‘Was she?’

‘Yeah. Two minutes later. Carrying a hot dog from the cart in the square. Must’ve been hungry.’

‘And the second time?’

‘She left for the night about an hour later. Around nine. Stormed out of here like hell wouldn’t have it. Must have been real pissed off about something. Didn’t sign out that time either. I called after her to come back. She just flipped me a bird.’ Randall smiled at the memory. ‘That was one angry lady.’

‘What’d you do?’

‘Nothing. I knew her. It was no big deal. She went out through the door that goes down to the lawyers’ private garage.’

‘That door there?’ He pointed to an unmarked gray steel door next to the main entrance.

‘Yeah. That one.’

‘Have you seen her since?’

Randall shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘You said there was another late sign-out?’

‘Yeah. Ten minutes or so after she left, Mr Ogden came down. Henry Ogden. He’s one of the senior partners at Palmer Milliken.’

‘Was he angry, too?’

Randall shook his head and shrugged. ‘No. He seemed okay. He looked like he always looks. Like a rich white guy. Handed me an envelope. Christmas card with a hundred bucks inside. Last year it was just fifty. Told me to get something nice for my kids.’

‘Anybody else leave the building after Henry Ogden?’

‘No.’

‘Working a double like that, Randall, any chance you might have dozed off and missed somebody else coming in and out?’

Jackson stiffened. ‘No. No chance at all.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. Only people to leave after Ogden were the regular cleaning crew. They get here around six and are usually outta here about one in the morning.’

‘How many people?’

‘Half a dozen, give or take.’

‘They have to sign in or out?’

Randall shook his head. No.

‘Same folks all the time?’

‘Not really. Company mixes ’em up. Specially around the holidays.’

‘They work for METCO?’

‘No, METCO just handles security. Some other company does the cleaning. You wanna know who, you’ll have to ask building management.’

‘You still have the sign-in sheets from that day?’

‘Not here. METCO might. I don’t know how long they hold on to them.’

‘Would anybody be there now?’

‘Nope. Office won’t be open till eight o’clock Monday morning. We’ve got a number we’re supposed to call in case of emergency. You want that?’

‘Yes.’

Jackson opened a drawer and pulled out a business card. He handed it to McCabe. The name on the card was Scott Ginsberg. He knew Ginsberg. He’d retired from the PPD’s Community Affairs Division two years earlier. Maybe there was life after leaving the force. His cell number was 555-1799.

McCabe pointed to a bank of small screens behind the desk. ‘How about your video. Are you recording, or is it just live?’

‘Recorded.’

‘Tape?’

‘No. Digital.’

Made sense. Digital meant there was no good reason not to record. The images could be fed right into a computer at METCO’s offices. Storage wasn’t a problem. Neither was the cost of videotape. There was no reason not to hold on to the images more or less forever. McCabe called Eddie Fraser and, after congratulating him on Tinker Bell’s rave reviews, gave him Scott Ginsberg’s number and asked him to start reviewing the video. ASAP. So far all they had was the body and the note. They needed more. Starting with a next of kin.

McCabe gave Jackson his card. Told him to get in touch if he thought of anything else. Then he asked him to call Beth Kotterman.

They exited the elevator at five. ‘My office is at the end of the hall to the right,’ said Kotterman. She led. McCabe followed. The corridor was dimly lit and empty. The air was cold.

Kotterman read his thoughts. ‘Heat’s programmed to go down to fifty at seven o’clock unless somebody calls to have it left on.’

‘Nobody working late tonight?’

‘I’m sure some of the lawyers are.’

‘No lawyers on this floor?’

‘No. Five’s mostly administrative. HR. Accounting. Office management. That sort of thing. We tend to be more nine-to-five types.’ She unlocked her office door and flipped on the lights.

As head of HR, Beth Kotterman rated a corner office. It was furnished in generic midlevel modern. Not what the partners would get, but a hell of a lot more comfortable than anything at 109. Kotterman had added a lot of touches that kept the place from being generically boring. A small jungle of indoor plants that included a ceiling-sized ficus dominated one corner. One wall was covered with family photos and a large crayon drawing titled Gramma Bethby. Bethby was wearing a bright green dress and had oversized feet and big glasses. The portrait was framed and carefully hung in a place of honor. It was signed BECKY.

Kotterman didn’t bother taking off her coat. She sat and pointed McCabe to a straight-back chair in front of her desk. The interview chair, McCabe guessed. ‘How old’s Becky?’ he asked.

Kotterman relaxed a little. ‘Seven now. She was four when I sat for the portrait. How sure are you that the body you found is Lainie Goff? The other officer, Detective Cleary, said you didn’t know yet.’

‘We’ve tentatively confirmed her identity from photographs,’ said McCabe. ‘We’re ninety-nine percent certain the dead woman is Elaine Goff.’

‘Not one hundred? It could still be someone else?’

‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope. We’ll do a dental records check to be absolutely certain, but I think you can assume it’s Goff.’

‘I’m going to have to let people in the firm know.’

‘That’s fine. Most of them probably already know. News Center 6 jumped the gun on that.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘I agree. We always like to inform next of kin before they hear it from the media.’

‘Of course. And you think Lainie, assuming it is Lainie, was murdered?’

‘Yes.’

‘Odd.’ Kotterman looked away. ‘One doesn’t expect that sort of thing to happen in Portland, but I guess there are no safe places anymore. Maybe there never were. Any idea who did it?’

‘No. We’re just beginning the investigation.’

‘How can I help?’

‘Like I said, the first thing I need is next of kin. I was hoping you’d have the name on file.’

‘We should.’ Kotterman woke up her sleeping computer and started tapping keys. ‘All employees give us an emergency contact number on their first day of work,’ she said. ‘It’s usually a relative.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘This may not help you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, most people list a family member. Lainie didn’t.’

‘Who’d she put?’

‘A woman named Janie Archer. New York City address.’

‘Maybe a sister?’

‘Lainie lists her as a friend.’

‘Lainie and Janie, huh? Can you give me the contact info for Ms Archer?’

She wrote an address and telephone number on a Post-it note and handed it to McCabe. Upper East Side Manhattan address, 212 area code. He committed both to memory and tossed the note.

‘That contact info is six years old,’ said Beth Kotterman. ‘Everyone’s supposed to update their information annually, but a lot of people never bother. Lainie’s friend may not live there anymore.’

It wasn’t a big problem. He should be able to track Archer down using either of the public databases Portland PD subscribed to, Accurint or AutoTrackXP. ‘Do you have anything else to indicate next of kin?’

‘Yes. There’s one more place I can check.’ Kotterman started tapping keys again. ‘All employees get a term life policy as part of their comp package. I’m looking to see who Lainie put down as beneficiary.’

‘How much is the policy worth?’ asked McCabe.

‘One and a half times annual salary. For Lainie that’d be in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.’

Not a bad neighborhood, McCabe thought. Certainly enough to offer a reasonable motive for murder. But if money was the motive, why go through all the show-off stuff down at the pier? Why not make the death look like an accident? The only reason McCabe could think of was to throw investigators off track, and that didn’t seem likely. ‘Does the policy pay out if the employee is murdered?’