘Nope. Rules don’t require identification.’
Stupid rules, thought McCabe. Anybody could sign in using any name they wanted. ‘Ms. Kotterman, could you give me a minute just to ask Randall here a couple more questions?’
Kotterman nodded. She obviously wanted to be finished with this, but she said, ‘That’s fine. I’ll be in my office. When you’re ready, ask him to call my extension. I’ll come down and get you.’
The guard eyed McCabe. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’
‘Just want to ask you a few questions.’
‘I don’t have to answer any questions.’
‘No, I guess you don’t, but I’m pretty sure my friends over at METCO Security would be a whole lot happier with you if you did. Now, what’d you say your last name was?’
‘Jackson. Randall Jackson.’
‘Okay, Randall,’ said McCabe, ‘let me make sure I understand the rules. You said all visitors to the building have to sign in and sign out, but anyone who works here only has to sign in or out after 6:00 P.M. Is that right?’
‘Yeah. That’s right.’
‘So how do you know who’s who?’
‘Whaddaya mean?’
‘You know everybody who works in the building?’
‘Most of ’em. By face anyway. The ones I don’t know either sign in or show me ID.’
‘Nobody ever slips through without signing?’
The guard studied McCabe for a minute. ‘Not on my watch.’
‘How about anybody else’s watch?’
‘Can’t speak to that.’
‘Is there someone on this desk around the clock?’
‘Yep. Twenty-four seven.’
‘You work alone, or do you have a partner?’
‘During the day there are two of us. At night I’m alone.’
‘Where do you go to take a leak?’
‘There’s a break room in the basement. With a toilet.’
‘So somebody might be able to slip through while you’re taking a leak?’
‘No. That door you used to come into the building? I lock it if I have to go downstairs.’
‘And there are no other ways in?’
‘Not at night. Back door only opens from the inside, and the garage is gated. You need a card key to raise the gate. Only the lawyers have card keys.’
Fairly typical building security. Not bad, but not good enough to keep a determined or clever bad guy from sneaking in. ‘Do you always work this building, or does METCO shift you around?’
‘Usually here. Occasionally I work other buildings. METCO’s got contracts with most of the big buildings in town.’
‘Were you here the night of December twenty-third?’
‘What do you want to know that for?’
‘A minute ago I asked you if anybody ever slips by you without signing in, and you said, “Not on my watch.” I wondered if your watch happened to include the night of the twenty-third.’
‘The twenty-third?’
‘Yes. The twenty-third.’
The guard stared at McCabe. After a long minute he said, ‘That would’ve been the Friday before Christmas?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yeah, I was here. I worked a double that day. Traded with another guard so I could take Christmas off. Started at 4:00 p.m. Stayed on till eight the next morning.’
‘Long hours.’
‘Yeah, I wanted to be home with my kids on Christmas.’
Okay, he was a dad. Did that make him any more trustworthy? Maybe not. ‘Did you notice anything unusual that day, anything that sticks out in your mind? Think ab
out it.’
Randall thought about it. He didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he nodded as if reconstructing the day in his mind. ‘The only thing unusual was all the people who left early ’cause of the holiday. A lot of ’em didn’t come back from lunch. Place was pretty much empty by five o’clock except for the big bosses, who all left together around six, six thirty. Most of ’em seemed pretty happy, gave me something for the holiday. Best as I can remember there were only a couple of late sign-outs. Usually a lot of folks work late.’
‘Who were the late ones that night?’
‘First one was one of the younger lawyers, Miss Goff. Real pretty woman. Fact is, I saw her a couple of times.’
‘When?’
‘First time was around eight o’clock or so. I remember ’cause she wasn’t wearing a coat and it was colder’n –’ Jackson stopped himself.
‘Colder’n shit?’ asked McCabe.
‘Yeah. Colder’n shit. Anyway, she didn’t sign out. She had a Federal Express envelope in her hand and said she’d be right back.’
‘Was she?’
‘Yeah. Two minutes later. Carrying a hot dog from the cart in the square. Must’ve been hungry.’
‘And the second time?’
‘She left for the night about an hour later. Around nine. Stormed out of here like hell wouldn’t have it. Must have been real pissed off about something. Didn’t sign out that time either. I called after her to come back. She just flipped me a bird.’ Randall smiled at the memory. ‘That was one angry lady.’
‘What’d you do?’
‘Nothing. I knew her. It was no big deal. She went out through the door that goes down to the lawyers’ private garage.’
‘That door there?’ He pointed to an unmarked gray steel door next to the main entrance.
‘Yeah. That one.’
‘Have you seen her since?’
Randall shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘You said there was another late sign-out?’
‘Yeah. Ten minutes or so after she left, Mr Ogden came down. Henry Ogden. He’s one of the senior partners at Palmer Milliken.’
‘Was he angry, too?’
Randall shook his head and shrugged. ‘No. He seemed okay. He looked like he always looks. Like a rich white guy. Handed me an envelope. Christmas card with a hundred bucks inside. Last year it was just fifty. Told me to get something nice for my kids.’
‘Anybody else leave the building after Henry Ogden?’
‘No.’
‘Working a double like that, Randall, any chance you might have dozed off and missed somebody else coming in and out?’
Jackson stiffened. ‘No. No chance at all.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Only people to leave after Ogden were the regular cleaning crew. They get here around six and are usually outta here about one in the morning.’
‘How many people?’
‘Half a dozen, give or take.’
‘They have to sign in or out?’
Randall shook his head. No.
‘Same folks all the time?’
‘Not really. Company mixes ’em up. Specially around the holidays.’
‘They work for METCO?’
‘No, METCO just handles security. Some other company does the cleaning. You wanna know who, you’ll have to ask building management.’
‘You still have the sign-in sheets from that day?’
‘Not here. METCO might. I don’t know how long they hold on to them.’
‘Would anybody be there now?’
‘Nope. Office won’t be open till eight o’clock Monday morning. We’ve got a number we’re supposed to call in case of emergency. You want that?’
‘Yes.’
Jackson opened a drawer and pulled out a business card. He handed it to McCabe. The name on the card was Scott Ginsberg. He knew Ginsberg. He’d retired from the PPD’s Community Affairs Division two years earlier. Maybe there was life after leaving the force. His cell number was 555-1799.
McCabe pointed to a bank of small screens behind the desk. ‘How about your video. Are you recording, or is it just live?’
‘Recorded.’
‘Tape?’
‘No. Digital.’
Made sense. Digital meant there was no good reason not to record. The images could be fed right into a computer at METCO’s offices. Storage wasn’t a problem. Neither was the cost of videotape. There was no reason not to hold on to the images more or less forever. McCabe called Eddie Fraser and, after congratulating him on Tinker Bell’s rave reviews, gave him Scott Ginsberg’s number and asked him to start reviewing the video. ASAP. So far all they had was the body and the note. They needed more. Starting with a next of kin.
McCabe gave Jackson his card. Told him to get in touch if he thought of anything else. Then he asked him to call Beth Kotterman.
They exited the elevator at five. ‘My office is at the end of the hall to the right,’ said Kotterman. She led. McCabe followed. The corridor was dimly lit and empty. The air was cold.
Kotterman read his thoughts. ‘Heat’s programmed to go down to fifty at seven o’clock unless somebody calls to have it left on.’
‘Nobody working late tonight?’
‘I’m sure some of the lawyers are.’
‘No lawyers on this floor?’
‘No. Five’s mostly administrative. HR. Accounting. Office management. That sort of thing. We tend to be more nine-to-five types.’ She unlocked her office door and flipped on the lights.
As head of HR, Beth Kotterman rated a corner office. It was furnished in generic midlevel modern. Not what the partners would get, but a hell of a lot more comfortable than anything at 109. Kotterman had added a lot of touches that kept the place from being generically boring. A small jungle of indoor plants that included a ceiling-sized ficus dominated one corner. One wall was covered with family photos and a large crayon drawing titled Gramma Bethby. Bethby was wearing a bright green dress and had oversized feet and big glasses. The portrait was framed and carefully hung in a place of honor. It was signed BECKY.
Kotterman didn’t bother taking off her coat. She sat and pointed McCabe to a straight-back chair in front of her desk. The interview chair, McCabe guessed. ‘How old’s Becky?’ he asked.
Kotterman relaxed a little. ‘Seven now. She was four when I sat for the portrait. How sure are you that the body you found is Lainie Goff? The other officer, Detective Cleary, said you didn’t know yet.’
‘We’ve tentatively confirmed her identity from photographs,’ said McCabe. ‘We’re ninety-nine percent certain the dead woman is Elaine Goff.’
‘Not one hundred? It could still be someone else?’
‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope. We’ll do a dental records check to be absolutely certain, but I think you can assume it’s Goff.’
‘I’m going to have to let people in the firm know.’
‘That’s fine. Most of them probably already know. News Center 6 jumped the gun on that.’
‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘I agree. We always like to inform next of kin before they hear it from the media.’
‘Of course. And you think Lainie, assuming it is Lainie, was murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Odd.’ Kotterman looked away. ‘One doesn’t expect that sort of thing to happen in Portland, but I guess there are no safe places anymore. Maybe there never were. Any idea who did it?’
‘No. We’re just beginning the investigation.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Like I said, the first thing I need is next of kin. I was hoping you’d have the name on file.’
‘We should.’ Kotterman woke up her sleeping computer and started tapping keys. ‘All employees give us an emergency contact number on their first day of work,’ she said. ‘It’s usually a relative.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘This may not help you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, most people list a family membe
r. Lainie didn’t.’
‘Who’d she put?’
‘A woman named Janie Archer. New York City address.’
‘Maybe a sister?’
‘Lainie lists her as a friend.’
‘Lainie and Janie, huh? Can you give me the contact info for Ms Archer?’
She wrote an address and telephone number on a Post-it note and handed it to McCabe. Upper East Side Manhattan address, 212 area code. He committed both to memory and tossed the note.
‘That contact info is six years old,’ said Beth Kotterman. ‘Everyone’s supposed to update their information annually, but a lot of people never bother. Lainie’s friend may not live there anymore.’
It wasn’t a big problem. He should be able to track Archer down using either of the public databases Portland PD subscribed to, Accurint or AutoTrackXP. ‘Do you have anything else to indicate next of kin?’
‘Yes. There’s one more place I can check.’ Kotterman started tapping keys again. ‘All employees get a term life policy as part of their comp package. I’m looking to see who Lainie put down as beneficiary.’
‘How much is the policy worth?’ asked McCabe.
‘One and a half times annual salary. For Lainie that’d be in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.’
Not a bad neighborhood, McCabe thought. Certainly enough to offer a reasonable motive for murder. But if money was the motive, why go through all the show-off stuff down at the pier? Why not make the death look like an accident? The only reason McCabe could think of was to throw investigators off track, and that didn’t seem likely. ‘Does the policy pay out if the employee is murdered?’
‘I’ll have to double-check with our agents, but I would think so, yes. Hmmm.’ Kotterman was peering over her glasses at the screen. ‘Now isn’t that interesting?’
‘Isn’t what interesting?’
‘There’s no family member listed as beneficiary either. Lainie’s primary isn’t even a person. It’s an organization. Something called Sanctuary House. Portland address. I have no idea what that is.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said McCabe. ‘Don’t know much about it. Just that it’s a small charity, some kind of shelter for kids.’ It was beginning to look like there was no next of kin. Like Lainie Goff was an orphan. He wondered what her connection to Sanctuary House might be.
