The Cutting mm-1

by James Hayman

  A small bird, a purple sandpiper, ran across their path, flapping furiously with one good wing. The other hung broken and useless. They watched it for a moment. Once again she asked a question. Once again there was a shake of the head. The bird rushed off. The two people continued down the beach.

  Finally, where the sand ended, they came to a small parking lot, which was empty save for a single car. A black Porsche Boxster. The man offered his hand to help the woman up onto the wooden boardwalk that separated the beach from the blacktop. She took it and climbed up. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she stood, first on one foot, then on the other, and shook the sand from her sandals. Then they walked to the car. She leaned against the door, raised her arms around his neck, and pulled him to her. He slid a hand under her jacket to stroke the smooth skin on her back. She leaned into his caress. His hand came around to the front and cupped her small breast, squeezing it gently, playing with her nipple until it was erect. Then it slid to the other side. He stroked the scar tissue where the other breast used to be. She stiffened and moved his hand away. He put it back. She moved it away again and once again he put it back. This time she let it stay.

  She looked up and found his lips with her own. ‘Why are we doing this?’

  ‘Because it feels good?’

  ‘Beside that.’

  ‘Because the risk excites you?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it does.’

  He slipped his hand down between her legs and probed gently.

  ‘They searched my car,’ she said, her breath starting to come faster. ‘They found that girl’s earring. The one who was killed in the scrap yard?’

  He pulled back, studying her with deep-set eyes, saying nothing.

  ‘O-negative, wasn’t she?’

  Still he said nothing.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, leaning in to kiss him again. ‘I won’t tell a soul.’

  ‘No,’ he responded after a moment. ‘No, I’m certain you won’t.’

  His fingers found the top button of her trousers and worked it open. ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘Someone might see.’

  He pulled down her zipper and slid her pants and panties down over her slim hips.

  ‘Yes. Someone might,’ he whispered. ‘Isn’t that what excites you?’

  They could both feel her heart pounding against her chest as his hand moved back between her legs. Two fingers slid inside.

  ‘Wait,’ she whispered. She stepped out of the pants and folded them neatly, then placed them through the open window onto the front seat of the car. She watched as he did the same, except he left his in a heap on the ground. She took him in her hand and he grew hard. She leaned back against the car. She let out a little gasp as he entered her.

  As they moved together, he studied her face. Eyes closed, lips parted, moaning softly in pleasure. He slipped his left hand around the back of her neck, his right hand into the pocket of his jacket. He felt the handle of the folding knife just where it should be. Hiding the knife behind his back, he pressed its small button, flipping it open. She didn’t notice. He rubbed his thumb across the edge of the blade. A minute later, at almost the exact instant Hattie Spencer reached orgasm, her gasp of pleasure morphed into a cry of pain.

  *

  Sixteen hundred miles to the south, all sound was drowned out by the screaming twin engines of the Learjet 35 lifting off runway 23 at Boca Raton Airport. The plane’s flight plan listed its destination as a private airfield in northern New Hampshire. The Learjet was outfitted as a flying ambulance. In the back, a doctor and a nurse tended a single patient, an old man in the last stages of congestive heart failure. Up front, the crew of two, pilot and copilot, ignored their passengers. They didn’t know their names and had been exceptionally well paid not to ask.

  44

  Thursday. 6:30 P.M.

  After leaving Tallulah’s, McCabe headed back to his apartment and called Dave Hennings in D.C. His partner for nearly five years, Hennings was a tough, smart cop who’d moved on from the NYPD after 9/11 and was now a player in the federal air marshals program. He had connections with all the major airlines.

  ‘McCabe, my man, how the hell are you? It’s gotta be, what? At least a year since we spoke.’

  ‘At least that, Dave. I’m okay. How’s Rosemary?’ Hennings’s wife was a breast cancer survivor.

  ‘Still hanging in. Five years and counting. We keep our fingers permanently crossed. You and Kyra still an item?’

  ‘Definitely an item,’ said McCabe.

  ‘I read about the murder of that girl and thought about how you were so sure things would be nice and quiet up there in Maine. Guess you were a little optimistic.’ McCabe smiled to himself. Wait till Dave heard the rest of it. ‘Anyway, that’s not why you called.’

  ‘Dave, I need a favor.’

  ‘I figured. Go for it, partner.’

  ‘There’s a doctor in North Carolina named Matthew Wilcox. He’s a big-deal heart surgeon at UNC Hospital in Chapel Hill. I need to know if he traveled from Chapel Hill to Portland on any or all of three separate occasions.’

  ‘He have something to do with your murder case?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I can’t talk about it now. So I’d appreciate it if you could just trust me on this one.’

  ‘I always trust you, McCabe. Always have.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Anyway, back to your doctor. Going out of Chapel Hill, he would have flown out of Raleigh-Durham,’ said Hennings. ‘Going to Portland, he’d probably take United. Maybe US Air. Most likely changed planes in D.C. What are your dates?’

  ‘December 2004 and April this year. Last trip would have had him here sometime last week. No firm travel dates. We’ll need to check a range.’

  ‘You don’t want to make a formal request to the airlines?’

  ‘Not if you can get the information quicker. I don’t have a lot of time on this one.’ He didn’t tell Hennings there was another life at stake.

  ‘Okay, I’m fairly well connected with senior people at both United and US Air. I should be able to check it pretty quick.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave. That’s what I hoped you’d say.’

  As soon as he hung up, McCabe called Melody Bollinger at the Miami Herald. He reached the city editor. ‘Sorry, Detective, Mel doesn’t work here anymore. Anything I can do for you?’

  ‘No thanks. You know where I can reach her?’

  ‘She’s moved to New York. Got an offer from the Daily News a couple of years ago.’

  McCabe thanked him. He didn’t need to look up the number for the News.

  ‘Melody Bollinger speaking.’ Melody’s voice didn’t live up to her name.

  ‘Ms. Bollinger? This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. Portland, Maine, Police Department.’

  ‘Portland? Maine? McCabe?’ He might just as well have said he was the chief cop in Siberia. ‘McCabe? Oh yeah. You’re the lead on the murder of that teenaged kid. What’s her name?’

  ‘Dubois. Katie Dubois.’

  ‘That’s right. What can I do for you, Detective?’

  ‘Ms. Bollinger — ’

  ‘Call me Mel.’

  ‘Mel, then. In Miami, you covered the murder of Lucas Kane in March of 2001.’

  ‘Yeah, I worked on that. What’s it have to do with you? Or Maine?’ She sounded curious.

  ‘Listen, can we meet? I’d like to talk to you about Kane’s murder.’

  ‘Why don’t you just call the cops in Miami Beach?’

  ‘I spoke to Detective Sessions already. I thought you might be able to provide a little more insight. Shouldn’t take long.’ There was a pause at her end. ‘I might also have something you may be interested in.’

  ‘Might and may? Goodness, Detective, you certainly know how to whet a girl’s appetite. Why don’t you just tell me on the phone what it might be that you may have? Then I might, or may, bite. I assume it’s about Dubois.’

  ‘As I said, I’d rather discuss it in person.’ He was sure
he’d learn more from Bollinger if they spoke face-to-face.

  ‘Well, that could be a bit of a problem, Detective, since I’m in New York and you’re in Maine. I’m not flying up to Maine without something a little more substantive than mays and mights.’

  ‘I’m prepared to come to New York. There’s a US Air flight that leaves here at seven tomorrow morning. Can you meet me at LaGuardia around eight thirty?’

  McCabe thought for a minute she might turn him down, but her reporter’s instincts were too strong. ‘Okay, what’s the flight number?’

  He told her.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the baggage area,’ she said. ‘I’m blond, five foot three, and my friends describe me as zaftig.’

  ‘How do your enemies describe you?’

  ‘We won’t get into that. I assume you look like a cop.’

  Casey wandered into the room just as he hung up the phone. ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘A reporter in New York.’

  He was sitting in his big leather chair, and she flopped down on his lap.

  ‘What am I supposed to call her?’

  ‘Who? The reporter?’ he teased.

  ‘No. My mother. Do I call her Mom? Or Mrs. Ingram? Or what?’

  ‘Well, since you call Kyra Kyra and Jane Jane, why don’t you just call her Sandy?’

  ‘Am I supposed to kiss her?’

  ‘Not if it feels uncomfortable.’

  ‘What if she kisses me first?’

  ‘You can let her know what you’re comfortable with. If you don’t mind if she kisses you, that’s okay. If you don’t like it, ask her not to.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘I think she’ll understand.’

  ‘I don’t have anything to wear.’

  ‘What do you mean? You have lots of stuff.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Stuff. We’re staying at this fancy hotel and going to these fancy restaurants and a show and everything and all I’ve got is stuff. Yucky stuff.’

  He thought about that for a minute. ‘Okay. Let’s go shopping.’

  That got her attention. ‘Where?’

  ‘How about the mall? They’re open for another couple of hours.’ He pushed her onto the floor and stood up. ‘Get your shoes on.’

  She ran off to get them. Meanwhile, he speed-dialed Kyra’s cell.

  ‘Hiya, handsome.’

  ‘We’ve got an emergency here. I need your help.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Can you meet Casey and me at the mall in fifteen minutes? In front of Macy’s?’

  ‘I guess so. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’ He punched end as he and Casey left the apartment.

  McCabe felt like he’d been cast in the Richard Gere role in Pretty Woman as Kyra and Casey worked their way through five stores in less than two hours. Thank God this was the Maine Mall and not Rodeo Drive. In each store, he tried to find a place to sit while the two of them picked out armloads of clothes and disappeared into the fitting room. Finally they left the mall carrying four shopping bags filled with shirts and pants and shoes and one dressy dress. McCabe thought the dress was a little tarty for a thirteen-year-old. Kyra told him he was totally ignorant about fashion and not to worry his pretty little head about it. He decided not to. His role was to pay the bills. Somehow. They headed across the parking lot to Pizzeria Uno for dinner.

  Even at quarter to nine on a Thursday night the place was busy, he assumed with people who’d just left the mall or the nearby Cineplex. The hostess looked about the same age as Katie Dubois. McCabe wondered if the two knew each other. The girl wore too much makeup, and her bare plump tummy flopped out over the waistband of her black pants. McCabe watched it jiggle as she showed them to an empty table in the middle of the room. He figured she wasn’t a soccer player.

  He looked around. There were a lot of faces he didn’t know, and the idea of sitting in the middle of a crowded room suddenly seemed stupid. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. Maybe he was being more paranoid than he ought to be. Hell, they were in Pizzeria Uno. On the other hand, hadn’t the day before yesterday started with the murders of an innocent kid and a veteran cop? Hadn’t the maniac who killed both nearly succeeded in slashing McCabe to death as well? Maybe it wasn’t paranoia.

  He spotted a corner booth where he could have his back to the room. He asked Flabby Tummy if she would seat them there, told her he was superstitious and he thought that was his lucky table. ‘No problem,’ she said, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I hate Friday the thirteenth myself.’

  Casey slid in first, her back to the wall. McCabe sat next to her. Kyra took the bench across from them. The girl handed them menus, and a busboy filled their glasses with water. Meanwhile, McCabe scanned the room, looking for anyone looking at them. He checked possible exits. He calculated lines of fire. He brushed his right hand over his. 45, making sure it was still there.

  As it touched the weapon, his hand started shaking. Kyra noticed. Casey didn’t. Delayed stress reaction. He willed it to stop. It wouldn’t. He hid the hand under the table. He told himself to relax. That didn’t work either. He imagined the headlines. homicide HOMICIDE COP SUFFERS NERVOUS BREAKDOWN ORDERING THIN-CRUST PIZZA. He didn’t laugh.

  ‘Your server will be with you in a moment,’ Flabby Tummy said and left.

  Kyra’s hand took his, under the table. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered, her blue eyes registering concern, the familiar little line appearing just above her nose.

  ‘Just a little edgy. Long day.’

  ‘Hi, I’m your server, Brian. How are you folks tonight?’

  ‘We’re great, Brian. How are you?’ Casey was smiling up at him. Damn, she’s flirting, thought McCabe. Thirteen years old and she’s flirting with a waiter who needs a shave. Twenty’s gonna be a rough seven years away. Kyra squeezed his hand tightly, smiled, and winked at him.

  ‘Can I start you folks off with something to drink?’

  McCabe ordered a Coke for Casey, a white wine for Kyra, and Dewar’s on the rocks for himself. Somehow single malt, even if they had it, didn’t go with the ambience.

  When the drinks came, he took a long slug of his own. It helped. Alcohol depressing the central nervous system was just what he needed. Maybe he’d just say the hell with it and become a drunk. Not uncommon among cops. Of course, neither was suicide. Okay, he told himself, either balance the traumas of the job with the traumas of your life or you get yourself another job. Another life.

  That night in bed, the shaking came back worse than before, and with it the cold sweats. Kyra tried to calm it by laying her body on top of his and rocking him gently. She asked if this ever happened before. Just once, he said, the night after he shot TwoTimes, but that night he had no one to hold him. Sandy was gone and he had slept alone.

  They didn’t make love. They just rocked until about two in the morning, when McCabe fell asleep. When he woke at five, she was still holding him. The shakes were gone.

  45

  Friday. 8:15 A.M.

  It was exactly one week since Lucinda Cassidy was kidnapped on the Western Prom, and all McCabe could do was hope she was still alive. His flight to LaGuardia took a little over an hour and, for a change, they landed right on time. Melody Bollinger was waiting for him by the baggage carousel. As it turned out, she was zaftig and then some. She resembled an updated version of Joan Blondell, maybe twenty pounds rounder. She was wearing a pair of tight khaki pants McCabe figured she bought at least fifteen pounds ago. A blue blazer covered most but not all of the bulge. They had no trouble recognizing each other.

  ‘McCabe?’

  ‘Melody?’ The terminal was jammed with people. ‘Let’s go get some coffee,’ he said, looking around. ‘There’s a Starbucks upstairs.’

  ‘You know your airports.’

  ‘I’ve been here a few times before,’ he said. ‘I’m a New Yorker.’

  ‘I know. I did a backgrounder on you. Your career w
ith the NYPD, your little run-in with the drug dealer — and, of course, the Dubois case.’

  They found a table in the corner, and he bought them both some coffee. She declined his offer of a pastry. ‘I’m on Atkins, but thanks anyway.’

  He handed her the coffee. ‘Alright,’ she asked, ‘what’s this all about? What’s Kane’s connection to your case?’ She flipped on her recorder.

  He reached over and flipped it off. ‘Take notes,’ he said. ‘I’d just as soon not be on tape or quoted for attribution. Consider me an unnamed source. Plus I’d like you to hold off printing any of this.’

  ‘McCabe, you know better than that. I’m a reporter. You tell me something that’s news, expect it to be printed.’

  ‘Just hold off a couple of days. Say until Monday. You’ll have a better story if you do. If we clear it by then, I’ll make sure you get details nobody else will have.’

  ‘What if something happens in the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime, print whatever you want as long as it doesn’t come from me.’

  She thought about this. ‘Alright. Deal.’ She put the recorder back in her briefcase. ‘Now, why are you interested in Kane?’

  McCabe showed Bollinger a postmortem photograph of the man Maggie had killed in Sophie Gauthier’s hospital room. ‘Do you know this man?’

  She picked up the picture and examined it. ‘Sure. It’s Duane Pollard. Lucas Kane’s bullyboy. Who killed him?’

  ‘You’re sure it’s Pollard?’

  ‘I’m sure. Either him or his twin brother. Is this the guy the female cop shot in the hospital yesterday morning? The one identified as Darryl Pollock?’

  ‘You do your homework.’

  ‘Story came in from the AP last night. Is this Darryl Pollock?’

  ‘Yes. My partner shot him just in time to save my life. Saved a key witness’s life as well.’

  ‘Interesting. When did Duane turn up in Maine? And why?’ Bollinger started writing notes.

  ‘Let me ask some questions first. Do you think Pollock — let’s call him that, it’s his real name — do you think he killed Lucas Kane?’