Two or three others shouted out questions more or less simultaneously. ‘How was she killed? Are we calling it murder? What’s the body doing on the Fish Pier?’
McCabe held up one hand for silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please. The ME’s office hasn’t made an official determination on cause of death. We’ll let you know as soon as they do. To answer your second question, the circumstances of her death are under investigation.
‘Is it true the body’s frozen solid? Stuffed in the trunk of that car over there?’ The question came from Josie Tenant, an on-camera reporter for NBC’s News Center 6. Tenant was, without question, the most aggressive of the locals. Rumor had it she was also Tom Shockley’s secret playmate du jour. Tenant’s record as the conduit of leaks on major cases suggested it was more than rumor.
‘Well, since the body’s been outside in subfreezing temperatures for at least two days, I’ll let you draw your own conclusion. I’m afraid that’s all for now. Detective Savage and I have a lot of work to do. I’ll ask you all please to stay back and respect the crime scene. Officers have been instructed to keep everyone out of the area until it’s been totally cleared. Thank you.’
They managed to reach Maggie’s car without answering any more questions. In the background McCabe could hear Tenant begin her live report. ‘Tonight there’s breaking news from the Portland Fish Pier. Earlier this evening the body of an unidentified woman was found stuffed into the trunk of a car illegally parked at the end of the pier. According to anonymous sources close to the investigation, the victim, who appeared to be in her twenties or early thirties, may have been Portland attorney Elaine E. Goff. However, identity has not yet been confirmed. Detectives on the scene told News Center 6 the victim’s body had been stored in the trunk long enough for it to freeze solid in the record low temperatures . . .’
‘Goddammit!’ McCabe slammed his fist hard against the dashboard of Maggie’s car. ‘Sonofabitch just couldn’t resist rewarding his little bedmate.’
McCabe pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Shockley’s direct line at police headquarters. As Maggie eased the car forward, Shockley picked up. ‘Hey, Mike. How you guys doing down at the pier?’ He sounded echoey, as if he were talking on speakerphone. ‘By the way, Bill Fortier’s been briefing me on the case.’ Well, that, at least, answered one question.
‘With all due respect, Chief, we’d be doing a whole lot better if you could hold off talking to your special friends in the press.’ These last words were delivered with more than a spoonful of sarcasm. ‘At least until we know for sure who the victim is – and maybe inform her next of kin?’
‘McCabe, that’s an outrageous accusation. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ McCabe heard Shockley asking Fortier to leave and to shut the door. Then the chief switched off the speakerphone and spoke in a low, threatening voice. ‘McCabe, if you want to stay in this department, if you even want to stay in Portland, you’d better learn to keep a tighter handle on your righteous indignation.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘You also better learn to get your facts straight.’
‘If I was mistaken, Chief, I apologize. But maybe you want to turn on News Center 6.’
There was a brief silence as Shockley turned on the set in his office. In the background, McCabe could hear what sounded like Josie Tenant’s live report. Shockley came back on. ‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Josie ought to know better than that.’ His voice sounded tight and angry. A second later he hung up. If he hadn’t managed to get himself fired, McCabe figured he might at least have damaged Tenant’s inside line to the department.
Maggie exited the Fish Pier and turned right on Commercial, heading east into the heart of the Old Port. McCabe leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. With the windows closed and the heater starting to blast warm air, the strong, greasy smell of Chicken McNuggets filled the car. McCabe’s foot found the empty container. He picked it up and peered in. There were a couple of cold McNuggets left on the bottom. ‘Mind if we get rid of this? It’s making me feel sick.’
‘Sorry. My dinner,’ said Maggie, an unrepentant junk food junkie. Somehow it never seemed to affect her. There wasn’t much fat on her long, lanky frame. She pulled over by a curbside trash bin, and McCabe tossed the box in. He left the window open to release the smell.
‘You okay?’ she asked. ‘Not going to puke or anything?’
McCabe was leaning back, looking out the open window, breathing in cold air. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m fine.’
She turned left onto Market. Cold or not, it was still Friday night in the Old Port, and the bars and clubs were hopping. Kids armed with ID, fake or real, darted from one noisy doorway to another.
‘Y’know, it’s weird,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you look at, what, a dozen murder victims over the years? Some cut up, some shot up, some missing arms, legs, and other body parts. Some bloated and turning green. Almost all of them bloodier than Our Lady of the Icicles. Yet never once have I seen you turn the color you did back there. Remember the song “A Whiter Shade of Pale”? That was you.’
‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’ 1967. Procol Harum. Number one on the British charts for six consecutive weeks. Only made number five in the U.S. Sometimes McCabe wished he had a delete button for all the crap sloshing around in his brain. ‘Okay. What about it?’
‘Just that I’ve never seen you react like that before. I was wondering why this time.’
‘You said you wouldn’t ask.’
‘I changed my mind.’
‘Too much booze on an empty stomach. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Come on, McCabe, I know you better than that.’
‘It was the booze,’ he said flatly.
‘Bullshit. It wasn’t the booze. It was the body. You did a triple take. Like you knew her or something. And those phone calls to Sandy? What was that all about?’
He looked at Maggie looking at him. He supposed he ought to tell her something. She was the closest thing to a friend he had in Portland, not counting Kyra or Casey. Finally he shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t know her. I just thought I did. She looked like my ex-wife.’
‘Sandy?’
‘The one and same. Casey’s mother. The wonderful woman who walked out on both of us and never looked back. I took one look at the body in the trunk, and, boom, I wasn’t looking at Jane Doe or Elaine Goff or anyone else. I was looking at Sandy. Dead. Naked. And frozen like a rock. It was like it really was her.’
‘Weird.’
‘Yeah. Weird.’ He didn’t tell Maggie the rest of it because he didn’t know how, and he wasn’t sure it was her business anyway. His cell rang. He checked caller ID. Sandy. He put the phone back in his pocket and let his voice mail pick up. He didn’t want to talk to her now. He realized he was sweating. He turned the heater down.
Six
Less than a minute later, Maggie threaded the big Ford down the narrow alleyway that led to the police garage. She pulled into a free space near the back door between two black-and-white units. Wordlessly they entered the building and took the elevator to four. The bureau was empty except for Tom Tasco, who was on the phone, and Brian Cleary, who had his feet up on his desk and was chewing away on a slice of pizza. Cleary, recently promoted to plainclothes, was the new kid on the block. Tasco was a seasoned detective with more than eighteen years in the PPD. McCabe figured Tasco was the right guy to show Cleary the ropes. McCabe had assigned Tasco’s former partner, Eddie Fraser, to work with the sometimes difficult Carl Sturgis.
Cleary looked up as McCabe and Maggie approached. ‘A couple more pies down the conference room if you guys want some,’ he said.
McCabe realized he was famished. He hadn’t eaten all day except for a bagel at breakfast. ‘Okay, let’s talk down there,’ he said. He signaled Tasco to follow when he finished his call. A couple of open boxes of pizza and some warm Cokes sat on the big table. A detective named John Hughes from Crimes Against Property was helping himself to a slice. ‘Who do I owe?’