suspect they were. As to whether or not a black market in hearts for transplant is even remotely possible, and I don’t think it is, you might want to talk to our transplant co-ordinator here at Cumberland. She can tell you far more about the logistics than I ever could.’
Spencer put his hand on McCabe’s elbow and led him toward the door. They passed the Denali photo. Looking at it close up, McCabe was struck even more than before by something in Spencer’s expression, something in the attitude. He still wasn’t sure what.
‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Detective. Good luck in catching whoever it was who cut up that girl. Please let me know if there’s any other way I can help.’
McCabe interrupted Spencer’s dismissal. ‘Just one last question,’ he said.
‘Okay, but make it quick.’ Spencer headed toward the elevator bank.
McCabe followed. ‘You know that Denali picture? Who are the other three guys?’
‘I told you, old friends from medical school. Why do you want to know?’
‘Are they all transplant surgeons?’
‘So that’s it. Listen, I told you this murder was not about heart transplants.’ Spencer pushed the down button harder than he need have.
‘But those men are transplant surgeons, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, two are, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Not all three?’
‘One’s dead.’
The elevator arrived. McCabe followed Spencer in. Spencer pressed five for himself and the lobby for McCabe. ‘What are the names of the two who are alive?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, this is ridiculous.’
‘Humor me.’
The doors opened at five and Spencer stepped out. McCabe followed. Spencer stopped and turned to face him. ‘You’re not going any farther.’
‘What are their names? I can find out on my own. It’ll just take longer.’
Spencer didn’t say anything for a minute. He just stared at McCabe with distaste, as if he had eaten something unpleasant. ‘The man on the left, next to me, is DeWitt Holland. He’s at Brigham in Boston. The one on the far right is Matthew Wilcox, who’s at UNC in Chapel Hill.’
‘Who’s the dead guy? The one you’re looking at in the picture?’
‘His name was Lucas Kane.’ Spencer’s attitude softened. ‘A tragic, tragic loss. In some ways Lucas was the most talented of us all.’
‘How did Kane die?’
‘Lucas was brutally murdered about four years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Spencer turned his back and walked away.
‘Just one last question, Dr. Spencer,’ McCabe called after him, the image of Peter Falk’s Columbo popping into his mind. ‘Where were you around midnight last Thursday night?’
Spencer turned. ‘At home. In bed.’
‘Your wife was with you?’
‘Yes. We usually share a bed.’
McCabe rode alone to the ground floor. He passed through a swirl of people in the lobby without noticing them. He left the building and headed toward the Bird. A gaggle of smokers, mostly hospital workers, stood clustered in the corner of the parking lot sucking on their weeds. McCabe was tempted to see if he could bum a smoke from one of them. He’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker for years, and burning tobacco still smelled good to him. He only broke the habit after Casey was born.
10
Saturday. 8:30 P.M.
It was nearly eight thirty when McCabe got back to the condo. He was carting a plastic bag filled with frozen dinners and wondering if Casey had managed to scrounge up anything to eat. Before he could fish the keys out of his pocket, the door swung open. Kyra stood on the other side, a concerned expression on her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Your wife called,’ she said.
‘My wife?’
‘Your ex-wife, if you prefer.’ She took the bag of groceries and went to the kitchen. ‘You know?’ she called out. ‘Cassandra? The drop-dead gorgeous one in the picture Casey showed me.’ Kyra stuck the food in the freezer, took out a cut crystal highball glass, and poured him three fingers of Scotch. She put the bottle back, then paused, took it out again, and poured herself a short one, diluting it with ice and a little water.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that ex-wife. Did she say what she wanted?’
‘She’s flying up here. She wants to see Casey.’
He stood quietly for a moment, absorbing the information. ‘When?’
‘The end of the week.’
‘Does Casey know?’
‘Yes. She took the call. They talked for a couple of minutes.’ Kyra handed him his drink, sat down on the couch, and sipped her own. He’d never seen her drink hard liquor before.
‘How did she react?’ he asked.
‘From what I could hear on this end, she pretty much blew Sandy off. Said she didn’t want to see her. Sounded cool. Hung up after a minute or two. I asked her who it was on the phone. She told me.’
‘She okay?’
‘I don’t know. Abandonment isn’t easy to come to terms with.’
McCabe sat on the broad window seat and gazed down at a million lights shining across the bulk of an enormous white cruise ship as it pulled out of Portland harbor. The Princess something. Kyra flipped off her sandals and stretched her legs out on the couch. She looked very much at home.
‘Where’s Casey now?’ he asked.
‘I gave her some dinner and drove her to Sarah Palfrey’s house. Presumably to watch TV and do some homework. Aside from anything else, that gives you a chance to sort out how you feel before you discuss it with her.’
McCabe was hit by a sudden surge of anger. ‘I know exactly how I feel,’ he said. ‘Sandy’s got no right to suddenly drop back into Casey’s life. Not after three years of silence.’
‘You’ve never told me much about your relationship with Sandy.’
‘You never asked.’
‘I’m asking now.’
McCabe sighed. The anger ebbed. He didn’t like talking about his failed first marriage, but maybe it would help — and maybe Kyra did have a right to know. He sucked in a breath, held it for a minute, let it out slowly, and then began to talk.
‘My relationship with Sandy was different in just about every way from what we have between us. It was built on lust, not love. That was true at the beginning, even truer at the end. For the last few years there was nothing between Sandy and me but sex. That never stopped. She could always turn me on, and she loved proving it. My emotional life focused on Casey — and, I guess, on my job. You know how I am. When I get involved in a case I can’t just turn it on and off. It consumes me. Sandy couldn’t deal with that. She hated it.’
McCabe swirled the Scotch in the Waterford glass. A wedding present from his sister Fran. One of a set of four. Sandy had taken two to her new life. He’d broken one in the move to Portland. This was the last.
Kyra watched him as he finished the drink. ‘Didn’t you love her in the beginning?’
‘I thought I did. Unfortunately, Sandy didn’t have much use for my love. She loved herself more than enough for both of us. In the end, any feelings I might have had for her withered away.’
‘Why didn’t you split earlier? File for divorce?’
