James Hayman - The Cutting

‘So far no one remembers seeing anyone like the guy Kenney described. I still have a couple of kids to check.’

‘Anything about the car?’

‘Just what Kenney told us. That it was probably dark green.’

McCabe nodded. Then he opened his cell and called the PPD Communications Center, which had almost instant access to all motor vehicle information. He asked the woman who answered to check what color Harriet Spencer’s SUV was. He hung on while she looked it up.

‘It’s listed as green.’

‘Dark or light?’

‘Just says green.’

McCabe thanked her.

Frank and Joanne Ceglia’s house on Dexter Street was a small yellow Cape Cod. It appeared neat and well maintained, though the grass was a week or two overdue for mowing. Maggie parked the Crown Vic in front and walked to the door. It swung open before they could ring the bell. Joanne Ceglia, already dressed for the funeral in a black linen dress and short black jacket, stood with a man wearing a clerical collar. Her eyes looked red. ‘Oh, Maggie. You’re here.’

She produced a thin smile. ‘Maggie, this is Father Wozniak. He’ll be assisting at the mass for Katie today. He’s just leaving. Father, this is Detective Savage.’

The two cops, the priest, and the woman stood for a moment in uncertain formation on the front step, not sure whether to move in or out, forward or back. Finally McCabe extended his hand. ‘Mrs. Ceglia, I’m Michael McCabe. Maggie’s partner.’

‘Her partner in crime?’ asked the priest, a practiced smile on his lips.

Everyone laughed uncertainly, and the priest moved off. ‘I’ll see you at the cathedral, Joanne.’

She raised her hand in a half wave and invited McCabe and Maggie in. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you last night. There were so many people there. Can I get you some coffee or a Coke or anything?’

‘No, thank you.’ They looked around. The room was filled with plates of food, all covered with Saran Wrap. ‘For afterward,’ Joanne said. ‘A lot of the people will be coming back. It seems freaky. Throwing a party because your kid’s dead. Food, drink, people. Still, it’s what everyone expects.’

Maggie started the questioning. This was her witness. ‘Joanne, you told me Katie said something about a soccer scout from Florida? He’s supposed to have talked to her the week she disappeared.’

‘Yeah. Right. She was so excited. Talking about a free ride, a full athletic scholarship, getting out of Maine, going to school in the sunshine. All that stuff. Yesterday, when I was going through her things, I found this.’ She handed Maggie a business card. Holding it by its edges, Maggie looked at it, turned it over, and handed it to McCabe.

UNIVERSITY OF WEST FLORIDA, the card read. HARRY LIME, ASSISTANT ATHLETIC DIRECTOR It featured a logo with a guy in a Trojan helmet. McCabe took out his cell and punched in the numbers. ‘You have reached an unassigned number at Florida Power and Light. For assistance press zero.’ He pressed zero.

‘Florida Power and Light. How may I direct your call?’

‘Harry Lime, please. L–I-M-E.’

A pause. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not showing anyone with that name.’

‘Thank you.’

He hit 411 and got a number for the University of West Florida’s Athletic Department. Same result.

‘Look at the back of the card,’ said Maggie.

McCabe, holding the card by its edges, turned it over. The words were written in pencil, stacked in a vertical column: Lime Katie Lime Katherine Dubois Lime Kate Lime

The writing was round and girlish. Little flowers intertwined the words.

‘Was there anything else? A phone number? E-mails? Anything.’

‘Your people took her computer first thing Saturday morning, so I don’t know,’ said Joanne. ‘Phone numbers she kept in her cell. She had the phone with her when she disappeared, so I can’t check.’

‘What was her number?’ he asked Joanne.

‘It’s 207-555-6754.’

McCabe punched it in. He heard ringing, then ‘Hi, you’ve reached Katie. Leave a message.’ He hung up.

‘Do you think this scout is the person who killed Katie?’ Joanne Ceglia asked.

‘We don’t know. We think he might be, Joanne,’ said Maggie.

‘Will you catch him?’

‘Yes,’ said McCabe, ‘we will catch him.’

‘Do you mind if we search her room?’ asked Maggie.

‘You’re welcome to, but your people already took it apart a couple of times and didn’t find anything. I don’t know why they didn’t find that card. Maybe it just didn’t mean anything to them.’

Sloppy police work, thought McCabe. The evidence techs should’ve picked up on the card.

The two detectives headed up to her room and searched it again. Thirty minutes later they were willing to admit there was nothing else to find at Dexter Street and headed back to 109.

‘Tell me about her cell phone,’ McCabe said to Maggie.

‘Tasco checked with Sprint. Ran down all the calls to and from the cell starting two weeks before she disappeared right up till Friday.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing meaningful. Prior calls mostly to friends. A couple to local businesses. Saved messages were mostly from her girlfriends. A couple from Ronnie Sobel. One was pretty sexual. No completed calls at all after she disappeared. Some new messages from Frank and Joanne and some from her friends.’

They drove through Deering Oaks Park with its massive two-hundred-year-old trees and headed south on State Street toward Spring. McCabe told her about last evening’s visit to chez Spencer.

‘Spencer’s head of cardiac surgery at Cumberland?’

‘Yeah, and a buddy of Shockley’s. He called the GO this morning to complain about my going to the house, questioning his wife. Shockley told me to lay off. That’s what his come-see-me-ASAP note was all about.’

Maggie glanced over at him. ‘I hope you didn’t lose it with him.’

‘Basically, I told him to go fuck himself.’

‘Gee, just when I was beginning to like you.’

‘The good news is Crimes Against People just might get its first female sergeant. Although nothing’ll happen until this case is resolved. If Spencer’s the bad guy, I’ll be a hero. If he’s not the bad guy, but I get whoever is, I’ll still be a hero. Either way, unfireable. On the other hand, if we don’t get him, or somebody else gets him, I get fired. Maybe I’ll deserve it.’

‘Think you’ve got enough for a warrant?’

‘Doubtful. Unless we can find ourselves a nice flexible judge somewhere. One who doesn’t belong to the Pemaquid Club. I’ll check in with Burt Lund. Maybe he can help.’

Monday. 11:00 A.M.

‘Ever hear of Dr. Philip Spencer?’ McCabe asked as he watched Burt Lund ease his large round bottom onto one of JavaHut’s small round bentwood chairs. A prosecutor in the attorney general’s office, Lund had a reputation as a bulldog. A chubby bulldog. Once he got his teeth into you, they said, he hung on no matter what.

‘The heart surgeon? Sure, I’ve heard of him. Never met him, though.’ Lund looked around. They had the coffee-house pretty much to themselves. ‘Kind of a big cheese, isn’t he?’

‘Seems to be. He’s buddies with Shockley. Hangs out at the Pemaquid Club. There’s a picture of him with Bush senior and Olympia Snowe on his office wall.’

‘He’s your suspect?’

‘Maybe a long shot, but yeah.’

‘What makes you think Spencer’s cutting up little girls?’

McCabe told Lund about the Lexus turning up in the surveillance video, again at Katie Dubois’s soccer practice, and finally in Spencer’s garage.

‘That’s it? His wife owns a Lexus? Even assuming the accuracy of your video manipulation and the coach’s recollection, I hope you have more than that.’