The Chill of Night

by James Hayman

  ‘Lieutenant McCabe?’ A good-looking man, tall and slender, with expensively cut gray hair and a confident manner, walked toward him. Even dressed down in faded blue jeans and a Helly Hansen fleece jacket, and even with a day’s growth of gray bristle covering his pink cheeks, Ogden looked like a Hollywood casting director’s dream choice for an A-list lawyer. ‘Hank Ogden,’ he said, extending a hand. McCabe shook it. He recognized Ogden as one of the guys standing next to Goff, wearing black tie, in the photo Tasco had shown them.

  ‘Thanks for the promotion, Mr Ogden, but it’s Sergeant. Detective Sergeant, actually.’ McCabe held up his badge wallet. Ogden ignored it, so McCabe put it away. ‘Beautiful place you have here.’

  ‘Yes, it is. An early John Calvin Stevens. Built in 1897 and, except for the kitchen and bathrooms, still mostly original. It’s been in my wife’s family for some time.’

  McCabe had heard of Stevens. The best-known Portland architect of the last century, he’d been the go-to guy for fancy houses in and around the city from about 1890 until the 1930s. Anybody who lived in a John Calvin Stevens house bragged about it. Even taciturn Yankees. They just bragged more discreetly.

  Ogden led him into a small book-lined study. A fire was gently crackling in yet another fireplace, this one an Adam. He pointed McCabe to one of two red leather wing chairs. He sat in the other. He studied McCabe for a moment, then took a sip of coffee from a bone china cup with pink flowers printed on the outside. McCabe wouldn’t have minded coffee himself, but Ogden didn’t offer any, and McCabe wasn’t about to ask.

  ‘As I told you on the phone, Sergeant, my time’s limited, so let’s get right to it. What would you like to know?’

  ‘Tell me about Elaine Goff.’

  ‘What is there to tell? Lainie was a brilliant, beautiful woman and a fine lawyer. Well on her way to becoming a partner at the firm. She would have been one of the youngest we’ve ever had.’ He put on his sad face. ‘Her death is a tragedy beyond words.’

  ‘Do you know why anyone would want to kill her?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. I have to believe it was a random attack. Robbery or maybe rape as the motive. You know more about these things than I do.’

  ‘You and Elaine Goff were the last two attorneys to sign out from Palmer Milliken her last day at the office. That was Friday, December twenty-third.’ McCabe paused, wondering if Ogden would care to comment. He didn’t. ‘You signed out ten minutes after she did, at ten after nine. Did you happen to see her in the office before you left?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. We had a late meeting. From about eight thirty to nine that evening. There were a couple of things Lainie wanted to wrap up before she left for vacation.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s pertinent to your investigation.’

  If you were fucking her on your desk, asshole, it might be very pertinent was what McCabe wanted to say. He settled for the weaker and less incendiary ‘Whatever was on Goff’s mind, whatever she talked about, may have affected her actions later. It might help us find her killer.’

  Ogden didn’t say anything, and his blank face revealed nothing. Probably a hell of a poker player. Finally he spoke. ‘Well, I don’t see what this could possibly have to do with her death, but the meeting was about Lainie’s partnership. She was eager to get it before the end of the year. It would have been a very early offer. She’s only been with Palmer Milliken for six years. However, I thought the quality of her work warranted consideration. For that reason I sponsored her for admission to the firm at a partners’ meeting held earlier that evening.’

  ‘Was an offer extended?’

  ‘No. My colleagues thought it was too early and that Lainie should wait another year. That’s when most PM partnerships are awarded. I argued in her favor, but to no avail.’

  ‘You told her that when you met?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘Naturally, she was disappointed.’

  ‘Was she angry?’

  Ogden looked at McCabe as if trying to gauge how much the detective knew. A moment passed before he said, ‘Not that I could see.’

  ‘Did she tell you where she was going after she left the office?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t ask. But I would have thought she’d go home to pack. She was leaving on her vacation the next morning.’

  ‘I’d like to have my people go through her office and computer files to see if we can find any notes or e-mails that will help in our investigation.’

  ‘If she was killed by a random mugger …’

  ‘I have reason to believe she knew her attacker.’ That wasn’t quite true, but it might throw Ogden off stride. ‘There may be some evidence of that relationship in her office.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like a fishing expedition to me.’ Ogden pursed his lips, then shook his head. ‘No. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘I can get a court order.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Her files are protected by attorney-client privilege.’

  ‘We only want to look at her personal files. You, or someone from your firm, can be present while we look. Make sure we don’t compromise confidential client information.’

  ‘Not good enough. I’m not sure her personal files can be separated from her business files. Certainly e-mails can’t. Naturally, I’d like to help in any way I can, but I can’t compromise my clients’ confidential business. If you request a court order, I’m afraid we’ll have to file a motion to quash. I think we’ll be successful.’

  Ogden might be right about that. McCabe might have to establish some sort of likelihood that Goff’s files contained relevant information. He’d have to talk to Burt Lund in the AG’s office about how to proceed. Lund might be able to work out a deal with Ogden, otherwise they’d go for the warrant. For the moment he decided to try another tack.

  ‘Where did you go after you left the office that Friday night?’

  ‘I had a drink to celebrate the season with a friend, and then I came home, to this house, to spend the rest of the evening with my wife.’

  ‘Who was the friend?’

  ‘Another attorney at my office. We had the drink at the bar at the Portland Harbor Hotel, and yes, I can prove it. I have the American Express receipt at the office.’

  ‘Who was the other attorney?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business.’

  ‘Humor me.’

  Apparently not one to suffer fools lightly, Ogden sighed. ‘Another of the associates in the M&A practice. A woman named Janet Pritchard.’

  Interesting. A woman. Probably a young woman since she was still an associate. Was Ogden fucking her, too? McCabe filed the name away for future reference. ‘One more question.’

  Ogden glanced at his watch.

  ‘Where were you between 10:00 P.M. and 3:00 A.M. last Tuesday night?’

  ‘Sergeant McCabe, I’m afraid I’m out of time. And, aside from that, this conversation is getting a little tiresome. I’ll have Chloe bring you your coat.’ With that he got up and walked out of the room, leaving his nearly empty cup on the table and McCabe still sitting in the red leather chair. McCabe stared at the cup, wondering if he could slip it into his pocket without being seen. The dregs of the coffee might wet his pocket, but traces of Ogden’s saliva, and thus his DNA, would remain on the rim. He doubted the Ogdens would notice the loss of a single cup. However, he knew that if he took it without either a search warrant or permission, any evidence obtained would be inadmissible in court.

  ‘Here’s your coat, Detective.’

  ‘Thank you, Chloe.’

  As McCabe put it on, he deliberately swung the tail of the long overcoat behind him. Ogden’s cup crashed onto the hardwood floor.

  ‘Oh, damn, look what I’ve done.’ He knew there was some reason he still wore a full-length coat.

  Chloe ran off to find a dustpan and brush. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he called after her. Then he knelt down and ca
refully slipped as many pieces of the rim into his pocket as he could. He put on his shoes, waved good-bye to Chloe, and closed the front door on the way out. Didn’t want too much heat escaping.

  Henry C. ‘Hank’ Ogden stood at a window on the second-floor landing and watched, with a kind of loathing, as McCabe walked across the icy gravel toward the big black Ford. He felt a tightness in his gut, and he didn’t like the feeling. No. He’d have to keep this nosy prick of a detective, with all his questions about Lainie and who was where and when, from probing too deeply into his affairs. It wouldn’t do for him to know too much. No. It wouldn’t do at all.

  Deep into his thoughts, he didn’t notice Barbara coming up behind him. He started at the touch of her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You’d better shower and change, Henry. Jock and Sonia and the boys will be here in less than an hour.’

  He nodded absently, still keeping his gaze on the car as it pulled from its parking space and disappeared down the driveway. His eldest son and daughter-in-law and their two sons were coming up from Boston for the weekend. It would be hard playing the devoted father and grandpops when he had so many other things to think about.

  ‘Who was that in the black car?’ she asked.

  ‘A policeman. Something bad happened to someone in the firm. He came to ask some questions.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’

  ‘One of the associates died. No. That’s not strictly true. Actually, she was murdered.’

  ‘Oh my God, Henry, that’s horrible. I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A young woman who worked for me in M&A. No one you know. Elaine Goff.’

  ‘Murdered. My God. Do they have any idea who did it?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Elaine Goff? I don’t think I know that name. Was she anyone important to the firm?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not anyone important.’ He smiled and kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘Not important at all.’

  Seventeen

  Instead of going back to 109, McCabe pulled up in front of the Coffee by Design on Congress Street. Leaving the car running, he ran in and ordered a large cup of the daily dark roast, Black Thunder, which at least sounded like it ought to keep him going for a while. As an afterthought he added a cranberry walnut scone. He sat in the car for a while, sipping and munching and looking at the picture of Goff in her black evening gown. Ogden to her left. Jack Kelly to her right. The guy who was about to pick up nearly two hundred grand as a result of Lainie’s death. McCabe turned the Crown Vic around, made a right on Avon, then a quick left and another right. He turned into the driveway of a large, ramshackle Victorian. Two smaller buildings to the rear also seemed to be part of the property. He pulled in between a red Jeep Cherokee, one of the old boxy ones, and a battered school bus with light blue paint covering the original yellow-orange. Black hand lettering on top of the blue read SANCTUARY HOUSE. Below that, in smaller letters, was written, WHERE HOPE IS REBORN. McCabe could see the outline of other letters, painted over but still visible under the blue. They read WEST PARIS SCHOOL DISTRICT.

  Up on the porch, a boy and a girl, both a little older than Casey, lounged against the railing, sucking hard at the butt ends of cigarettes, doing their best to ignore him. The boy looked away when McCabe approached. The girl stared back disdainfully through a heavy coating of makeup. Her addiction to black lipstick and even blacker eyeliner appeared to be at least as strong as the one to nicotine. Beneath her painted face she wore a short, fluffy white fake fur jacket over a thigh-high miniskirt, which in turn covered dark gray long johns stuffed into fluffy boots that kind of matched the fluffy jacket. Except for the long johns, an accommodation to the weather, the package screamed hooker. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find at Sanctuary House, but somehow this wasn’t it.

  McCabe put on his best smiley face. ‘Either of you know where I can find John Kelly?’

  Neither answered, so he repeated the question.

  Finally the girl nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. We know.’

  ‘Well, good. That’s a start. Now maybe you can tell me where that would be?’

  She took a last deep drag and tossed her butt into a number ten can apparently set out there for the purpose. ‘I’ll go get him for you,’ she said and headed into the house. The boy continued smoking and looking out toward the street, his acne-scarred face almost lost under the array of hardware pierced into the flesh.

  ‘Pretty nice day today, huh?’ said McCabe.

  No answer.

  ‘Still pretty cold, though. You might need a jacket.’

  Still no answer.

  ‘You have a name?’

  ‘No.’ The kid flicked his spent butt into the can and headed for the door. McCabe shrugged and followed. Once inside, he found the girl walking back toward him.

  ‘He says to wait in his office. That’s it there.’ She pointed toward a closed door with a hand-lettered sign Scotch-taped to it that read knock!

  ‘Says he’ll be right with you.’ She disappeared up the stairs. McCabe went in without knocking and closed the door behind him. There wasn’t much to Kelly’s office, and what there was looked shopworn. Third- or fourth-generation hand-me-down furniture. An old oak desk. A couple of folding metal chairs for visitors. A tall metal filing cabinet in the corner. Pretty much every surface was covered with paper – files, manuals, piles of newspaper clippings – most of which appeared to be about Sanctuary House or Kelly himself. All highly laudatory. The one on top had a picture of Kelly with his hands resting on the shoulders of a couple of teenagers, both of whom looked more cleaned up than the pair on the porch. A HERO OF THE STREETS, the headline declared.

  Two facing walls were covered with books stacked on shelving constructed out of cinder blocks and unpainted boards like in a college dorm. Hundreds of them. Most of the titles seemed appropriate for someone in Kelly’s line of work. Broken Lives: The Tragedy of Child Abuse; The Psychotherapy of Abandoned Children; Fund-raising for Nonprofits: Building Community-Based Partnerships. He pulled out a volume called The Healing Power of Play: Working with Abused Children by a woman named Eliana Gil, skimmed a few pages, and then put it back. He squatted down and checked out the bottom shelves. Mostly books about religion and theology. Two titles stuck in the right-hand corner behind Kelly’s desk caught his eye. The first was The Theology of the Prophetic Tradition. He pulled out the second, An Introduction to the Old Testament Prophets and Their Message. He flipped through it. A lot of the pages were marked by yellow highlighter. He flipped to the table of contents and was hit by a surge of excitement, followed by a surge of doubt. He stared at the words in front of him. Chapter 17. Page 463. The Prophecies of Amos: Historical Relevance to the Modern Age.

  He was interrupted by a deep voice. ‘Checking out my library?’

  McCabe looked up. A pair of dark blue eyes behind heavy black-rimmed glasses looked down at him. He closed the book and rose from his squat.

  ‘John Kelly?’

  Kelly nodded.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. Portland PD.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword,’ McCabe said, watching Kelly’s face. No reaction other than a mild curiosity.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword. Sound familiar?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He held up the book. ‘It’s a quote from the Book of Amos. Chapter nine. Verse ten. I wondered if you remember hearing it before.’

  ‘I don’t recall, but I’ve probably come across it.’

  ‘This is your book?’

  ‘Of course it’s my book. They all are, though that one dates back quite a few years. I wrote a paper on the Roman Catholic view of Old Testament prophets in graduate school.’

  ‘With references to the Book of Amos?’

  ‘Y
es. Though that wasn’t the focus.’

  ‘But you don’t remember that line?’

  ‘Not specifically, but Amos was all about smiting sinners, so it sounds appropriate.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Are you still interested in biblical scholarship?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s what I got my doctorate in. What I taught at the college level before deciding to put my money where my mouth is and start this place. I still do some reading – and writing. When I have time. Which is not often.’

  ‘Who knows about your paper on the prophetic tradition?’

  Kelly heaved a sigh. ‘Y’know, this is getting old. I have no idea. I suppose my thesis adviser might remember it. Maybe my roommate at the time. Why on earth are you questioning me about quotes from Amos?’

  ‘Is it available on Google?’

  ‘My paper?’ Kelly looked oddly at McCabe ‘Good heavens, no. It was never published. It wasn’t that good.’

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  Kelly thought about that. ‘It’s probably buried in a box along with the rest of my stuff from grad school.’

  ‘Where do you keep the box?’

  ‘I have a summer cottage. No. Cottage is too grand a word. A shack, really. I store a lot of stuff there.’

  ‘Unheated?’

  ‘There’s a woodstove. I don’t use the place in winter, though. It’s not insulated. I haven’t been there in months.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On one of the islands.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Harts.’

  McCabe tried not to let excitement show on his face. ‘Do you have any objections if we take a look at your cottage? Assuming, of course, you have nothing to hide. If you’d rather, we can always get a warrant.’

  Kelly looked more puzzled than annoyed. ‘Be my guest. The doors are never locked. Walk right in.’ Kelly told him where the cottage was located. ‘Now why don’t you tell me what all this has to do with Lainie’s death. That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Lainie’s death? Are you suggesting somebody read Amos, took it to heart, and smote her as a sinner?’