phone again and called Bobby.
Estelle answered. ‘McCabe residence.’ He should have been prepared for Estelle’s shrill greeting. She’d worked for McCabe’s brother for ten years. Somehow he never was.
‘Hi, Estelle.’
‘Michael, darling, how are you?’ Her piercing tones assaulted his eardrums.
‘I’m doing okay. How are you?’
‘Aside from my gallbladder, not bad.’
McCabe decided not to ask about her gallbladder. ‘Is Bobby there?’
‘I’ll see if he can talk.’ Bobby was a hotshot personal injury lawyer and McCabe’s older brother. His only brother since Tommy had been killed.
‘What’s up, Mike?’ Bobby always got right to the point. There was a moment of silence.
‘Sandy called.’
‘Okay, so Sandy called.’
‘She wants to come up to Portland and see Casey.’
‘A fairly normal desire for a child’s mother. I’m surprised she hasn’t called earlier.’
‘I just want to know if there’s any way I can stop her.’ Bobby didn’t do divorce work, but he was tough and smart and usually knew the right answers.
‘Stop her? I don’t think so. At least not legally. We’re talking visitation here. Not custody. Am I right?’
Jesus. Custody. McCabe hadn’t even considered that possibility. ‘Custody hasn’t come up,’ he said.
‘Well, it seems to me no judge in his right mind would try to keep a mother from seeing her child. What did the divorce decree say about Sandy’s rights to see Casey?’
‘Not a lot. The phrase was “reasonable contact on reasonable notice.” But you’ve got to remember Sandy never contested the divorce. It was just something the judge felt ought to be in there.’
‘Okay, so now, after three years, your ex-wife wants to reconnect with your daughter. I don’t necessarily see that as bad for Casey. Neither will any family court judge. It might be different if she posed some kind of physical threat to Casey.’
‘Emotional threats don’t count?’
‘Maybe if the mother was provably psychotic, but even there you probably have to establish a reasonable likelihood of physical harm.’
‘Provably self-centered, uncaring, and narcissistic just doesn’t cut it, huh?’
‘’Fraid not. A weekend visit is “reasonable contact,” and she’s giving you “reasonable notice.” If I were you, I’d just take it as a positive sign that Sandy wants to see Casey and leave it at that. I think it’ll be good for Casey to get to know her mother, warts and all.’
‘What if she does decide to seek custody?’
‘Cross that bridge when you get to it.’
‘Maybe I should just kneecap the bitch.’
‘Watch your mouth, asshole. Anybody hears a gunslinger like you even whisper threats like that and you not only lose Casey, you could also lose your job. By the way, speaking of mothers, Thanksgiving’s at my house this year. Mom’s getting too old to do all that work. I’m assuming you and Casey will be there. You can bring your girlfriend if you want. What’s her name again?’
‘Kyra. Her name is Kyra. Try to remember it. Anyway, we’ll try to get there. How’s Mom?’
‘Fragile. Getting a little forgetful. I keep thinking about Aunt Joy’s Alzheimer’s and wonder if it’s in our genes. Weird in your case. Like, what do you get when you cross a photographic memory with an Alzheimer’s victim?’
‘Beats me.’
‘I don’t know. How about somebody who never forgets all the things they can’t remember? Forget it. Not funny. Anyway, you’re coming?’
‘Assuming I’m not up to my ass in dead teenagers.’
‘Yeah, I heard about that. Scumbag actually cut her heart out?’
‘Jesus H. Christ. You heard that on the news?’
‘Yep. Your boss is giving interviews. “We will leave no stone unturned to find the killer or killers.”’ Bobby was doing a passable job of mimicking Shockley’s public persona. ‘Sonofabitch ought to be on Mount Rushmore. I take it you were trying to keep the heart thing quiet.’
‘Trying to. Though I don’t know if it really matters.’
‘Anyway, we have people for dinner. Give my love to Casey and to, uh… and to, uh… what did you say your girlfriend’s name was?’
‘Good-bye, you asshole.’
11
Sunday. 7:30 A.M.
Maggie stopped by McCabe’s desk. She was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt and black high-top Keds, accessorized with a black holster and sidearm. There were circles under her eyes.
‘You alright?’ asked McCabe.
‘I was out late last night. Didn’t get much sleep.’
‘New boyfriend?’
‘Yeah.’ She paused. ‘Maybe.’ Another pause. ‘Could be.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s a nice guy — but it was only our second date.’
‘How’s he feel about dating a woman who wears a gun?’
‘Apparently fine,’ she said. ‘Unlike Ryan, I think he’s secure enough to handle it. Anyway, I got a call from Terri Mirabito.’
McCabe waited.
‘She won’t have the final tox report for a while yet, but the initial screening indicates no trace of any anesthetic drugs in Katie’s body. Or any other drugs, for that matter. Just a little alcohol. If that holds up, and Terri thinks it will, Katie was fully conscious and her heart was beating when our freaky friend started cutting her up.’
McCabe winced. ‘Shit,’ he said.
‘My sentiments exactly.’
‘How much alcohol?’
‘Not much. Apparently it was part of her last supper. He treated her to beluga caviar and champagne just before killing her. They found traces of both in her stomach.’
‘A little farewell party?’
‘I guess. Also, they’re pretty sure he had sex with her multiple times both front and rear.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing critical. We’ll have to ask Terri when she’s less pissed off. Right now she’s very pissed off.’
He imagined Katie, battered and sexually abused, being forced to eat caviar and champagne as a prelude to her own death. It was hard not to share Terri’s anger. ‘I want to call a cop in Orlando,’ he told Maggie. ‘It’s that thing I mentioned in the car. I’ll see you in the conference room in about fifteen minutes.’ McCabe had scheduled a meeting of the detectives involved in the two cases.
‘I’ll be there.’
He called the Orlando, Florida, police department as soon as Maggie left.
‘Sergeant Cahill,’ he said to the voice on the other end. ‘Aaron Cahill.’
McCabe found himself wondering if Cahill was still a cop, wondering if he was still in Orlando, wondering if there was a chance in hell he might have come to work early on a Sunday morning. If not, he’d try to get a cell number. Waiting, McCabe drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk. He glanced at the picture of Casey.
‘This is Cahill.’ A deep, Johnny Cash-like voice with traces of the Florida panhandle boomed over the phone line. Apparently Cahill had come to work.
‘Sergeant Cahill? This is Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’
