James Hayman - The Cutting

Judge Paula Washburn’s chambers were on the second floor of the Cumberland County Courthouse on Federal Street, less than a five-minute walk from police headquarters. McCabe and Lund were admitted immediately. Washburn was a tall, extremely thin woman with cropped gray hair. She didn’t bother with the formality of a greeting, though she did ask them to sit.

‘Well, gentlemen, what do we have that’s so all-fired urgent it just couldn’t wait another minute?’ she asked.

‘A request for a search warrant in the Dubois case,’ said Lund. He handed her McCabe’s affidavit.

She took several minutes to read it silently. ‘Well, isn’t this interesting,’ she said finally, peering up at him over the tiny reading glasses perched on her long nose. ‘I hope this isn’t a fishing expedition, Sergeant McCabe. If so, you’re going after a pretty big fish.’

‘No, Your Honor, it isn’t. I believe we have sufficient reason to investigate Dr. Spencer further.’

‘There are other doctors with green Lexus SUVs.’

‘There are, but so far, at least, Spencer is the only one who is physically similar both to the person seen in the video and the man described by the soccer coach.’

She asked several questions about the reliability of Starbucks’s video enhancement and Tobin Kenney’s memory. McCabe answered them as best he could. Judge Washburn nodded, considering his responses. Then she asked, ‘Is Dr. Spencer aware that he’s about to become a suspect in a murder case?’

‘I think he may have an inkling. He called Chief Shockley and complained about my questioning his wife.’

‘Does Shockley know you’re seeking this warrant?’

‘No.’

‘You realize, of course, he’s going to be less than pleased.’

‘I do.’

‘And you’re not bothered?’

‘I’m not.’

‘Are there any other considerations I should be aware of?’

‘Yes,’ said Lund. ‘Ordinarily, Your Honor, we might wait a little longer, amass a little more evidence, before seeking this warrant. In this case we’re rushing it a bit because there may be another life at stake.’

‘The woman who disappeared?’

‘Yes, Your Honor.’

‘Very well, Mr. Lund, I’m going to grant this request, though I do wish you had some evidence that was slightly more compelling. I’m doing so in the belief that I would have no hesitiation issuing a warrant if the suspect were less prominent in the community. However, I do hope this is not going to backfire in all our faces.’

‘Yes, Your Honor. I hope not as well. Thank you.’

Washburn signed the warrant and handed it back, and Lund and McCabe left the judge’s chambers.

He called Maggie’s cell from the sidewalk. ‘Let me buy you a beer.’

‘No can do. I’ve got company coming. I’m at home in the middle of cooking dinner.’

‘It’s important.’

‘Okay. Why don’t you come over here? You talk. I’ll cook.’

Maggie had a small two-bedroom on Vesper Street only a couple of blocks from McCabe’s own place on the Prom.

‘Who’s your company?’ he asked as she handed him a cold bottle of Shipyard and an opener. She told him tonight was date number three with her new ‘maybe, might be, might not be’ boyfriend.

He popped the top, leaned back against the fridge, and took a long swig. ‘Whatever you’re cooking, it smells great.’

‘Thanks. Coq au vin.’

‘Interesting menu selection for a romantic evening at home.’ McCabe grinned, pleased with his joke.

‘Fortunately, my friend doesn’t share your sophomoric sense of humor.’

McCabe flashed his least sincere smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. Anyway, so much for small talk,’ said Maggie. She poured herself a glass of red wine, sat down at the small kitchen table, and sipped. McCabe pulled out a chair on the other side.

‘What’s so important we had to talk about it now?’

First he told her about the warrant. She nodded approvingly. ‘Anything else?’

He showed her the note, saying he was sure it was from the woman he chased down Exchange Street and then saw again at Katie’s funeral. He said he was going to meet her alone tonight as requested.

‘Why does she want you to drive the T-Bird? Even a Crown Vic would be less conspicuous.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe because she can recognize it easily. Maybe because it doesn’t look like a police car.’

Maggie said ‘hmmm’ a couple of times as she examined the note, a different intonation on each ‘hmmm.’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Do we know anything about this woman?’ she asked. ‘I respect your instincts, McCabe, but maybe she’s a nutcase who just wants to get involved in the case. Or maybe get involved on a lonely country road with a big, handsome hunk of a cop.’

‘Like me, you mean?’

‘Yeah, but don’t let it go to your head.’

He turned serious. ‘No. I think it’s for real. At the funeral she implied she was being watched. Said if she was seen with me she might be killed.’

‘She still could be a nutcase.’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t know what information she has, but I do think she knows something. I think it could be something important.’

‘I don’t think you going alone is such a good idea. Why don’t I follow discreetly in a separate car, give you a little cover? Y’know? Rule number one? Never go anywhere without backup? Aside from anything else, if something did go wrong and you were out there alone, the department’d put your ass through a wringer.’

‘I guess. The thing is, when she said alone, I think she meant it. She’ll spook if she sees anything that looks remotely like a police car. If Cassidy’s still alive — ’

‘Big if.’

‘Maybe, but if she is, time’s running out, and I’m in no mood to lose what could be our best lead yet.’

‘So fuck rule number one?’

‘I guess. Anyway, I don’t see why things should get all that hairy. I just wanted you to know where I was going.’

‘You gonna take a recorder?’

‘Yes, but I may not turn it on. Right now she’s like a deer in the headlights. One false move and she’s gone.’

‘Mike, I don’t like it. I think I should be there.’

‘Look, you’ve got a nice evening planned. Go finish making your dinner. And have fun with… uh… what’s his name?’

‘Einar.’

‘Einar? Really?’

‘Yes, Einar, really — and no, I don’t need any gratuitous wisecracks from you, thank you very much.’ Maggie stood up and showed him to the door. ‘Good-bye. I love you. Don’t get your ass shot off.’

Later, at home, McCabe made a salad and nuked a frozen lasagna for Casey. He nibbled at it himself. Afterward, Casey cleared the dinner stuff and McCabe retired to the living room, where he opened his DeLorme atlas of Maine to the page that included Gray. He located the roads the note instructed him to take, the spot where he was supposed to park. Working outward from the meeting place, he pored over the intricate web of back roads until the entire map was committed to memory. It took ten minutes.

Though he doubted he was going to need it, he pocketed an extra eight-round magazine for his service weapon, a Smith amp; Wesson 4506. As an afterthought, he also took out the Mossberg 590 pump-action riot shotgun with its eight-round magazine that he kept locked in a case at the back of his closet. He couldn’t dismiss the possibility he was walking into a trap. If necessary, he wanted sufficient firepower to blast his way out.

He called Jane Devaney to see if she could come over and stay with Casey. Her machine picked up after four rings. He didn’t leave a message. Kyra was in Boston, going to the MFA and having dinner with friends. She wouldn’t be back until morning. Reluctantly, McCabe convinced himself Casey would be fine. He didn’t think he’d be home all that late. Besides, as Casey often reminded him, other people paid her ten bucks an hour to babysit their kids. She’d be fine for a few hours.