13
Albany International Airport
“We’re about to touch down, Mr. Thornton,” the airship captain announced from the cockpit.
“Thanks, Chuck.” Ted Thornton closed his ORB and looked out the window as the ship sank down through the clouds. The winds had died down that morning, allowing them to make the trip up from the City. But they had still encountered a bump or two.
Thornton nodded when he saw that the airport crew had done a decent job of clearing the snow from around the landing site. He was the only user of the site. His money had paid for it, but as he had pointed out to the county board, the site provided an extension of the capacities of the airport. He had even signed the landing site over to the county, and it was now the property of the airport, money well spent to make it easier to commute from the City to Albany via his airship.
That was when he had been making frequent trips back and forth. This was the first time he had been back to Albany since early November. He felt disoriented, a feeling he hated.
He shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of the whiskey on the table in front of him. He looked at his aide, who was poring over files. “Bruce, we may as well hit the ground running. Let’s stop at the office on the way home.”
Ashby glanced up from his ORB and nodded. “Good idea. There are a few matters we can get taken care of this afternoon.”
14
Lt. Dole was gone when they got back to the station. Baxter told McCabe he’d see her tomorrow and headed out. She suspected he had a date. Maybe the cop from Vice who had been giving him lifts.
She sent the lieutenant a tag about Ashby contacting Kevin Novak. Then she sat there staring up at a water spot on the ceiling. Was she seeing connections where there were none? She had been feeling uneasy since they’d found the tracker on her car when they were searching for a serial killer. Arresting Lisa Nichols for those murders hadn’t taken that uneasiness away.
She had never asked Clarence Redfield, the crime beat threader, if he had put the tracker on her car. Redfield had certainly had reason to want to know what she was doing. They had assumed he was behind it. But when the case was solved and he was both discredited and beaten down, she hadn’t asked him about the tracker.
She could still ask. Not likely he would admit breaking the law by tracking a police officer. He had gotten off lucky that no charges had been filed against him in the Nichols case. But even then he’d refused to cooperate with the DA. If the case had gone to trial, he would have been called as an uncooperative witness.
What was it about Lisa Nichols that had made two such different men stand by her even when she had betrayed them both?
And that still didn’t answer the question about the tracker. If Redfield hadn’t put it there, who had?
“Hey, Hannah,” Yin said as he and Pettigrew came in. “Did you see the news stream this afternoon?”
“Nope, but I heard from my dad that the rescue expedition to Roarke’s Island is still pending. I thought I’d wait until the day was over to see what’s in the news about my funeral director case.”
“You might want to hear what they had to say about Ted Thornton,” Yin said.
“What about him?”
“His airship arrived at the airport this afternoon. He’s officially back in Albany.”
Pettigrew said, “Now that Lisa Nichols is dead—”
“There’s no reason for him not to return.” McCabe pushed back her chair. “Thanks for the heads-up. See you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Pettigrew said. “Have a good evening.”
McCabe stopped and turned to look at him. “Know that game we play? Six degrees of separation on our cases? I’ve got one for you.”
“Your funeral director case and our homeless dead guy case?” Pettigrew asked.
“Both mine. One old, one new. And a lot less than six degrees of separation. On the evening Kevin Novak, the funeral director, was killed, Ted Thornton’s aide, Bruce Ashby, tagged Novak to discuss arrangements for a funeral. Presumably for Lisa Nichols.”
“Wo-o-ow,” Pettigrew said, drawing the word out.
“But it has to be a coincidence,” Yin said.
“That’s what Mike says,” McCabe replied. “And it probably is. See you tomorrow.”
When she was gone, Pettigrew said, “I can see why Hannah’s feeling a little rattled.”
“Yeah, but lots of odd things happen that are just coincidence,” Yin said. “This Ashby guy probably picked the first undertaker he found on the Web.” Yin reached for his hat. “I’m out of here, too. I told Casey I’d be home on time for dinner tonight. She wants me to spend more time with Todd.”
Pettigrew wondered in passing what kind of father he would be if he had a son. “Say ‘hi’ to Casey and Todd for me,” he said.
“Okay. And don’t forget Casey wants you to come over for dinner in a couple of weeks.”
“As long as she promises not to try to fix me up with one of her friends.”
“I’ll tell her that,” Yin said. “Of course, you could get around that situation by bringing a date.”
“I’ll check my little black book.”
“If only you had one,” Yin said.
As his partner left, Pettigrew picked up the mug that had been sitting on his desk since that morning and took a sip of cold coffee. He made a face and put it down again.
15
Mayor Beverly Stark was in the middle of dinner at the home of one of her husband’s business associates when her ORB buzzed. The caller was her assistant. She assumed it was important because she had told him about her plans. She excused herself and left the table to speak to him.
“Sorry to interrupt your evening, Mayor,” Paul Riordan said. “Something’s come up.”
“A new problem?” Stark asked. “Or a new development in one of the ongoing?”
“New, I’m afraid. The girl with the apparent drug overdose who was found during the raid on the space zombie house. The autopsy revealed something unexpected. She had cholera.”
“Repeat that. Did you say cholera?”
“That’s what the ME says. They aren’t sure yet, but it could be the more drug-resistant strain that they had in India last year. The health department is testing the other kids who were living in the house.”
Stark said, “All right. Meanwhile, we need to decide how to handle this. Does the health department have a protocol in place?”
“Beverly,” her hostess said, coming into the foyer from the dining room. “Should we hold the next course for a few minutes?”
“I’m so sorry,” Stark said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave.”
“Oh, dear. Duty calls?”
“Yes,” Stark said. “Please forgive me.”
16
Tuesday morning, January 21, 2020
9:30 A.M.
“Well, come on in,” Luanne Woodward said. “I hope you all don’t mind coming out to the kitchen. I’m cooking, and I need to keep my eye on what I got simmering.”
McCabe and Baxter followed her down the hall of the house she was renting.
McCabe stopped in the doorway, looking around the kitchen, a homage to the 1950s, right down to the Formica countertops with chrome trim and the linoleum floor.
Woodward said, “Isn’t it darling? I knew I had to have this place as soon as I saw the kitchen. I hate all that modern stuff. I should have been born when women still made their own soap and killed their own chickens.”
She might have something in common with Kevin Novak’s wife, McCabe thought. Sarah Novak did make her own soap.
“I hear being a hardy farm woman was a lot of work,” Baxter said.
Woodward smiled, showing her dimples. “But I’m built like a farm girl, honey. I could have handled it. Trouble was my daddy went and sold off our family farm when tobacco was banned back in 2000. That left us landless.” She gestured at the kitchen table. “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”
McCabe pulled ou
t one of the chairs, which had cherry-red cushions, and sat down. “Where are you from in the South?”
“North Carolina, honey. Raleigh, to be exact.” Woodward lifted the lid from a pot and stirred. “Chicken and dumplings: nothing better on a cold day.”
“Smells great,” Baxter said. “But isn’t it kind of early in the day to be cooking dinner?”
“Yes, it is. But I’m going to be busy later today. And I want myself a good dinner to come home to this evening. Making some collard greens and corn bread, too. Though, Lord knows, getting good cornmeal up here is a task.”
“How’d you come to be here in Albany?” Baxter asked, helping himself to a few of the chocolate-covered almonds in the bowl on the table.
“Let me pour you all some tea to sip on. That’s why I put out the cups.” Woodward brought a cherry-red teapot over to the table and set it on a trivet. “Real peppermint. I dried the leaves myself.” She pulled out her own chair and sat down. “How’d I get up here? Well, honey, you see, my finger landed on Albany.”
“Thank you, the tea smells wonderful,” McCabe said as Woodward poured tea into her cup. “Do you mean you picked Albany to move to by chance?”
“I know it sounds odd, but it came to me one day when I was tidying up the house that I needed to get a fresh perspective on the world.” She filled Baxter’s cup. “I was in my granddaddy’s study, and I walked right on over to his map on the wall and closed my eyes and pointed. Had to do it twice. First time, I landed smack in the Atlantic Ocean. But next time, my finger was right on Albany. So I called my sister and told her she’d have to mind the house while I was gone. Then I packed my bags and put them in my little old car and headed up this way. Didn’t know a soul and had no idea what I’d find when I got here. But the Lord never sends you where you aren’t supposed to be.”
“So you’re religious?” Baxter asked.
“My people have been Southern Baptist for as long as there’ve been Woodwards in the state of North Carolina.”
“Have you been attending Reverend Wyatt’s church since you arrived in Albany?” McCabe asked.
“I went there one Sunday with Olive. But I sort of got the feeling when I met him that the reverend didn’t approve of little old me.”
“Did you?” Baxter asked, munching on another chocolate-covered almond.
“The rest of the congregation was real friendly. Especially because I was there with Olive. But then when she introduced me to the reverend, he asked me what brought me to Albany. And I told him what I just told you.”
“And what did Reverend Wyatt say?” McCabe asked.
“Well, it was just like Olive, sweet old thing, was being devilish and tweaking his nose. She told him I was a spiritualist, and he went all stiff and said, ‘A spiritualist?’ and I said, ‘Yes, sir, I am.’ Then he said real fast that it had been nice to meet me, and said to Olive that he hoped he’d see her in church next Sunday.” Woodward smiled. “And since he didn’t invite me to come on back with her, I took it that he didn’t want a spiritualist sitting in his pews.”
McCabe said, “But you said that you’re a Southern Baptist. So I assume your minister back home in Raleigh doesn’t have that problem.”
“Not a bit. My minister down home knows that he has his job and I have mine. And the Lord has use for both of us.”
“What is your job exactly? As a spiritualist, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant, honey. I guess the best way to explain it is that I help people reunite with their loved ones who have passed on to the other side.”
“And to do that, you do séances?” Baxter asked.
“Usually that’s the way. But every now and then, I meet someone and just feel like I have a message for them.”
“Is that the way you felt when you met Kevin Novak at Olive Cooper’s house?” McCabe asked.
Woodward shook her head. “Not a message. I looked into his eyes and I could feel that man’s sorrow. Something was weighing on him and giving him a lot of pain.”
“Ms. Cooper told us that Mr. Novak’s reaction to meeting you was odd. How would you describe it?”
“Well, honey, I think I spooked him. He sure didn’t stay to talk.”
“And that was the first time the two of you had crossed paths? You didn’t see each other when you attended church with Ms. Cooper?”
“No, we didn’t. I asked Olive if we could leave when I saw I was making her minister uncomfortable. So we didn’t stay for the fellowship after the service.”
“When was it that Ms. Cooper first mentioned Mr. Novak to you?”
“That would have been when she invited me to her celebration. I told her I had already said I’d attend a dinner party in Boston that evening, but, of course, I’d wait and leave after her celebration. And she said she was glad that I could be there because she wanted me to meet her friend Kevin.”
“And can you remember when it was that you had this conversation?” McCabe asked. “The date? Or approximately how long ago?”
“Hold on a minute, honey, and I’ll get my ORB. I probably still have the tag.” She got up and retrieved her ORB from the counter by the bulky white refrigerator. “Okay. Let me see … Olive … here we go. It was back in December, right after Christmas. December 29. I went down to North Carolina to spend the holiday with my sister and her family, and I was just getting back to Albany.”
“So on Saturday afternoon, you went to Ms. Cooper’s celebration of life where you met Mr. Novak for the first time,” McCabe said. “And then you drove to Boston for the dinner party you’d been invited to attend.”
“Just ahead of the blizzard. I was afraid I wasn’t going to make it.” Woodward sat back down at the kitchen table. “But it turned out to be real nice. I got there, and with the snow coming down, the guests ended up spending the night. So it was real cozy.”
“So you did a séance?” Baxter asked.
“That was why I was invited. The power went off. And after the séance, people started telling ghost stories sitting by the fireplace with the candles lit.”
“Did anybody show up during your séance?” Baxter asked. “Any of the dear departed?”
“We did contact a couple of folks. One man’s wife and another woman’s little niece. They wanted their loved ones to know that they were safe and at peace.”
McCabe said, “And after spending the night, you came back to Albany?”
“Not until yesterday afternoon. After they’d opened the interstate again and got it nice and clear.”
“I’m wondering, Ms. Woodward—”
“Call me, Luanne, honey. And what is it that you’re wondering?”
“You said that when you met Mr. Novak, you could sense his sorrow, feel his emotional pain. Now that he’s dead, do you sense anything else?”
“You mean, am I in touch with him from the other side?”
“If you were, you would pass that information on, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely, honey. But I’d probably have to do a séance to get in touch with him.”
“I see,” McCabe said.
“Would you like me to do one? I did call the police one time about this feeling I had.”
“About what?” Baxter asked.
“I had the feeling this man that was missing was dead. Turned out he was. But that was the first and last time that ever happened. It’s the psychics who work with the police.” She smiled. “But if you think a séance might help, I’m your woman.”
McCabe smiled back and stood up. “Thank you for offering. We’ll give it some thought.”
Walking to their vehicle, Baxter said, “A séance?”
McCabe said, “I read a mystery once. One of those Golden Age detective novels with an amateur sleuth. As I recall, she brought all her suspects together by staging a séance. Except I don’t think we want to explain that one to the lou.”
“Probably not.”
“But it might be illuminating to have Luanne and Reverend Wyatt in the same room t
ogether.”
“You think one of them killed Kevin Novak?”
“If Woodward was where she says she was, she has an alibi. Let’s hope the reverend hasn’t taken to knocking off members of his flock.”
Baxter started the car. “He wouldn’t be the first minister to go astray.”
“No, he wouldn’t. But they’re usually a fairly law-abiding segment of the demographic. I’m wondering what had Kevin Novak so depressed. He was in therapy with Burdett, but then he was suddenly worse than when he started.”
“Maybe he was ill. Went to a doctor and found out he was dying.”
“That might make sense if he had committed suicide,” McCabe said. “But someone killed him.”
“Well, he might have been dying when someone killed him. And if we did ask Luanne to do a séance, maybe old Kev would finger his killer from the grave.”
“Right now, he’s in the morgue, not his grave. I hope the ME has him at the top of his list.”
17
Kevin Novak’s autopsy was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. McCabe and Baxter received that information in the form of a tag sent to McCabe on her ORB. They didn’t hear the word “cholera” until they got back to the station house.
The other detectives who happened to be in the bull pen were gathered in front of the wall to watch the mayor’s press conference. The mayor, flanked by the ME and some other official types, was making a statement:
… a young woman who died after being brought to the hospital following a police drug raid. The assumption at the time was that her condition was caused by a drug overdose. However—and I want to stress this—this single, fatal case of cholera is no reason for alarm. Sadly, this young woman died because she did not realize she was gravely ill and did not seek medical treatment. We understand that she was not a permanent resident of Albany, and had been coming and going. She may well have contracted cholera elsewhere. Although it is the same strain found in the cases in India last year, we have complete confidence in our ability to respond.”
She opened the press conference to questions. One of the reporters wanted to know if this case of cholera might be traced to the water main breaks. Others chimed in.
What the Fly Saw Page 9