James Hayman - The Cutting

McCabe’s mind went back to the photograph on Spencer’s wall, and finally he knew what bothered him about it. ‘Do you know a man named Lucas Kane?’ he asked.

She looked at him oddly. ‘How on earth do you know that name?’

‘Your husband mentioned it.’

‘Lucas Kane was someone I knew a long time ago. When I was growing up. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.’

‘In Blue Hill?’

‘Near there.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘No. Mostly our parents were friends. I lost track of Lucas after we both started prep school. Then, eight years later, he turned up in Philip’s class at medical school. I introduced them, and they became good friends. They did their surgical residencies together in New York.’

‘Kane was a surgeon?’

Harriet Spencer examined McCabe’s face before answering. ‘No. Lucas never practiced. He lost his license.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll have to find that out on your own. But you’re a detective, aren’t you? It shouldn’t be hard.’

‘Did you consider Kane a friend?’

‘A friend?’ McCabe saw the hint of a smile flicker across her face. ‘No, I never would have called Lucas that.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘I haven’t seen Lucas Kane in more than fifteen years.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Dead. Murdered. In Florida. I believe that’s where he lived.’

Florida again. ‘Did you go to the funeral?’

‘No. Philip went. I had no interest.’

‘Can you tell me why?’

‘I don’t think it’s any of your business.’

‘What friend?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You said you lent the Lexus to a friend. Last week. What friend?’

‘Alright, either you tell me why you’re asking these questions or this conversation stops here and now, and you can just pick yourself up and leave my house.’

‘Mrs. Spencer, have you ever heard the name Harry Lime?’

‘No.’

McCabe paused, visualizing the Denali picture. Philip Spencer and Lucas Kane. What was it? Admiration? Affection? No. More than that. In the end, the question asked itself. ‘Mrs. Spencer, were your husband and Lucas Kane lovers?’

‘That’s it, Detective. It’s time for you to go. I don’t like being questioned like a common criminal. If you have any further questions, you can ask them through my attorney.’

‘Were they? Lovers, I mean?’

‘Get out.’ Harriet Spencer stood, walked to the kitchen door, and opened it. ‘Get out now,’ she said, ‘and don’t come back.’

McCabe went to the door and left. Descending the two steps, he looked across to the garage and thought about sneaking in. He wanted a closer look at the Lexus. He knew it was a stupid idea. He didn’t have a warrant, and Harriet Spencer certainly wouldn’t give him permission to conduct a search. If he was seen, anything he found would be compromised as evidence.

Could he get a warrant? Maybe. The Lexus matched the vehicle in Starbucks’s surveillance video. Philip Spencer was the right height and had the necessary skills to ‘harvest’ Katie Dubois’s heart. Harriet Spencer was away from Wednesday until Friday. The Lexus was here. She lent it to a friend, she said. Also, Philip Spencer’s whereabouts during the critical hours were unknown.

Where were you around midnight last Thursday night?

At home. In bed.

Your wife was with you?

Yes. We usually share a bed.

A demonstrable lie. A heart surgeon, young enough and tall enough, alone with a Lexus. Was that enough? Probably not. Tasco and Fraser had barely started checking on the list of other surgeons with Lexuses. Let alone those whose wives had Lexuses. There might be dozens young enough and tall enough who had no alibi during the critical hours. Even so, he wanted the crime scene techs to examine the Spencers’ vehicle for trace evidence of Katie. Or Lucinda. Or both. Plus he wanted to examine the house as well. He just had a feeling about this man.

Sunday. 7:00 P.M.

Harriet Spencer, Hattie to her friends, stood by her kitchen door. Through the double-glazed panes, she watched McCabe descend the back steps, pause to look over at the garage, then turn and walk down the gravel drive toward the front of the house and out of sight. Hattie hurried through a darkened hallway to the living room, the room Philip liked to call the drawing room, where she stood by a window and watched the detective leave through the front gate. The bright afternoon had faded to twilight, the sun, deep in the west, lighting the street in a red-orange glow, casting long shadows, as the detective turned right and walked away. She wondered why there was no car parked nearby. Perhaps he’d walked. For a minute or two, even after he was out of sight, Hattie stayed at the window, looking out, standing as still as she could, hardly breathing, as if movement, any movement at all, might upset the proper order of things. An order that once upset would be gone forever.

Finally, in the growing darkness, still dressed in her gardening clothes, she walked to the walnut drinks cupboard that stood against the far wall. She found a lead crystal water goblet and a bottle of Tanqueray. She filled the glass nearly to the top and left the room.

Sipping warm gin, Hattie climbed the broad staircase that rose in a graceful curve from the center hall toward the second floor landing and the bedrooms beyond. She walked to the end of a long hall, entered the large master bedroom, and, without turning on the lights, sat down in a striped silk tub chair by the window. She noticed the bed wasn’t made. The rumpled sheets kicked to the bottom of the queen-sized four-poster, the thin summer blanket fallen to the floor. Still another sign of disarray? Was it worth it? Worth the lies? The secrecy? Yes, she thought, it was. Hattie sipped her gin and looked out the window. A fly buzzed on the ceiling. A car passed by on the street below. The room grew dark.

The idea that her feelings for Philip could ever have been described as love seemed distant and alien. She remembered meeting him, senior year at Brown, in a study room in the Rockefeller Library, the Rock. They sat across from each other three nights in a row before he asked if she wanted to go and have a coffee. Such a serious young man. Good-looking, intensely involved in his studies, always analyzing, always taking things apart. Very smart. More than a little arrogant, but always quite charming.

Scenes from their marriage, scratched and jumpy, flickered through Hattie’s mind. The big wedding on the lawn of the cottage in Blue Hill. Friends from Brown and Dana Hall in bright summer dresses. Philip’s face in extreme close-up, smiling and attentive. A kiss. A toast. A flying bouquet. Roaring off in that incredible car, Philip drunk and driving like a madman around the small and twisty country lanes. The yellow Lotus, borrowed from Uncle Bish, her mother’s rich and careless younger brother.

Fast-forward, two years later, to their tiny one-bedroom apartment in Back Bay, furnished in equal measure from the Salvation Army store in Southie and late-night expeditions along the streets of Beacon Hill, collecting throwaways from the curb.

Now the scene fades into another. The lighting is softer. Hattie sees the two of them standing naked by the bed. She’s laughing at Philip, who, for once, is having fun, clowning as Count Dracula come to suck her blood. She fends him off, turning away to finish folding back the yellow bedspread, her mother’s gift, to keep it from getting stained. Philip grabs her. They fall as one, as much from laughter as from lust, onto the sheets, where they make love. Once, and then again. It was love Philip was making then, wasn’t it? Not simply ejaculate?