‘Sounds like an appropriate response.’

‘I think it was.’

‘How did she react?’

‘She felt abandoned. Humiliated. He was the first man she’d reached out to since her illness began, and he turned her away.’

‘Did he tell her he was gay?’

‘Yes. I think on some level she already knew it. Subconsciously, she was creating a situation she knew would lead to rejection.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe to demonstrate her own worthlessness.’

McCabe remembered the picture of the healthy young woman standing on the rocks by the sea. Only a couple of years older then than Casey was now. GRRRL POWER! her sweatshirt proclaimed. He felt a profound sadness at the curveballs life had a way of throwing at people. He knew there wasn’t much he could do about it.

He pulled out the photo of Lainie Goff and the others at the party and handed it to Wolfe. ‘Any idea what the occasion was?’

‘Yes. A Sanctuary House fund-raiser. A week or so before Christmas. I was there along with about a hundred other people.’

‘I recognize Ogden and Kelly, and Goff, of course. Do you know who the other two are?’

‘The blonde is a Palmer Milliken attorney. Janet something or other. I only met her that night.’

‘Janet Pritchard?’

‘Sounds right.’

‘How about the tall bald guy?’

‘A money man from Boston,’ said Wolfe. ‘Goff hooked him for a decent chunk of change, and Kelly closed the deal.’

‘How big was the donation?’

‘Ten K.’

‘Do you know the money man’s name?’ McCabe asked.

‘Uhh . . . yes.’ Wolfe paused, trying to remember. ‘Give me a minute. I don’t have your talent for total recall.’ He squinted at the horizon. ‘Tom? Ted? No, Todd. That’s it. Todd Martin? No, that’s a tennis player.’

‘Todd Markham?’

‘Markham, yes, that’s it.’ Wolfe nodded. ‘Todd Markham.’

A buzzer rang. Wolfe looked at his watch. ‘Food’s here,’ he said. ‘Sit tight. I’ll run down and get it.’

Jesus, McCabe thought, this was getting incestuous. He looked again at the photo. Every one of these people was in some way connected to Goff, and any one of them might have had reason to kill her. Kelly for the money. Ogden as her lover. Pritchard as a competitor for a Palmer Milliken partnership and maybe for Ogden’s affections. Markham? All he knew was that Lainie was killed in Markham’s house, in Markham’s bed. Maybe they were lovers as well.

Markham was in Chicago Tuesday night, Maggie had told him. Had dinner with a couple of clients. Stayed at the Hyatt. Didn’t get back to Boston till . . . Till when? He’d interrupted her before she finished the sentence. He’d have to check.

Wolfe returned carrying a brown paper bag filled with food. He set it on the coffee table. ‘I don’t know if I should even bring this up,’ he said, pulling containers out of the bag, ‘but there is one possibility we haven’t discussed.’

‘Which is?’

‘Which is that maybe Abby didn’t just witness Goff’s murder. Maybe she committed it.’ Wolfe opened a drawer in his desk and started pulling out paper plates, napkins, and chopsticks. ‘Shall I split everything up? Half and half?’

‘Sure. That’s fine.’

As Wolfe began doling out equal portions of the food, McCabe walked over to the window and looked down at the water. The barge hadn’t made a whole lot of progress in the time he’d been there. He guessed barges moved slow. He thought about what Wolfe just said. Could Abby have been the killer? He’d never considered that possibility. None of them had. Not Maggie. Not Bowman. Not any of his team. Probably dumb. It was a scenario too obvious to ignore. He knew she was present when the murder took place – she knew details she couldn’t have known otherwise – and she had run away. Disappeared into the night. They’d all assumed she was hiding from the killer. Wasn’t it equally possible she was hiding from them? From the police? Or maybe hiding from what she had done.

Wolfe held up the bottle of Dewar’s. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

McCabe glanced back. ‘No thanks.’

‘Another water, then?’

‘Sure.’

Wolfe refilled his own glass and put another bottle of Poland Spring by McCabe’s plate.

If Abby was the killer, McCabe wondered, why would she have gone to the police in the first place? Why wake up Bowman in the middle of the night? What about motive? But even as he was asking himself these questions, he knew they were irrelevant. Abby was crazy. Schizophrenic. She suffered from hallucinations and delusions. For someone like Abby, normal concepts of reason and motive didn’t apply. If she killed Lainie Goff, it would have been in the middle of a psychotic episode, probably without even realizing what she had done.

McCabe returned to his chair and took his plate of food. He picked up a spring roll, dipped it in sauce, and took a bite. ‘You say you know Abby better than anyone else. Do you think she’s capable of murder?’

‘Capable of it? Of course she’s capable of it,’ Wolfe said, chewing on a mouthful of spicy duck. ‘Abby’s schizophrenic. She inhabits an alternative reality. If she’s been off her meds for a while – or if they’re starting to lose their effectiveness – she’s capable of damned near anything.’

‘So you’re saying she invented the story of the monster with his face on fire?’

‘No. Probably not,’ Wolfe said. ‘A monster with his face on fire may in fact be exactly what she saw, whether she killed Goff herself or just witnessed the murder. Either way.’

‘You better help me with that, Doctor. I’m a little slow today.’

‘Let me give you some background. Schizophrenia is a brain disorder that’s characterized, more than anything else, by a profound disconnect between perception and reality. Like most schizophrenics Abby suffers from delusions, things that are false but that she believes to be true. She also suffers from hallucinations. False sensory perceptions. She sees and hears things that aren’t there. She really does see them, though, and hear them. They’re as real to her as that coconut shrimp is to you.’

‘So if Abby did kill Goff . . .’

‘She may really, truly have seen a monster do it. Maybe somewhere in her mind she feels it’s something only a monster could do. What she doesn’t recognize, if that’s the case, is that the monster is her.’

McCabe leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He supposed what Wolfe was suggesting was possible, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that it just didn’t happen that way. There were too many details that didn’t fit. Details Wolfe wasn’t aware of. Like the dumping of the body on the Fish Pier. Like the note in the mouth. Like the precise and careful way she’d been killed. No, McCabe was sure Abby hadn’t done it. ‘What if she’s not the killer?’ he asked. ‘What if she did in fact see it happen?’

Wolfe shrugged. ‘Then she’s probably seeing the killer as a monster because what she actually saw was too frightening or too painful for her mind to accept. But really, I’m just guessing now.’

McCabe wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, got up, and tossed his empty plate in the trash. ‘Is there any way to bring the real memory back?’

‘Maybe. When nonschizophrenics repress painful memories, hypnotherapy sometimes works.’

‘Hypnosis?’

‘Yes. It isn’t typically used with schizophrenics, but it’s not necessarily contraindicated either. I’ve never tried it with one, but I’ve read about some experimentation. In fact, I’d be interested to see how it works with someone like Abby.’

‘Do you know anybody who’s an expert in, what did you call it? Hypnotherapy?’

‘Yes. Me.’

‘You’d be willing to hypnotize Abby?’

‘Yes. Of course – but we’ll have to find her first.’

McCabe nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll let you know when we do.’ He got his coat and put it on. ‘And thanks for dinner.’