Up on the porch, a boy and a girl, both a little older than Casey, lounged against the railing, sucking hard at the butt ends of cigarettes, doing their best to ignore him. The boy looked away when McCabe approached. The girl stared back disdainfully through a heavy coating of makeup. Her addiction to black lipstick and even blacker eyeliner appeared to be at least as strong as the one to nicotine. Beneath her painted face she wore a short, fluffy white fake fur jacket over a thigh-high miniskirt, which in turn covered dark gray long johns stuffed into fluffy boots that kind of matched the fluffy jacket. Except for the long johns, an accommodation to the weather, the package screamed hooker. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find at Sanctuary House, but somehow this wasn’t it.

McCabe put on his best smiley face. ‘Either of you know where I can find John Kelly?’

Neither answered, so he repeated the question.

Finally the girl nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. We know.’

‘Well, good. That’s a start. Now maybe you can tell me where that would be?’

She took a last deep drag and tossed her butt into a number ten can apparently set out there for the purpose. ‘I’ll go get him for you,’ she said and headed into the house. The boy continued smoking and looking out toward the street, his acne-scarred face almost lost under the array of hardware pierced into the flesh.

‘Pretty nice day today, huh?’ said McCabe.

No answer.

‘Still pretty cold, though. You might need a jacket.’

Still no answer.

‘You have a name?’

‘No.’ The kid flicked his spent butt into the can and headed for the door. McCabe shrugged and followed. Once inside, he found the girl walking back toward him.

‘He says to wait in his office. That’s it there.’ She pointed toward a closed door with a hand-lettered sign Scotch-taped to it that read KNOCK!

‘Says he’ll be right with you.’ She disappeared up the stairs. McCabe went in without knocking and closed the door behind him. There wasn’t much to Kelly’s office, and what there was looked shopworn. Third- or fourth-generation hand-me-down furniture. An old oak desk. A couple of folding metal chairs for visitors. A tall metal filing cabinet in the corner. Pretty much every surface was covered with paper – files, manuals, piles of newspaper clippings – most of which appeared to be about Sanctuary House or Kelly himself. All highly laudatory. The one on top had a picture of Kelly with his hands resting on the shoulders of a couple of teenagers, both of whom looked more cleaned up than the pair on the porch. A HERO OF THE STREETS, the headline declared.

Two facing walls were covered with books stacked on shelving constructed out of cinder blocks and unpainted boards like in a college dorm. Hundreds of them. Most of the titles seemed appropriate for someone in Kelly’s line of work. Broken Lives: The Tragedy of Child Abuse; The Psychotherapy of Abandoned Children; Fund-raising for Nonprofits: Building Community-Based Partnerships. He pulled out a volume called The Healing Power of Play: Working with Abused Children by a woman named Eliana Gil, skimmed a few pages, and then put it back. He squatted down and checked out the bottom shelves. Mostly books about religion and theology. Two titles stuck in the right-hand corner behind Kelly’s desk caught his eye. The first was The Theology of the Prophetic Tradition. He pulled out the second, An Introduction to the Old Testament Prophets and Their Message. He flipped through it. A lot of the pages were marked by yellow highlighter. He flipped to the table of contents and was hit by a surge of excitement, followed by a surge of doubt. He stared at the words in front of him. Chapter 17. Page 463. The Prophecies of Amos: Historical Relevance to the Modern Age.

He was interrupted by a deep voice. ‘Checking out my library?’

McCabe looked up. A pair of dark blue eyes behind heavy black-rimmed glasses looked down at him. He closed the book and rose from his squat.

‘John Kelly?’

Kelly nodded.

‘Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. Portland PD.’

They shook hands.

‘How can I help you?’

‘All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword,’ McCabe said, watching Kelly’s face. No reaction other than a mild curiosity.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword. Sound familiar?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He held up the book. ‘It’s a quote from the Book of Amos. Chapter nine. Verse ten. I wondered if you remember hearing it before.’

‘I don’t recall, but I’ve probably come across it.’

‘This is your book?’

‘Of course it’s my book. They all are, though that one dates back quite a few years. I wrote a paper on the Roman Catholic view of Old Testament prophets in graduate school.’

‘With references to the Book of Amos?’

‘Yes. Though that wasn’t the focus.’

‘But you don’t remember that line?’

‘Not specifically, but Amos was all about smiting sinners, so it sounds appropriate.’

‘Interesting.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Are you still interested in biblical scholarship?’

‘I suppose so. It’s what I got my doctorate in. What I taught at the college level before deciding to put my money where my mouth is and start this place. I still do some reading – and writing. When I have time. Which is not often.’

‘Who knows about your paper on the prophetic tradition?’

Kelly heaved a sigh. ‘Y’know, this is getting old. I have no idea. I suppose my thesis adviser might remember it. Maybe my roommate at the time. Why on earth are you questioning me about quotes from Amos?’

‘Is it available on Google?’

‘My paper?’ Kelly looked oddly at McCabe ‘Good heavens, no. It was never published. It wasn’t that good.’

‘Do you still have it?’

Kelly thought about that. ‘It’s probably buried in a box along with the rest of my stuff from grad school.’

‘Where do you keep the box?’

‘I have a summer cottage. No. Cottage is too grand a word. A shack, really. I store a lot of stuff there.’

‘Unheated?’

‘There’s a woodstove. I don’t use the place in winter, though. It’s not insulated. I haven’t been there in months.’

‘Where is it?’

‘On one of the islands.’

‘Which one?’

‘Harts.’

McCabe tried not to let excitement show on his face. ‘Do you have any objections if we take a look at your cottage? Assuming, of course, you have nothing to hide. If you’d rather, we can always get a warrant.’

Kelly looked more puzzled than annoyed. ‘Be my guest. The doors are never locked. Walk right in.’ Kelly told him where the cottage was located. ‘Now why don’t you tell me what all this has to do with Lainie’s death. That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Lainie’s death? Are you suggesting somebody read Amos, took it to heart, and smote her as a sinner?’

‘Smote? Is that the past tense of smite? Not smited?’

‘Smote is correct. Now please answer my question.’

‘Sorry. I can’t. I just needed to check something out. Why don’t we start over?’ He extended a hand. ‘Like I said, I’m McCabe. Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe.’

‘I recognize you. When the kids told me a cop was here, I figured it had to be you.’

McCabe smiled and waved a hand, indicating his civilian clothes. ‘How’d they know?’

‘These kids can sniff out a cop a mile away.’

Just like the kids in New York, McCabe thought. They always knew. Uniform or no uniform. Even when there was no color difference. ‘What makes your kids so good at it? Sniffing out cops, I mean.’

‘Experience. Most of them are runaways, throwaways, and other assorted leftovers from the societal scrap heap. They’ve been bullied, hassled, and chased down by guys in blue suits most of their lives.’

‘I haven’t worn a blue suit in a long time.’

‘It’s not the suit, McCabe. Trust me. They know. Anyway, I’ve been expecting you ever since I heard the news about Lainie.’