‘They searched my car,’ she said, her breath starting to come faster. ‘They found that girl’s earring. The one who was killed in the scrap yard?’
He pulled back, studying her with deep-set eyes, saying nothing.
‘O-negative, wasn’t she?’
Still he said nothing.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, leaning in to kiss him again. ‘I won’t tell a soul.’
‘No,’ he responded after a moment. ‘No, I’m certain you won’t.’
His fingers found the top button of her trousers and worked it open. ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘Someone might see.’
He pulled down her zipper and slid her pants and panties down over her slim hips.
‘Yes. Someone might,’ he whispered. ‘Isn’t that what excites you?’
They could both feel her heart pounding against her chest as his hand moved back between her legs. Two fingers slid inside.
‘Wait,’ she whispered. She stepped out of the pants and folded them neatly, then placed them through the open window onto the front seat of the car. She watched as he did the same, except he left his in a heap on the ground. She took him in her hand and he grew hard. She leaned back against the car. She let out a little gasp as he entered her.
As they moved together, he studied her face. Eyes closed, lips parted, moaning softly in pleasure. He slipped his left hand around the back of her neck, his right hand into the pocket of his jacket. He felt the handle of the folding knife just where it should be. Hiding the knife behind his back, he pressed its small button, flipping it open. She didn’t notice. He rubbed his thumb across the edge of the blade. A minute later, at almost the exact instant Hattie Spencer reached orgasm, her gasp of pleasure morphed into a cry of pain.
*
Sixteen hundred miles to the south, all sound was drowned out by the screaming twin engines of the Learjet 35 lifting off runway 23 at Boca Raton Airport. The plane’s flight plan listed its destination as a private airfield in northern New Hampshire. The Learjet was outfitted as a flying ambulance. In the back, a doctor and a nurse tended a single patient, an old man in the last stages of congestive heart failure. Up front, the crew of two, pilot and copilot, ignored their passengers. They didn’t know their names and had been exceptionally well paid not to ask.
44
Thursday. 6:30 P.M.
After leaving Tallulah’s, McCabe headed back to his apartment and called Dave Hennings in D.C. His partner for nearly five years, Hennings was a tough, smart cop who’d moved on from the NYPD after 9/11 and was now a player in the federal air marshals program. He had connections with all the major airlines.
‘McCabe, my man, how the hell are you? It’s gotta be, what? At least a year since we spoke.’
‘At least that, Dave. I’m okay. How’s Rosemary?’ Hennings’s wife was a breast cancer survivor.
‘Still hanging in. Five years and counting. We keep our fingers permanently crossed. You and Kyra still an item?’
‘Definitely an item,’ said McCabe.
‘I read about the murder of that girl and thought about how you were so sure things would be nice and quiet up there in Maine. Guess you were a little optimistic.’ McCabe smiled to himself. Wait till Dave heard the rest of it. ‘Anyway, that’s not why you called.’
‘Dave, I need a favor.’
‘I figured. Go for it, partner.’
‘There’s a doctor in North Carolina named Matthew Wilcox. He’s a big-deal heart surgeon at UNC Hospital in Chapel Hill. I need to know if he traveled from Chapel Hill to Portland on any or all of three separate occasions.’
‘He have something to do with your murder case?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I can’t talk about it now. So I’d appreciate it if you could just trust me on this one.’
‘I always trust you, McCabe. Always have.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Anyway, back to your doctor. Going out of Chapel Hill, he would have flown out of Raleigh-Durham,’ said Hennings. ‘Going to Portland, he’d probably take United. Maybe US Air. Most likely changed planes in D.C. What are your dates?’
‘December 2004 and April this year. Last trip would have had him here sometime last week. No firm travel dates. We’ll need to check a range.’
‘You don’t want to make a formal request to the airlines?’
‘Not if you can get the information quicker. I don’t have a lot of time on this one.’ He didn’t tell Hennings there was another life at stake.
‘Okay, I’m fairly well connected with senior people at both United and US Air. I should be able to check it pretty quick.’
‘Thanks, Dave. That’s what I hoped you’d say.’
As soon as he hung up, McCabe called Melody Bollinger at the Miami Herald. He reached the city editor. ‘Sorry, Detective, Mel doesn’t work here anymore. Anything I can do for you?’
‘No thanks. You know where I can reach her?’
‘She’s moved to New York. Got an offer from the Daily News a couple of years ago.’
McCabe thanked him. He didn’t need to look up the number for the News.
‘Melody Bollinger speaking.’ Melody’s voice didn’t live up to her name.
‘Ms. Bollinger? This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. Portland, Maine, Police Department.’
‘Portland? Maine? McCabe?’ He might just as well have said he was the chief cop in Siberia. ‘McCabe? Oh yeah. You’re the lead on the murder of that teenaged kid. What’s her name?’
‘Dubois. Katie Dubois.’
‘That’s right. What can I do for you, Detective?’
‘Ms. Bollinger — ’
‘Call me Mel.’
‘Mel, then. In Miami, you covered the murder of Lucas Kane in March of 2001.’
‘Yeah, I worked on that. What’s it have to do with you? Or Maine?’ She sounded curious.
‘Listen, can we meet? I’d like to talk to you about Kane’s murder.’
‘Why don’t you just call the cops in Miami Beach?’
‘I spoke to Detective Sessions already. I thought you might be able to provide a little more insight. Shouldn’t take long.’ There was a pause at her end. ‘I might also have something you may be interested in.’
‘Might and may? Goodness, Detective, you certainly know how to whet a girl’s appetite. Why don’t you just tell me on the phone what it might be that you may have? Then I might, or may, bite. I assume it’s about Dubois.’
‘As I said, I’d rather discuss it in person.’ He was sure he’d learn more from Bollinger if they spoke face-to- face.
‘Well, that could be a bit of a problem, Detective, since I’m in New York and you’re in Maine. I’m not flying up to Maine without something a little more substantive than mays and mights.’
‘I’m prepared to come to New York. There’s a US Air flight that leaves here at seven tomorrow morning. Can you meet me at LaGuardia around eight thirty?’
McCabe thought for a minute she might turn him down, but her reporter’s instincts were too strong. ‘Okay, what’s the flight number?’
He told her.
‘I’ll meet you at the baggage area,’ she said. ‘I’m blond, five foot three, and my friends describe me as
