James Hayman - The Cutting

‘I’m good. What fun and games do you have planned for us today?’

‘We’re over on Trinity Street waiting on a Lexus SUV. It’s the one I think was used to haul Katie Dubois’s body over to the scrap yard. I want you to go over it and find what we need to put this asshole away.’

‘The asshole being Dr. Spencer?’

‘You got it.’

‘Being an asshole is not necessarily a punishable offense.’

‘Don’t start, Bill. I’ve got good reason to think this guy might have been involved in the murder.’

Jacobi sighed. ‘So you’re looking for what? Prints, hair, fibers?’

‘Yeah, all that, but mostly blood. I don’t see how he could have hauled Katie’s body around cut up the way it was without getting some blood on the vehicle. Most likely on the cargo space in back. I don’t care how hard he scrubbed it — ’

Jacobi finished the sentence. ‘Luminol will show it.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, call me when your pigeon arrives and we’ll send over a flatbed. We’ll have to bring the Lexus down here to the garage to really go over it. I’ll also want to remove the seats and open up the spare tire well.’

‘That’s fine.’

Another hour passed before Harriet Spencer drove the green SUV through the gates of the Spencers’ inner sanctum. McCabe pulled the Stratus into the driveway behind her, effectively blocking retreat. He called Jacobi to send over the flatbed and then walked up to the Lexus’s driver’s side window. ‘Please exit the vehicle, Mrs. Spencer.’

‘What are you doing here? I thought I told you to leave my property and not come back.’

‘I’m serving you with a warrant, Mrs. Spencer, signed by District Court Judge Paula Washburn, authorizing us to conduct a thorough search of this vehicle in the police garage. A tow truck’s on its way now. We have reason to believe your car may have been used in the murder of Katie Dubois.’

‘You’re out of your mind. How dare you accuse us like this?’

‘We’re not making any accusations, Mrs. Spencer. We’re simply searching the car for evidence. If we don’t find anything, it will be returned to you with our apologies. This is Assistant Attorney General Bert Lund.’

Lund smiled. ‘How do you do, Mrs. Spencer?’

‘Mr. Lund will verify the validity of this warrant. You may also show it to your own attorney. Now please exit the vehicle.’

Hattie Spencer briefly examined the paper McCabe offered, then looked up at him. ‘May I take my groceries inside, or do you want to search those as well?’

‘Yes, but please don’t take anything else. I’ll have one of my men help you.’

‘Don’t bother, Detective.’ She gathered up half a dozen plastic bags from Hannaford’s and carried them to the kitchen door McCabe had used to leave the house three days before.

From the kitchen, Hattie Spencer called Philip’s cell. ‘The police are here. That detective McCabe and some others. They want to search my car. The Lexus.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Did they show you a warrant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alright. Don’t say anything to them. Nothing at all. I’ll call George Renquist. Then I’ll come back.’

Philip hung up. Hattie stood holding the dead phone for a minute. He sounded so calm. Philip always sounded calm. Finally she, too, hung up. She walked through the house and stood by the big front window watching the scene on the driveway.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Her world, the one she had so carefully constructed, so carefully cared for, for twenty years, seemed to be closing in on her. The men outside with their cars and vans and official pieces of paper were storming the barricades, and there was nothing she could do about it. Across the street she could see that nosy little suck-up Ellen Markham staring from the front step of her house. She was going to love telling her money-grubbing lawyer husband all about it tonight at dinner. As well as her friends, whoever they might be.

‘Imagine!’ Hattie could hear them saying. ‘The police were at the Spencers’ half the day. I hear it has to do with the murder of that girl. Katie Dubois? What do you suppose they were looking for?’

Yes, by tonight it would be all over Portland. Hattie went to the burled walnut drinks cupboard and filled a cut crystal water goblet about halfway up with gin. She could take their snide innuendos. She was tougher than that. She walked back to the window with the drink and resumed her vigil as she sipped. She wondered what they were looking for, what they might find. What exactly did happen last week while she was up in Blue Hill? She had a feeling she might know.

Philip’s car, the black BMW, turned into the driveway. It stopped behind the car that blocked the Lexus. A uniformed cop directed Philip to park on the street. He did, but when he emerged his face showed that strange, quiet rage she knew so well. He walked over to McCabe and the pudgy lawyer McCabe had with him. Bert Lump. Philip said something. McCabe handed Philip the warrant. He looked at it and said something else. She guessed he was quietly threatening them. That was Philip’s way. Letting them know how many important people he knew. Then their attorney, George Renquist, arrived. George looked at the warrant and said something to Philip. Philip and George turned away from the police. George said something. Philip disagreed. He walked toward the house. The front door opened and closed. He walked past the drawing room and climbed the stairs. She called to him. ‘Philip?’ He looked down at her but said nothing. He walked to the bedroom and closed the door. Hattie returned to her post by the window, sipped her gin, and watched a tow truck pull the Lexus up and onto its bed. Then they drove it away.

Wednesday 6:00 P.M.

McCabe followed the Lexus back to the police garage, then went upstairs to the detectives’ bullpen to wait while Jacobi’s team did their thing. He spotted Jack Batchelder at his desk. Jack was holding a half-eaten meatball sandwich in two hands, a paper napkin tucked in his collar to protect his shirt. He looked up, midbite. ‘What d’ya need, Mike?’ he asked.

‘Those open missing persons cases I asked you to check? How’re you doing with that?’

Batchelder sighed. McCabe guessed he wasn’t happy having his dinner interrupted. Jack carefully wrapped the remains of his sandwich in the waxed paper it’d come in, wiped his hands on the napkin, then reached for a file on his desk.

‘Your upper lip,’ said McCabe.

‘What?’

‘Your upper lip. Tomato sauce.’ McCabe pointed to the same spot on his own lip.

Batchelder reddened, then swiped at his mouth with the napkin. ‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Perfect. Now, what did you find?’

‘At first, not a whole lot. I went through all our open missing persons cases for the last three years.’

‘No young blond female athletes?’

‘Nothing even close. So I e-mailed every other department in the state.’

‘And?’

‘We found one. Couple of hours ago MSP sent over the file. Young snowboarder named Wendy Branca turned up missing last December at Sunday River. She was never found. I haven’t had a chance to review the whole file yet.’

‘Blond?’

‘Yeah. Blond and beautiful.’

McCabe took the file from Batchelder. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Thanks, Jack. Good job.’ He went to his own desk, opened the file, and began reading. Wendy Branca was a twenty-four-year-old sales rep for WMND, a Portland country music station. She was indeed blond and beautiful — and an athlete. An expert and avid snowboarder, she was good enough to have been an instructor at Breckinridge, in Colorado, a couple of seasons after college.