‘As for Spencer, maybe he has nothing to do with the case. We don’t know. Either way, as lead investigator it’s my job to decide how to conduct this investigation. Not yours. As for the public’s right to know, all you’ve accomplished by releasing unknown details is to make it harder for our people to screen out the nut jobs. You know? The whackos who call us every day with bullshit information or confessions. By the same token, you made it harder for us to identify someone as the murderer because he knows stuff he shouldn’t. Chief, you may have just doubled our workload. On behalf of my detectives and myself, thanks a bunch.’
Shockley was trying to control his rage. ‘One more word, McCabe. Just one more and you are fucking toast. You got that?’
‘You want my shield, Tom? Here. Take it. Go solve the murder yourself.’ McCabe took out his badge wallet and tossed it on Shockley’s desk, wondering if Shockley would call him on it. Wondering if it even was a bluff. Then he jumped in with both feet. ‘Just remember, Chief, it will make for interesting reading when you try to explain to the press why your star detective suddenly got the ax. The same detective you just bragged about hiring. I’m sure the reporters will find it even more interesting how the chief of police fucked up the investigation.’
McCabe paused as if considering the merits of going public. The confrontation was something that had been bubbling beneath the surface for a while. It felt good letting it out. ‘Y’know, Tom, I’ve never held a press conference of my own, but I think the public has a right to know. Don’t you? I can see the headlines now. “Ex-New York Cop Quits Job in Maine. Accuses Boss of Shielding Suspect, Hampering Investigation.” Interesting headline, but probably no big deal unless you happen to be running for governor. Of course, you’re not thinking about running for governor, are you, Tom?’
‘Alright, McCabe, you made your point.’ He tossed McCabe’s badge back to him. ‘Now get out.’
McCabe turned toward the door. For the moment he had Shockley in a corner. Once the case was resolved, all bets were off.
‘Good-bye, Tom,’ he said softly as he left. ‘Have a nice day.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Shockley.
19
Monday. 8:30 A.M.
Maggie was waiting for him at his desk. ‘Let’s hit the road, partner.’ She took his arm and steered him toward the elevator. They took a PPD Crown Vic and pulled out into Portland’s excuse for rush hour traffic.
‘Where are we going?’ asked McCabe.
‘Well, last night I went to Katie Dubois’s wake, y’know, to pay my respects to Frank and Joanne. I figured one of us ought to be there. I also wanted to find out if Katie ever said anything to either of them about our friend in cowboy boots. There were about a million people there. Neighbors. Relatives. At least a hundred kids from the high school. A bunch of teachers.’
‘Open casket?’
‘No, thank God. Seeing her all decked out by some funeral director would have been more than I could bear. Anyway, I couldn’t really talk, what with everybody churning around, but I did manage to ask Joanne if Katie ever said anything about being scouted by a soccer coach from Florida.’
‘And?’
‘And she kind of looked at me funny and said yeah, Katie had said something about Florida. Joanne didn’t want to talk about it at the wake, what with all the people around. Said we should stop by the house this morning.’
‘Which is where we’re going now?’
‘Excellent deductive reasoning, McCabe. You’ll make a fine detective someday. By the way, the funeral’s this afternoon. Two o’clock. We should go.’
‘I plan to. Speaking of Mr. Cowboy Boots, any progress finding out if any of Katie’s teammates got a look at him?’
‘So far no one remembers seeing anyone like the guy Kenney described. I still have a couple of kids to check.’
‘Anything about the car?’
‘Just what Kenney told us. That it was probably dark green.’
McCabe nodded. Then he opened his cell and called the PPD Communications Center, which had almost instant access to all motor vehicle information. He asked the woman who answered to check what color Harriet Spencer’s SUV was. He hung on while she looked it up.
‘It’s listed as green.’
‘Dark or light?’
‘Just says green.’
McCabe thanked her.
Frank and Joanne Ceglia’s house on Dexter Street was a small yellow Cape Cod. It appeared neat and well maintained, though the grass was a week or two overdue for mowing. Maggie parked the Crown Vic in front and walked to the door. It swung open before they could ring the bell. Joanne Ceglia, already dressed for the funeral in a black linen dress and short black jacket, stood with a man wearing a clerical collar. Her eyes looked red. ‘Oh, Maggie. You’re here.’
She produced a thin smile. ‘Maggie, this is Father Wozniak. He’ll be assisting at the mass for Katie today. He’s just leaving. Father, this is Detective Savage.’
The two cops, the priest, and the woman stood for a moment in uncertain formation on the front step, not sure whether to move in or out, forward or back. Finally McCabe extended his hand. ‘Mrs. Ceglia, I’m Michael McCabe. Maggie’s partner.’
‘Her partner in crime?’ asked the priest, a practiced smile on his lips.
Everyone laughed uncertainly, and the priest moved off. ‘I’ll see you at the cathedral, Joanne.’
She raised her hand in a half wave and invited McCabe and Maggie in. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you last night. There were so many people there. Can I get you some coffee or a Coke or anything?’
‘No, thank you.’ They looked around. The room was filled with plates of food, all covered with Saran Wrap. ‘For afterward,’ Joanne said. ‘A lot of the people will be coming back. It seems freaky. Throwing a party because your kid’s dead. Food, drink, people. Still, it’s what everyone expects.’
Maggie started the questioning. This was her witness. ‘Joanne, you told me Katie said something about a soccer scout from Florida? He’s supposed to have talked to her the week she disappeared.’
‘Yeah. Right. She was so excited. Talking about a free ride, a full athletic scholarship, getting out of Maine, going to school in the sunshine. All that stuff. Yesterday, when I was going through her things, I found this.’ She handed Maggie a business card. Holding it by its edges, Maggie looked at it, turned it over, and handed it to McCabe.
UNIVERSITY OF WEST FLORIDA, the card read. HARRY LIME, ASSISTANT ATHLETIC DIRECTOR It featured a logo with a guy in a Trojan helmet. McCabe took out his cell and punched in the numbers. ‘You have reached an unassigned number at Florida Power and Light. For assistance press zero.’ He pressed zero.
‘Florida Power and Light. How may I direct your call?’
‘Harry Lime, please. L–I-M-E.’
A pause. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not showing anyone with that name.’
‘Thank you.’
He hit 411 and got a number for the University of West Florida’s Athletic Department. Same result.
‘Look at the back of the card,’ said Maggie.
McCabe, holding the card by its edges, turned it over. The words were written in pencil, stacked in a vertical column: Lime Katie Lime Katherine Dubois Lime Kate Lime
The writing was round and girlish. Little flowers intertwined the words.
‘Was there anything else? A phone number? E-mails? Anything.’
‘Your people took her computer first thing Saturday morning, so I don’t know,’ said Joanne. ‘Phone numbers she kept in her cell. She had the phone with her when she disappeared, so I can’t check.’
