The cancer had been cut out four years ago, a full mastectomy at Philip’s urging. She’d acquiesced in spite of her own doctor’s less radical advice. ‘Much the safest course,’ Philip had assured her. Philip the self-appointed oracle. Philip the concerned husband. Philip the slicer and dicer. ‘Much the best way to make sure we get it all.’
Afterward, angry with herself and with Philip, she decided against reconstructive surgery. After all, only Philip ever saw her naked, and it was important to her that he never again find pleasure looking at her body. That he never forget what he had done.
Hattie climbed into the tub and let the water from the shower, hot as she could stand it, course over her body. She scrubbed herself over and over again with the loofah until her skin felt raw. Then she dried and brushed her hair and dressed in clean jeans and a new sweatshirt.
She went downstairs. Philip sat in the den, reading. Ignoring him, Hattie crossed to the living room and poured herself another two inches of gin. Then she went to the kitchen for ice cubes and added them to the glass. ‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ she heard Philip call out. ‘The single malt. No ice.’ She poured the drink and brought it to him. She sat in the small leather club chair across from him sipping her gin. Philip continued reading. The loudest sound in the room was the ticking of the ancient burled walnut grandfather clock Hattie had inherited from her own grandfather. As she sipped, she felt the familiar easing of tension, the comforting signal the gin was finally kicking in, beginning to do its job. She picked up the half-completed Times crossword puzzle, then put it down again.
‘That detective was here today,’ she said. ‘McCabe?’
‘Really? What did he want?’
‘I was in the garden and found him peering into the garage. Then he came in and asked me some questions.’
‘What sorts of questions?’
‘Mostly about who drove what car. He asked me about Lucas.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That we knew Lucas years ago. That he was dead. That he’d been murdered.’
Philip was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s alright.’
17
How long had she been there in the dark? Hours? Days? Weeks? Longer? Lucy had no idea, no way to measure the passage of time. Once or twice she tried by counting. ‘One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three- one-thousand.’ Each time, she’d get up to five- or six-hundred-one-thousand and forget why she was counting.
Her throat was parched. Her stomach hurt from hunger. She remembered reading that a human being could last for weeks without food but only three or four days without water. She was desperately thirsty. Her tongue felt like a big dry furry thing stuck in the middle of her mouth, although she didn’t think she could be totally dehydrated. Even now she could still make tears. More than once she’d felt the wetness sliding out from under her lids and rolling down her cheeks. She tried catching the drops with her tongue to moisten her mouth, but it never worked.
18
Monday. 8:00 A.M.
At this hour on a Monday morning, Middle Street was crowded with worker bees on the way to their various hives. McCabe angled past a trio of pin-striped attorneys spread three abreast across the sidewalk. Lawyers and stockbrokers. About the only people left in Maine still wearing suits to the office. A pretty blond in tight jeans, carrying a briefcase, smiled at him. A fat brown Labrador retriever waddled by her side, apparently on his way to the office, too.
McCabe entered 109 and took the stairs two at a time. The place was already buzzing. Tom Tasco flashed him a greeting. McCabe stopped. ‘How are you guys doing with the doctors?’ he asked.
‘Three teams working full-time. We’ve talked to sixty-two surgeons in the last twenty-four hours. More on tap for today.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘No suspects yet, but if you ever need a quadruple bypass, let me know. I’ve got a lot of connections.’
Maggie was on the phone, feet, as usual, propped on her desk. An oversized note from Shockley’s admin greeted McCabe at his own desk. The Chief wants to see you. ASAP!!! Deirdre. That’s all he needed now, more crap from the GO. He held the note in front of Maggie, who was still on the phone, with a ‘Do you know what this is about?’ gesture. She shrugged and shook her head no.
He headed for Shockley’s corner office. Might as well get whatever it was out of the way. The door was open. Deirdre told him to go on in. He found Shockley deep in bullshit mode, collar undone, tie pulled down. He was playing to an appreciative audience. Portland mayor Gary Short, who stood nearly six foot five, and Will Hayley, a longtime fixture on the city council, were both seated on his large leather couch. In a city where mayors are selected from the council on an annual basis, Short had no more clout than Hayley, and on issues of public safety Shockley was more powerful than either.
‘Sit down, Mike.’ Shockley signaled to the chair in front of his desk. ‘You know Gary and Will?’
McCabe continued standing and nodded at the two men. ‘We’ve met. What’s on your mind, Chief? I’ve got a busy morning.’ Short and Hayley exchanged glances and decided they’d rather not be present for what McCabe supposed was intended as a dressing-down. They gathered their things.
‘You guys have a lot to talk about,’ said Hayley. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’ Mayor Short closed the door as the two men left.
‘I got an unwelcome call this morning,’ said Shockley, ‘from Dr. Phil Spencer. He’s not happy. Apparently his wife discovered you snooping around their property yesterday. Then you questioned her, according to Spencer, like a common criminal, quote unquote.’
‘I’m not sure “like a common criminal” applies, but yes, I was there, and yes, I did talk to her. I also talked to Spencer the day before, at the hospital. What of it?’
‘McCabe, Phil Spencer is one of the most prominent men in this community, not to mention one of the top transplant surgeons in New England. He knows a lot of people, and he’s got a lot of clout that can impact this department. I would appreciate it if you didn’t go crashing around in his affairs. I’d have thought you had more sense than that.’
McCabe stood silently for a minute, weighing his response. ‘Am I or am I not the lead on this case?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Am I or am I not the lead on this case? If I am the lead, there are a couple of things we’d better get straight before the investigation goes any further.’
Shockley eyed McCabe cautiously, a cobra eyeing a mongoose. Nobody talked to him this way. ‘Really? And what might those “couple of things” be?’
‘For one, as long as I’m in charge of this investigation, I’ll go wherever the facts — and my instincts — lead. If they happen to lead to, quote, one of the most prominent men in this community, unquote, so be it. For another, it seems you had an earlier conversation with Dr. Spencer at the Pemaquid Club Friday night. You talked about my private life and revealed confidential information about the investigation, to a man who, by the nature of what he does for a living, might become a suspect. Then, to top it off, you shoot your mouth off to the press about the removal of Katie’s heart. We agreed we’d keep that quiet. It’s a detail your adoring public didn’t need to know.’
Tom Shockley stood, placed both hands on his desk, and leaned into McCabe, his pale face turning bright scarlet. ‘Number one, Phil Spencer is no suspect. I have total confidence that anything I say to Philip Spencer is and will remain confidential. Number two, I also have total confidence he has nothing to do with this murder. Number three, and I believe I’ve said this before, the public has a right to information about one of the most horrific murders this city has ever seen.’
