‘I’m not sure what I can add . . .’

‘As an attorney, I’m sure you understand how important it is that we talk to everyone who knew her, everyone who worked with her. We want to get as complete a picture as possible of Lainie’s life and why someone might have wanted to end it.’

Ogden tried to interrupt, but this time it was McCabe who kept talking. ‘I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. Later this morning or early this afternoon if that works for you.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not terribly convenient. Barbara and I are having guests from out of town over for lunch. She’s been planning it for some time, and you know how women are when husbands mess up their plans.’ He chuckled in a man-to-man way.

McCabe wondered if Ogden was trying to avoid a meeting – and if so, why? He wouldn’t let him off the hook that easily. ‘It’s important, Mr Ogden, and it shouldn’t take very long.’

‘Couldn’t we do this tomorrow?’

‘Today would be better.’

‘Oh, alright,’ Ogden said, not trying to hide his impatience. ‘If you can be here at ten thirty I’ll see if I can spare you half an hour or so.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Cape Elizabeth.’

McCabe checked his watch. It was nine thirty. No part of Cape Elizabeth was more than twenty minutes away. If he moved fast he could grab a shower and still be there easily. He’d rather meet with Ogden at 109, but then again, going to his house would give him a chance to see how the man lived. The only other problem was the ten o’clock meeting with his detectives. He’d have to ask Maggie to run it and fill him in later. He was sure she’d be okay with that. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you at ten thirty sharp.’

‘Good. Our cottage is at 367 Ledge Road. Do you know where that is?’

‘No, but I can find it.’

McCabe was showered, shaved, and out the door by ten. The parking area downstairs was plowed, and it took him less than five minutes to clear the snow and ice from the Crown Vic and pull out onto the Eastern Prom. He headed down Fore Street and then veered left by the statue of John Ford onto York Street heading toward the bridge. He’d be on Ledge Road with time to spare unless the bridge was stuck in the open position for the passage of a freighter or high-masted sailboat. It wasn’t. He followed Route 77 through South Portland and into Cape Elizabeth. The town was one of Portland’s most affluent suburbs and consisted mostly of broad, curving streets with large, comfortable colonials and Victorians set on oversized wooded lots. It housed a significant percentage of Portland’s doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers and, he guessed, the largest percentage of stay-at-home moms in the entire state.

It was a bright, clear day. Crisp and cold but still beautiful. Virginal snow lined either side of the roads. Following the directions he found on Google Maps, he turned left at Old Ocean House Road, left again at Trundy Point, then a slight left onto Ledge Road, which ran no more than a hundred yards inland from the open ocean and had to be one of the best addresses in town. Number 367 was on the left, marked by a large black rural mailbox. Just numbers. No name. The house itself, as well as the ocean behind it, was hidden from view by a dense stand of birch and maple, bare limbs covered in a delicate filigree of snow. He turned down a private drive that, at ten thirty on a Saturday morning, after a more than twelve-inch snowfall, was already neatly plowed and sanded. The drive curved through the woods for nearly a hundred yards before opening onto a white gravel parking area, also immaculately plowed. He pulled the Crown Vic into a parking area to the right of the house between a black Mercedes-Benz 500 S-Class – appropriate wheels for one of the top lawyers in town – and a ten-year-old Ford Taurus with a dented rear fender. No snow on the Merc. Ogden had already been out and about this morning.

McCabe got out and looked around. The hundred-year-old shingle-style cottage, as Ogden called it, was a cottage the same way Mt Washington was a hill. McCabe gauged the house at a minimum of six or seven thousand square feet set on at least three acres of spectacular ocean-front property. He was five minutes early but had no intention of standing around in the cold until the appointed hour. He headed up the path to the front door and rang the bell. Chimes echoed inside. The door opened, and a middle-aged woman, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and holding a plastic bucket, stood looking at him.

‘Mrs Ogden?’ he asked, pretty sure it wasn’t her.

‘No. I’m Chloe. I’ll go get her for you.’

‘Actually, I’m looking for Mr Ogden. I’m Detective Michael McCabe.’

‘I know who you are. Come on in. You’re letting all the heat out.’

McCabe moved into the front hall.

‘I recognize you. I saw you on TV last year. After that murder of the teenaged girl. Katie Dubois. That was you, right?’

They called Portland a city, but it was amazing what a small town it really was. Everybody knew everybody. In New York no one would have remembered. ‘Yup. That was me.’

‘I’ll get him. Take your shoes off before you walk anywhere. I just finished the floors.’ He did as he was told. ‘You can give me your coat.’

She went off, bucket and coat in hand, and disappeared down the hall to the back of the house.

McCabe looked around. Oversized cottage or not, the place was spectacular. High ceilings, fabulous moldings, and stained glass windows. From where he stood he could see at least two fireplaces. Both had wood fires burning away in them.

‘Lieutenant McCabe?’ A good-looking man, tall and slender, with expensively cut gray hair and a confident manner, walked toward him. Even dressed down in faded blue jeans and a Helly Hansen fleece jacket, and even with a day’s growth of gray bristle covering his pink cheeks, Ogden looked like a Hollywood casting director’s dream choice for an A-list lawyer. ‘Hank Ogden,’ he said, extending a hand. McCabe shook it. He recognized Ogden as one of the guys standing next to Goff, wearing black tie, in the photo Tasco had shown them.

‘Thanks for the promotion, Mr Ogden, but it’s Sergeant. Detective Sergeant, actually.’ McCabe held up his badge wallet. Ogden ignored it, so McCabe put it away. ‘Beautiful place you have here.’

‘Yes, it is. An early John Calvin Stevens. Built in 1897 and, except for the kitchen and bathrooms, still mostly original. It’s been in my wife’s family for some time.’

McCabe had heard of Stevens. The best-known Portland architect of the last century, he’d been the go-to guy for fancy houses in and around the city from about 1890 until the 1930s. Anybody who lived in a John Calvin Stevens house bragged about it. Even taciturn Yankees. They just bragged more discreetly.

Ogden led him into a small book-lined study. A fire was gently crackling in yet another fireplace, this one an Adam. He pointed McCabe to one of two red leather wing chairs. He sat in the other. He studied McCabe for a moment, then took a sip of coffee from a bone china cup with pink flowers printed on the outside. McCabe wouldn’t have minded coffee himself, but Ogden didn’t offer any, and McCabe wasn’t about to ask.

‘As I told you on the phone, Sergeant, my time’s limited, so let’s get right to it. What would you like to know?’

‘Tell me about Elaine Goff.’

‘What is there to tell? Lainie was a brilliant, beautiful woman and a fine lawyer. Well on her way to becoming a partner at the firm. She would have been one of the youngest we’ve ever had.’ He put on his sad face. ‘Her death is a tragedy beyond words.’

‘Do you know why anyone would want to kill her?’

‘I can’t imagine. I have to believe it was a random attack. Robbery or maybe rape as the motive. You know more about these things than I do.’

‘You and Elaine Goff were the last two attorneys to sign out from Palmer Milliken her last day at the office. That was Friday, December twenty-third.’ McCabe paused, wondering if Ogden would care to comment. He didn’t. ‘You signed out ten minutes after she did, at ten after nine. Did you happen to see her in the office before you left?’