what I said about having a good time.’
For the first time, she smiled. She was trying to reassure him. ‘I will,’ she said.
He watched them from the window as they got into Sandy’s rental car. A Chevy Impala. He’d been expecting her to turn up in something fancier. A Mercedes. Or a Jag. Or a Lincoln at the very least. They pulled out of the visitors’ parking space and drove off. McCabe went to the kitchen and poured himself a Scotch. Still a little early, but fuck it. He didn’t go out for cigarettes.
49
Friday. 4:30 P.M.
He called Maggie. After leaving his place, she’d driven to Spencer’s office, retrieved the Denali picture, and taken it back to Middle Street, where Starbucks produced a high-res scan of Kane’s face, then aged it by ten years. Maggie e-mailed the resulting image to John Bell, to MSP, and to every sheriff’s department and local jurisdiction in the state. Shockley’s office released it to the TV stations and newspapers. Kane was long gone, but at least the searchers would know what he looked like. Aside from that they knew nothing. Not what kind of car he was driving or what direction he was headed in. He could be driving back to Florida for all they knew. McCabe asked Maggie to e-mail the picture to Aaron Cahill in Orlando along with an update.
Next he called Tasco, who was still at 24 Trinity Street. Jacobi and an additional team of techs from the state crime lab in Augusta were going over the place. So far they’d found nothing of significance except Hattie Spencer’s cell phone, turned off, in a kitchen drawer under the toaster. Terri Mirabito came on the line, her voice weary. ‘I’ve got one Spencer scheduled for tomorrow morning, one for the afternoon. A two-for-one special. No extra charge. I’ll e-mail you the particulars.’
McCabe found a Maine road map, a ruler, a piece of string, a red marker, and a yellow highlighter. He spread them all out on the kitchen table and began reconstructing Sophie’s ride to the surgery site. From her description, McCabe was certain Pollock headed north on 95. Through the first tollbooth at York. Then another thirty-five miles to Portland, where he could have stayed on 95 or diverted to 295. Slightly shorter that way, but it didn’t much matter. Both were four-lane interstates, and they came together again a little south of Augusta. Three tolls either way. Based on Sophie’s estimates of time, locations of tollbooths, and the assumption that Pollock was careful to stay at or just slightly above the speed limit, it still made sense that he exited at Augusta and drove maybe forty to sixty miles on local roads.
McCabe lined up the string with the scale of the map and marked it at forty and again at sixty miles. He drew a red semicircle on the map in an arc, west to east, forty miles from the exit and another parallel arc at sixty. He colored the area between the two red lines with yellow highlighter. Hundreds of square miles.
Lucas Kane was someone I knew a long time ago, Harriet Spencer said. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.
In Blue Hill?
Near there.
Blue Hill was inside the yellow zone.
McCabe booted up Casey’s computer. He went to the Web site for the Town of Blue Hill. On it he found a phone number for Priscilla Pepper, Town Clerk, Tax Collector, and Registrar of Voters.
‘Town of Blue Hill.’ An older woman’s voice. Her accent pure Downeast.
‘Priscilla Pepper, please.’
‘This is she.’
‘Ms. Pepper, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland Police Department.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m conducting an important investigation. I wonder if I could trouble you for some tax information about a couple of properties in or near Blue Hill.’
‘Well, I can help you if the property’s in Blue Hill. Not if it’s near.’ Priscilla Pepper spoke in clipped, measured tones. McCabe realized she couldn’t be hurried.
‘Do you have any record of a property belonging to a man named Maurice Kane? K-A-N-E.’
‘Just a minute.’ No reaction to the name. Maybe she wasn’t a classical music fan. More likely, Ms. Pepper didn’t think it seemly to comment on a neighbor’s fame.
She returned after a couple of minutes. ‘I have the record. Mr. Kane owns about twenty-five acres, eight miles north of town off Range Road.’
‘Not on the water?’
‘No. Just a small pond.’
‘Is there a house on the property?’
‘Two structures. One big one. Over three thousand square feet. Also a secondary structure. Supposed to be a guest cottage. Eight hundred square feet. Primarily a summer property. Mr. Kane’s not registered to vote here.’
‘Is it winterized?’ Kane would have a tough time transplanting hearts in an unheated building during a Maine winter.
‘Nothing in the assessment says anything about either house being seasonal.’
‘Could you give me directions to the Kane place?’
‘Know how to get to Blue Hill?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Take Pleasant Street north out of town. That’s Route 15. After about three miles, fork right onto Range Road. Go two, maybe three miles. You’ll pass a big farm on your right. After another mile, make a right onto a dirt road. Follow it about two miles and you’ll see a mailbox. Says 113. No name on it. Drive another mile or so down a private road to the house. Never been down there myself, but the tax map says the road’s unimproved. Turns into a long driveway for Kane. Don’t think you’ll find any people there this time of year. Folks like that usually clear out right after Labor Day.’
‘Thanks for your help, Ms. Pepper.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Oh. One last thing. Could you check one more record for me?’
‘Well, Detective, I was about to leave. It is after five o’clock, you know.’
‘Last favor, I promise. Any permits for construction anywhere on the property in, say, the last five years?’
‘Just a moment.’
McCabe waited again.
‘Detective?’
‘Yes?’
‘I do see one thing. Strikes me as kinda funny, though.’
‘Funny in what way?’
‘Why would anyone want to put a finished basement under a small summer guest cottage? Seems like a big waste of money, if you ask me.’
*
Using the satellite imagery available on Google, McCabe pinpointed the location. He couldn’t see any house, but the area appeared heavily wooded. The house might be hidden.
Next he Googled Maurice Kane. Over a million hits. Most focused on Kane’s career. Dozens of biographies but no obituaries. The maestro was apparently still alive. McCabe scanned some of the documents. Kane was born in Bath, England, in 1919, which made him eighty-five or eighty-six today. A certifiable prodigy, he played his first public concert when he was seven and studied under some of the most celebrated musicians in Europe. In September of ’39, Kane joined British intelligence, working as a translator and interpreter for the duration of the war. For six years, he performed only occasionally, mostly in London. After the war his career blossomed. Critics raved about ‘the witty, apparently effortless muscularity’ of his style. Others extolled his ‘supreme virtuosity.’ He
