‘How does Wolfe know about it?’
‘He’s on the Sanctuary House board. So was Goff.’
‘How big was the donation?’
‘Ten thousand dollars big.’
‘Not bad.’
‘Not bad at all.’
‘You suppose she was sleeping with Markham, too?’
‘It occurred to me. She was killed in Markham’s house.’
‘Well, I know Markham’s not the killer. His story checks out six ways to Sunday.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Both his clients separately confirmed they had dinner with him in Chicago Tuesday night. Markham paid for the meal with his American Express Platinum card, and AmEx has a record of the charge. Later, at exactly 11:17 P.M. Central time, 12:17 Eastern, about the time Abby Quinn was running away from her monster and forty-five minutes or so before she woke up Bowman, Markham ordered a nightcap in the hotel bar. A Macallan single malt, by the way, which cost him fifteen bucks plus tip. You have expensive tastes, McCabe.’
‘Just an educated palate.’
They both sat silently for a moment, weighing the possibilities. ‘On the other hand, Markham did tell you, did he not, that Isabella sometimes comes up to Harts Island in the winter when he’s away on business?’
‘Yes, he did. And if he was sleeping with Goff –’
‘And gave ten thousand dollars to Sanctuary House in consideration of that relationship –’
‘And Isabella found out about it –’
‘Could the seventh person on the Monument Square video have been a woman?’
‘Possible. Of course, Abby told Bowman she saw a man.’
‘Yes, but Abby hallucinates. We both know that.’
‘Okay. Let’s get the Markhams up here for prints, DNA, and a discussion.’
McCabe waited while Maggie made the call.
Twenty-Five
Murder/suicide seemed the simplest solution. Quick. Clean. Easy. Two fat birds with one deadly stone. The cops’d buy it. Why wouldn’t they? A pair of crazies. One known to be suicidal, under enormous stress, and, as it turned out, carrying a loaded gun. How would the papers report it? SCHIZOPHRENIC WOMAN SLAYS FRIEND, TURNS GUN ON SELF? Yes, that sounded good. In the darkness of the living room, the rest of the story played out in the killer’s mind.
Following an anonymous tip phoned in to the Press Herald early this morning, police went to an apartment at 131 Summer Street in Portland, where they found the bodies of two women, Leanna Barnes, 31, of Portland, an inventory clerk at Seamon’s Plumbing Supply in South Portland, and Abigail Quinn, 25, of Harts Island. Ms Quinn worked as a waitress at the Crow’s Nest Restaurant on the island.
In a late-morning press conference, Portland police chief Thomas A. Shockley told reporters that Ms Barnes’s body was found in the apartment’s lone bedroom lying on the bed. She had been fatally shot with a .22 caliber pistol, possibly while sleeping. Ms Quinn’s body was found next to her. According to Chief Shockley, Ms Quinn apparently shot Ms Barnes twice and then took her own life with a single shot to the head, fired from the same weapon. He said evidence technicians had found gunshot residue both on Ms Quinn’s hand and on her head. ‘That pretty well seals it,’ said Shockley.
The weapon used in the shootings was registered to Ms Quinn’s late father, Earl Quinn, a Harts Island lobsterman who passed away in 2002.
Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe, head of the Portland Police Department’s Crimes Against People unit, told the Press Herald police had been looking for Ms Quinn as a material witness in the earlier slaying of Portland attorney Elaine Goff, whose body was found Friday night on the Portland Fish Pier. Asked by reporters if Ms Quinn was considered a suspect in the Goff murder, Sergeant McCabe would only say, ‘We’re considering that possibility.’
The two victims, both of whom were diagnosed as schizophrenic, met while they were patients at Winter Haven Hospital, a psychiatric facility in Gorham. Ms Barnes was released from the hospital eighteen months ago in June of 2005. Ms Quinn was released two months later. She lived for six months at Sanctuary House, a shelter for runaway teens in Portland, before returning to her mother’s house on Harts Island early last year. According to Dr Richard Wolfe, a psychiatrist on the staff of Winter Haven, Ms Quinn had attempted suicide twice in the past. ‘However,’ he added, ‘we all thought Abby was doing well lately. This tragedy comes as a terrible shock to everybody at Winter Haven who worked with either of these two patients.’ Dr Wolfe continued treating Ms Quinn after her release from Winter Haven at his office on Union Wharf in Portland. Asked if he had any warning that Ms Quinn posed a threat either to herself or anyone else, Dr Wolfe replied, ‘Not to others, no. Abby tried suicide in the past, so I knew that would always be a danger for her, but we had no inkling she represented a danger to anyone else.’ When asked if he thought Ms Quinn might be the killer of Portland attorney Elaine Goff, Dr Wolfe simply replied, ‘No comment.’
Twenty-Six
Maggie dropped McCabe off at his condo on the Eastern Prom around ten thirty. ‘Good night,’ she said. ‘Get some sleep.’
‘Good night yourself,’ he responded. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
McCabe watched the taillights of her car disappear down the Prom, kind of wishing he’d asked her up for a drink. He didn’t go upstairs right away. Instead he dawdled in the parking area, brushing soft snow off the Bird until he couldn’t find any more snow to brush. Then he got the mail and looked at that. Bills, circulars, and Casey’s report card. He thought about walking down the hill to Tallulah’s and getting a drink. The noise and warmth of the place seemed appealing. The idea of watching other people having a good time didn’t.
Finally he climbed the three flights to the empty apartment, flipped on a single lamp, and put the bills on the desk, the circulars in the recycling bin, and the report card, unopened, on Casey’s pillow. Their deal on report cards was she got to read them first. Then she showed them to him. There was never anything to hide since she almost always got As.
Still wearing his overcoat, he foraged in the fridge for something to eat. There wasn’t a whole lot. Just a couple of boxes of frozen lasagna, some wilted lettuce, most of a loaf of bread. There was also half a container of milk, Casey’s tipple of choice, and half a bottle of Sancerre – Kyra’s. He made a mental note to stop at Hannaford’s tomorrow and pick up some groceries before Casey got home from Sunday River. The Palfreys would probably leave the mountain when the lifts closed at four. That meant they’d be back in Portland no later than six.
He stuck one of the lasagnas in the microwave, set the timer, hit START. Then he reached down for his crystal glass and poured himself a couple of inches of the Macallan. He walked back into the living room and picked up the landline. The quick beeping of the dial tone indicated messages. The first was from Casey. ‘Hi, Dad, it’s me. I’ll see you tomorrow. The snow was great. The boarding was great. The hot tub was great. I’ll be home by six. Love you.’ He hit DELETE.
Next Kyra’s voice came on. ‘I’m just calling to say good night and to tell you that I love you. We’ll talk tomorrow.’ He played it again.
The third message was from Sandy. ‘McCabe, I’ve tried calling your cell a couple of times, but apparently you’re not taking calls from me at the moment. I guess whatever you called about last night wasn’t all that important. However, there is something we ought to discuss. Peter and I have been talking. Casey’s going to be a sophomore next year, and Peter feels she’ll have a better shot of getting into a first-class college from a good prep school than she will from Portland High. Peter’s a trustee at Andover, and he thinks he could probably get Casey in as a lower-middler. That’s what they call sophomores there . . .’