by James Hayman
Kyra and McCabe walked across the Eastern Prom and down the hill toward the morning light and the water. They crossed the narrow-gauge tracks and then turned north along the joggers’ trail toward Back Bay. A few runners passed. Other than that they were alone. ‘I didn’t want to talk about this stuff in the apartment. Casey can hear through walls. She’s got ears like a hawk. None of this is for her consumption.’
‘It’s eyes like a hawk. To my knowledge hawks aren’t particularly well regarded for their hearing.’
‘Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t come up with an appropriate animal metaphor. How about ears like a rabbit?’ He smiled.
Kyra didn’t return his smile. She wasn’t falling for banter. ‘Let’s stay on subject,’ she said.
‘You’re right. Where was I?’
‘The biggest bullshit trial you ever saw in your life.’
‘Yeah, right. TwoTimes’s lawyer puts him on the stand, and he comes in with this bullshit alibi that he was having sex with his girlfriend while Tommy was getting shot, and both the girlfriend and the girlfriend’s mother swear up and down that it’s true.’
‘He gets off on that?’
‘He gets off on reasonable doubt. Nobody denied Tommy was killed in TwoTimes’s apartment or that he was killed with TwoTimes’s gun, but there were no witnesses. Even though this twelve-year-old girl who lived down the hall told detectives she heard the four shots and then saw TwoTimes exiting the apartment via the fire escape. Unfortunately, she wasn’t willing to repeat the story in court. One of TwoTimes’s crack crew probably got to her.’
‘So he gets off, and you, to your everlasting regret, go to his apartment and kill him, what, out of revenge for your dead brother?’
‘That’s what the Internal Affairs people were trying to prove, but that wasn’t how it happened. By the way, I don’t really regret it.’
‘So how did it happen?’
‘The problem, as IA saw it, was that I was Midtown North homicide and not South Bronx narcotics. I had no business nosing around in the case, especially after TwoTimes walked.’
‘But you did?’
‘But I did.’
‘May I ask why, and what you were hoping to accomplish? Assuming, of course, you’re telling the truth about not going there to kill the guy.’
‘I could have done that. I was certainly tempted, but I didn’t. I knew he couldn’t be tried for the murder again, but I wanted him to admit not only that he killed Tommy but that he was a dealer. That he sold crack to kids for a living. I went wearing a wire. I wanted the truth. I wanted him to do at least a little time.’ McCabe paused. ‘Maybe I wanted to rough him up a little.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I go upstairs in this shithole where he hangs out, and I find him in the apartment. He takes me for a cop right off, which is not too hard, but he doesn’t know I’m Tommy’s brother. I ask him about it, and he tells me what happened. How he’d wasted this narc and walked. He knew he couldn’t be tried again. He’s laughing his ass off. So I figure fuck it and I tell him who I am. That gets to him right away. I mean, if a dude as black as TwoTimes can turn white, he did. Right away he goes for his piece. He clears his waistband and fires, but the shot goes wide, into the wall. I’m more accurate. My bullet puts a hole in his head. That was the end of it. The whole story.’
‘There was an investigation?’
‘Of course. There always is.’
‘And you were exonerated?’
‘I was exonerated. The bad guy had a weapon, and he fired first. You could hear the two shots clearly on the recorder. First the little plink of his. 22 and right after it the louder boom of the 9 mm. Under the circumstances, I used appropriate force. Unfortunately, there was enough lingering doubt about why I was there in the first place to kill my prospects as a detective in New York. It’s part of the reason I took the job up here. Part of the reason I met you.’
‘Casey being the other part?’
‘Yeah.’
They walked for a while, neither saying anything. Eventually Kyra asked, ‘Would you have killed him anyway? Even if he hadn’t pulled a gun?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I certainly wanted to, but he wasn’t too long for this world anyway. He was an arrogant little prick, and there were at least a half dozen bigger sharks out for his ass. They would have gotten him sooner or later.’
‘You said you have no regrets about killing him?’
‘No regrets. He was vermin and he deserved to die.’
‘So why are you having nightmares about it?’
‘I guess because he’s the only man I ever killed. Because it was up close and personal. Because it was so fast. He was alive. Then he was dead. Just like that. In spite of what you see on TV, killing people isn’t all that easy.’
Kyra stopped and looked up. ‘That helps.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Helps me be sure that if I do marry you, my husband won’t be somebody who can do something like that easily.’
‘That’s important, huh?’
‘I won’t dignify that with a response.’
‘No, if you marry me you won’t be marrying a murderer. You’ll be marrying a cop. A cop who’s a refugee from a failed marriage. Each of those, as you know by now, comes with its own set of problems.’
Kyra slipped her arm into McCabe’s and moved her body closer to his. He leaned down, pulled her in, and kissed her. She kissed him back. Then, arm in arm, they walked back toward the apartment, marveling, as they always did, at the beauty of the bay and the glory of the sunrise that turned all the clouds pink.
26
Boca Raton, Florida
Tuesday. 2:00 P.M.
Vanessa Redmond sat with her back to the wall at a corner table in the lobby bar at the Boca Raton Club and Resorts, which, at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, was nearly empty. She was dressed casually in a lime green silk shirt and white linen pants. An attractive woman, she’d never bothered to color her naturally gray hair. Her right hand fidgeted with the clasp of a gold Baume and Mercier wristwatch. The only other jewelry she wore was a thin chain around her neck, supporting a gold Elsa Peretti heart, and two small diamond stud earrings. Her makeup was simple and understated. Though she seldom drank much at any time, and never in the afternoon, she ordered a cosmopolitan, hoping the alcohol might calm her anxiety. The man was late. She wasn’t accustomed to being kept waiting, and she didn’t like sitting by herself in a bar. She picked up her cell phone, thinking she’d check the messages at the house to see if he’d called. Then she closed it, deciding to give him another ten minutes. She sipped the drink.
A man, tall, with broad shoulders and deep-set eyes, entered the room. He wore a well-cut blue blazer over a yellow Izod polo shirt and tan trousers. Glancing in her direction, he walked to her table.
‘Mrs. Redmond?’
‘Ms. Redmond,’ she said. ‘John Redmond is my father. My first name is Vanessa.’
‘You never married?’ he asked, taking the seat opposite hers.
‘No. What is your name?’
‘Harry. Harry Lime.’
‘I don’t suppose that’s your real name?’
‘No. My real name is irrelevant.’
‘You’re late, by the way, Harry Lime.’
‘That, too, is irrelevant.’
‘Why did you want to meet?’
‘I don’t want to talk in here. There’s a jogging path that winds around the property. We can walk there and talk. Did you only have the one drink?’
‘Yes,’ she said. He took out a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the table. He pulled out the table to ease her exit. She rose and walked out of the bar first. He followed her to the front door of the hotel, and they went together out into the heat of a late summer afternoon.
They walked down the path, away from the central part of the hotel.
‘You’re not wearing any recording devices, are you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, d
on’t be ridiculous,’ she said, irritation rising in her voice.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to check. May I have your bag?’ Sighing deeply, she handed him her small Hermes shoulder bag. He opened the snaps and rummaged through it. Finding no wire, he handed it back.
‘Now I want you to put your arms around my neck and press against me as if we were embracing. I have to check your body.’
‘The bloody hell I will,’ she snapped. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’
‘I know exactly who you are, Ms. Redmond. I know exactly who your father is and what his condition is. I know he was turned down for six different transplant programs because of his age. I know you want him to live. Which means I’m your only option. If you’d rather not proceed, that’s your choice. We can conclude our business and I’ll be on my way.’
‘And my father will die?’
‘Yes, your father will die. Then again, everyone dies. It’s only a question of when. Besides, look on the bright side. You’ll inherit a great deal of money.’
‘I already have more money than I’ll ever need. Strange as it may seem to someone like you, I love my father.’
‘Is that why you never married?’
She didn’t answer. She simply turned toward him and, looking up into his face without emotion, placed her arms around his neck and pressed herself, like a lover, into his body. She could feel the bulge of a holster and gun under his jacket as he ran his hands over her in a feigned caress, up and down, back and front.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ she whispered.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘You’re not my type.’ Apparently satisfied she wasn’t wearing a recording device, he added, ‘Okay, you can let go now.’
They turned and started walking again down the path. The hotel was to their right, and the vivid green of the golf course fairways lay both to their left and in front of them.
‘What did you want to tell me?’ She began the conversation.
‘We have a healthy heart,’ he said. ‘Right blood type. Tissue is compatible. The donor is brain dead. Currently on life support.’
‘Who is the donor?’
‘An accident victim. The precise identity does not concern you. Does your father still want to go through with this? At his age there’s no more than a fifty-fifty chance he’ll survive even one year, and there’s an excellent chance he won’t survive the surgery.’
‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘He understands that. But without the surgery he won’t last more than another month or two. He’s a tough old man, and he wants to live. He thinks this will give him a shot. If that’s what he wants, that’s what I want.’
‘The procedure will cost five million dollars. In advance.’
‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘According to our sources, your father’s net worth is more than a billion. For the gift of life, for someone like him, five million dollars is pocket change. In any event, that’s the deal. Take it or leave it.’
‘Who is the surgeon? Is he capable? Competent?’
‘More than competent. One of the best. However, for obvious reasons, I can’t tell you who he is. Now, do you want to proceed?’
‘Yes. It seems I have no choice.’
‘Very well. From this point on there’s no turning back.’ Harry Lime handed her a slip of paper. ‘This is the routing number and account number at a private bank in Zurich. First thing tomorrow morning, I want you to wire five million dollars to this account. Then I want you to burn this note. When I receive confirmation from the bank that the funds have arrived, they will be withdrawn, the account closed, and the money placed in another untraceable account. When that has been accomplished, I’ll get in touch with you to arrange delivery of your father to the surgery site.’
‘Where is the surgery site?’
‘All I will tell you is that it’s in the United States. No passport required. When you are contacted, you will arrange a private ambulance to bring your father to a small airport to be named later. A private plane will pick him up. There will be a pilot, a doctor, and a nurse specializing in cardiac care on board. Other than these, he will travel alone.’
‘I want to go with him. Since my mother died, I’m the only one who really cares about him.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms. Redmond, that will not be possible. He will travel alone. During the trip a sedative will be administered to put him to sleep. He won’t be told where he’s going. An ambulance will meet him at the other end and transport him to the surgery site. The operation will take place as soon as medically feasible. When he is able, he will return home, hopefully in three or four days. He will travel home in exactly the same manner. We will arrange for a nurse to care for him at home and administer antirejection drugs as they are needed.’
‘Will you send prescriptions?’ she asked.
‘Your father will need to take antirejection drugs, primarily cyclosporine, for the rest of his life. It’s available in tablet form, and what is needed will be sent directly to you. There will be no trips to the pharmacy, no paperwork sent to any insurance company.’
‘What about side effects?’
‘Some side effects are likely. There may be kidney dysfunction. Possibly less output when he is urinating. His hands or feet may swell. He may get tremors in his hands. Swollen gums. Bleeding gums. The list is long, but most are not life-threatening. The nurse will know what to do. If there are any indications of organ rejection, the nurse will let us know and we will arrange for a transplant cardiologist to perform a biopsy. If he needs further treatment, you will be contacted to discuss the options.
‘I cannot emphasize strongly enough that you must tell no one of these arrangements. Not your doctor. Not your lover. Not your Aunt Ethel. If you talk in your sleep, sleep alone. If anyone asks why he seems better — if the surgery works — tell them only that’s he’s had bypass surgery. The scars will look similar enough. If he dies, then contact us at the number you’ve been given. We will make arrangements for a physician to sign a death certificate and for the body to be cremated.’
‘Is that all?’ she asked.
‘One last thing. By accepting these arrangements, both you and your father become complicit in breaking the law. If we discover that you have spoken of it before the fact — and we will be watching and listening — the arrangements are off. We will keep the money, but there will be no surgery. If we find out that you have spoken of it after the surgery, to a doctor, to a hospital, to the police, or to anyone else, the contract, and both you and your father, will be terminated.’
Harry Lime spoke these words in a flat businesslike tone, without threat, without emotion of any kind. In spite of the Florida heat, Vanessa Redmond found herself shivering. She knew nothing of this man or the people he worked with. She was taking what he said and what he promised entirely on faith. Yet, because she wanted her father to live, even if only a little longer, she said simply, ‘I understand.’
27
Tuesday. 5:00 P.M.
It was late Tuesday afternoon. Four days since Katie Dubois’s body turned up in the scrap yard and Lucinda Cassidy disappeared from the Western Prom. Tom Shockley was starting to bitch about the lack of results. Bill Fortier was beginning to worry about the cost of overtime. McCabe was increasingly haunted by the hours ticking down on Cassidy’s life.
He spent most of the day huddling with his Crimes Against People unit, reviewing the results of endless interviews, virtually all of which led nowhere. Working round the clock, Tasco and Frazier and four teams of detectives narrowed the so-called Lexus List down from nearly five hundred to fewer than a dozen. Each of these so-called possibles — three surgeons, four other MDs, one nurse-practitioner, and a professor of biology at a small college in New Hampshire — had the requisite skills to remove a human heart. Each lacked an alibi that could be corroborated by a third party. Each was brought in to 109 Middle Street and placed in an interview room equipped with microphones and hidden video equipment. Each
was questioned intensively, sometimes for hours, by teams of detectives skilled in ferreting out the slightest inconsistencies in their stories. In Tom Tasco’s opinion, the most promising ‘suspect’ was a fifty-five-year-old retired gynecologist from North Berwick. He seemed promising only because he’d lost his license in ’02 for allegedly fondling half a dozen patients while their feet were in the stirrups. One was a fourteen-year-old girl.
Unfortunately, the man was only five foot ten, not the six foot plus seen in the surveillance tape and later corroborated by Tobin Kenney. Reviewing the video, McCabe knew there was no way that this man would have been strong enough to carry Katie’s body to where she was dumped.
The hunt for Lucinda Cassidy hadn’t gone much better. Searches organized in ever widening circles from an epicenter in Portland turned up no leads. Divers explored the waters of Portland harbor and found nothing. Advanced mapping techniques used successfully by Maine Forest Service rangers to find the body of a murdered girl a few years earlier were tried again. This time they failed to produce results. Bill Bacon and Will Messing were running out of places to look.
Perhaps the most promising development came in a report from the state lab in Augusta, which said that Lucinda Cassidy’s dog, Fritz, had definitely bitten her attacker and that traces of human blood and hair were found in his mouth. Both samples had undergone DNA analysis, and the results were in. Unfortunately, there was no suspect DNA available to check for a match.
Finally, around six o’clock, McCabe called Burt Lund to find out if Judge Washburn had returned and if Lund had had any luck setting up a meeting with her.
‘She just got back,’ Lund told him. ‘Meet me in her chambers in ten minutes.’
Before leaving, McCabe gathered the exhausted cops in the detectives’ conference room. First he encouraged them all to keep their spirits up and to keep going. He told them every suspect eliminated brought them one step closer to success. Looking into their tired faces, he knew they’d heard it all before. He considered telling them about the note in his mailbox, about the meeting set for tonight with the possible witness, but he was afraid to risk a leak either to the press or to Shockley’s office. However, he did mention he was on his way to ask a judge for a warrant to search Spencer’s car and home. Then he told them to go home and get some rest. Start fresh in the morning.