‘Why did she leave?’

There was a slight hesitation before Kelly answered. ‘She was ready. It was time for her to go home.’

‘No other reason?’

‘No.’

‘Did she ever meet Lainie?’

‘I don’t know. They may have bumped into each other once or twice. Lainie never worked with her. Only Dr Wolfe did that.’

‘Do you know where she is now?’

‘Harts Island, I imagine. That’s where she lives.’

‘She’s not here, is she?’

Kelly squinted at him, then shook his head. ‘No. What would she be doing here?’

‘Just wondering. Did Abby make any particular friends while she was here? Kids she might still be in contact with?’

‘None that I can think of. Why?’

‘We need to talk to her.’

‘In connection with the murder?’

‘Yes. Can you think of anyone here she palled around with?’

‘Check with Wolfe. He’d be the first one I’d ask. Or go out to Harts Island and ask her. Is this going to take much longer?’

McCabe ignored the question. ‘How’s Sanctuary House doing for money?’

‘Finances are not so great. They never are for organizations like ours. We depend mostly on small foundation grants and donations from well-meaning citizens. We don’t accept any state or city money. That gives us more freedom to operate.’

‘You said Lainie was a good fund-raiser.’

‘Yes. She was. In fact, she helped bring in a gift of ten thousand bucks just a month ago.’

‘You get a lot of gifts that size?’

‘A few, but it’s never enough. Just look around you. Do we look rich? We’ve got building violations coming out of our ears, which the city, thank God, has so far ignored. They don’t want my kids back on the street any more than I do. Or your department does, for that matter. Without Lainie running interference, it’ll be tough.’

‘Any danger you’ll have to close your doors?’

Kelly shrugged. ‘It’s always a danger. Always a struggle. Maybe you’d like to make a contribution?’

McCabe smiled. ‘Maybe I would. How does one hundred and eighty thousand dollars sound to you?’

Kelly looked at McCabe curiously. ‘You’re kidding, of course – but that kind of money would be a game changer for this place.’

‘No, I’m not kidding. Lainie had life insurance. Sanctuary House is the beneficiary.’

‘You’re serious?’ Kelly looked stunned. ‘One hundred and eighty thousand dollars?’

‘You didn’t know about it?’

‘No. She never said a word.’

‘I guess she didn’t plan on dying,’ said McCabe. ‘Where exactly were you last Tuesday between eleven at night and three in the morning?’

‘I already told you.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘Right here.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Are you suggesting that I may have killed Lainie for the money?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. Now that you bring it up, did you?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’ ‘I’m sure.’

‘So I guess that means you wouldn’t mind coming down to police headquarters this afternoon so we can get a set of your prints and a DNA sample.’

‘Because everyone’s a suspect?’

‘Yes. Everyone.’

Kelly agreed to go to Middle Street, and McCabe left.

Eighteen

It was nearly one thirty before McCabe got back to 109. He slipped the shards of Henry Ogden’s china cup into an evidence bag and locked it in the bottom drawer of his desk. Then he called Joe Pines, the DNA guru at the state crime lab in Augusta. Saturday or not, McCabe was pretty sure Pines would be in his lab. He’d never known Joe to be anywhere else.

‘Hey, Joe, I’ve got a question.’

‘Relevant to a case or just a question?’

‘Just a question. Let’s say someone drinks from a coffee cup and the cup is allowed to dry out for, I don’t know, days or maybe even weeks. Will you still be able to pick up DNA from the guy’s saliva?’

‘Might not be as intact as we ideally like – so there could be some issues with long sequencing reads, but yes, we should be able to get you something. Who’s the guy?’

‘Like I said, just a question.’

‘Okay. Let me know when you’re going to send me the cup.’

He’d have to check what day trash got picked up on Ledge Road in Cape Elizabeth so he’d know what day it was he found the bits of china in the bin by the side of the road.

Next call was to Tony Krawchek, head of the PPD’s three-man Narcotics unit.

‘Hiya, Mike. That frozen stiff you guys found last night still frozen stiff?’ Krawchek guffawed. Another comedian.

‘Yeah, still frozen. That’s what I’m calling you about. You ever hear of a small-time dealer who calls himself the hot-dog man?’

‘Probably a guy named Kyle Lanahan. Runs a sausage stand in Monument Square. Basically an amateur, but he peddles a little blow from time to time. We just haven’t been able to catch him at it yet.’

‘You have any problem if we bring him in?’

‘What’s your interest?’

‘Goff had a bag in her car. I’m pretty sure it came from him.’

‘Sure. Why not? While you’re at it, see if you can get him to tell you who his distributor is. That’s what we really want to know.’

McCabe agreed, called Tom Tasco, and asked him to invite Mr Lanahan in for an interview.

After he hung up, he googled the name Wallace Albright. He got more than four hundred hits. It only took a couple of minutes to narrow them down to the right one, Wallace Stevens Albright, a prominent attorney practicing in Camden. Albright had been married three times. His second wife was named Martha Tynes Goff. McCabe googled that name and found a number of articles mostly concerning the fact that Martha Tynes Goff, Lainie’s mother, had committed suicide in May 1995. The end of Lainie’s sophomore year at Colby. Finally he went to Google Images and found and printed a couple of images of Mr Albright. Good-looking guy. Thin face. Angular features. Gray hair.

I don’t think she’d want him notified of anything, Archer had said.

But he’s alive?

Not as far as Lainie was concerned.

Later he’d asked Kelly, Do you suppose Lainie went through an abusive childhood herself?

I don’t know, but that’s what I’ve always thought.

As soon as he could, he’d head up to Camden and have a little chat with Mr Albright. But there were a few other things he had to do first.

Maggie wandered over.

‘Pick up the other line,’ he said. ‘I’m calling Burt Lund.’

She pulled over a chair while McCabe made the call. In Maine all homicides are handled out of the attorney general’s office, and Assistant AG Burt Lund was McCabe’s favorite prosecutor. He just hoped the prosecutor wouldn’t be halfway down a slope at Sunday River and unable to talk. He wasn’t.

‘You know, McCabe, I didn’t give you my cell number so you could pester me at home on weekends.’

‘C’mon, Burt, you know how hurt you’d be if I didn’t slip you the skinny first on murder cases.’

‘Are we talking Goff?’

‘Who else? By the way, Maggie’s on the other line.’

‘Hiya, Mag.’

‘Hi, Burt.’

‘What do you need?’ asked Lund.

‘A warrant to search Elaine Goff’s office at Palmer Milliken. Henry Ogden won’t let us in. Claims it’ll compromise client confidentiality.’

‘It probably would.’

‘Says he might try to quash.’

‘Hmmm. That seems excessive. There are ways Palmer Milliken could segregate sensitive client material. Ogden ought to know that.’

‘I think he’s hiding something.’

‘Do you think he’s the killer?’

‘I think it’s possible. I’m pretty sure he and Goff were sleeping together, and yes, Burt, I do know screwing around at the office doesn’t necessarily translate to killing.’

‘No, it doesn’t. Rumor is Hank’s been dipping his highly privileged wick into one good-looking associate or another for years. As far as I know, most of them are still alive. A few have even become partners.’

‘There may be a difference here,’ McCabe told Lund.