Spencer. Then the two of them left.
Once they were gone, McCabe rejoined Lund and an agitated Tasco. ‘Mike, what the hell was that all about? We shoulda charged that sonofabitch and stuck his well-bred ass in a cell. Shit, we’ve got the car, the earring, the blood, the video. What the hell more do we want?’
‘Tom, if Spencer’s the guy — and we won’t know that for sure until the DNA results come in — sticking him in a cell isn’t going to help.’
‘It’ll help keep him from killing Cassidy.’
‘Only one problem with your logic.’
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘If Spencer is the guy, he’s the only one who knows where Cassidy is. Hell, he could’ve stuck her in a cave somewhere for all we know. We lock him in a cell, do you think he’s gonna tell us where she is? No way. It’d just prove he’s guilty. He’ll just sit there quiet as a mouse. Meanwhile, Cassidy doesn’t have her heart cut out. She just dies of thirst. Or starvation. Or God knows what.’
‘We could try a plea bargain,’ said Tasco, uncertainty creeping into his voice. ‘Offer him a lesser sentence for letting us know where she is.’
McCabe turned to Lund. ‘Talk to the man, Burt. You’re the prosecutor. You seriously think the AG’s office would go for a plea bargain that lets a serial killer off the hook, a serial killer who’s mutilated and maimed at least five innocent people and, God knows, maybe a whole bunch more?’
Lund shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Frankly, I don’t think Spencer would go for it either.’
Tasco turned back to McCabe. ‘Okay, McCabe, you’re the boy genius. What do you suggest we do now?’
‘Keep looking. At the same time, keep a loose rein on Spencer. If we don’t let him know we’re watching, maybe he’ll lead us to her.’
‘Or maybe not.’ Tasco sounded glum.
‘Okay, or maybe not, but right now he’s the only connection we’ve got.’
Tasco left. McCabe and Lund followed, just in time to watch Spencer in his preppy sweater and Sheldon Thomas in his pin-striped suit disappear behind a pair of closing elevator doors. ‘Well, one thing we know for sure,’ McCabe said, his eyes moving from Thomas to the rumpled Burt Lund, walking by his side, busily munching on a handful of M amp;M’s.
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘Their side dresses better than ours.’
42
Thursday. 4:30 P.M.
McCabe asked Maggie to meet him for a drink at Tallulah’s. Despite the high-toned name, Tallulah’s was a neighborhood hangout for the singles crowd on Munjoy Hill. As usual, the place was noisy and crowded. A couple of off-duty cops were hanging at the bar, ones McCabe didn’t know very well. They found an empty table in the corner, far enough away from the cops not to be overheard. An artist friend of Kyra’s, Mandy something or other, took their order. Like most artists, she couldn’t support herself selling her work, and, unlike Kyra, she had no trust fund to take up the slack. Everyone should have a trust fund, McCabe thought. Of course, then there’d be no waitresses or dishwashers or plumbers or cops. Just artists and drinkers. McCabe ordered a Glenfiddich with a Shipyard chaser. Maggie just ordered the Shipyard. Then, after a brief, losing struggle with her inner demons, she also ordered a plate of nachos. McCabe could never figure out how she stayed so slim.
Kyra’s friend left to get the drinks and food.
‘Okay, I found out some interesting stuff.’ Maggie went first. ‘Number one, Cumberland Medical Center’s not the blood-type connection. Only one of our four victims was ever a patient there. Number two, they all used different doctors.’
Before Maggie could tell him number three, Mandy came back with their drinks. ‘Your nachos’ll be here in a sec.’
When she was gone, McCabe asked, ‘So what is the connection? A testing lab?’
‘Nope. The Red Cross.’
McCabe considered that for a second. ‘Blood drive?’
‘Yes. Wendy Branca, Brian Henry, Katie Dubois, and Lucinda Cassidy all gave blood within the last year.’
‘So somebody hacked into the Red Cross computer?’
‘No. Here’s where it gets interesting. For the past eighteen months, wouldn’t you know, a certain doctor’s wife has been volunteering at the Red Cross three days a week.’
‘Well, do tell. With full access to the records?’
‘According to my source, yes.’
McCabe stirred the warm whiskey with his index finger and then sucked it off. Pieces were falling into place. Pieces he hadn’t expected.
Maggie continued. ‘The way I see it, McCabe, we always thought one of the Spencers was involved. Why should we be surprised if both of them are?’
The nachos arrived, cheese dripping off. Maggie positioned a jalapeno in the middle of one and managed to lower it neatly it into her mouth.
‘Interesting. Just when I was beginning to have doubts.’
Maggie stopped munching. ‘Doubts about what?’
‘Doubts about Dr. Phil. About his involvement. At least in the murders. Maybe now in the surgery as well.’
‘McCabe, if it’s not uncool to remind you, yesterday you had no doubts.’
‘Today I have doubts.’ He sipped the Scotch.
‘So what’s changed?’ She took another nacho and offered him the plate. He shook his head.
‘For one thing,’ he said, ‘Sophie seems pretty damned sure he’s not the recruiter.’
‘Okay. He could still be the surgeon. He could still have cut out Katie’s heart.’
‘Yes, he could, but whoever the recruiter was, he told Sophie his name was Philip Spencer. If Spencer was involved, why would the recruiter do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘To frame Spencer in case the shit hit the fan?’
‘Framing Spencer only makes sense if Spencer had nothing to do with any of it,’ said McCabe. ‘If Spencer was one of the surgeons and he found out “Harry Lime” was framing him, he’d talk. Anybody would.’
‘Which means framing Spencer only makes sense if he knows nothing, if he’s innocent.’
‘Right — and there’s more. We just had Spencer in for an interview at Middle Street.’
‘And?’
McCabe signaled Mandy and ordered another Glenfiddich. Maggie settled for a seltzer. ‘He didn’t behave like he was guilty. He was too relaxed. I mean, whoever killed Katie and the others knows we have a witness. He ought to be worried about it. Hell, we know he’s worried about it. He’s already tried to kill her twice and failed both times. His hit man is dead.’
Maggie pulled out another cheesy nacho. McCabe waited until it was safely in her mouth, then said, ‘Spencer wasn’t worried. I don’t think he had a clue.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Jacobi’s guys found blood in the back of the Lexus — and Katie Dubois’s earring.’
Maggie’s eyebrows went up. ‘Incriminating evidence, don’t you think?’
‘It ought to be, but Spencer didn’t recognize or react to the earring when Tom showed it to him. On top of that, I had Tasco ask him about Paul Oliver Duggan and Carol Reed. He never heard of them.’
‘Who’s Carol Reed?’ asked Maggie.
‘The director of The Third Man. The male director. Any real movie buff, anyone using the alias Harry Lime, ought to at least know the name. Spencer didn’t. I’m sure of it. Anyway, we’ll know for sure in forty-eight hours. We gave him a glass of water and got a saliva sample. The lab’s doing a DNA match with the blood on Cassidy’s dog’s teeth. That’ll prove it one way or the other.’
