Now there was shock. ‘Murdered? Lainie was murdered?’ He could hear the depth of it in her voice. People like Janie Archer, nice people, middle-class people, people with real homes and good jobs, never believed the people they knew, their friends or family, could ever be the victims of anything as ugly as murder. That sort of thing didn’t happen to them. Not in a city like Portland, Maine. Not anywhere. In their minds it only happened to poor people, black people, people in the projects.

‘Do you know the name of her dealer?’

‘She never told me his name. She called him the hotdog man. “Gotta go see the hot-dog man,” she’d say.’

It didn’t mean anything to him. He wasn’t sure if ‘the hot-dog man’ was a dealer’s tag or if selling hot-dogs was what the guy ostensibly did for a living. Easy enough to find out unless he was a total amateur. The narco guys were aware of most of the pros in town. Even the part-timers. There were a few seconds of silence.

‘You’re really a cop? This isn’t some kind of stupid joke?’ The slurring of words was gone.

‘I’m really a cop. Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland, Maine, Police Department, and no, it’s not a joke.’

‘Funny. I was pissed off ’cause she hadn’t sent me a card from Aruba. Stupid me. You better give me some ID. A badge number or something I can check later.’

McCabe repeated the number slowly so she could copy it down.

‘That’s McCabe? M-C? Not M-A-C?’

He told her M-C was correct. After that he could hear her talking to her boyfriend again, this time more calmly. ‘Alright, Brett. It’s time for you to go home.’ Pause. ‘No, I’m sorry, but tonight’s over.’ Brett said something McCabe couldn’t make out. Then he heard Archer again. ‘Yes, something’s happened, and no, I don’t need your help. Just go.’ Pause. ‘Thank you.’ Then another pause and a muttered ‘Asshole.’ Finally he heard a deep breath, and Archer was addressing him again.

‘Where did you get my name?’ she asked.

He pushed the defroster to high, but the car hadn’t yet warmed up enough for it to accomplish much of anything. He realized he was shivering. ‘Elaine Goff listed you as her emergency contact at Palmer Milliken. I got your number from the head of HR.’ Behind him he could hear the loud scraping of a snowplow. He hoped the guy didn’t block him in behind a wall of snow, forcing him to dig his way out of the parking space.

‘Jesus, Lainie was murdered,’ Archer said. This time it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, delivered in a flat voice. Quietly, without affect, as if Janie Archer were merely trying the idea on for size. As if by saying it aloud, she’d be able to tell if such a thing was even possible.

McCabe waited for her to say more, but there was only silence on the other end of the line. ‘Ms. Archer, do you know if Lainie had any family? Anyone who should be notified of her death?’

‘What? I’m sorry. What did you say?’

He repeated the question.

‘No. I’m probably the closest thing to family Lainie had.’ Archer’s voice morphed from disbelief to sadness as if she’d just accepted the reality of her friend’s death and was beginning to mourn. ‘Janie and Lainie they called us. We were so close it was almost like we were two sides of the same person.’

‘What happened to Lainie’s parents?’

‘Her mother died while we were in college. At the end of sophomore year. After that and right through law school, she spent Thanksgivings and Christmases and a couple of summers with my family in New Jersey. Lainie was the sister I never had.’

‘How about her father?’

‘She never knew her real father. He was killed in a car accident when Lainie was a baby.’

‘His name was Goff?’

‘I’m not sure. I think so. It may have been her mother’s maiden name.’

‘There were no siblings?’

‘No. She was an only child.’

‘You just said, “She never knew her real father.” Was there ever a stepfather who might still be around?’

‘She had a stepfather, but he hasn’t been part of her life since she was a kid.’ Archer hesitated again. ‘I don’t think she’d want him notified of anything.’

‘But he’s alive?’

‘Not as far as Lainie was concerned.’

‘Can you give me his name?’

‘Albright. Wallace Albright. He lives in Maine. Camden, I think.’

‘What was Lainie’s problem with Mr Albright?’

Archer didn’t answer right away. When she did, all she said was ‘I think you better ask him that.’

McCabe thought about pressing the issue but decided instead to wait until he talked to Albright. He changed the subject. ‘How’d she pay for school?’

‘She had a scholarship. And loans. And summer jobs. After her mother died, she also had the equity on her mother’s house and the proceeds of a life insurance policy. Couple of hundred thou altogether. She used that to live on all the way through Cornell and for a little time after. Until she started at Palmer Milliken. It was barely enough. Lainie had expensive tastes. Always did. Officer . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name again?’

‘McCabe. Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe.’

‘Officer McCabe, you said Lainie was murdered – but you didn’t tell me when or how. Do you know who did it?’

‘There isn’t very much we can tell you yet. We only found her body a few hours ago, and the investigation is just getting under way.’

‘Are you sure it was Lainie you found?’

‘As sure as we can be. Because death was the result of a homicide, there’ll have to be an autopsy. Probably at the end of the week. After that it looks like it’ll be up to you to make funeral arrangements once the body is released.’

‘I guess so,’ Archer said. ‘Somebody has to be there for Lainie, and I guess I’m it. I’m the only one she has. What kind of . . . I don’t know how to put this delicately. What kind of shape is her body in? Did the killer . . .’

‘She’s not mutilated or grotesque in any way, if that’s what you’re getting at. She’s simply dead.’ There was a brief silence; then McCabe asked, ‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm her?’

‘No.’

‘Or any reason anyone would want to see her dead?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Did she ever mention a Palmer Milliken life insurance policy to you?’

‘No.’

He asked her a few more pro forma questions; then, just as they were about to hang up, she said, ‘Ogden.’

‘What?’

‘Ogden.’

‘What about Ogden?’ Lainie left the office looking pissed. Ogden left ten minutes later. Was he pissed as well? He looked like he always looks. Like a rich white guy.

‘You ought to talk to him about Lainie. Talk to Henry Ogden.’

‘Were they having an affair?’

There was only a slight pause and a sigh before Archer answered. ‘Talk to Ogden.’

Before he could ask her anything more, the phone went dead. He didn’t call back.

McCabe pulled out of the ferry terminal and turned right onto Commercial Street. At a little after three o’clock on a snowy January morning, the streets were empty in a way New York’s never would have been, not even in the middle of a blizzard. There was no traffic, and there were no people. Bars and hotels were shut up tight, and the last of the Old Port revelers had long since gone home. With an overnight parking ban in effect, there weren’t even any parked cars. Nothing moved but the snowplows, scraping their way up and down the streets, orange lights flashing, giant insects on the prowl.

The Crown Vic’s heater was finally generating some warmth, and he turned the blowers on high. He took a left by the Japanese restaurant on India and a right at the treatment plant on Fore Street, steering the big Ford gingerly through the snow, hoping that the Eastern Prom had been plowed and that the car’s rear wheel drive would get him up the hill.

The road turned out to be passable, and it took only a minute or two longer than usual to reach the big white Victorian at the top. He looked up. Kyra had left a living-room light on to welcome him home. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.