the Latin names would stay etched forever in his memory. McCabe rang again. Still no one answered.
He moved to the left of the front door. There, two tall windows had been left open, he supposed to admit the fresh breezes of this cool early fall day. Open windows suggested someone was home. McCabe squatted down and peered into the room. It was furnished as an informal library or sitting room. Inside, near the window, not far from his nose, the New York Times Sunday magazine lay abandoned on a small cherry side table, the crossword puzzle half completed, in pen. Built-in bookcases covered the two far walls. Squinting, McCabe could make out some of the titles. To the left, recent fiction, memoirs, gardening books, their bright jackets lending a splash of color to the otherwise brown room. The shelves on the right presented a more somber aspect, books with plain, academic gray or green covers. McCabe couldn’t make out the titles but assumed they were medical texts. Philip’s books. Philip. The superstar surgeon. The man who climbed mountains and transplanted hearts. To test himself. To see how far he could push the limits. When I do remove a heart, sometimes I hold it in my hand for a minute or two knowing it will give new life to a dying patient. An extraordinary feeling.
Still no one answered the door. McCabe gave it up and walked around to the right of the house. A black Porsche Boxster waited on the white and pink gravel driveway. A tiny trunk. No one could carry a corpse, not even a diminutive corpse like Katie, in that. Beyond the Porsche, behind and to the right of the main house, stood a sizable unattached building. Probably once a carriage house. Today, he guessed, a garage. It had double-wide sliding barn doors, each with a row of glass windows.
He walked back. He looked around, saw no one, decided to have a peek. The windows were a little higher than he imagined and a little grimier. He stood on tiptoes and blocked the reflective light by cupping his hands. The interior was surprisingly dark. There was room for three cars. Only one was there. A Lexus SUV. A 2002? A 2003? He couldn’t tell. Couldn’t be sure about the color either.
‘Are you looking for something?’
McCabe turned from the window. A tall, lanky blonde was looking at him, a pair of lopping shears at the ready. She seemed prepared to use them. The Press Herald would love it. PORTLAND POLICE DETECTIVE LOPPED TO DEATH BY IRATE HOUSEWIFE. Even in her faded gardening jeans and baggy sweatshirt, she was the kind of woman whose stance and attitude exuded old money. ‘Are you Harriet Spencer?’ he asked.
‘I am. Who are you, and why are you peering in my garage?’
McCabe held up his shield and ID. ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. We spoke briefly on the phone yesterday, and actually I was looking for you.’
‘In the garage?’
‘Well, I tried the front door and no one answered. So I thought you might be in there.’
‘I don’t normally hang out in the garage, Detective.’
‘I’m sure you don’t, Mrs. Spencer. I was also prepared to look around the grounds.’
‘Well, now that you’ve found me, what can I do for you?’
‘I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.’
‘If it’s about that murder, I’m not sure how I can help you. Did my husband return your call?’
‘He did. He and I spoke yesterday afternoon. Can we go into the house? It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.’
Harriet Spencer thought about that for a moment, then led McCabe through a rear door that led directly from the back garden into the kitchen. She directed him to a red oak farmhouse table. ‘Would you like some coffee or a cold drink?’ she asked.
‘Only if you’re having some,’ he said.
‘I am.’ She took out a black bag of coffee beans and began preparing a pot. ‘I only noticed you by the garage because I was coming in for coffee anyway.’
He looked around the large kitchen while she measured out the coffee and water. If he expected something out of Architectural Digest, he would have been sorely disappointed. No Sub-Zero refrigerators or Viking ranges here. The appliances and the decor were plain and functional, the cabinets old-fashioned wood, painted white with glass fronts allowing one to see inside. There was a butler’s pantry off to one side. McCabe guessed the kitchen had last been updated sometime after the end of the Second World War. The Spencers, it seemed, weren’t the kind of people who made a competitive sport of cuisine. Perhaps only the newly rich played those games. Mrs. Spencer handed McCabe a mug of coffee and a spoon. She put a small jug of milk and sugar on the table and sat down. ‘I’m a private person, Detective, so I’m warning you in advance, I may decide not to answer your questions.’
‘That’s your privilege, Mrs. Spencer, but any information you can offer could be helpful on this case. How many cars do you and Dr. Spencer own?’
Her expression betrayed a sense that this was not the kind of question she expected. ‘Three. Why do you want to know?’
‘The Porsche in the driveway?’
‘Yes. That’s Philip’s toy.’
‘The Lexus in the garage?’
‘That’s mine.’
‘How about the third one?’
‘Philip has a BMW he drives when he’s not fooling around in the Porsche. Once again, why do you want to know?’
‘Does Dr. Spencer ever borrow your Lexus?’
‘Occasionally, when he needs to haul something or other.’
Like the remains of dead teenage girls or kidnapped joggers, McCabe thought. ‘He takes the BMW to work?’
‘Only when he has an appointment away from the hospital. Or if it’s raining. Otherwise he walks.’
‘Do you recall if he used your Lexus last Thursday or Friday?’
‘I don’t know. He may have. No. Actually I lent it to a friend. I was away. From Wednesday morning to Friday. Visiting my mother in Blue Hill. She’s quite ill, and I try to get up there as often as possible. I took Philip’s BMW. I prefer it to the SUV on long trips.’
McCabe’s mind went back to the photograph on Spencer’s wall, and finally he knew what bothered him about it. ‘Do you know a man named Lucas Kane?’ he asked.
She looked at him oddly. ‘How on earth do you know that name?’
‘Your husband mentioned it.’
‘Lucas Kane was someone I knew a long time ago. When I was growing up. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.’
‘In Blue Hill?’
‘Near there.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘No. Mostly our parents were friends. I lost track of Lucas after we both started prep school. Then, eight years later, he turned up in Philip’s class at medical school. I introduced them, and they became good friends. They did their surgical residencies together in New York.’
‘Kane was a surgeon?’
Harriet Spencer examined McCabe’s face before answering. ‘No. Lucas never practiced. He lost his license.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll have to find that out on your own. But you’re a detective, aren’t you? It shouldn’t be hard.’
‘Did you consider Kane a friend?’
‘A friend?’ McCabe saw the hint of a smile flicker across her face. ‘No, I never would have called Lucas that.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘I haven’t seen Lucas Kane in more than fifteen years.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Dead. Murdered. In Florida. I believe that’s where he lived.’
Florida again. ‘Did you go to the funeral?’
‘No. Philip went. I had no interest.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
