by James Hayman
Judge Paula Washburn’s chambers were on the second floor of the Cumberland County Courthouse on Federal Street, less than a five-minute walk from police headquarters. McCabe and Lund were admitted immediately. Washburn was a tall, extremely thin woman with cropped gray hair. She didn’t bother with the formality of a greeting, though she did ask them to sit.
‘Well, gentlemen, what do we have that’s so all-fired urgent it just couldn’t wait another minute?’ she asked.
‘A request for a search warrant in the Dubois case,’ said Lund. He handed her McCabe’s affidavit.
She took several minutes to read it silently. ‘Well, isn’t this interesting,’ she said finally, peering up at him over the tiny reading glasses perched on her long nose. ‘I hope this isn’t a fishing expedition, Sergeant McCabe. If so, you’re going after a pretty big fish.’
‘No, Your Honor, it isn’t. I believe we have sufficient reason to investigate Dr. Spencer further.’
‘There are other doctors with green Lexus SUVs.’
‘There are, but so far, at least, Spencer is the only one who is physically similar both to the person seen in the video and the man described by the soccer coach.’
She asked several questions about the reliability of Starbucks’s video enhancement and Tobin Kenney’s memory. McCabe answered them as best he could. Judge Washburn nodded, considering his responses. Then she asked, ‘Is Dr. Spencer aware that he’s about to become a suspect in a murder case?’
‘I think he may have an inkling. He called Chief Shockley and complained about my questioning his wife.’
‘Does Shockley know you’re seeking this warrant?’
‘No.’
‘You realize, of course, he’s going to be less than pleased.’
‘I do.’
‘And you’re not bothered?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Are there any other considerations I should be aware of?’
‘Yes,’ said Lund. ‘Ordinarily, Your Honor, we might wait a little longer, amass a little more evidence, before seeking this warrant. In this case we’re rushing it a bit because there may be another life at stake.’
‘The woman who disappeared?’
‘Yes, Your Honor.’
‘Very well, Mr. Lund, I’m going to grant this request, though I do wish you had some evidence that was slightly more compelling. I’m doing so in the belief that I would have no hesitiation issuing a warrant if the suspect were less prominent in the community. However, I do hope this is not going to backfire in all our faces.’
‘Yes, Your Honor. I hope not as well. Thank you.’
Washburn signed the warrant and handed it back, and Lund and McCabe left the judge’s chambers.
He called Maggie’s cell from the sidewalk. ‘Let me buy you a beer.’
‘No can do. I’ve got company coming. I’m at home in the middle of cooking dinner.’
‘It’s important.’
‘Okay. Why don’t you come over here? You talk. I’ll cook.’
Maggie had a small two-bedroom on Vesper Street only a couple of blocks from McCabe’s own place on the Prom.
‘Who’s your company?’ he asked as she handed him a cold bottle of Shipyard and an opener. She told him tonight was date number three with her new ‘maybe, might be, might not be’ boyfriend.
He popped the top, leaned back against the fridge, and took a long swig. ‘Whatever you’re cooking, it smells great.’
‘Thanks. Coq au vin.’
‘Interesting menu selection for a romantic evening at home.’ McCabe grinned, pleased with his joke.
‘Fortunately, my friend doesn’t share your sophomoric sense of humor.’
McCabe flashed his least sincere smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Anyway, so much for small talk,’ said Maggie. She poured herself a glass of red wine, sat down at the small kitchen table, and sipped. McCabe pulled out a chair on the other side.
‘What’s so important we had to talk about it now?’
First he told her about the warrant. She nodded approvingly. ‘Anything else?’
He showed her the note, saying he was sure it was from the woman he chased down Exchange Street and then saw again at Katie’s funeral. He said he was going to meet her alone tonight as requested.
‘Why does she want you to drive the T-Bird? Even a Crown Vic would be less conspicuous.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe because she can recognize it easily. Maybe because it doesn’t look like a police car.’
Maggie said ‘hmmm’ a couple of times as she examined the note, a different intonation on each ‘hmmm.’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Do we know anything about this woman?’ she asked. ‘I respect your instincts, McCabe, but maybe she’s a nutcase who just wants to get involved in the case. Or maybe get involved on a lonely country road with a big, handsome hunk of a cop.’
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘Yeah, but don’t let it go to your head.’
He turned serious. ‘No. I think it’s for real. At the funeral she implied she was being watched. Said if she was seen with me she might be killed.’
‘She still could be a nutcase.’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know what information she has, but I do think she knows something. I think it could be something important.’
‘I don’t think you going alone is such a good idea. Why don’t I follow discreetly in a separate car, give you a little cover? Y’know? Rule number one? Never go anywhere without backup? Aside from anything else, if something did go wrong and you were out there alone, the department’d put your ass through a wringer.’
‘I guess. The thing is, when she said alone, I think she meant it. She’ll spook if she sees anything that looks remotely like a police car. If Cassidy’s still alive — ’
‘Big if.’
‘Maybe, but if she is, time’s running out, and I’m in no mood to lose what could be our best lead yet.’
‘So fuck rule number one?’
‘I guess. Anyway, I don’t see why things should get all that hairy. I just wanted you to know where I was going.’
‘You gonna take a recorder?’
‘Yes, but I may not turn it on. Right now she’s like a deer in the headlights. One false move and she’s gone.’
‘Mike, I don’t like it. I think I should be there.’
‘Look, you’ve got a nice evening planned. Go finish making your dinner. And have fun with… uh… what’s his name?’
‘Einar.’
‘Einar? Really?’
‘Yes, Einar, really — and no, I don’t need any gratuitous wisecracks from you, thank you very much.’ Maggie stood up and showed him to the door. ‘Good-bye. I love you. Don’t get your ass shot off.’
Later, at home, McCabe made a salad and nuked a frozen lasagna for Casey. He nibbled at it himself. Afterward, Casey cleared the dinner stuff and McCabe retired to the living room, where he opened his DeLorme atlas of Maine to the page that included Gray. He located the roads the note instructed him to take, the spot where he was supposed to park. Working outward from the meeting place, he pored over the intricate web of back roads until the entire map was committed to memory. It took ten minutes.
Though he doubted he was going to need it, he pocketed an extra eight-round magazine for his service weapon, a Smith amp; Wesson 4506. As an afterthought, he also took out the Mossberg 590 pump-action riot shotgun with its eight-round magazine that he kept locked in a case at the back of his closet. He couldn’t dismiss the possibility he was walking into a trap. If necessary, he wanted sufficient firepower to blast his way out.
He called Jane Devaney to see if she could come over and stay with Casey. Her machine picked up after four rings. He didn’t leave a message. Kyra was in Boston, going to the MFA and having dinner with friends. She wouldn’t be back until morning. Reluctantly, McCabe convinced himself Casey would be fine. He didn’t think he’d be home all that late. Besides, as Casey often reminded him
, other people paid her ten bucks an hour to babysit their kids. She’d be fine for a few hours.
As he left, he told her to double-lock the door. She looked uncertainly at the shotgun case cradled in his arms.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m meeting a possible witness. I shouldn’t be late.’
‘What are you taking that for?’
‘I meant to put it in the trunk a long time ago. It’s got nothing to do with tonight.’
Good question. Lousy answer. He could tell she didn’t believe him. Rather than say anything else stupid, he just kissed her and told her not to let anybody in. ‘Not unless you know for sure it’s either Jane or Kyra.’
‘They both have keys, so I won’t let anybody in, period.’ Then she added, ‘I’d feel safer if you let me have a dog.’
She’d asked for one a dozen times before. ‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re a McCabe through and through.’ He kissed her and left.
He heard the dead bolt slip into place behind him as he turned and headed down the stairs, wondering if a big protective beast hanging around the apartment might not be such a bad idea. Of course, it’d have to be friendly, sloppy, and lovable as well. Probably an unworkable combination. Maybe he’d talk to some dog people when this was all over.
When McCabe got to the car, he put the. 45 into a specially constructed holster he’d installed himself on the front of the Bird’s single bench seat in a line beneath his right hand. In an emergency, he could get to it a hell of a lot faster than if it were sitting on his hip trapped under the seat belt. He stashed the extra mag and a handful of 12-gauge buckshot shells in the small glove box on the passenger side. He loaded the Mossberg and stowed it in the trunk. Finally, he loosened the bulbs in the car’s interior lights. He didn’t need the lights making him an easier target each time the door opened.
He slid a Coltrane album into the car’s brand-new CD player. The sweet relaxing sound of ‘Soul Eyes’ filled the small space, flowing smoothly, like liquid gold, from the speakers. He turned up the volume, pulled the Bird out of the lot, and headed for the turnpike via Washington Avenue.
28
Tuesday. 8:45 P.M.
There wasn’t much traffic on the Gray Road, but McCabe checked the rearview periodically to make sure no one was following him. He found the turnoff onto Holder’s Farm Road right where it was supposed to be. He clocked 1.3 miles and pulled off onto the shoulder. He flashed his lights on and off twice, as instructed. Even without them he could see well. The sky was cloudless and the moon nearly full. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the land to his right was open meadow, probably part of a farm. Holder’s Farm? He removed the. 45 from the seat holster and placed it on the seat next to him, safety on. Then he waited. Five minutes passed. Ten. Apparently the mystery woman was going to keep him waiting. She said as much in the note. He lowered his window and leaned back. It might be a while. The September night air felt cool and fresh on his face. He could smell the composty scent of farmland. He kind of liked it.
That’s what he was thinking about when another notion invaded his mind and hung there, refusing to be dismissed. It should have occurred to him earlier, but he’d missed it, and now he couldn’t push it away — the idea that the note hadn’t been delivered to set up a meeting. It was intended to draw him away. To leave Casey unprotected. He damned himself for not covering his rear. A little paranoia wasn’t always a bad thing. Portland was making him feel too safe, too comfortable. That kind of feeling could be dangerous. He grabbed his phone and hit his own number, the fingers on his left hand drumming on the steering wheel as he waited for the line to connect, for Casey to pick up. One ring. Two. C’mon, Casey, answer the goddamned phone. Three rings. Four. Then Casey’s voice. ‘You have reached the McCabes. Leave a message…’ Shit. He clicked off. Images of dark strangers filled his mind, watching and waiting from hidden places, looking up at Casey’s lighted windows, invading his home.
He hit redial. The rings started again. One. Two. C’mon, baby, pick up the phone. ‘Did you forget something?’ Casey’s voice again, this time live. McCabe exhaled as silently as he could.
‘Where were you?’ he asked.
‘Where was I?’
‘A minute ago. I called. Nobody answered.’
‘I was in the bathroom.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she said, her voice puzzled.
‘Has anyone called or rung the buzzer?’
‘No.’
‘Any strange noises?’
‘Dad, you’re freaking me out.’
‘I’m sorry. Look, I’m going to ask Maggie to come over.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because I’m being silly. Humor me. I’ll call you back if she can’t come. Make sure it’s Maggie before you let her in.’
‘Alright,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I’ll make sure.’ She hung up.
Of all the women McCabe knew and trusted, Maggie was the only one who carried a gun. The only one who knew how to tag a stakeout. He speed-dialed her number.
‘Hello.’ Her voice sounded softer, more sensual than the Maggie he was used to. Was he interrupting a moment of passion? Probably. ‘Hello?’ she said again.
‘Maggie?’
‘McCabe? What is it?’ Instantly alert, Maggie the lover morphed into Maggie the cop.
‘Listen. I’m up here in hell and gone, and Casey’s down there on her own. I think the note may have been designed to draw me away.’
‘Okay. Any reason you think that?’
‘Other than the fact she’s unprotected, no, and our friend hasn’t turned up yet. I’m sorry. I know you have a date. My mind’s playing games with me. I just need to have Casey covered. I’ll make it up to you.’
A long sigh, then, ‘I understand. It’s okay. You’re right. Call Casey. Tell her I’ll be there in five.’
‘Apologize to Einar for me. I’m really sorry.’
‘It’s alright. I’m a big girl. Just remember you owe me.’ She hung up.
McCabe’s anxiety faded. He decided to wait another ten minutes. If the note writer didn’t show, he’d head back to Portland and let Maggie get on with her life. The night outside was dead quiet. Not even the chirp of cicadas disturbed the calm — but the sound of a shoe scraping on gravel did. It was coming from the right and rear of the Bird, along the shoulder of the road. So soft that in the city he wouldn’t have heard it. McCabe sat still. Moving only his right hand and wrist, he disengaged the safety on the. 45 and rotated it so that when the door of the Bird swung open, it was pointed right at the woman’s face.
It was a face he knew. The face of the woman he chased down Exchange Street. The woman he spoke to in the cathedral. She was dressed differently, more casually, in jeans and a black cotton shirt, but it was definitely the same face.
‘Pulling a door open like that is a good way to get yourself killed,’ said McCabe. ‘Get in. Generally speaking, I’d recommend not sneaking up on armed men in the dark.’
She ignored both his words and the gun pointed at her and slipped into the seat beside him. She closed the door. ‘Drive,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk as we go.’
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Hidden. About a mile from here.’
He started the engine and pulled out onto the road. ‘Anywhere in particular you want to go?’
‘Just drive. These country roads go on for miles.’ The accent was French and the woman attractive. McCabe noticed a more than passing resemblance to the actress Jeanne Moreau in Francois Truffaut’s 1962 classic Jules et Jim. A little older than Moreau was then. Maybe forty or forty-five.
‘You’re not wearing a wire, are you?’ she asked.
He pulled back onto the road. ‘No. There’s a small digital recorder in the glove box, but it’s not turned on.’
She opened the box, examined the device, saw he was telling the truth, and put it back. She picked up the extra magazine and some shotgun shells. ‘Ar
e you planning a war?’
‘You never know these days, do you?’
She put the mag and the shells back and closed the door.
‘Quebecoise?’ he asked.
‘Non. Francaise. Je suis de Montpellier. Pres du Mediterranee.’
McCabe didn’t respond.
‘You speak French?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Okay. We’ll speak English.’ Her English seemed good, though accented.
‘You’re the note writer?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I didn’t think anyone was going to show up.’
‘I had to be sure you weren’t followed.’
‘Why would I be followed?’
‘Because of me.’
McCabe checked the rearview again. No lights. He drove faster, turning from one small country road onto another, occasionally doubling back, using the map in his mind to track every twist and turn. The Bird wasn’t a Porsche, but with its 312 V8 and a three-speed stick, it had plenty of kick and was more than passably agile. If anyone was attempting to follow, he’d either lose them or they’d reveal themselves soon enough. Unless, of course, they were attempting to follow with lights turned off. Treacherous on these roads. Especially at high speeds, even on a moon-filled night.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘My name is Sophie Gauthier. As I told you, I’m French. French-Algerian, actually. Born in Algiers. My father was in the colonial army. My mother was Algerian. Like most of the colonials, we left after independence in 1962 and resettled in France. I was two at the time. I was brought up in Languedoc. That’s in the south of France, west of Provence.’ Sophie Gauthier kept looking to the rear for signs of a following car.