by James Hayman
McCabe started going through the book systematically, page by page, committing the whole thing to memory. He’d never heard of most of the names, but a few were definitely familiar. There were a couple of big-time businessmen and Wall Street types whose names he’d seen in the paper. There was one Republican senator from a southern state. And, just to even things out politically, one Democratic governor from a Midwestern one who, rumor had it, was considering a run for the White House. There were also a few celebrities of other kinds. A British Shakespearean actor and one-time Oscar winner who was currently getting great reviews playing Hamlet on Broadway. A well-known hip-hop artist. And a retired NBA power forward who was now providing color commentary on ESPN and, between games, McCabe supposed, having fun with Norah Wilcox.
As McCabe continued reading through the list, he realized he was hoping he’d find Peter Ingram’s name among them. He would have loved to let his dear, sweet ex-wife know that the wonderful man she’d left him for spent at least some of his spare time consorting with a high class prostitute. On the other hand, he thought, wasn’t a high class prostitute exactly what Sandy herself had become when she’d left him to marry Ingram for his money? Sadly, it seemed, there’d been no get-togethers between Norah and Ingram listed in Norah’s not so little black book.
McCabe kept flipping through pages. Nothing in the book was organized in any way. Nothing was written in date order. Or any other kind of order. Norah might be great in bed, but she would have made a terrible secretary. Or executive assistant, as they called them these days. The book just contained a bunch of random notes for random dates with at least a hundred random men in random places scattered here and there. With this level of disorganization, McCabe wondered if Norah ever got her appointments mixed up and banged on the wrong hotel room door at the wrong time on the wrong date.
Most of the places listed for the illicit get-togethers looked like room numbers in high priced hotels in New York. He picked out one. Edward Nealy, 11 P.M., 2/16/13, Room 1757, 4 Seasons, 57th Street, 629-555-1776. $3,000. McCabe recognized 629 as an area code in Nashville, Tennessee, and just for the hell of it, he called the number.
“Hello.”
“Is this Edward Nealy?”
“That’s right. Who is this?” asked a male voice with a vaguely Southern accent.
“Who is it, Ed?” A woman’s voice in the background. She had an even more pronounced accent.
“Mr. Nealy, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe with the Portland Police Department. I’m trying to track down a woman named Norah Wilcox. You apparently spent some time with Ms. Wilcox last month in room 1757 at the Four Seasons Hotel in New York and I was wondering if you had any idea how I might reach her . . .”
“Is this some kind of joke?” There was a trace of panic in Nealy’s voice.
“No, sir. No joke. Like I said, this is Detective . . .”
The phone went dead. McCabe smiled broadly. If they didn’t find Norah’s contact info first, he’d have one or more of his detectives follow up on each of the names in the book, starting with the politicians, hoping to find at least one who’d be eager to do his civic duty. If civic duty wasn’t enough to convince them to help, threats of public exposure almost certainly would do the job. His guys were going to have a lot of fun embarrassing Ms. Wilcox’s clients into providing information. McCabe might even give in to temptation and do some of the so-called grunt work himself.
A few of the paid assignations listed had taken place outside New York at fancy hotels in Washington and also a couple in Boston. McCabe noticed that Norah didn’t seem to work the well-trodden paths of sin out west in Las Vegas. Maybe what happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas. More likely, Norah had no need to travel so far or face so much heated local competition to get together with her well-heeled johns.
It also looked like she didn’t just do business in hotel rooms. Unlike twenty-first-century doctors, it seemed twenty-first-century escorts also made house calls. Husbands at play when wifey’s away? Probably. And to add insult to injury, he supposed a lot of them had their fun and games in the couples’ marriage beds. Although, to be charitable, some of the johns might just be lonely rich guys who weren’t married or in current relationships. Or maybe just sad sack goofballs who could never get it off with somebody who looked like Norah Wilcox without handing over a bundle of cash.
A variety of residential addresses were listed. Most were in Manhattan or the more fashionable neighborhoods in Brooklyn. A few were located in some of New York’s tonier suburbs. Greenwich, Connecticut. Rye, New York. Far Hills, New Jersey.
When McCabe reached the back of the book he noticed a piece of lined notepaper sticking out from a flap on the inside back cover. He pulled it out and read: Joshua Thorne. The Port Grill. 9:30 P.M. March 6, 2014. $25K. Then, underneath, in pencil Norah had written in the name Evan Fischer along with the same New Hampshire cell phone number McCabe had found in Joshua Thorne’s wallet. It was beginning to look like a pretty good bet this Fischer guy was the killer they were looking for. McCabe wondered for a minute about the nine-thirty time notation. He knew from the video that Norah hadn’t walked into the bar until 9:58. Was she simply late? No, not late, he decided. More likely waiting outside the restaurant for the Trident people to leave before going in and making her play. Waiting outside also left her a backup option if Thorne decided to leave the restaurant with his clients and start walking back to his hotel. Excuse me. I’m terribly lost. Can you tell me how to get to the Regency Hotel? Oh, you’re going that way? Do you mind if I walk with you? It makes me a little nervous walking alone at night.
Under the note that contained Norah’s date with Joshua Thorne, McCabe also found a photograph, a recent headshot of Thorne smiling confidently into the camera. Probably a screen grab from the Harris Brumfield website. Supplied, no doubt, to make sure she picked up the right guy.
McCabe zipped up the book, put it back in his coat pocket and called Maggie.
“Okay, McCabe. Where are you and what the hell is going on?”
“I’m at 339 Hartley Street. I found Wilcox and Thorne. They’re both dead.”
“Both of them? Jesus. Who killed who?”
“Well, it looks like a third person killed both of them. And from where I’m sitting now it looks like it may just be a man named Evan Fischer.”
“You said Evan Fischer?”
“Yeah. Why? You know the name?”
“Yes. Evan Fischer is the name of the man who was married to the woman who committed suicide. The one who was gang-raped by Thorne, Loughlin and the rest of them. What do you know about him?”
“Not a whole lot. I found his business card in Joshua Thorne’s wallet. He’s a psych professor at UNH in Durham. More importantly I found his name again next to Josh Thorne’s in the back of Norah’s Day Runner.”
“Day Runner? Who the hell keeps a Day Runner anymore?”
“Apparently Norah did. What I wanted to do before calling you back was to memorize the contents so I could give the book to Jacoby for his evidence bag.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Yes. Turns out Norah was a high priced New York hooker who used the book to keep track of her dates. Lots of interesting names and numbers in there. Including Evan Fischer’s. His name and contact info were in a pocket in the back along with a photo of Joshua Thorne and right next to it the time and place for picking up Thorne at the Port Grill. Plus an indication that he’d paid her twenty-five K for the job.”
McCabe filled Maggie in on some of the specifics he’d read in the book and then went on to describe everything he had found in the house on Hartley Street. The missing key. The open door. The clothes rolled up in the closet. The martini and whiskey glasses. The condition of the bodies. Where they were found. How they were murdered. And finally how he’d been whacked from behind and, while he was still out, how the car with Wilcox’s body still in the trunk was driven from the scene.
“Jesus, he hit you with a rolling pin? A
re you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. You always said I had a swelled head. At last you’re right.”
“Stop with the jokes, please. Did you see who hit you?”
“Not really. I figure it has to have been Fischer but I couldn’t swear to it in court. I just caught a flash of movement as I started to turn. Whoever it was he, or possibly she, had a slender body. Dressed in black. Not very tall. Maybe five-nine, five-ten. What do you know about this Fischer guy?”
“Like I said, he’s Hannah Reindel’s husband.”
“Who’s Hannah Reindel?”
“The girl on the bridge. The one Rachel told us about who jumped off and killed herself. The one Josh Thorne and Charlie Loughlin and some other guys raped twelve years ago.”
“You learned all this in Connecticut?”
“I did.” Maggie took her turn filling McCabe in on what she’d learned from Toni Bernstein, Heather Loughlin and Ian Landis.
“So Hannah Reindel ended up marrying this Fischer guy?”
“Yes,” said Maggie. “Fischer was Hannah’s date the night she was raped. The boy who took Hannah to the fraternity party. He also took her to the college health center afterward and four months later went with her to file the complaints against Thorne and Loughlin.”
“Sounds like she was someone he really cared about.”
“I think so. And he may have cared enough to take vengeance on the men who destroyed her life and, in a sense, ultimately killed her.”
“Rape, suicide and revenge,” said McCabe. “More than enough motive for him to murder Loughlin and Thorne.”
“I agree,” said Maggie. “The big question is why kill Norah Wilcox?”
“Presumably to get rid of a witness.”
“I guess. But there’s something odd about that.”
“What?”
“Well, killing Loughlin and Thorne were crimes of rage and passion,” said Maggie. “Revenge for the horrible things they’d done to Fischer’s wife. And the condition of Thorne’s body certainly confirms that rage. But Wilcox was killed execution-style. No emotion. Just cold-blooded murder. Just doesn’t sound like the work of the same person.”
“You’re making assumptions about Fischer’s state of mind when he killed Thorne, if in fact he’s the one who killed Thorne. The attack was sadistic and vicious but sadism and viciousness don’t necessarily imply rage.”
“Still sounds to me like the reverse of Fischer’s personality. At least it is if what Landis told me is accurate. He may have wanted vengeance, but from Dean Landis’s description, he sure as hell didn’t sound like any kind of sadist.”
“I don’t think we know enough yet to make that assumption.”
“All right, I’ll suspend disbelief for the moment,” said Maggie. “I may come back to it later but, in the meantime, let me try to summarize our Fischer-as-killer hypothesis. We’ll just say Fischer decides to get rid of the only witness to his crime. He tells Wilcox to climb in the trunk. She pleads for her life but instead of sparing her he puts a nice little hole in her head and closes the trunk. He then goes upstairs and does what he does to Thorne. After he’s finished with Thorne but before he can flee, he hears you sneak into the house. He waits quietly upstairs for you to leave. Ready, of course, to shoot you if you come upstairs. Instead you go into the garage. He doesn’t hear anything for a while and thinks maybe you’ve left. He sneaks downstairs, discovers you looking at dead Norah in the trunk. But instead of shooting you or cutting your throat, he bops you on the head with a rolling pin and gets the hell out of there. Why didn’t he kill you as well?”
“Good question. Maybe he doesn’t want to kill a cop.”
“After what he’s done to Thorne? Besides, how’s he supposed to know you’re a cop and not just a nosy neighbor? You’re wearing street clothes.”
“Okay. So what are you getting at?”
“I’m not sure. He brutally kills one person. Surgically kills another. Then takes the time and effort to drag you out of the way of the car so he doesn’t roll over you? Something about that just doesn’t compute for me. Let’s drop it for now. Anything else I should know?”
“Not really. Just that I’m on my way to inform Rachel Thorne of her husband’s death.”
“Sounds like a nasty chore. Try not to be too explicit.”
Chapter 28
IT WAS CLOSE to midnight by the time McCabe pulled into the small circular courtyard fronting the Regency Hotel. He parked conspicuously in front of a sign declaring the space was reserved for guests checking in. Tossing an Official Police Business card onto the dashboard, he emerged into yet another of the cold damp nights typical of the Maine coast this time of year. The snow had thankfully turned to drizzle or maybe more accurately sleet. Either way it didn’t seem likely to stick.
McCabe pushed cold bare hands into the pockets of his overcoat and leaned back, propping himself against the side of the car, prepping himself on how best to handle what he was certain was going to be a difficult and perhaps ugly next-of-kin notification. Even if he didn’t say a word about castration.
At this hour Rachel might already be asleep. There was an equally good chance, imagining Josh still unaccounted for, she’d be sitting up worrying and waiting for word that he’d been found. McCabe watched a few groups of bundled-up guests scurry into the landmark hotel after enjoying a show or dinner in one or another of Portland’s late-closing restaurants.
Stalling on the NOK, McCabe studied the details of the old landmark building. Neoclassical in design with turrets at either end, he remembered reading it was built in 1895 as the State of Maine Armory and served as headquarters for the Maine National Guard until 1941 when, as American involvement in the war drew closer, the Guard was federalized.
After the war, the Guard never moved back and the building stood semiabandoned in what was then a down at the heels neighborhood. When the resurgence of the Old Port got going in the mid-’80s some smart developers bought the place and turned it into a luxury hotel.
A young parking valet approached. “May I help you, sir? Are you checking in?”
“No thanks.” Pushing himself up from the side of the car, McCabe added, “Portland Police. I’m here on business. Could you just leave the car where it is until I get back?”
“Yessir. No problem,” the kid said enthusiastically. Police business. Probably the most exciting words he’d heard all night. Or maybe all winter. McCabe crossed the courtyard, climbed a short flight of granite steps and entered the hotel. A middle-aged woman with graying black hair pulled back in a bun stood behind the reception desk. Her badge identified her as Mrs. Lopez. “How can I help you, sir?”
He showed her his ID. “I need the room number for one of your guests. Mrs. Rachel Thorne.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t give out room numbers. Not even for the police. However, if you just pick up the house phone over there and ask for her by name the operator will connect you.”
McCabe walked to the phone. Whether he woke Rachel or not didn’t really matter. There was no way he wanted her to find out about Josh’s death from some chirpy newscaster on News Center 6. He picked up the phone and asked for Mrs. Thorne’s room. The phone rang half a dozen times before she finally picked up.
“Yes?” An impatient voice.
“Rachel? Did I wake you?”
“No. I’m awake. Who is this?”
“McCabe. Sergeant Michael McCabe.”
“Oh. No. I just got out of the shower.”
“May I come up? There’s something we need to talk about.”
“Does that mean you found Josh?”
“Yes.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Where is he?”
Okay, so Rachel hadn’t been sent any postmortem photos. Or maybe she just had no way of checking her e-mails. “That’s something we need to talk about.”
“What? Why? Where is he?”
“What room are you in?”
There was a long sil
ence. “Give me five minutes to get dressed and I can come down and meet you in the bar.”
“Bar’s closed by now. We can talk more privately in your room than the lobby. I think that might be better.”
Another short silence.
“All right. I’m in something they call the Governor’s Suite. Room 411. The door to your left on the fourth floor.”
McCabe went down the steps to the elevator bank. Pressed the button for four and emerged into a small hall with only two doors.
The one marked 411 opened before he had a chance to knock. Rachel stood in the doorway, dressed in a white terry-cloth robe bearing the Regency Hotel logo over the breast pocket. A white towel wrapped around her wet hair.
“Why don’t I wait out here while you get dressed?” he said.
“No. You’d better come in. I need to know what’s going on.” She looked at the bruising. “What in God’s name happened to your face?”
“Nothing serious. Just tripped on the ice.”
“Tripped on the ice? Really?”
Rachel stood to one side and gestured him in. Walking through the door, he could hear a familiar little voice speaking to him in what his brain told him was perfect Italian: “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.” Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. Dante’s warning to sinners passing through the gates of hell.
Room 411, the Governor’s Suite, was a large and luxurious space. The living room was decorated with high-end repro furniture and rugs. A floor-to-ceiling redbrick fireplace dominated the wall to his left. A gas fire burning in the hearth was throwing a lot of heat into the room, which felt good. He pulled off his wet overcoat.
“Here, why don’t you give me that and sit down?” Rachel took the coat and hung it over a half-opened closet door. Instead of sitting, McCabe walked across the room to a pair of glass doors opening onto a large terrace. Beyond the terrace he looked out on a long row of rooftops lining Fore Street. Above the roofs a narrower view of the harbor that lay beyond. He tried to figure out what words to use to tell her about the death of her husband.