by James Hayman
The door opened wider, and they walked into a small, neatly furnished living room. Maggie looked down and smiled at the little girl. “What’s your name?”
In response, the child shoved two fingers into her mouth and buried her face in her mother’s leg.
“Her name is Patti.”
“Hi, Patti.”
Patti peeked out and smiled shyly.
“Would you two like some coffee or anything while we talk? I’m drinking some.”
“No, thank you. Where’s the best place to sit?”
“Over there.” She pointed Maggie and McCabe to a table on the other side of a Formica counter that separated a dining area from the open-plan kitchen. “But let me get her set up first. “Hey pumpkin, c’mon, let’s watch Curious George, okay?”
Ms. Knowles pushed a DVD into a player and sat her daughter down in front of the TV with a pair of earphones that had cartoon tigers covering each ear. When the program started, she joined them in the dining area. Maggie sat at the head of the table. Gina Knowles took the side chair, which gave her the best view of her daughter. McCabe distanced himself at the other end.
“She won’t be able to hear anything but the TV with those earmuffs on.”
A Toshiba laptop sat open in front of her, a smartphone next to it. Maggie placed her digital recorder next to the phone and told Gina she was going to record the conversation.
“Okay.”
“Gina, you sound like you’re originally from Boston?”
“Born and raised. Been in Maine for eleven years now, but the accent sticks with you.”
“Are you a full-time mom?”
“Don’t I wish? But no way can we afford to live on one salary. Especially when one of them’s a teaching salary from a private school. I work as a lab technician for Intex.” The company, one of the largest in the area, made veterinary pharmaceuticals. “My mom takes care of Patti while I’m at work. She’ll also help with the new baby when it comes.”
“She live nearby?”
“A few blocks away. She and my dad came up from Boston after he retired. Wanted to be closer to their granddaughter. Anyway, I’ll be taking four weeks maternity leave when the baby comes, but after that it’ll be back to the grindstone.”
“Please tell us about your husband’s disappearance.”
“Yes. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? All I know is that I’m worried sick. What I told the people who were here before is that his name is Byron Knowles. He teaches at Penfield Academy in Portland. Here . . .” She slid some copy paper across the table. “ . . . I printed out a bunch of pictures. Maybe these will help you find him.”
Maggie picked them up. Studied the slender, handsome face for a few seconds, then slid them down to McCabe. “Good-looking guy,” she said.
“Yeah,” said Gina. “Sometimes I think too good looking.”
“Why do you say that? Do women make a play for him?”
At least thirty seconds passed before Gina Knowles spoke. “Some do.”
“You were telling us about what your husband does,” said McCabe.
“Byron teaches eleventh- and twelfth-grade English. Been at Penfield eleven years. The job offer from Penfield was why we moved to Portland. Graduation was yesterday morning. Byron went. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Faculty spouses aren’t invited. Seating’s limited. Besides, I had to work.”
“Did you see your husband at all after the graduation?” asked Maggie.
“Yes, he got back around one o’clock and was still here when I got home from work at four fifteen. We’re converting his home office into a nursery for the new baby, and he spent part of the afternoon painting it. He took a shower and got dressed for a graduation party out on Whitby Island. Left about five. Took our boat out to the island. Two of the Whitby girls, twins I think, were both students of Byron’s, and all the Upper School faculty was invited.”
She delivered this information in a flat voice, as empty of emotion as if she’d been reading out a shopping list. McCabe wondered if she was working hard at keeping her emotions bottled up. Or maybe she just didn’t give a damn where her husband might be.
“When Byron left for the party, what was he wearing?”
“What he always wears for school events. Blue blazer. Striped or checked button-down shirt. I don’t remember which. Red tie. Loafers.”
“Wouldn’t he have gotten kinda wet in a small boat dressed like that?”
“He keeps waterproofs in the boat. Bright yellow coveralls. They fit right over his clothes.”
The yellow ought to make it easier for the Coasties to spot Knowles if he was still floating around somewhere. Or trying to escape by sea.
“Generally wear a life jacket?”
“Always.”
Unless, thought McCabe, he was planning to kill himself.
“Spouses not invited to the party either?” asked Maggie.
“I was invited. But I wasn’t about to go cruising out to Whitby Island in this condition.” She placed a hand on her pregnant tummy. “I probably would have thrown up before we got out of the harbor. Didn’t really want to go anyway. I can’t stand all that preppy party chatter. The Penfield crowd thinks they’re all so high and mighty. Particularly the Whitbys. The invitation from them made me feel like one of the serfs being summoned to the manor house. Yes, m’lord. No, m’lord. And since I can’t even drink in this condition, I declined.”
“But Byron went?”
“Yes. Said it was part of his job to be there. Headmaster expected it. Students expected it. I asked him if he could just put in an appearance and maybe be home by nine or ten, but he didn’t want to do that. We compromised on midnight.”
“But you weren’t happy about that.”
“No, I wasn’t happy.”
“Did you wait up for him?”
“No. I went to bed around eleven. I couldn’t wait up any longer.”
“When did you notice he hadn’t come home?”
“Three fifteen. I woke up to go to the bathroom. There’s a digital clock right next to the bed.”
“You didn’t call the police till after five. Why didn’t you call at three fifteen?”
Gina Knowles took a deep breath. “Sometimes Byron doesn’t come home when he’s supposed to.”
“I see. What about the text message?” Maggie picked up the phone on the table. “That came in at 2:21.”
“I keep the phone on silent when I sleep. And I didn’t look at it when I woke up.”
“Why not?”
“I just didn’t.”
“Your husband was over three hours late coming home from a party across open water in a small boat in the dark. Didn’t that worry you enough to at least check if he’d sent any kind of message?”
“No.”
Maggie waited for some kind of explanation. There was none. “Why not?”
“I already told you. Sometimes Byron doesn’t come home when he’s supposed to. Or he calls and says he’s working and he’ll be home late. Eight. Nine. Sometimes even midnight.”
Maggie frowned. “Working? Does he have a second job?”
“The romantic poets are his specialty. He’s supposedly writing a biography of Lord Byron. He used to work at home but he says there are too many distractions here, so now he works at the university library at USM. During the week it’s open till 11:00 p.m.”
“Does he do that frequently?”
“Frequently enough. At least for the past year or so. Before that hardly ever.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Well, if you really want to know the truth, I don’t think he’s doing anything at the USM library. And I don’t think he’s been working on his book. If he is, he certainly doesn’t seem to have made much progress on it.”
“Do you think he’s having an affair?”
Gina Knowles glanced over at her daughter, who was still immersed in Curious George. “That’s right, Detective. I think my husb
and is having an affair. In fact, I don’t think it. I know it.”
“How do you know it?”
“I just know it. A wife knows things like that. So when I woke up at three fifteen and saw he wasn’t here, I didn’t get worried. I got angry. So angry I couldn’t go back to sleep. I just lay in the bed picturing him out on Whitby Island, or maybe back here with whoever the hell he’s having sex with these days.”
“Did you ever discuss divorce?”
“He brought it up a couple of times. I told him I wasn’t interested. We were married in the Catholic Church, and I firmly believe when you make vows before God, you keep them. No matter what. Till death do you part.”
“Is Byron Catholic?”
“He used to be.”
“But not anymore?”
“No, he hardly ever goes to church except at Christmas, and then only because he likes the music.”
“But you go regularly?”
“Yes. Every Sunday. To Holy Cross over on Cottage Road.”
“What did he say when you told him you wouldn’t agree to a divorce?”
“He got angry. Yelled at me. Told me our marriage was a sham.”
“When was that?” asked McCabe.
“When I first realized I was pregnant. Back in early November. I thought he’d be overjoyed. Like I was. Like he’d been when we had Patti. But all he said was ‘Oh,’ as if he was disappointed. Then, ‘Are you sure?’ like another child was the last thing he wanted even though we’d talked about it a million times. It was like he was wondering if I might be willing to end the pregnancy.”
“Did he ask you to have an abortion?”
“No. But I could tell that’s what he was thinking.”
“Did that make you angry?”
“Of course it made me angry. He knows how I feel about abortion. A new life is a gift from God. You don’t destroy it.”
“Did you fight about it? Lose your temper?”
“Yes. Well, at least I did. But it’s hard to fight with Byron. Whenever I get angry or shout at him, he just retreats into a shell and doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even try to defend himself. When he doesn’t want to talk about something, he can be so damn passive, it makes me crazy.”
“Any idea who the other woman, or women, might be?”
Gina looked first at Maggie and then at McCabe. He got the sense that she was debating her answer to the question.
“I don’t know,” she said after a minute. “I do think it’s just one woman. Byron was never like this before this year. This not showing up when he was supposed to and then offering some flimsy excuse. I think it’s probably one of the young female teachers at Penfield. There are a lot of single women on the faculty, some quite attractive, and I can’t think where else he’d have an opportunity to meet someone. He doesn’t hang out at bars. And I don’t think he’d have the nerve to start prowling around online. He’s just not aggressive enough for that. Byron’s a hopeless romantic, but at the same time, like I told you, he can be passive. When we met, I was the one who had to ask him out first. I expect it’s the same thing with whoever he’s been seeing lately. She came on to him and he didn’t have the strength or integrity to say no. Like you said, Byron’s a good-looking guy.”
“Did you ever ask him or accuse him directly of having an affair?”
“Sort of. Once. I went through his wallet and found a credit card receipt for dinner at an expensive restaurant. The Chart House in Cape Neddick. $208.26. April twenty-third.”
McCabe’s mind clicked back to his conversation with Tracy. April twenty-third. Aimée’s birthday. The evidence was beginning to squeeze a little tighter around Mr. Knowles’s neck.
“I asked him who he was having dinner with. He said it was with his old roommate from Bowdoin. Guy named Barry Meyers.”
“How do you know he wasn’t?”
“I just know it. Byron’s fallen for some woman. Probably some little cutie in the English Department.”
“Do you have a contact number for this guy Meyers?” asked McCabe.
“No. He’s Byron’s friend, not mine. But you shouldn’t have any trouble finding him. He’s a very successful screenwriter. Nominated for a Golden Globe last year. Lives in L.A.”
“So what time was it you first saw the text?”
“About five fifteen. Since I couldn’t sleep, I finally decided the heck with it and got up to do some work. I made some coffee. Brought my laptop and phone down here, and the first thing I did was check for messages. And there it was. ‘I can never forgive myself for the terrible things I have done. Please know that I have always loved you.’ My first thought was maybe his girlfriend dumped him and he was trying to make it up with me. Or maybe, with the baby coming, he was starting to feel guilty about the whole thing and managed to work up the courage to dump her. My second thought, since he still wasn’t home, was that it sounded like a suicide note. Detective Holmes agreed. He notified the Coast Guard. They sent a helicopter to look for Byron’s boat.”
“There’s a third possibility,” said Maggie.
“What?”
“If Byron decided to run away, disappear, to hide out for a while, where do you think he’d go?”
“Why do you think Byron might have run away?”
Maggie didn’t answer Gina’s question. “Where do you think he’d go?”
“Lord, I don’t know. He doesn’t have any money. Just our bank debit card. There’s less than a thousand dollars in the account, and one other Visa card that’s pretty near maxed out. His parents are both dead. He has a brother, Paul, who lives just outside of Asheville, North Carolina.”
The western mountains of North Carolina were not easily accessible by boat. Neither was Los Angeles. At least not from Maine. McCabe figured that if Knowles was running, he’d probably ditched the boat down the coast somewhere and gotten himself some wheels. Maybe Barry Meyers had wired him some money.
“What about his buddy Meyers?” asked Maggie, as if she had read McCabe’s mind. “Would Byron have gone to him for financial help?”
“Barry’s got plenty of money, but he’s way the hell out in L.A.”
“Can you give us contact numbers for brother Paul? Also numbers for the credit cards?”
Gina provided the numbers and Maggie wrote them down.
Maggie studied Gina Knowles for a few seconds before pointing at the computer on the table. “Is that your laptop or his?”
“This one’s mine. Byron’s got his own. A new MacBook Pro, which we frankly couldn’t afford. Byron said Penfield was going to pay for it, but I’m not sure that’s true. They’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Is his computer here in the house?”
“No. I don’t know where it is. Probably in his car. Or in his office at school.”
Tommy Holmes had told them they hadn’t found anything of interest in the car.
“Is it password protected?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the password?”
“Not for sure. But Byron uses the same password for everything. GGB1788. Stands for George Gordon Byron, AKA Lord Byron. 1788’s the year Byron was born. You didn’t answer me when I asked you why you think Byron might have run away.”
Maggie figured it was time to shake Gina up. “We don’t know if he has, but one of the Whitby girls, Veronica Aimée Whitby, was murdered early this morning in Portland.”
Gina stared at Maggie with a look of disbelief. She seemed literally speechless.
“Given the timing, I’m afraid we have to consider the possibility that your husband was involved.”
“Are you saying you think Byron murdered one of his students and then ran away? Or maybe killed himself?”
“We’re saying it’s possible,” said Maggie. “More importantly, I’d like to know what you think.”
Gina Knowles shook her head. Tears formed in her eyes. “I don’t know what to think.” She shook her head again. “He could be crazily impulsive. But murder? Ma
ybe I just didn’t know the man as well as I thought I did.”
McCabe’s cell vibrated. Bill Fortier. He got up and went outside before answering. “What’s up, Bill?”
“You still with Knowles’s wife?”
“Yeah. We’re here.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’ve got another next of kin for you. Knowles’s body just washed up in Dyer Cove. Right near Two Lights in Cape Elizabeth. Looks like he went for a swim still dressed in his party clothes.”
“Suicide?”
“Sure looks like it. I suppose he might’ve lost his balance and fallen from the boat, but based on the contents of the text message, I’d say he jumped.”
“He wasn’t wearing yellow waterproofs?”
“No.”
“How about a life jacket?”
“Nope. Just a wool blazer and pants and shoes. Like I said, his party clothes.”
“Where’s the body now?”
“On its way to Cumberland Med. Looks like Terri will be doing a twofer.”
“Would you ask her to put a rush on Knowles’s DNA analysis? We’ll need to match it up with any semen she finds in Aimée Whitby.”
“Already asked.”
“What about the boat?”
“No sign of it. Probably left the engine running when he jumped. Coast Guard’s still looking. Probably just going around in circles, but who knows? Maybe it’ll end up in Spain.”
Chapter 34
AT 6:30 THAT morning Lucy McCorkle found herself at the back end of Washington Avenue. She’d been pushing the heavy shopping cart up and down the streets of the Munjoy Hill neighborhood for more than three hours now. Though more tired than she could ever remember feeling in her life, she was afraid to stop moving. Afraid that if she allowed herself to rest for even a couple of minutes, the man would find her. And kill her. Just like he killed the girl. Once or twice Lucy found herself wondering about that white jacket he wore. Wondering if maybe the guy was a waiter. Or a pharmacist. Or a dentist. She wondered how many dentists went around killing people. It seemed crazy. It made her think that maybe none of what she’d seen had actually happened and that she was getting as nutty as some of those guys who hung out at the dump. She knew booze could do that to you, and she sure as hell drank a lot of booze.