immersed herself in the paper, signaling a lack of interest in small talk. McCabe leaned back in agreement, closed his eyes, and thought about his conversation with Melody Bollinger. Was Lucas Kane dead and buried in Florida or alive and cutting out hearts in Maine? He was ready to bet on the latter.
His cell phone vibrated shortly after the plane bumped down at Portland International Jetport. Maggie’s name appeared in the window. ‘What’s up?’
‘Good news, bad news. The good news is I’m back on the case and on my way to search Spencer’s house. Thought you might want to join us. Unless you’re still in New York.’
‘No, I’m here. Just touched down. What’s the bad news?’
‘We don’t know where Spencer is.’
‘He’s gone?’ McCabe looked out the window. The plane seemed to be crawling to the gate. ‘Gone where?’
‘We don’t know. The cop watching his house doesn’t know. The hospital doesn’t know either. Woman at the Levenson Heart Center said he was supposed to be in surgery this morning. He never showed up.’
Spencer would never miss surgery, would he? The plane stopped about a hundred yards short of the terminal. ‘When was the last time anyone spoke to him?’
‘At 6:00 A.M.,’ said Maggie. ‘Hospital called him at home. He answered.’
Maggie was interrupted by the voice of the captain. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid there’ll be a short delay while we wait for a gate to open up. Shouldn’t be more than a minute or two.’
‘Shit,’ McCabe said. Too loudly. The woman next to him gave him a look. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. He looked out the window. Couldn’t see anything.
‘A teenage boy died early this morning,’ Maggie continued, ‘from injuries in a car crash. Spencer was supposed to be installing his heart in a thirty-two-year-old woman named — ’ Maggie paused. Seemed like she was checking her notes. ‘- Lisa Lynch.’
‘He never showed up?’
‘You got it. They called Dr. Codman to cover. Almost lost the heart and the woman.’
Why would Spencer not show up? There were a lot of reasons, none of them good. ‘You tried the house yourself, and his cell?’
‘Yeah. Voice mail picks up on both. I think we were wrong about him not being involved. I think he flew the coop,’ said Maggie.
McCabe doubted it. Even if Maggie was right and Spencer was involved, taking off would practically be an admission of guilt. Okay. They had the earring, and the blood from the Lexus, but even taken together that wouldn’t be enough to convict. Not with a lawyer like Sheldon Thomas. Hell, they couldn’t even prove Spencer was driving the Lexus. The evidence they had was a lot less damning than OJ and his Bruno Magli shoes. Thomas would have told him that.
The plane inched forward again.
Maggie’s voice was in his ear. ‘I think maybe he’s guilty and Tasco rattled him more than you thought during that interview. He decides we’re getting close to nailing him and bango, he hits the road.’
‘Yeah. Maybe,’ McCabe said. Although he wasn’t buying it. The plane reached the gate. The pilot turned off the seat belt sign, and people all around him started getting up. ‘What about Hattie?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know where she is either. I think they took off together.’
The woman next to McCabe was looking at him again. He was still in his seat, and she wanted out. He stood up and banged his head on the overhead. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked, pushing his way into the aisle and rubbing his head.
‘We’re just leaving 109.’
‘Have you put out an ATL yet?’ He didn’t want to use Spencer’s name.
‘Yeah. For both the BMW and the Porsche. Every department in Maine plus the New Hampshire staties.’
The flight attendant opened the door, and the line of people started inching out.
‘We’ve got public transport covered as well. Buses. Trains. The airport.’
‘Maybe I’ll run into them on the way out,’ said McCabe. The idea made him smile. Grimly.
The line stopped again. In front of McCabe, a girl around twenty, probably a college kid, was blocking the aisle, struggling to release a duffel bag way too big for the overhead space. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket and wrestled it down for her. They started moving again.
He could hear Maggie shouting from inside his pocket. ‘Hey, McCabe, you still there?’
He pulled the phone out. ‘Yeah. I’m trying to get off the plane. Call you right back.’ He flipped it off.
Up ahead, the flight attendant chirped her mandatory farewells. ‘Bye-bye.’ Smile. ‘Bye-bye.’ Smile. ‘Bye-bye.’ Smile. Finally he was free.
He called Maggie back. ‘Meet you at Trinity Street?’
‘I just sent a car to the airport to pick you up,’ she told him. ‘Should be there any minute.’
By the time McCabe reached the exit, the black-and-white Crown Vic was pulling into a no-parking zone right out front, lights flashing. He slipped into the front seat. ‘Alright, hit it,’ he told the officer driving. ‘Lights and siren, 24 Trinity Street.’
Dave Hennings called as they turned out of the airport and onto Congress Street. McCabe asked the driver to silence the siren.
‘Howdy, partner, how you doing?’
‘Not so great, Dave. A suspect just turned up missing. We’re about to search his house. You have anything for me?’
‘Yeah, but it’s a good thing I love you like family. I had to flaunt my Homeland Security creds big-time on this one. Threaten our nation’s air carriers with the Patriot Act. Imply Wilcox was a suspected terrorist. Anyway, it turns out he made three short round-trips between Raleigh-Durham and Portland over the past year. Trip number one was last December. First class out of Raleigh-Durham on United 3281 December fourteenth, changed planes in D.C. He returned on the seventeenth, also on United.’
Wendy Branca, thought McCabe.
‘Second trip was April nineteenth, return on the twenty-third. Same flights.’
Brian Henry.
‘Third trip was just last week. Left North Carolina on US Air 621 and changed in Newark.’
‘What days?’
‘Left Raleigh-Durham Tuesday the thirteenth and returned Friday morning the sixteenth. How’s that jibe with what you got?’
‘You hit the trifecta, Dave. Three dates. Three victims. They all coincide.’
‘Well, my friend, that means you’ve got serious cause for concern. Because Dr. Wilcox may be back in Maine as we speak.’
Oh, Christ. Lucinda Cassidy.
‘He flew out of Raleigh-Durham Wednesday afternoon on American 1560, landed in Fort Lauderdale.’
‘Lauderdale? I thought you said Maine.’
‘Hold on. I’m getting to that. His return flight’s Sunday morning. From Portland. No info on how he gets from Lauderdale to Portland. Airline calls it “arunk.” Arrival unknown. Just to be sure we had the right Matthew Wilcox, I called his office at UNC. Assistant said he was out of town. Wouldn’t be back until Monday. I asked her if she knew where he was going. She said no. Not real friendly for a southern gal. So I took the obvious tack and scared the bejesus out of her. Told her she might be aiding and abetting terrorist activity.’
‘Jesus, Dave. You could get your ass in a sling for that.’
‘Nah. I’ll be alright. She didn’t sound like she wanted any trouble. Anyway, she finally told me he’d gone to Boca Raton on personal business and then was heading to Maine for the weekend.’
‘Did she say where in Maine?’
‘Said she didn’t know. I also checked his cell phone. It’s been turned off since he left town.’
‘Let me have the number,’ said McCabe. Hennings gave it to him. ‘The airline have any information on where he’s staying in Maine or possible car rentals?’
‘No. None. I called Hertz and Avis directly. Nothing there either. I haven’t had time to check the others. Also haven’t checked the chain hotels. Of course, there’s a million independents up there in Maine. He could be at any one of them.’
