James Hayman - The Cutting

McCabe wondered about Kane’s sexuality. In Miami he lived an openly gay lifestyle. Maybe he was bisexual. Common enough. He remembered reading Kinsey Institute statistics claiming 11.6 percent of white males between twenty and thirty-five were equally attracted to men and women.

Bollinger returned. He handed her her coffee. ‘What do you know about Kane’s sex life?’

‘Ah, now we’re getting to the fun stuff,’ said Bollinger.

‘Seriously. I know he had an ongoing relationship with Pollard — excuse me, Pollock — but beyond that?’

‘Lucas Kane was a sexual predator. Men. Women. It didn’t matter. He was vicious and voracious.’

‘You mean AC/DC?’

‘No. That’s too gentle a word for it. Sex defined nearly everything Lucas Kane did. He consumed people. Used them and abused them. Most of his targets were young and fit, but lack of beauty never deterred Lucas. If he wanted something, he used sex to get it. He even hit on fat old me on more than one occasion.’

‘Did he score?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Lucas Kane was physically attractive, very attractive. Beautiful, really, but I found him psychically repellent. Like a snake. Lucas would take you, suck you dry, and throw you away. Darryl Pollock was the only human being I can think of, and I use the term “human being” loosely, who was tough enough or insensitive enough or sociopathic enough not to care. A match made in heaven. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s change the subject. Lucas’s sex life gives me the creeps.’

‘Okay. Tell me about Stan Allard’s suicide.’

‘I guess that’s weird thing number three. I don’t think it was suicide.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What happened is, a little after Kane’s death, Stan’s marriage finally broke up and he moved into this grubby little place called the Endless Dunes. Basically a hot-sheets motel a couple of blocks from the beach. The way Sessions tells it, Stan was so depressed about splitting with his wife that he just wanted to end it all.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘Stan wasn’t depressed. He was overjoyed. A few days before the supposed suicide, I had a couple of drinks with him. You know what he said about the breakup? “Best thing that ever happened to me. I should have walked out on the bitch years ago.”

‘Then we started bullshitting about the Kane murder, and I told him about some of my concerns about the fingerprints and DNA. All he said was, “I’m working on that.”

‘I said, “What do you mean you’re working on it? I thought the case was closed?”

‘He said, “It wasn’t cleared. It isn’t closed. I’m working on it.” Listen, McCabe, Stan Allard was a smart, tough cop. A survivor. I say there’s no way he shot himself.’ Bollinger paused.

‘You think it was Pollock and Kane.’

‘One or the other. Or both. Duane did most of Kane’s dirty work, but they both liked hurting people. Probably liked killing them.’

‘They killed Allard because Allard was getting too close to proving Kane wasn’t dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sessions didn’t do anything about it?’

‘I’ve got some pretty good sources who tell me Sessions was on Kane’s payroll. Hired and paid for. He wanted everyone thinking Kane was dead. Again nothing I can prove. Or even print.’

‘How do you think they did Allard?’

‘I think Kane and Pollard, sorry, Pollock, may have been waiting in Stan’s motel room. When he gets home, they render him unconscious, sit him in a chair, wrap his hand around his gun, stick it in his mouth, and bang. There were powder burns inside Stan’s mouth and evidence of saliva on the barrel of the gun.’

‘What kind of gun?’

‘A Glock 17. It was Stan’s.’

‘Where did they find it?’

‘On the floor by the body.’

‘Nobody heard the shot?’

‘Nobody they could find. Nobody willing to talk. Remember, the guest list at the Endless Dunes is mostly hookers and other romantic types who don’t want to get caught.’

‘So Sessions doesn’t blow the whistle…’

‘Because Kane can prove he was on the take.’

‘He leave a suicide note?’

‘Nope.’

‘Any sign of a choke hold or drugs in Stan’s blood?’

‘No.’

‘So you can’t prove a thing.’

‘Damn, you’re good, McCabe.’

Friday. 10:30 A.M.

McCabe half expected Sandy to turn up on his flight back to Portland. Thank God, she didn’t. Sitting next to Sandy, chatting about her coming weekend with Casey, would have been more than he could have handled. Anyway, it was early. Sandy was probably still in her West End Avenue apartment, picking out the perfect wardrobe for parental visitation. Something conservative and motherly. Sandy was good at playing roles, equally good at dressing for them.

The plane was one of those small commuter jobs with undersized seats. He looked around to see if he could snag an empty row before squeezing into his assigned aisle seat. No such luck. The flight was packed. Next to him a distracted businesswoman in full New York chic rummaged through her Ferragamo briefcase. He smiled at her. She smiled back as she extracted a Wall Street Journal and stowed the briefcase under the seat. Then she immersed herself in the paper, signaling a lack of interest in small talk. McCabe leaned back in agreement, closed his eyes, and thought about his conversation with Melody Bollinger. Was Lucas Kane dead and buried in Florida or alive and cutting out hearts in Maine? He was ready to bet on the latter.

His cell phone vibrated shortly after the plane bumped down at Portland International Jetport. Maggie’s name appeared in the window. ‘What’s up?’

‘Good news, bad news. The good news is I’m back on the case and on my way to search Spencer’s house. Thought you might want to join us. Unless you’re still in New York.’

‘No, I’m here. Just touched down. What’s the bad news?’

‘We don’t know where Spencer is.’

‘He’s gone?’ McCabe looked out the window. The plane seemed to be crawling to the gate. ‘Gone where?’

‘We don’t know. The cop watching his house doesn’t know. The hospital doesn’t know either. Woman at the Levenson Heart Center said he was supposed to be in surgery this morning. He never showed up.’

Spencer would never miss surgery, would he? The plane stopped about a hundred yards short of the terminal. ‘When was the last time anyone spoke to him?’

‘At 6:00 A.M.,’ said Maggie. ‘Hospital called him at home. He answered.’

Maggie was interrupted by the voice of the captain. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid there’ll be a short delay while we wait for a gate to open up. Shouldn’t be more than a minute or two.’

‘Shit,’ McCabe said. Too loudly. The woman next to him gave him a look. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. He looked out the window. Couldn’t see anything.

‘A teenage boy died early this morning,’ Maggie continued, ‘from injuries in a car crash. Spencer was supposed to be installing his heart in a thirty-two-year-old woman named — ’ Maggie paused. Seemed like she was checking her notes. ‘- Lisa Lynch.’

‘He never showed up?’

‘You got it. They called Dr. Codman to cover. Almost lost the heart and the woman.’

Why would Spencer not show up? There were a lot of reasons, none of them good. ‘You tried the house yourself, and his cell?’

‘Yeah. Voice mail picks up on both. I think we were wrong about him not being involved. I think he flew the coop,’ said Maggie.

McCabe doubted it. Even if Maggie was right and Spencer was involved, taking off would practically be an admission of guilt. Okay. They had the earring, and the blood from the Lexus, but even taken together that wouldn’t be enough to convict. Not with a lawyer like Sheldon Thomas. Hell, they couldn’t even prove Spencer was driving the Lexus. The evidence they had was a lot less damning than OJ and his Bruno Magli shoes. Thomas would have told him that.