The Cutting mm-1

by James Hayman

  ‘Hmm. School’s up in Pensacola. Not far from where my mama lives. Fax me a copy of the card. I’ll nose around. See what I can find out. Anything else to report?’

  McCabe filled Cahill in on the conversations with Tobin Kenney and Joanne Ceglia. ‘Not much to go on,’ he added.

  ‘At least you’ve got a partial ID.’

  ‘From the rear.’

  ‘More’n we ever got. Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. Lime was driving an SUV, probably dark green. Same kind of vehicle we caught on video near where the body was dumped. We’ve got a doctor in the area, a heart surgeon, who owns a similar vehicle. I’m trying to get a warrant to search it. That’s it so far.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re making progress.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. You busy otherwise?’

  ‘Who me? Hell no.’ Cahill’s voice slipped into sarcasm. ‘We’ve just been whiling away the days waiting for the next hurricane to come knock us into next week. McCabe, I’ll tell you, it’s been a hell of a summer down here, and they’re telling us there’s more to come.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been reading about it.’

  ‘You get those case files I sent your way?’

  ‘They’re right here on my desk. Haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. I’ll do that at home tonight. Let’s talk in a couple of days.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve gotta run. Keep me posted.’ Cahill hung up.

  21

  Monday. 1:30 P.M.

  Had Katie Dubois died in any of the ordinary ways teenagers die, from illness or an accident, from an overdose of alcohol or drugs, her funeral would have passed largely unnoticed. As it was, it ranked as one of the major media events of the year in Maine, and the city’s press corps and public personages turned out en masse.

  Detectives Margaret Savage and Michael McCabe arrived early at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, home of the Diocese of Portland, a massive Gothic Revival redbrick church with a soaring two-hundred-foot spire that was crowned with a golden cross.

  As agreed, Maggie positioned herself outside the main door, trying to camouflage herself behind the cluster of reporters and news photographers. She carried an SLR digital camera Starbucks had given her that was fancy enough to look professional. Her job was to shoot head shots of everyone entering or leaving the church. The camera’s endless buttons, dials, and levers baffled her when Starbucks first handed it over. He set it on full automatic and told her just to point and click. So far she was doing okay.

  McCabe went inside. He’d been in the cathedral a couple of times before, for Christmas concerts with Casey and last year with Kyra as well. Each time the church’s soaring, luminous white-and-gold interior briefly seduced McCabe into a fantasy of returning to the religion he’d abandoned twenty years before, something he knew would never happen. He stood alone in a quiet corner, watching the faces of the mourners as they filed in. He felt self-conscious in his only suit, a dark gray pin-stripe he once thought pretty dapper. He hadn’t worn it since leaving New York and only managed to get the trousers buttoned by sucking in his gut.

  The organ was playing something sonorous and sad. People filled the pews, pressing themselves into every corner of the large church. The misnamed Mayor Short seated himself near the front, directly behind Katie’s family. The city council came in a group, all in gray or blue suits like McCabe’s. A sprinkling of state legislators and local celebrities arrived. Chief Shockley showed up in full dress uniform, Bill Fortier trotting along by his side. McCabe was surprised to see Terri Mirabito. She didn’t see him. He’d never seen her at a funeral before.

  Teachers and tight clusters of teenagers, many openly weeping, were everywhere. McCabe recognized the boyfriend, Ronnie Sobel, from a photo in the murder book. Tobin Kenney came alone and sat alone. A young woman seated with some students, another teacher, McCabe supposed, beckoned Kenney to join her, pointing to an empty seat next to her. He shook his head and stayed where he was. She shrugged and turned away.

  McCabe examined the faces as people entered and sat down, registering those he recognized, studying those he didn’t, filing their images away in the hard drive he carried in his head. He wondered if the murderer was among them. There was no way of knowing.

  The Most Reverend Leo F. Conroy, DD, ThD, STL, Bishop of Maine, presided over the requiem mass. He greeted Katie’s coffin at the door of the cathedral. McCabe was sure the elegant mahogany box had cost the Ceglias more than they could afford. People always pay too much when they bury their child. The bishop sprinkled the coffin with holy water and intoned the words of the De profundis.

  Then the pallbearers, six of Katie’s classmates, carried her coffin and placed it down just outside the sanctuary, feet facing the altar. It was at that moment that McCabe saw the woman’s face. She was standing against a wall on the opposite side, her face crossed diagonally by a deep shadow. He watched her stand motionless until he was sure. Yes. It was the same woman he’d followed down Exchange Street and lost.

  She sensed his gaze and turned so that she was looking right at him. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, in her direction. She acknowledged the gesture. He glanced around and saw no one else watching him. He moved toward her. The congregation was standing, singing a hymn. She watched him come and didn’t move away. The hymn ended, and a voice from the altar echoed through the otherwise silent cathedral. ‘For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.’

  McCabe stood next to the woman. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I can’t speak to you here.’ She spoke with an accent. French, he thought.

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘I’ll be in touch. Please don’t follow me.’

  ‘How do I know you’ll call?’

  ‘You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, but she was already leaving and didn’t hear his question. He started after her, then stopped. He’d wait for her call.

  McCabe continued scanning faces in the church. But even if he’d known where to look, he wouldn’t have seen the tall, dark-haired man looking down at him, eyes peering through a small opening high above the altar, one hand unconsciously scraping the edge of a scalpel along the back of the other, the razor-sharp blade whisking away a dozen dark hairs.

  ‘Let us pray.’

  22

  Monday. 4:00 P.M.

  Every time McCabe turned around, Florida kept popping up. Elyse Andersen. Murdered in Florida by Harry Lime. The University of West Florida soccer scout. Again Harry Lime. Then Lucas Kane, Spencer’s medical school friend and maybe lover, also murdered in Florida. Murdered by whom? Harry Lime? Philip Spencer?

  Mrs. Spencer, were your husband and Lucas Kane lovers?

  Get out.

  McCabe booted up his computer and entered the name ‘Lucas Kane’ and the words ‘murder’ and ‘Florida’ in the Google search box. There were thousands of hits. Number one was a headline from the Miami Herald, ESTRANGED SON OF ACCLAIMED MAESTRO SLAIN IN SOUTH BEACH CONDO. Turned out Lucas Kane’s father was the classical pianist Maurice Kane. At the time of the murder, father and son had apparently not seen or spoken to each other in years.

  The murder rated extensive coverage in the Miami Herald, most of it written by a crime reporter named Melody Bollinger. McCabe read it all. In the late nineties, Kane was a fixture in South Beach. The article didn’t say anything about Kane being a doctor. Or anything else legitimate. He supported himself, apparently well, supplying drugs, mostly coke and meth, and warm young bodies, both male and female, to visiting high rollers from New York and L.A. He lived in an oceanfront apartment, drove a BMW 740, and was a regular on the South Beach club circuit. He frequently mingled with the gay glitterati at the mansions of the rich and famous, including, according to Bollinger, Gianni Versace’s.

  However, Kane must have pissed somebody off. In March of 2001, somebody stuck a 12-gauge up under his chin and turned his jaw and face into h
amburger. His body was found naked and tied to an overturned chair in his apartment. Nobody admitted hearing the blast. Four or five hours after the shooting, Kane’s live-in lover, a body builder and hanger-on named Duane Pollard, discovered the body and called the police.

  Visual ID of the face was impossible, but the corpse was the right size — six two, 205 pounds — and fingerprint matches were found all over the apartment and the Beemer. Identification was officially confirmed through DNA analysis. No other evidence was found at the scene. Boyfriend Pollard had an airtight alibi. Miami Beach PD looked elsewhere and eventually figured the murder was drug-related since Kane was a known dealer. A detective named Stan Allard theorized the local drug lords killed Kane to rid themselves of a semipro competitor who was becoming annoying. McCabe got the feeling the investigators were just as happy Kane was dead. They let the case go cold after a couple of weeks. The elderly father, Maurice Kane, reportedly suffering from congestive heart failure, refused public comment on his son’s death.

  McCabe called the Miami Beach PD and asked for Detective Stan Allard.

  ‘I’m sorry, there is no Detective Stan Allard here.’

  ‘Allard? A-L–L-A-R-D?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know that name.’

  ‘Would you connect me with someone in homicide?’

  A male voice answered. ‘Detective Sessions.’

  ‘Sessions? Hi, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland, Maine, PD.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m looking for a Detective Stan Allard who worked homicide in Miami Beach a few years back. Is he still with the department?’

  ‘Who is this again?’

  ‘Name’s McCabe. Mike McCabe. I’m a detective with the Portland, Maine, PD.’

  ‘What do you want with Allard?’

  ‘I just want to talk to him.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to have a hard time doing that.’

  ‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

  ‘Stan Allard hasn’t done a whole lot of talking to anybody the last four years.’

  ‘Are you telling me Allard’s dead?’

  ‘They were pretty sure that was the case when they buried him.’

  Maybe Sessions thought that was funny. ‘Look, I’m working on a murder that might have a connection with a case Allard handled.’

  ‘What case would that be?’

  ‘The murder of a man named Lucas Kane. Do you know who Allard’s partner was at the time?’

  There was a pause at Sessions’s end of the line. McCabe thought this might be like pulling teeth. Finally Sessions spoke. ‘Yeah, that would’ve been me. We worked the Kane murder together.’ Another pause. ‘How’s Kane connected with your case?’

  McCabe instinctively disliked Sessions. He decided to keep it vague. ‘An old buddy of Kane’s may be involved in a murder up here.’

  ‘Involved how?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet.’

  They danced around for a while. Nobody wanted to be the first to offer substantive information. Sessions blinked first. ‘Okay, what do you want to know about Kane?’

  ‘I read the press accounts of Kane’s murder. Sounds like you guys felt it was a gang hit.’

  ‘That was the default option. We never got any decent leads. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. Nobody knew anything. All we had was a body tied to a chair with its face and head blown half off. Weren’t even any teeth left in good enough shape for a dental records match.’

  ‘How’d you know it was Kane?’

  ‘Easy enough. Size, weight, and hair were the same. Prints on the body matched prints we found all over the apartment. More prints in his car. Also, Kane’s live-in lover officially ID’d him. Said it was Kane’s body. Hair, moles, and scars in all the right places. Even made some jokes about the guy’s pecker. “I never forget a penis,” he said.’

  ‘So you’re sure it was Kane’s body you ID’d?’

  ‘Yeah. In the end we proved it with a DNA match. Plus there was no more Lucas Kane swanning around the clubs and the beach. We’re sure.’

  ‘What do you know about Kane’s background?’

  ‘Not much. His father was a famous musician. They didn’t have much to do with each other. Kane wandered down here from New York in the late eighties about the time the deco craze and the gay scene were really getting going in South Beach.’

  ‘How’d he support himself? Did he have any money?’

  ‘Not as far as we know, but back then South Beach was easy pickings for a good-looking guy like Kane. He lived off sex for a while. Then he branched out. Ended up as a high-end pimp and a dealer.’

  ‘You get an FBI match on the prints you found in the apartment?’

  ‘Not on Kane’s. Apparently he was never previously fingerprinted. Never arrested for anything.’

  ‘That’s surprising.’

  ‘It surprised me. I figured with his habits Kane would have been busted at least once or twice, but no, not even by us.’

  ‘Any other prints in the room?’

  ‘A bunch of partials and smears. Mostly the boyfriend.’

  ‘Duane Pollard?’

  ‘How do you know about him?’

  ‘Just reading the papers. Tell me about Pollard.’

  ‘He was Kane’s bodyguard and muscle as well as his lover. Ex-marine. Basically a gorilla. Liked to beat people up.’

  ‘A gay gorilla?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Unusual.’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘Any chance he was the shooter? A lovers’ quarrel?’

  ‘None. At least six people put Pollard in a South Beach club called the Groove that night. Said he was there the whole time Kane might have been offed. At least two of them said they had sex with him.’

  ‘Was there a funeral?’

  ‘Yeah. A small one, hosted by Pollard and a few of Kane’s fuck-buddies from the Beach. Kane’s father showed up to bid him farewell. So did a few of his old friends.’

  ‘Sounds like a fun time. Did the name Harry Lime ever come up during your investigation?’

  ‘Lime? Like the fruit? No, never heard of him.’

  ‘So what about Allard? What did he die of?’

  ‘He died of suicide.’ McCabe’s gut tightened. Sessions went on. ‘It happened a couple of months later, after the Kane case went cold. We were working on some other stuff.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He stuck his service weapon in his mouth and pulled the trigger. In a sleazebag motel down on the beach.’

  ‘No connection to the Kane case?’

  ‘I don’t think Stan’s death had anything to do with Lucas Kane. Let’s just leave it at that. He was my friend as well as my partner, and I don’t feel like chatting about stuff that’s none of your business. You want to know more, you submit an official departmental request.’

  McCabe thought about pushing Sessions a little harder to talk about Stan Allard’s death, but he couldn’t see how it would help him find Katie Dubois’s killer or Lucinda Cassidy, so he let it go and hung up. He looked again at the byline on the Herald stories on his computer. Melody Bollinger. He filed it away for future reference.

  23

  Even in the blackness of the room, Lucy could feel his presence. She lay perfectly still, holding her breath. She knew he was there, but where? And why? She listened as hard as she could but heard nothing.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, two hands touched her face. Her heart jumped. Her muscles tightened. She stifled a cry as she felt the hands slide slowly and smoothly down her neck, then over her body, exploring, probing. Still she was afraid to move, afraid to speak. One at a time she felt him loosen and release the restraints that held her hands. He took her wrists, rotated and massaged each in turn. Then his hands moved down her legs. He released the ankle restraints, then moved her feet as he had her hands.

  He pulled off her gown and washed her all over with a warm, moist cloth that smelled like lavender. She
could feel the warmth of his body, the movement of air from his breath. ‘I think, Lucy,’ he said, his voice a whisper, ‘it’s time for you and I to get to know each other a little better.’

  She stiffened and froze, pressing her legs tightly together, balling her fists, waiting for the inevitable.

  24

  Monday. 8:00 P.M.

  The note was in the mailbox when McCabe got home around eight. He didn’t notice it at first, hidden among the advertising circulars and bills piled up from deliveries he hadn’t bothered to collect. It was in a plain white envelope with the words DETECTIVE MCCABE, 134 EASTERN PROM penciled in block letters across the front, as if written by a child’s hand. No stamp. No postmark. No return address. He decided to wait until he was upstairs before opening it. A blast of music from Casey’s bedroom assaulted his ears as he entered the apartment.

  ‘Hello. I love you,’ he shouted from the doorway, ‘and turn that damn thing down.’

  He heard no response, either verbally from his daughter or in a reduction of decibels from her room. He crossed to the kitchen, dumped the junk mail in the recycling bin, took a bottle of Geary’s from the icebox, opened it, and took a long swig. He was in a foul mood, pissed at Sandy, pissed at Shockley, pissed at the world. At least the cold fizz of the beer felt good going down.

  McCabe went down the hall and leaned against the frame of Casey’s open door. She was sprawled, tummy down, diagonally across her bed, feet resting on her pillow, head hanging over the edge, reading what appeared to be a science text open on the floor below. He couldn’t figure out how she could actually see the words on the page from that position, but it didn’t seem to be a problem. She mostly got A’s.

  ‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ he called from the door, shouting to be heard over the music. Casey looked up and then, without acknowledging his presence, looked back down at her book. McCabe went to the stereo and hit the power button. Silence flooded the room. Casey looked up again. ‘Isn’t that why I bought you the iPod?’ he said. ‘So I wouldn’t be subjected to that noise?’