He reached the stone steps leading up from the road to the front path. By now Abby must have seen the light flickering in the window. He imagined her standing there debating what to do. Did she have a phone? If she did, why didn’t she call the cops? Maybe she figured they wouldn’t believe anything reported by someone they thought was crazy. She would have been right.

What was Abby feeling as she stood there? Curiosity? Fear? Something less rational? Was she already in the middle of a full-blown psychotic episode by the time she looked up, saw the light, and decided to enter the house? For what it was worth, he didn’t think so. How many ‘psychotic nutcases,’ as Bowman called her, ran four miles a night? Bowman had also said, Abby makes a few bucks keeping an eye on some of the summer cottages for the owners. She has keys to all of them. This was one of them. That’s why she went in to investigate. Cause and effect. A deliberate decision. A rational, even courageous, decision. It didn’t seem like the behavior pattern of a schizophrenic who was ‘off her meds.’ He made a note to find and interview Abby Quinn’s doctor as soon as he could. Check Bowman’s assumptions. Check his own.

Of course, even if Abby was totally rational when she entered the house, no jury would ever take her testimony seriously. No prosecutor would even put her on the stand. He imagined a defense lawyer interrogating her on cross, Abby sitting there helpless. You do have a history of seeing things, don’t you, Ms Quinn? Yes. Hallucinations? Yes. Things that aren’t there? Yes. Things that never happened? Yes. Hearing them as well, according to your medical records. Yes, once again. The killer, if they ever caught him, had little to fear from Abby Quinn in a court of law. McCabe, if he ever found Abby, would have to use her in a different way. Perhaps to lead him to the murderer, but not to count on her testimony to convict. It would take something other than Abby’s testimony to right the wrong of Lainie Goff’s murder. He shoved the thought away. He didn’t need to be thinking about that now.

Instead of adding their own footprints to the chaos that was already there, Maggie and McCabe went around to the driveway at the side of the house and headed toward the garage. McCabe slipped on the latex gloves and raised the door a couple of feet. He and Maggie squatted. She pointed at one set of tire treads and then the other. Both were clearly visible, frozen into icy permanence, and would stay that way at least until the temps went above thirty-two and stayed there for more than a day or two. Jacobi would be able to read and photograph them without any problem.

McCabe slid the garage door shut and followed Maggie up the four steps that led to the back of the porch. He shined his light at the area around the door. Like Bowman said, no sign of a B&E. He tried the door. Still open. They waited while Maggie found the key inside the lantern where Markham said it would be and slipped it into a paper evidence bag. If the bad guy used that key to gain access, his prints might still be on it.

McCabe wondered if Lainie walked to her death. Wondered if she was still conscious at that point. Blood tox results would show any drugs used to knock her out, but they wouldn’t have those until well after she thawed. They bent down and donned their paper booties. McCabe pushed the door open, and they went in. He flipped half a dozen dimmer switches and adjusted a ceiling-full of bright floods downward. They worked their way around the room, checking for bits of evidence Bowman might have missed that would tie the scene to Lainie or, even better, to the man who took her life. Except for the fact that the heat was on, nothing seemed out of place. They went upstairs.

The room in which Lainie Goff died was nearly as big as McCabe’s entire apartment, at least if you counted the luxurious bathroom and the two walk-in closets, each spacious enough to serve as individual guest rooms. Through the wall of windows, he could see the rocks and the open sea beyond. Everything in the room was neat, tidy, and in its place. He wondered why the bad guy bothered to light candles. The full moon shining through the wall of windows would have provided more than enough light to dispatch the victim without alerting the curious jogger passing by below. Had he intended some kind of ritual murder, a ceremony of death? All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword. Or did he simply find rape and murder by candlelight romantic? Perhaps the true reasons could only be understood by the killer himself.

Thirteen

Portland, Maine

Saturday, January 7

3:00 A.M.

‘I’m not in real good shape to talk right now,’ Janie Archer told McCabe, ‘but you said it was urgent, so, hey, here I am.’ He was standing on the deck of the Francis R. Mangini, waiting for one of the crew to finish tying the fireboat up to her regular slot on the Portland side.

Archer was slurring her words. McCabe could hear a male voice shouting something unintelligible in the background. He was tempted to tell her to get some sleep and he’d catch her in the morning, but it already was morning, and from the sound of her she might be out of commission for most of the rest of the day. He decided to get what he could now.

He followed Maggie up the slippery ramp to the pier. ‘Ms Archer. My name’s McCabe –’

‘Yeah, I know. You’re a cop. You said that on the message.’ He heard a giggle. Then Archer must’ve pressed her hand over the receiver, because he could just make out her next muffled words. ‘Stop it, Brett. I’m talking.’ Then a loud whisper, ‘To a cop.’

Maggie mouthed the words ‘Good night’ and signaled she was headed home to bed. McCabe threw her a distracted wave and watched her disappear into the night. It was snowing even harder on this side. Three or four inches already, and the wind was swirling it into drifts. They predicted a big one, and it looked like, for once, they’d be right.

‘Are you sure you can talk now, Ms Archer? Sounds like you’re busy.’

‘No. I’m okay. It’s alright. You said it was about Lainie. What is it? What’d she do?’

Had Janie Archer been next of kin, McCabe would have been required to arrange for someone from the NYPD or another agency to visit her apartment and inform her of Lainie’s death in person. But she wasn’t. She was only a friend. ‘Ms. Archer. I’m sorry to have to tell you, your friend Elaine Goff is dead.’

He heard an intake of breath. ‘Oh shit.’

My sentiments exactly, thought McCabe.

‘Lainie’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lainie’s really dead?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid she is.’

‘I thought she was in Aruba.’

‘She never made it to Aruba.’

‘What happened? Was she driving that fucking Beemer too fast again?’

‘No. It wasn’t an accident,’ he said.

‘Not an accident? Then what? She didn’t OD or anything like that?’

No attempt to hide Goff’s drug habit. Maybe with Goff dead Archer figured it didn’t matter. ‘Was she a heavy user?’ he asked.

‘Occasional. Social. It wasn’t a big deal with her.’

McCabe reached the five-minute parking zone to find his car covered in a layer of snow. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had a chance to scrape it off. ‘Do you know the name of her dealer?’ he asked, unlocking the door.

There was hesitation on the other end of the line. ‘Uh . . . gee . . . no. No, I don’t.’

He climbed in and started the engine. ‘Ms. Archer, Elaine Goff’s body was found earlier this evening. If you can give us the name of her dealer, it would be a big help.’ He waited. There was no response. He decided to press harder. ‘Your friend didn’t just die. She was murdered. Drugs were found in her car. There may be a connection.’