But instead of turning left into the building’s parking area, he pushed on through the deepening snow, straight up the Prom all the way to Congress, where he took a left. He drove three blocks, made another left, and then another, completing the circle. He pulled to a stop across the street from the building.
He sat in the dark, engine running, and imagined Kyra waiting upstairs. This afternoon’s lovemaking seemed weeks and not mere hours ago. Here he lies where he longed to be. It was true. Still, something else tugged at him.
Did you love her then? Do you still love her now? Richard Wolfe had asked him during their sessions.
Not in the way you mean.
In what way, then?
In the only way I ever loved Sandy.
He needed time and space to understand why he reacted the way he did down at the Fish Pier. Why he was pushing Kyra so hard to marry. That would be impossible to do with her lying next to him. He knew that no matter how silently he crept into their room, she’d wake and smile. No matter how carefully he pulled off his clothes and slid between the sheets next to the warmth of her, she’d open her arms and wrap them around him in greeting. She’d ask about what happened at the Fish Pier and later on Harts Island. He’d tell her to go back to sleep, promise to tell her about it in the morning. She might do that. Might give him space to think. But she might not. And if she didn’t, if, instead, she raised her head and propped it up on one hand and looked at him with those glorious, inquisitive eyes and said no, no, it was alright, he could tell her now, well, that just might be a problem. Because he wasn’t ready yet to talk to her about the feelings Goff’s resemblance to Sandy had triggered in him. He needed to understand all that himself first.
He glanced over at the snow-covered mound that was his own car. The classic ’57 T-Bird convertible he and Sandy splurged on the first year they were married. The Bird was the only project that ever held both their hearts for more than a minute. And that included the daughter she never really wanted, the pregnancy she threatened to abort. He remembered how the two of them spent weekend after weekend working on the car together, restoring it to a gleaming newness that drew stares and admiring whistles from everyone who laid eyes on it. A thing of beauty and a joy forever. Sort of like Sandy herself. At least the beauty part. The car and Casey were all that remained from the ten years he invested in a failed marriage. Except, of course, for the rage and desire he sometimes felt in his dreams. Tonight on the Fish Pier those things made him feel, on some level, like he was being unfaithful to Kyra. He wasn’t happy with that. It was something he needed to deal with.
McCabe slipped the car into drive and plowed his way back into the road. Once again he turned left toward Congress Street. This time he didn’t drive in a circle.
Fourteen
Three forty-two Brackett was a three-story brick Victorian with a slate mansard roof set in a neighborhood where the elegance of Portland’s West End began its slow transition into the small apartment houses, strip malls, and gas stations that lay farther north and east toward Longfellow Square. McCabe pulled in across the street and sat for a minute, engine running, and studied the building. Nice enough to serve as appropriate digs for a young lawyer on the upswing of her career, but not, he was sure, what Lainie ultimately aspired to.
There were no other cars on the street, the overnight parking ban having chased them all to designated downtown garages or school parking lots. He couldn’t even see any evidence of Tasco’s canvassers. They’d probably already covered the area and by now were blocks away.
On the porch McCabe could make out six small black mailboxes hung in two rows to the left of the glass-fronted doors. Six mailboxes. Six apartments. Headlights from a police cruiser approached in his rearview mirror. The unit passed by without slowing. When its taillights disappeared in the distance, McCabe pulled out and took a right around the corner. Fifty yards up, the familiar stone spire of St Luke’s Episcopal loomed out of the snow-filled sky. The parking lot behind the church had already been plowed, probably a couple of times. He found a protected spot in the lee of the building and pulled in. He stuffed a flashlight and a pair of evidence gloves in the side pocket of his overcoat. He scrounged around the glove box but couldn’t find any lock picks. Shockley sneered at such stuff as ‘TV copudrama bullshit.’ Maybe so, but useful bullshit as far as McCabe was concerned. Well, he’d have to do without.
He wrapped his coat tightly around himself, walked back to Brackett, crossed the street, and climbed five steps up to the porch. The tenants’ names were printed on strips of white card stock and inserted into slots at the bottom of each numbered mailbox. E. Goff had lived in 2F. F had to stand for ‘front,’ because the only other letter designation was R. Apartment 2R was occupied by someone named K. Wilson. Like Tasco told him, Andrew Barker, the landlord, lived directly below Goff in 1F. A. Rosefsky and P. Donelley shared 1R. S. Hanley resided in 3F. And a pair of Chus, N. and T., were in 3R. None of the names meant anything to McCabe, and Tasco’s team would have already knocked on all their doors and spoken to those who answered. Still, he might want to talk to them later. Apartment dwellers in Portland tended to notice the comings and goings of strange faces. He wondered which of them had known Lainie personally, which had been willing to share information about their dead neighbor.
Twin ovals of beveled glass, covered on the inside by white lace and framed in polished oak, graced the double front doors. He thought about ringing the bell for 1F and waking Barker but decided if he could handle the locks he’d rather go in unnoticed. He glanced back at the street. No one in sight. He slipped on the evidence gloves and pushed down on the brass handle. To his surprise the door was unlocked. No copudrama bullshit required.
He found himself in a handsome if slightly faded hallway. Etched glass sconces bathed beige walls in soft light. The dark oak floor and stairs were covered with an Oriental runner that, despite a few worn spots, would muffle the sound of his steps. The place looked like Barker was trying. As he passed, McCabe glanced at his own image reflected in a large gilt-framed mirror hanging at the bottom of the stairs. He looked like shit.
He climbed up to the second floor and turned back toward 2F. There was no padlock on the door, no yellow crime scene tape crisscrossing the opening. Jacobi’s team must’ve finished going over the place. He tried the lock, hoping it, too, had been left open. It hadn’t, but it didn’t much matter. The lock was an old-fashioned lever tumbler. Easy pickin’s, my man McCabe, easy pickin’s, he could hear his ex-NYPD partner Dave Hennings whispering in his comforting baritone. He fished in his wallet for two paper clips he kept stuffed at the bottom. He hadn’t practiced the trick in a while and never had the deft hands Hennings had. Still, he was pretty sure the lock wouldn’t present much of a challenge. He opened the first clip and bent one end to a ninety-degree angle. Then he opened the second and folded one of its ends over on itself, forming a loop. He squeezed the sides of the loop as closely together as he could and pushed it into the lock, applying steady tension to the left. At the same time, he inserted the angled end of clip number one into the lock just above the loop. He poked around until he found the first pin and pushed it down. Then he froze. He’d heard a sound. Had it come from inside the apartment? A radiator turning on? The creak of a floorboard from someone sneaking around inside? He stood silent and listened. Nothing. He waited a few seconds. Still nothing. He went back to his work. One by one he found the other pins and pushed. The lock slid open. It might have been easier with a set of professional picks, but not a whole lot faster or quieter.