by James Hayman
‘So what do you think?’
‘You said I had to see her.’
‘I think you do. The judge gave her that right. How do you feel about that?’
‘I don’t know. She’s coming Friday?’
‘Yes. She’ll meet you here after school. She wants to take you to Boston for the weekend. Probably stay at some fancy hotel. Maybe go see a show.’
‘Big deal.’ Silence. ‘She’s really rich?’
‘Her husband is.’
Casey finished her cereal and took the bowl to the sink and rinsed it out. ‘His name’s Peter?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Peter what?’
‘Ingram.’
‘Is he my stepfather?’
‘Only if you want to think about him that way.’
‘I don’t think about him any way. I never even met him. He’s not coming, is he?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s just Sandy.’
‘How come you gave me the same name as her?’
‘It’s what she wanted when you were born.’ A little extension of herself, McCabe thought. ‘Anyway, it’s not really the same. You’re Casey. She’s Sandy.’
‘Ready to go?’ Jane appeared.
‘We’re both Cassandras,’ Casey said. ‘You guys aren’t gonna fight about me, are you? You and Mom?’
‘I hope not. I’ll try not to. I can’t speak for her.’
‘You’re supposed to be the grown-ups, you know.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I heard.’ He hugged her hard. ‘I love you.’ He didn’t want to let her go. Not to Boston. Not, at the moment, even to school.
‘Dad, I gotta go.’
‘I know. Go break a leg.’
‘I love you, too,’ she said and turned and ran down the stairs.
He called Sandy’s number in New York.
‘Hello, McCabe. Casey ready for my visit?’
He wasn’t sure ready was the operative word. Still, he said, ‘You can pick her up Friday after school.’
‘I’ll be there at four o’clock. I’ve reserved a suite at the Four Seasons. She should bring a nice outfit she can wear to some good restaurants and maybe the theater. She does have something decent to put on, doesn’t she?’
He let the sarcasm pass. ‘She’ll pack something nice.’
‘Anything in particular she’d like to see?’
‘She’ll like anything you choose. Or better yet, give her the choice. She doesn’t get to go much. You know where we live?’
‘I do indeed.’
‘She’ll need to be back early enough Sunday to do her homework. No later than four or five o’clock.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Sandy?’
‘What?’
‘Take good care of her.’
McCabe kicked off his shoes and lay on the unmade bed, thinking about Casey and what he might have said to her. Kyra’s scent lingered on the sheets. He was exhausted but knew he didn’t have time for sleep. He had to go back to the hospital, talk to Sophie as soon as she was compos mentis, but first he needed to sort things out. The list of loose ends was long and getting longer, a Pandora’s box of probablys, might bes and what ifs.
He stripped down, got in the shower, and thought about things as the hot water coursed over him. Sophie said they were doing illegal transplants. Most likely somewhere inside a fifty-mile band north or east of Augusta. Unless, of course, they cut south again. He thought about that and rejected it. It’d waste too much time doubling back and forth.
Okay. There were five or six people involved besides Sophie. A transplant surgeon and a second surgeon. One of them Spencer? Probably. Anybody else? Maybe one of Spencer’s buddies from the Denali picture. Wilcox or Holland. Who else? A nurse-anesthetist. Identity unknown. Two or three OR nurses. Also unknown. A perfusionist. Sophie.
Sophie said she hadn’t known they were killing people to obtain the hearts. Did the others? For sure, at least one of them did. What about the goon Maggie killed last night? Was he part of the surgical team? Unlikely. Finally, there was the fact that Sophie said there’d been at least two other transplants. Jack Batchelder was supposed to be tracking down possible victims. He’d have to find out how much progress Jack had made. Yes, a lot of loose ends. Even so, he felt he was getting closer. What he needed to tie the loose ends around Spencer’s neck in a neat little bow might be waiting in the Lexus. They should have searched it already. Unfortunately, events kind of got out of hand. They’d search it today. They’d also bring Philip Spencer down to 109 for a chat.
38
Wednesday. 1:30 P.M.
The third floor at Cumberland Medical Center was an armed camp. Dick Cheney’s undisclosed secure location couldn’t have been closed down any tighter. Uniformed cops were stationed at each of the elevator banks and at the stairwell doors, checking IDs of anyone coming or going including staff. Two additional patrol officers sat at Sophie’s door, and a third was in the room. All doctors, nurses, and aides going in or out of her room were checked against an approved list of caregivers. Anyone not on the list didn’t go in. Period. Medications and food were double-checked against orders by the floor nurse and the chief resident. Security was as tight as it could be if the hospital was going to function at all. Some comedian put up a sign opposite the elevators, WELCOME TO THE GREEN ZONE. The cops didn’t bother taking it down.
Sophie was awake but glum when McCabe entered. Her arm was bandaged and immobilized, an IV inserted in her hand. She didn’t look up when he sat in the chair next to her bed. She seemed to be absorbed in an old issue of Cosmo.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. No answer.
‘You’re not talking to me, is that it?’ Still no answer.
‘Listen, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.’
She looked at him and then turned back to the magazine.
‘The guy who shot you is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore — but there are others who can. I need you to talk to me. If you don’t, it’s very likely another woman will die. It’s just as likely they’ll come after you again.’
‘You swore to me you weren’t followed.’ She didn’t look up from the magazine as she spoke.
‘I wasn’t. They attached a global positioning transmitter under your car. Another under mine. That’s how they knew where we were. Sophie, the only safety for you is if we catch the people responsible for all this. The only way we can do that is for you to tell me everything you know.’
‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘Back to France. As soon as they let me out of here.’
‘You won’t be any safer there than you are here. The man you called Spencer knows where you live. He knows you can identify him. He knows you’ve been talking to the police, and for all he knows, you’ve already told us everything you know. For all he knows, you’re ready to testify against him in court.
‘I spoke to the prosecutor about getting you immunity in return for your testimony. He said he’d do what he can, but I can’t promise you that. All I can promise you is that if you don’t help us stop him here and now, he will follow you to France, or wherever else you may go — and when he finds you he’ll surely kill you.’
Sophie sat in her bed staring straight ahead. McCabe saw that she was quietly crying, and it made him feel like a shit. What he told her was the truth of the matter, though, and there was no changing that.
Finally she turned to him. ‘Alright, what do you want to know?’
He turned on his recorder and spoke into it. ‘This is an interview between Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland Police Department, and Sophie Gauthier, a French citizen, recorded at Cumberland Medical Center, Portland, Maine, at 1:30 P.M. on Wednesday, September 21, 2005. Ms. Gauthier, you are participating in this interview freely and of your own volition, is that correct?’
‘Yes, it is.’
With only a little prompting, Sophie repeated into the recorder everything she had told McCabe the night before on the quiet road in Gray.
When she finished, he handed her half a dozen photographs, including a picture of Philip Spencer he’d printed off Casey’s computer. ‘I am showing Ms. Gauthier six photographs of men who fit the description of the man who contacted her in France. Ms. Gauthier, have you ever seen any of these men before?’
She took the photos and looked at each of them for a minute or two. She finally shook her head. ‘No.’
‘None of these photos are of the man who called himself Philip Spencer?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Imagine each of them with beards.’
‘This one looks like him a little.’ She picked up the picture of Philip Spencer. ‘More when I imagine him, as you say, with a beard, but really not so much when you look closely.’
He showed her another photo of Spencer, shot from a slightly different angle. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I told you. This is not the man I spoke to.’
Okay, so Spencer wasn’t the recruiter. He could still be the cutter. The killer. McCabe slid another series of pictures in front of her. ‘Have you seen any of these men before?’
She pointed at a postmortem photo of the shooter. ‘Yes. This one was the driver who came for me at the hotels and brought me to the operations. Is he the man who tried to kill me?’
McCabe nodded. ‘Did he come for you each time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he in the operating room during the heart transplants?’
‘No.’
Tom Tasco and Eddie Fraser were waiting for McCabe as he left Sophie’s room. Fraser jumped right in. ‘We ID’d the shooter, Mike. Jacobi found a couple of usable prints in the SUV, and the bureau came up with a match.’
McCabe interrupted him. ‘Let’s go and get some coffee,’ he said. ‘Too crowded to talk up here.’
They rode the elevator down to the big cafeteria on the ground floor. At two thirty, it was still pretty crowded with a late lunch crowd. They got three cups of coffee and went for privacy to an outdoor area where there were some chairs and tables. McCabe noticed, for the first time, it was a beautiful day. They sat where they could speak without being overheard.
‘Who is he?’ asked McCabe.
‘Name’s Darryl Pollock,’ said Tasco. ‘Ex-marine. Served as a sniper in the first Gulf War. Won a Bronze Star. Stayed in the marines after the war. Joined Force Recon. That’s Marine Corps Special Ops. Apparently he only quit because some of the homophobes in the Corps found out he was gay and made life uncomfortable for him.’
‘What did he do after the military?’
‘Record gets a little sketchy.’ Tasco was reading from some computer printouts. ‘Worked as a bouncer in some gay clubs in New York. Couple of assault arrests for getting too rough with some drunks. No convictions. Turns up next in Florida. South Beach.’
Tasco sorted through his notes. ‘In Florida, Pollock does a little time for beating the shit out of a couple of college jocks in a bar fight. He got pissed at them for gay-bashing some aging queen Pollock didn’t even know. He told them to lay off. Instead they start in on him. Football players,’ Tasco said with a snort. ‘Guess they thought they were tough. Pollock almost killed one of them. That was in ’96. He gets out in ’98 and disappears. End of story.’
Darryl Pollock. Duane Pollard. Initials DP. South Beach. Lucas Kane’s lover? McCabe was willing to bet on it. In 1998 Pollock changes his name and hooks up with Kane. He wondered what, if anything, Detective Sessions would know about that. Or be willing to tell him.
‘Mike, are you with me?’ Tasco was looking at him. ‘Hello? Is there something I’m missing here?’
McCabe shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry, Tom. Any record of Pollock ever using an alias? Either before he was sent up or maybe after he got out of prison?’
‘Not that we’re aware of.’
‘Do me a favor. Dig a little deeper. See if you can find out if Pollock ever used the alias Duane Pollard.’
‘So who’s Pollard?’
‘A local enforcer in Miami. My information places him in South Beach in March 2001. At the time, he was the live-in lover of a high-class pimp and pusher named Lucas Kane, who just happened to be an old dear friend of one Dr. Philip Spencer.’
‘Well, well, well. Didn’t know Spencer had such nice friends,’ said Fraser. ‘Where’s Kane now?’
‘Dead. He was murdered back in 2001.’
‘Really? Was Pollock/Pollard a suspect?’
‘No. According to Miami Beach PD he had an airtight alibi.’
‘Anything to show Spencer knew Pollard?’ asked Tasco.
‘They could have met at Kane’s funeral,’ said McCabe. Noticing a man nearby eyeing them, McCabe lowered his voice to just above a whisper and shifted his chair so the man couldn’t see his lips. Tasco and Fraser followed suit. The line between precaution and paranoia, as always, seemed thin.
‘Maybe at the funeral, Spencer asks Pollock to come to Maine to bash any necessary heads in his heart transplant scam,’ said Fraser. ‘After all, Kane doesn’t need him anymore, what with him being dead and all.’
‘Possible,’ said McCabe, considering it. ‘Pollock/Pollard loses his meal ticket in Florida about the same time Spencer’s hatching his transplant scheme in Maine. I mean, why else would a thug like that end up in Portland? Could you find anything about Spencer visiting France?’
‘Not much, even though the gendarmes were helpful,’ said Tasco. ‘There’s no record of anybody checking into the Hotel du Midi in Montpellier under the name Philip Spencer at any time during November of last year.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. I checked with the hospital. According to their records, Dr. Spencer performed three heart transplants here in Maine that month.’
‘So he couldn’t have been in France?’
‘Technically, he could have, but he would have to have been traveling within a hell of a tight time frame.’
‘Do me another favor, Tom. Ask your contact in France if anyone checked in using the name Harry Lime.’
‘Okay, and if he did?’
‘Get the passport number and find out where and when it was issued. If it was mailed, find out where it was sent.’
‘So the guy in France wasn’t Philip Spencer?’
‘At least not our Philip Spencer. Sophie Gauthier just looked at his photo. She’s certain Spencer’s not the guy who recruited her.’
‘Basically you’re telling me we have nothing?’ said Tasco.
‘That pretty much sums it up.’
‘I’ve got to tell you Mike, it’s getting pretty old running up and down these blind alleys.’
‘Just hang in, Tom. It’ll pay off,’ said McCabe.
‘I hope so. What’s next?’
‘Next? Next we take a look inside Mrs. Spencer’s pretty green Lexus.’
39
Wednesday. 4:00 P.M.
McCabe hated surveillance, especially from the front seat of a rental car. This one was a Dodge Stratus. About as devoid of personality and creature comforts as a vehicle could get. It wasn’t even inconspicuous. In this neighborhood nobody but cops or Jehovah’s Witnesses would drive anything so dull — but it was all Fortier would pay for. He didn’t know how long the Bird was going to be impounded, but it could be a while. Even afterward, getting the windshield fixed, and maybe some other stuff, too, would take additional time. At least the Stratus had a CD player and a passable, though not great, sound system.
McCabe was parked in front of 24 Trinity Street. He’d already been there two hours waiting for the green Lexus to return. He’d invited Burt Lund to sit with him, and Lund was getting antsy. Tasco and Fraser waited across the street in a PPD Crown Vic. Mostly McCabe passed the time leaning back listening to Marcus Roberts play some very familiar Gershwin on the piano. He alternated the Roberts CD with one by Oscar Peterson, who created similar magic with Cole Porter.
‘Any word on what’s planned for Kevin Comisky’s funeral?
’ asked Lund.
‘Yeah. Memo came down from Shockley’s office this afternoon. Service is scheduled for Monday at the cathedral. Color guard. Bagpipes. Twenty-one-gun salute at the gravesite. The whole nine yards. Cops will be coming in from all over New England to attend. Shockley plans to deliver a eulogy.’
‘That’ll be nice for the widow.’
McCabe glanced over at Lund. ‘Nice doesn’t bring her husband back.’
‘No.’
They lapsed into silence. The warrant to search the Lexus waited in McCabe’s pocket. Both McCabe and Lund agreed they wouldn’t serve it unless and until the Lexus was right there in front of them. Go banging on the Spencers’ front door while Phil Spencer was driving around loose and you’d invite some asshole lawyer to hold them up for days while he challenged probable cause.
An ATL for the Lexus had been issued to all patrol units. If the SUV was spotted, officers were to report the sighting and follow the vehicle but not intercept it. McCabe’s phone rang. It was Jacobi. ‘How you doing, Bill?’
‘I’m good. What fun and games do you have planned for us today?’
‘We’re over on Trinity Street waiting on a Lexus SUV. It’s the one I think was used to haul Katie Dubois’s body over to the scrap yard. I want you to go over it and find what we need to put this asshole away.’
‘The asshole being Dr. Spencer?’
‘You got it.’
‘Being an asshole is not necessarily a punishable offense.’
‘Don’t start, Bill. I’ve got good reason to think this guy might have been involved in the murder.’
Jacobi sighed. ‘So you’re looking for what? Prints, hair, fibers?’
‘Yeah, all that, but mostly blood. I don’t see how he could have hauled Katie’s body around cut up the way it was without getting some blood on the vehicle. Most likely on the cargo space in back. I don’t care how hard he scrubbed it — ’
Jacobi finished the sentence. ‘Luminol will show it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, call me when your pigeon arrives and we’ll send over a flatbed. We’ll have to bring the Lexus down here to the garage to really go over it. I’ll also want to remove the seats and open up the spare tire well.’