The mayor held up her hands to silence them.
“Our water supply here in Albany is safe. Let me repeat that—the water main breaks occurring here in the city are not a threat to the safety of our water supply.…”
“Then how come they’ve been telling people to boil their water after a water main breaks?” one of the detectives in the bull pen asked.
“Didn’t you hear?” Pettigrew said. “That’s just a safety precaution.”
After the mayor and the state health department official finished offering their reassurances, the reporters repeated their earlier questions. The mayor repeated what she had said.
The detectives lost interest and drifted back to what they had been doing.
Baxter took out his ORB and wandered out into the hall.
McCabe unwrapped the tuna sandwich she’d bought when they stopped for lunch. When Baxter came back, she said, “Checking in with your friend in Vice?”
“She’s a good friend.” He reached into the bag for his turkey wrap and baked pickle chips. “I wanted to make sure she wasn’t coming down with something.”
McCabe said, “Did she tell you anything about the girl who died?”
“One of the cops found her passed out in a bathroom upstairs. It made sense to assume that she’d OD’d.”
“So I guess everyone was pretty surprised when it turned out she had cholera.”
“The cops on the raid started asking how you catch it,” Baxter said. “They wanted to know if there was a vaccine.”
“Do they have an ID on the dead girl?” McCabe asked.
“No ID yet. Only lead they have is the scarf she was wearing.”
“The scarf?”
“A nurse at the hospital noticed that the scarf looked a lot more expensive than her ratty blue jeans. The scarf turned out to be a designer original. Even had her initials. Or somebody’s initials. She might have stolen it.”
“What color scarf?”
“No idea. Why?”
“Just wondering if I might have seen her. I passed a group of space zombies when I was on my way home on Friday evening.”
“Even if you did see her, it wasn’t like you could have known she had cholera.”
“No,” McCabe said. “I couldn’t have known that. So nothing’s turned up on her in the databases?”
Baxter shook his head. “No fingerprint or DNA match.”
“But she probably has a family somewhere.”
“Then I guess someone will notice she’s missing and start looking for her.”
“Or not,” McCabe said. She wrapped up what was left of her sandwich and tossed it into her trash receptacle. “So, shall we check in with the lou about the Ashby situation? I really would like to know how Ashby happened to choose Kevin Novak to bury Lisa Nichols.”
“I thought you might have forgotten about that.”
“Not when it might be relevant to our case.”
* * *
Lt. Dole gazed across his desk at the two detectives. “I spoke to the commander. He agreed with me that it was probably a coincidence.”
McCabe said, “I know that, sir. But we’re interviewing everyone that Kevin Novak had contact with in the hours before he died. Why shouldn’t we talk to Bruce Ashby? He left a tag for our victim.”
“And that, McCabe,” the lieutenant said, “is why the commander also agreed with me that you should interview Ashby.”
“And Ted Thornton?”
“If it’s necessary. Keeping in mind why you are there. This is not about the Lisa Nichols case. It’s about the case that you are working on now. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” McCabe said.
“Loud and clear, Lou,” Baxter said. “We ask our questions about Ashby’s tag to Novak, and we get out of there.”
* * *
They were standing by the entrance to the police garage. One of the new high-performance sedans with night-prowl vision came down on the lift and rolled out of its slot.
Baxter said, “My day’s been made.”
The Voice said, again, “Drive carefully, Detective Baxter.”
Baxter turned and looked at the ID device on the wall and then at his partner.
McCabe held up her hands. “I didn’t touch it. Honest. It must have seen the car we’re getting and thought another reminder was in order.”
“Let’s get moving,” Baxter said, heading toward the driver’s side.
McCabe settled into her seat, safety restraints in place. She had learned by now that there was no point in suggesting Baxter slow down when he had one of the new vehicles. Even less chance that he would set the car on automatic pilot and let it drive itself. Fortunately, he was a good driver.
“So, have you gotten your baby back yet?” she asked, referring to the 1967 maroon Mustang that was his pride and joy.
The car had been in the garage of his condo when snow collapsed a portion of the roof. He’d covered the car with a tarp to protect it against the cold, and the damage had been minimal. But Baxter, whose everyday car was a despised hybrid, had been teary-eyed when he got the news.
“Not yet,” he said in answer to her question. “They have some more work to do on the finish. But thanks for asking.”
“You’re welcome.” McCabe, who had minimal interest in classic cars or cars in general, had instructed herself to ask periodically. A good partner’s duty.
She reached for her field bag and took out her ORB. “I’m glad Ted Thornton’s airship was able to make it back to Albany.”
“Me, too. I could use a cup of real coffee.”
“Olive Cooper’s coffee was pretty good.”
“She can afford the real stuff, too.”
“Yeah.” McCabe pulled up the tag that Ashby had left for Kevin Novak.
Baxter drove them across town and up into the hills toward the neighborhood that was home to Thornton and some other members of Albany’s well heeled. This was not an old-money neighborhood, but instead an enclave created by businesspeople and other professionals who had made their money on their own.
As they passed the home of Joanne Barker-Channing, McCabe wondered again if her father was seeing the former corporate lawyer–turned–socialite in settings other than Barker-Channing’s monthly literary salons. McCabe did not question her father about his social life. They respected each other’s privacy. But it was strange to think of him in a relationship with someone other than her mother. Of course, her mother had been dead for almost nine years. She couldn’t blame the man for wanting someone in his life again.
Baxter turned into the road leading to Thornton’s mansion. There were two guards at the gatehouse today, suggesting Ted Thornton wanted to make sure no members of the press gained access. However, police detectives, when expected, could be admitted.
Today, the circular driveway in front of the house was empty. The futuristic sports car that had been there the first time they came to visit back in October was nowhere in sight. Snow was piled up in the yard, and the two-story solar-paneled mansion with the gleaming windows looked desolate.
Or maybe it felt that way because she was thinking of Lisa Nichols. Maybe if they got Luanne to do a séance, McCabe thought, Nichols might turn up, too. But right now, as the lou had reminded them, she and Baxter were there investigating the Novak case, not Nichols’s death in the psychiatric facility.
Baxter rang the doorbell. “Hope my girl Roz is on the job,” he said.
The door swung open. “Please come in, Detectives Baxter and McCabe,” said a melodious female voice.
Ted Thornton’s maid, a gleaming metallic robot wearing a trim black uniform and white apron, stepped back so that they could enter.
“Hi, Roz,” Baxter said. “Great to see you again.”
“My name is Rosalind, Detective Baxter. It is good to see you, too. Please follow me.”
“Be still my heart,” Baxter whispered to McCabe.
“Rosalind,” McCabe said, “does Mr. Thornton still have his cat,
Horatio?”
Rosalind looked back over her shoulder. “Yes, Detective McCabe, Horatio is still a member of this household.”
She sounded, McCabe thought, as if she were quoting someone on the subject of Ted Thornton’s Maine coon cat. The cat that had allegedly been Lisa Nichols’s undoing because of Lisa’s allergy and the medication she had been taking.
At the end of the long hall, Rosalind directed them into the same gallery where they had waited for Ted Thornton the first time they came to his house.
This time he was waiting for them. He turned from his contemplation of one of the miniature airplanes in his transportation collection.
Today he looked his age, McCabe thought. Forty-six, according to the bio she had read. Today he had circles under his large dark eyes but was clad in his usual blue jeans with a black pullover sweater.
He gave them a subdued version of his famous lopsided smile. “Detectives, I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“I know you’d probably rather not see us again,” McCabe said. She held out her hand. “I’m sorry about Ms. Nichols, Mr. Thornton.”
“Thank you, Detective McCabe.” He clasped her hand. “I realize you must have complicated feelings about Lisa.”
“Yes, I do,” McCabe said. “But I’m sure you must have as well. She did kill someone you thought of as a close friend.”
Baxter cleared his throat and stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Thanks for fitting us into your schedule, Mr. Thornton.”
Thornton shook hands with her partner. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help with your current investigation, Detective Baxter.”
He gestured toward the grouping of sofa and chairs. “Shall we sit down? Bruce will be along in a moment. He’s trying to work out a problem with one of our subsidiaries in the Russian Federation.”
It was closer to ten minutes later when Bruce Ashby joined them. By then, they had served themselves coffee from the trolley that Rosalind had brought in and were making small talk about the weather and climate change and whether President Kirkland’s ban on drilling in the Arctic had any chance of surviving the presidential election.
Ashby, McCabe thought, looked as if efficiency was his middle name. His gray tweed jacket, paler gray turtleneck, and creased dark slacks offered a marked contrast to his boss’s casual attire.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, detectives,” he said. “Ted, I think we may have resolved the main issue, just some minor details to iron out.”
“Good,” Thornton said. “But getting to why Detectives McCabe and Baxter are here…”
“Ted asked me to contact a funeral home to make arrangements for Lisa,” Ashby said. “We needed a funeral director who could be trusted to behave in a professional manner, with discretion and respect for Ted’s privacy.”
“How did you go about finding someone?” Baxter asked. “Check for satisfied customers on the Web?”
“No,” Ashby said. “I tagged a friend and business associate of Ted’s who lives here in Albany.”
“Would you mind giving us the name of the person who recommended Mr. Novak to you?” McCabe said.
“Olive Cooper,” Ashby said.
“Olive serves on one of my boards,” Ted Thornton added.
“She does?” McCabe said.
Baxter said, “My partner thought it was a real coincidence that you had tagged Novak’s funeral home. But now we have our explanation.”
“Yes, we do,” McCabe said. “We should have thought to ask Ms. Cooper if she knew you, Mr. Thornton.”
“Olive’s one of my favorite people,” Ted Thornton said. “I met her not too long after I opened my office here in Albany. We were competing for the same piece of real estate. We decided to join forces instead.”
McCabe turned back to Ashby. “So Ms. Cooper suggested Kevin Novak to handle Ms. Nichols’s funeral arrangements, and you followed up with a tag to him.”
“As you saw.”
“Did you expect to reach him on a Sunday evening?”
“Ms. Cooper told me that I might,” Ashby said. “As she put it, funeral directors are always on call because people die at inconvenient hours. But when Mr. Novak didn’t answer his ORB, I left a tag. As you know from reading it, I asked him to get back to me as soon as possible.”
“You didn’t mention Mr. Thornton in your tag,” McCabe said. “Or that you had been referred by Ms. Cooper.”
“I’m sure Bruce was being discreet,” Ted Thornton said. “And that’s … that’s all there was to it, Detective McCabe. Bruce needed a referral from Olive because … believe it not … we haven’t compiled a list of reliable funeral homes.”
“There was the funeral home that Vivian Jessup’s daughter used for her mother,” McCabe said. “Why not use that one?”
But maybe that would have been in questionable taste, she thought. Vivian Jessup had been one of Lisa Nichols’s victims and Thornton’s old friend.
Ashby explained why he hadn’t used that funeral home. “That funeral director provided more information than he should have when a reporter asked him about the arrangements for Vivian. We hardly needed a repeat of that with Lisa.”
McCabe asked, “Did Ms. Nichols leave a directive about how her services should be handled?”
“No,” Ashby said. “What does that have to do with the murder of the funeral director?”
“Nothing,” McCabe said. “Unless she had left a directive and specified Mr. Novak’s funeral home to handle her services, nothing at all.”
“I explained how I came to select Mr. Novak’s funeral home,” Ashby said.
“Yes, you did,” McCabe said.
Baxter said, “We should be moving along.”
“Yes,” McCabe agreed. She put her cup down on the side table. “Thank you both for your time.”
“It is an odd coincidence,” Thornton said, rising as she did. “But I assure you that’s all it is, Detective McCabe.”
“Of course. That was what we assumed. But we did need to check in with you and Mr. Ashby to confirm that.”
“I’ll ring for Rosalind to show you out.”
He touched the bell on the wall. McCabe said, “Will you be doing business in Albany again?”
“I never stopped doing business in Albany,” Thornton said. “If you’re asking if I will be spending time in Albany again, now that … now that there won’t be a trial … yes, I will.”
“I really am sorry it ended as it did,” McCabe said.
“That makes two of us.”
“If I could ask … had you spoken to Ms. Nichols recently?”
She felt Baxter make an anxious move beside her. But Ted Thornton was already responding to her question. “No, I hadn’t spoken to her. So I don’t know why she killed herself. I assume she felt alone and desperate. And if she did, maybe that was my fault.”
McCabe met his dark gaze. No humorous twitch of his eyebrows today. “You can’t blame yourself for not standing beside someone who lied and killed.”
“I told her that I loved her,” Thornton said. “I asked her to marry me.”
“And she betrayed your trust.”
“She was ill,” he said. “She proved that, didn’t she, when she killed herself.”
McCabe nodded. “I guess she did.”
Ashby said, “Is some aspect of Lisa’s case still open, Detective?”
“No, not as far as we’re concerned. I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton, if I’ve upset you by bringing it up.”
“I’m sure we were all thinking about it. Might as well get it out in the open.”
“Then may I ask another question?”
“Hannah … Detective McCabe,” Baxter said at her shoulder. “We’re going to be late for our meeting with the lieutenant.”
“Go ahead, please,” Ted Thornton said.
“Would you have thought that Ms. Nichols might kill herself?”
His gaze became thoughtful. “No. Given what I’d learned about her skills of self-preserva
tion, no, I wouldn’t have expected that. Obviously, I was wrong.”
“If there is nothing else, Detective,” Ashby said. “Ted has business matters that require his attention.”
“And we need to get moving,” Baxter said.
Rosalind, the maid, said, “May I show you out now?”
“Yes, thank you, Rosalind,” McCabe said. “And thank you for your time, Mr. Thornton.”
“I’m glad we could answer your questions,” Ted Thornton said, and then with a flash of his old smile, “and remove ourselves from your list of suspects.”
McCabe and Baxter walked in silence to their vehicle. When they were in the car, doors shut, Baxter turned to McCabe. “What part of what the lou told us about staying off the subject of Lisa Nichols’s death did you miss?”
“None of it,” McCabe said. “But I had to ask.”
“Let’s just hope Thornton didn’t object to your questions, or we’ll be explaining ourselves to both the lou and the commander.”
“I did it,” McCabe said. “I’ll take the blame.”
“I saw it coming. I should have gotten you out of there faster.”
“How exactly would you have done that?”
“You mean aside from throwing you over my shoulder?”
“I know I’m sounding like a broken record on this, Mike, but I keep thinking we’re missing something about Lisa Nichols’s death.”
“We aren’t missing anything because it isn’t our investigation.”
“And someone from an appropriate agency will investigate how a death occurred in a psychiatric facility. But I’d really like a look at that report.”
“I don’t think we’re on the distribution list. In fact, what I think is that you should let this go before you get us both in hot water.”
“I said I’d take the blame for bringing it up to Ted Thornton.”
“Great. So let it go, and we’ll be good.”
Baxter started the car, mouth tight, hands tense on the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” McCabe said. “You’re right, I should let it go.”
“Good. We have more than enough on our plate with our dead undertaker.”
What the Fly Saw Page 10