The Chill of Night

by James Hayman

  ‘Yeah, I did. It’s a fancy backshore cottage right across the road from the water. Belongs to some banker type from Boston. Guy named Todd Markham.’

  ‘Everything look normal to you?’

  ‘Yep. I went through every room, including the master bedroom, which is where she says it happened. I saw nothing out of place. No weapon. No body. No blood. Not where she said it was and not anywhere else.’

  ‘On the other hand, you weren’t expecting to see anything out of place, were you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that if there was something not quite right there, if you weren’t expecting it, it wouldn’t be surprising if you didn’t see it.’ McCabe knew all too well how expectations create their own reality. How they cut off even a smart cop’s ability to consider other possibilities – and Bowman wasn’t all that smart. ‘Let’s just hope you didn’t destroy any evidence.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘How’d you get in?’

  ‘The door was open.’

  ‘Front door? Back door?’

  ‘I went in the front.’

  ‘How about Abby?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was the back door locked?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No signs of B&E?’

  ‘No. I told you. Abby had a key. She let herself in.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. You told me. Abby had a key. How’d the killer get in?’

  Bowman’s brow knitted. ‘I don’t know.’ Pause. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

  He hadn’t thought about it because he was so damned sure Quinn made the whole thing up.

  ‘You guys have Markham’s number in Boston?’ asked McCabe.

  ‘We can get it.’ Daniels woke the desktop computer from its sleep and began tapping keys. He wrote some numbers on a Post-it note. McCabe nodded at Maggie, who nodded back, took the Post-it, and disappeared into the back room to check on Todd Markham’s whereabouts Tuesday night.

  ‘Abby couldn’t describe what the bad guy looked like?’

  ‘No. Just a lot of craziness that didn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Like what exactly?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She said he looked like a man from the back, but when he turned to look at her he was a monster. Let me see if I can remember her exact phrases. “A fiery fiend. An evil animal face. Icicles for eyes.” ’ There was a nasty mocking tone to Bowman’s voice.

  McCabe let it pass. ‘Maybe he was wearing a mask as well.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bowman. ‘Abby’s a whacko. She hallucinates. That’s all her description of a monster was. A hallucination brought on by the stress of the moment.’

  ‘What did she do after she saw the murder?’

  ‘Not clear, but I think she turned and ran. There were footprints broken into the ice and snow leading to and from the front door. All messed up like they were made by someone running fast. Looked to me like they were all Abby’s. In one spot it looked like she took a fall.’

  McCabe glanced out the window. It was snowing even harder than before.

  ‘Todd Markham says there is a key to the back door. It’s hidden inside a lantern on the exterior wall next to the door,’ said Maggie, coming back into the office. ‘I asked him who knew it was there. He said half the island. Plumbers. Electricians. Anybody who ever worked on the house when the Markhams weren’t there. By the way, Markham was in Chicago Tuesday night. Says he had dinner with a couple of clients. Stayed at the Hyatt. Didn’t get back to Boston till –’

  McCabe nodded. ‘Okay. Tell me about Markham’s alibi later. Right now I need you and Daniels to get over to his house. Photograph and preserve any readable footprints before the snow out there covers them up. You guys have any plastic sheeting here?’

  ‘No sheeting,’ said Daniels, heading toward the rear of the station, ‘but we’ve got a bunch of tarps out back.’

  They piled the tarps into the back of the Explorer, along with metal tent pegs to secure them, a digital camera, and a couple of lights. It wasn’t perfect, but it’d have to do.

  The front door opened just as they left. ‘Jeez,’ said Sonny Cates, stamping snow off his boots, ‘it’s colder’n a witch’s tit out there.’ He was a round, jolly-looking guy with white hair. Santa Claus without the beard. He pulled off his glove. ‘Mike McCabe, right?’

  McCabe waited at the window until the Explorer pulled out before nodding and taking Cates’s extended hand. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Nah. Not yet.’

  ‘Take me through what you’re doing.’

  They walked over to a large laminated aerial map of the island pinned to one wall. An erasable marker was hanging next to it. ‘Basically, I divided the island into six more or less equal sectors.’ He drew a red line horizontally across the center of the island, then two vertical ones. ‘Assigned a team to each.’

  ‘Communications?’

  ‘All the teams have cell phones.’

  ‘How’s the reception?’

  ‘Sketchy. Some places okay. Some places nonexistent. Two of our teams have trucks with radios. I put them in the areas where cell reception’s worst. We’re checking outdoor areas first. In this weather, if she’s stuck outside, she’s gonna be in trouble pretty quick. We’re also checking the old bunkers here, here, and up over here.’ Cates pointed to three places on the map. ‘You know about the bunkers?’

  McCabe did. During World War II, North Atlantic convoys sailed in and out of Portland harbor, and the army made Harts a key element of Portland’s shore defenses. Concrete bunkers and observation posts were still dotted all over the island. Some had been converted into garages, storage sheds, and summer houses. Others were simply abandoned. One, Battery Victor, was big, dark, and empty, with multiple rooms and plenty of hidey-holes.

  ‘How about the empty summer houses? The ones she had keys to?’

  ‘So far, visual inspection only. Snow makes it easy to see if anyone’s been marching up to them.’

  ‘Anything suspicious?’

  ‘Other than deer tracks, not so far. Just around the Markham place, which is here.’ Cates pointed to a spot on the map. ‘This new snow’s gonna cover everything up pretty quick, though. Then we’ll have to start calling the owners and looking inside.’

  ‘Anybody ask why we’re looking for her?’

  ‘Just told them she’s missing and we’ve got to find her. They all know she’s got mental problems and tried suicide twice, so nobody’s asking too many questions.’

  They saw headlights pulling up outside. Maggie and Daniels were back.

  Twelve

  It was a little after one thirty in the morning when Maggie pulled the Explorer up in front of an oversized gray house on Seal Point. McCabe studied the place from the passenger seat. There were just the two of them. Bowman and Daniels had been left behind, and Cates had rejoined his search teams. The fewer people who tramp around a crime scene the better, even one that might already be compromised. Forensics 101.

  Different cops work in different ways, and McCabe liked to look at a crime scene with the eye of the filmmaker he once dreamed of becoming. He broke events down into discrete scenes, choreographed the movement of the principal players through each scene, considered the lighting, and shot the action with the camera in his mind from as many angles as he could. Later he’d edit the mental footage until it told a complete and, hopefully, coherent story. For McCabe it was the closest he could come to actually having been there.

  He sat next to Maggie in the dark, not talking, just looking out the window and listening to the slap of the wipers. Heavy gray tarps, stretched end to end across the middle of the front yard, were already nearly invisible under new snow. Finally he asked, ‘Any useful prints under those things?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘A few.’

  ‘Bowman’s?’

  ‘No. His are all clustered away from the others. Looks like he was being car
eful not to destroy evidence.’

  Good. At least the asshole had done something right.

  ‘Someone, I think Abby, entered the property, wearing ice cleats. You can see some cleat prints on top of the ice. She broke through in a couple of places. She took a circuitous route, staying close to the shrubbery over there on the right. Then she stayed close against the house till she reached the porch steps.’

  McCabe remembered the full moon Tuesday night. Assuming Abby got to the place around ten or eleven o’clock, it would have lit the front yard almost like daylight. She was trying to stay in the shadows. Not be seen by whoever was in the house. The layer of crusty snow extended up the steps and onto the porch. Blown in by the wind off the sea. ‘She go in the front door?’

  ‘No, but she must’ve thought about it. There’s a couple of her cleat prints right in front of the door. Everything’s kind of messed up in that area, ’cause that’s how they came out, but there is a nice clear trail of cleats going around the side of the porch to the back. Best I can tell, she checked out the garage, then went into the house through the back door.’

  ‘And came out the front?’

  ‘Yeah. With somebody chasing her. Coming out, she went straight down the middle, and the bad guy came after her.’

  ‘What do you have from him?’

  ‘Everything’s pretty messed up. Looks like somebody, the bad guy I think, slipped and took a fall. Still, we got a couple of decent imprints. Looks like he was barefoot.’

  Must have been desperate. Running barefoot on snow and ice in ten-degree weather. McCabe wondered if he was totally naked. Might have been if he raped Goff just before killing her.

  ‘A couple of partials of his feet are pretty clear. One heel and two toes. Good indication of size. Should be able to make casts of them.’

  ‘See anything that looks like it might have been Goff’s?’

  ‘No. He might have carried her in. Remember, she didn’t come out again. Goff only had a one-way ticket.’

  A one-way ticket to the Hotel California. The old Eagles song started up in McCabe’s head. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Goff didn’t. Quinn barely did.

  ‘When’s Jacobi coming?’

  ‘Tonight. Weather report’s calling for a heavy snow drop, so he wants to get out here and get as much of the scene tied down as possible before the snow wipes out any more of it. They’re already finished at Goff’s. He’s arranging barge transport for the van.’

  McCabe sighed. ‘Long night.’

  ‘Bill’s okay with that. Says Bernice will love spending the overtime.’ Maggie looked over and gave him one of those lopsided grins of hers, with one side of her mouth going up more than the other. A brunette version of Ellen Barkin. ‘So will I,’ she added. ‘If I ever get to go shopping.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah. A couple of sets of tire tracks leading into and out of the garage. Looks like two different vehicles to me.’ Then, as if sensing his thoughts, she said, ‘Todd Markham told me he hasn’t been on the island in months. He wasn’t sure about Isabella. When he’s traveling on business, which apparently he does a lot, he says she likes coming up here instead of staying in Boston.’

  ‘A little lonely, I would’ve thought.’

  Maggie just shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe she’s antisocial. Or maybe she’s got a friend.’

  ‘Has she been up here in the last month or so?’

  ‘We’ll have to ask.’

  ‘Did you ask him what kind of car she drives?’

  ‘Yup. A Caddy Escalade.’

  McCabe nodded. ‘Any of the tracks readable?’

  ‘I think so. There’s a couple of nice fat frozen tire prints just inside the door. Different tread patterns. I figure one could be the Escalade, the other the Beemer.’

  Would the freak have taken Goff’s car over on the ferry? With Goff inside? Or maybe tied up in the trunk? Then back again with her body? Pretty careless if he did. There were no surveillance cameras on board, but there were plenty of witnesses who might remember a new BMW convertible going across in January. Who might have noticed the driver. Who might be able to describe him. Or her. McCabe checked his phone. There was a signal, but it was weak. With the bulk of the island between Seal Point and the nearest cell tower, that was no surprise. He called Cleary again and managed to connect.

  ‘ATL in place?’

  Cleary told him it was.

  ‘Okay. Next thing I need you to do is find the home number for the director of the Casco Bay Lines. Wake him up if you have to, but get the crew rosters for every ferry between Portland and Harts Island from the night of the twenty-third until the last boat tonight. Both coming and going. Get the crews’ home numbers, cell numbers, whatever. Just find them. We need to know ASAP if anyone remembers seeing the BMW and if they can remember the driver. Or if anyone actually remembers seeing Goff. Also see if anyone remembers a Caddy Escalade. Massachusetts plates.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Also find out if anybody saw Abby on any boat leaving Harts between Wednesday morning and tonight. If you need help, call Fortier. He gives you any shit, tell him to call me.’

  ‘No problem.’

  McCabe smiled. He knew why he loved Cleary.

  They found flashlights, stuffed evidence gloves and paper booties in their pockets, and exited the Explorer. The two of them walked south along Seashore, to the bend in the road where the Markhams’ house disappeared from view. Then they turned and looked back. Abby had first seen the candlelight somewhere between here and the path leading up to the porch. They walked back, trying to see things the way Abby saw them as she jogged toward the house four nights ago. It had been an icy night, clear and bright with a full moon and no snow. Native Americans used to call the January full moon the wolf moon to honor the ravenous hunters who once roamed these regions in winter. Driven by cold and hunger and the absence of prey, lone wolves howled their discontent at the heavens. To survive, they needed something warm to kill.

  McCabe tracked Quinn’s progress as she rounded the curve into a straight patch. The large wall of windows in the center of the second floor came into view. Had Abby seen candlelight right away? Jogging on an icy road, even with cleats, she might have been looking down, keeping an eye on the icy patches and only glancing up occasionally. McCabe walked gingerly himself; Maggie did the same. He imagined himself in a head-over-heels pratfall, a Keystone Kop slipping on a banana. He’d just as soon avoid a side trip to the hospital with a broken bone.

  He reached the stone steps leading up from the road to the front path. By now Abby must have seen the light flickering in the window. He imagined her standing there debating what to do. Did she have a phone? If she did, why didn’t she call the cops? Maybe she figured they wouldn’t believe anything reported by someone they thought was crazy. She would have been right.

  What was Abby feeling as she stood there? Curiosity? Fear? Something less rational? Was she already in the middle of a full-blown psychotic episode by the time she looked up, saw the light, and decided to enter the house? For what it was worth, he didn’t think so. How many ‘psychotic nutcases,’ as Bowman called her, ran four miles a night? Bowman had also said, Abby makes a few bucks keeping an eye on some of the summer cottages for the owners. She has keys to all of them. This was one of them. That’s why she went in to investigate. Cause and effect. A deliberate decision. A rational, even courageous, decision. It didn’t seem like the behavior pattern of a schizophrenic who was ‘off her meds.’ He made a note to find and interview Abby Quinn’s doctor as soon as he could. Check Bowman’s assumptions. Check his own.

  Of course, even if Abby was totally rational when she entered the house, no jury would ever take her testimony seriously. No prosecutor would even put her on the stand. He imagined a defense lawyer interrogating her on cross, Abby sitting there helpless. You do have a history of seeing things, don’t you, Ms Quinn? Yes. Hallucinations? Yes. Things that aren’t there? Yes. Th
ings that never happened? Yes. Hearing them as well, according to your medical records. Yes, once again. The killer, if they ever caught him, had little to fear from Abby Quinn in a court of law. McCabe, if he ever found Abby, would have to use her in a different way. Perhaps to lead him to the murderer, but not to count on her testimony to convict. It would take something other than Abby’s testimony to right the wrong of Lainie Goff’s murder. He shoved the thought away. He didn’t need to be thinking about that now.

  Instead of adding their own footprints to the chaos that was already there, Maggie and McCabe went around to the driveway at the side of the house and headed toward the garage. McCabe slipped on the latex gloves and raised the door a couple of feet. He and Maggie squatted. She pointed at one set of tire treads and then the other. Both were clearly visible, frozen into icy permanence, and would stay that way at least until the temps went above thirty-two and stayed there for more than a day or two. Jacobi would be able to read and photograph them without any problem.

  McCabe slid the garage door shut and followed Maggie up the four steps that led to the back of the porch. He shined his light at the area around the door. Like Bowman said, no sign of a B&E. He tried the door. Still open. They waited while Maggie found the key inside the lantern where Markham said it would be and slipped it into a paper evidence bag. If the bad guy used that key to gain access, his prints might still be on it.

  McCabe wondered if Lainie walked to her death. Wondered if she was still conscious at that point. Blood tox results would show any drugs used to knock her out, but they wouldn’t have those until well after she thawed. They bent down and donned their paper booties. McCabe pushed the door open, and they went in. He flipped half a dozen dimmer switches and adjusted a ceiling-full of bright floods downward. They worked their way around the room, checking for bits of evidence Bowman might have missed that would tie the scene to Lainie or, even better, to the man who took her life. Except for the fact that the heat was on, nothing seemed out of place. They went upstairs.

  The room in which Lainie Goff died was nearly as big as McCabe’s entire apartment, at least if you counted the luxurious bathroom and the two walk-in closets, each spacious enough to serve as individual guest rooms. Through the wall of windows, he could see the rocks and the open sea beyond. Everything in the room was neat, tidy, and in its place. He wondered why the bad guy bothered to light candles. The full moon shining through the wall of windows would have provided more than enough light to dispatch the victim without alerting the curious jogger passing by below. Had he intended some kind of ritual murder, a ceremony of death? All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword. Or did he simply find rape and murder by candlelight romantic? Perhaps the true reasons could only be understood by the killer himself.