McCabe into a fantasy of returning to the religion he’d abandoned twenty years before, something he knew would never happen. He stood alone in a quiet corner, watching the faces of the mourners as they filed in. He felt self- conscious in his only suit, a dark gray pin-stripe he once thought pretty dapper. He hadn’t worn it since leaving New York and only managed to get the trousers buttoned by sucking in his gut.
The organ was playing something sonorous and sad. People filled the pews, pressing themselves into every corner of the large church. The misnamed Mayor Short seated himself near the front, directly behind Katie’s family. The city council came in a group, all in gray or blue suits like McCabe’s. A sprinkling of state legislators and local celebrities arrived. Chief Shockley showed up in full dress uniform, Bill Fortier trotting along by his side. McCabe was surprised to see Terri Mirabito. She didn’t see him. He’d never seen her at a funeral before.
Teachers and tight clusters of teenagers, many openly weeping, were everywhere. McCabe recognized the boyfriend, Ronnie Sobel, from a photo in the murder book. Tobin Kenney came alone and sat alone. A young woman seated with some students, another teacher, McCabe supposed, beckoned Kenney to join her, pointing to an empty seat next to her. He shook his head and stayed where he was. She shrugged and turned away.
McCabe examined the faces as people entered and sat down, registering those he recognized, studying those he didn’t, filing their images away in the hard drive he carried in his head. He wondered if the murderer was among them. There was no way of knowing.
The Most Reverend Leo F. Conroy, DD, ThD, STL, Bishop of Maine, presided over the requiem mass. He greeted Katie’s coffin at the door of the cathedral. McCabe was sure the elegant mahogany box had cost the Ceglias more than they could afford. People always pay too much when they bury their child. The bishop sprinkled the coffin with holy water and intoned the words of the De profundis.
Then the pallbearers, six of Katie’s classmates, carried her coffin and placed it down just outside the sanctuary, feet facing the altar. It was at that moment that McCabe saw the woman’s face. She was standing against a wall on the opposite side, her face crossed diagonally by a deep shadow. He watched her stand motionless until he was sure. Yes. It was the same woman he’d followed down Exchange Street and lost.
She sensed his gaze and turned so that she was looking right at him. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, in her direction. She acknowledged the gesture. He glanced around and saw no one else watching him. He moved toward her. The congregation was standing, singing a hymn. She watched him come and didn’t move away. The hymn ended, and a voice from the altar echoed through the otherwise silent cathedral. ‘For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.’
McCabe stood next to the woman. ‘Who are you?’
‘I can’t speak to you here.’ She spoke with an accent. French, he thought.
‘Then where?’
‘I’ll be in touch. Please don’t follow me.’
‘How do I know you’ll call?’
‘You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.’
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, but she was already leaving and didn’t hear his question. He started after her, then stopped. He’d wait for her call.
McCabe continued scanning faces in the church. But even if he’d known where to look, he wouldn’t have seen the tall, dark-haired man looking down at him, eyes peering through a small opening high above the altar, one hand unconsciously scraping the edge of a scalpel along the back of the other, the razor-sharp blade whisking away a dozen dark hairs.
‘Let us pray.’
22
Monday. 4:00 P.M.
Every time McCabe turned around, Florida kept popping up. Elyse Andersen. Murdered in Florida by Harry Lime. The University of West Florida soccer scout. Again Harry Lime. Then Lucas Kane, Spencer’s medical school friend and maybe lover, also murdered in Florida. Murdered by whom? Harry Lime? Philip Spencer?
Mrs. Spencer, were your husband and Lucas Kane lovers?
Get out.
McCabe booted up his computer and entered the name ‘Lucas Kane’ and the words ‘murder’ and ‘Florida’ in the Google search box. There were thousands of hits. Number one was a headline from the Miami Herald, ESTRANGED SON OF ACCLAIMED MAESTRO SLAIN IN SOUTH BEACH CONDO. Turned out Lucas Kane’s father was the classical pianist Maurice Kane. At the time of the murder, father and son had apparently not seen or spoken to each other in years.
The murder rated extensive coverage in the Miami Herald, most of it written by a crime reporter named Melody Bollinger. McCabe read it all. In the late nineties, Kane was a fixture in South Beach. The article didn’t say anything about Kane being a doctor. Or anything else legitimate. He supported himself, apparently well, supplying drugs, mostly coke and meth, and warm young bodies, both male and female, to visiting high rollers from New York and L.A. He lived in an oceanfront apartment, drove a BMW 740, and was a regular on the South Beach club circuit. He frequently mingled with the gay glitterati at the mansions of the rich and famous, including, according to Bollinger, Gianni Versace’s.
However, Kane must have pissed somebody off. In March of 2001, somebody stuck a 12-gauge up under his chin and turned his jaw and face into hamburger. His body was found naked and tied to an overturned chair in his apartment. Nobody admitted hearing the blast. Four or five hours after the shooting, Kane’s live-in lover, a body builder and hanger-on named Duane Pollard, discovered the body and called the police.
Visual ID of the face was impossible, but the corpse was the right size — six two, 205 pounds — and fingerprint matches were found all over the apartment and the Beemer. Identification was officially confirmed through DNA analysis. No other evidence was found at the scene. Boyfriend Pollard had an airtight alibi. Miami Beach PD looked elsewhere and eventually figured the murder was drug-related since Kane was a known dealer. A detective named Stan Allard theorized the local drug lords killed Kane to rid themselves of a semipro competitor who was becoming annoying. McCabe got the feeling the investigators were just as happy Kane was dead. They let the case go cold after a couple of weeks. The elderly father, Maurice Kane, reportedly suffering from congestive heart failure, refused public comment on his son’s death.
McCabe called the Miami Beach PD and asked for Detective Stan Allard.
‘I’m sorry, there is no Detective Stan Allard here.’
‘Allard? A-L–L-A-R-D?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know that name.’
‘Would you connect me with someone in homicide?’
A male voice answered. ‘Detective Sessions.’
‘Sessions? Hi, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland, Maine, PD.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m looking for a Detective Stan Allard who worked homicide in Miami Beach a few years back. Is he still with the department?’
‘Who is this again?’
‘Name’s McCabe. Mike McCabe. I’m a detective with the Portland, Maine, PD.’
‘What do you want with Allard?’
‘I just want to talk to him.’
‘Well, you’re going to have a hard time doing that.’
‘Yeah? Why’s that?’
‘Stan Allard hasn’t done a whole lot of talking to anybody the last four years.’
‘Are you telling me Allard’s dead?’
‘They were pretty sure that was the case when they buried him.’
Maybe Sessions thought that was funny. ‘Look, I’m working on a murder that might have a connection with a case Allard handled.’
‘What case would that be?’
