‘You enjoy inflicting pain, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Especially on girls who are young and defenseless.’ McCabe could hear better now. Not great but better. Her voice was distorted, and when she had her head down you could barely make out the words. Barker was obviously more interested in the quality of the video than the audio. Maggie and McCabe exchanged glances, a silent communication perfectly clear to both of them.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the man answered. At least that’s what McCabe thought he said. He hoped Starbucks could improve the sound.

‘Yes, you do, you bastard. There’s proof. There are pictures.’

‘What kind of pictures?’

‘Dirty pictures.’

‘How could there be pictures?’

‘Remote control mini camera. Amazing technology. Fit right inside her box of Camels. She just pointed it at the bed. Shoots in low light. Any light. Almost undetectable. Of course, you were so into your fun and games you never would have noticed anyway.’

A deep sigh was audible even on the lousy mike. ‘I need to see them,’ he said.

‘No. They’re in a safe place.’

Not safe enough, thought McCabe. Not safe at all, stuck in some book in her bookcase. She should have known that wasn’t safe. Goddammit, she would have known that. She couldn’t have been that careless. Maybe she hadn’t been. He hit STOP, and the image froze.

‘What are you doing now?’ asked Shockley.

‘Making a phone call.’

‘Right now?’

‘Yes. Right now.’ He punched in Janie Archer’s cell number. This time she answered.

‘What we talked about is cool?’ he said.

‘McCabe?’ said Archer.

‘We found your message on Lainie’s cell phone. When you thought she was in Aruba. You said, “What we talked about is cool.”’

‘Yeah. I guess. So?’

‘What was cool?’

‘She sent me an envelope. FedExed it the day before she was supposed to leave. She asked me to put it in a safe place.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this Friday night?’ ‘I don’t know. I was kinda wasted Friday. I didn’t think about it.’

‘Have you opened it?’

‘No. I was gonna look at it tomorrow. Then, if it seemed pertinent, call you.’

‘Why not look today?’

‘I can’t. Today’s Sunday. It’s in my safe deposit box. You know, like Lainie said? A safe place?’

‘What bank?’

‘Chase.’

‘What branch?’

‘Around the corner from here. First Ave and Seventy-second Street.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Home. My apartment. East Seventy-first. Between First and York.’

‘Alright. Stay there. I’m going to call a friend of mine on the NYPD. Lieutenant Art Astarita. He may be able to get you into the bank today. If he can, he’ll call you back, and you and he can go there together.’

Archer agreed to stay put. McCabe called Astarita, who said he’d try to track down the branch manager and see what they could do. McCabe gave Astarita Janie Archer’s number. Then he hit PLAY. The video picked up where it left off.

‘But you’ve seen them?’ asked the man.

‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen them.’

‘Graphic, I suppose.’

‘Extremely graphic. Disgusting, in fact.’

‘There’s nothing illegal. The girl was sixteen. The age of consent.’

‘Some of the others weren’t.’

‘You know about the others?’

‘Yes. She told me.’

‘But you don’t have pictures of the others, do you? Or any other kind of proof.’

Lainie said nothing.

‘Where are the pictures?’

‘I told you. In a safe place.’

The man got up and walked around the room, head down, face away from the camera. If they were going to arrest, if they were going to convict, they needed to see his face.

The man sat down again. ‘You’re bluffing. There are no pictures.’

‘You think so?’ Now there was a hard, mocking tone to Lainie’s voice. ‘Then call my bluff.’

The man hesitated as if he were thinking about doing just that. ‘Alright. What do you want?’ he finally asked.

‘I want you to leave Portland. I want you to leave Maine. I want you to have nothing more to do with kids, girls, boys, anyone, wherever you go. And wherever it is you do go, trust me, I’ll be watching. I’ll know.’

‘If I ignore you?’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I have enough to send you to jail. As you said, she’s sixteen.’

McCabe wondered if the girl they were talking about was Tara, the one with the fluffy white jacket on the porch at Sanctuary House. Kelly said she was sixteen. He could ask her. If she was still alive. If the guy hadn’t killed her like he killed Lainie Goff. And Callie Connor. And Leanna Barnes. McCabe wondered how long the list of victims might be. He took a deep breath and held it.

‘So what will you do?’ the man asked.

‘You know, it’s funny,’ Lainie said. ‘I’ve been dealing with self-righteous, hypocritical creeps like you all my life. My mother was married to one.’

Scratch Albright, thought McCabe.

‘What I only recently realized is that what you fear most is exposure. You know that, and now I know that. So here’s the deal. You disappear like I said, and I’ll keep the pictures to myself.’

‘If I don’t?’

‘Then you’ll be famous. I’ll publish them everywhere I can. On the Internet. In the newspapers. Maybe even Dateline will be interested. I’m a damned good lawyer, and if I bend my mind to it I may even figure out a way to send you to prison after all.’

‘I’m not going to prison, and you’re not going to publish anything.’

‘No. Because you’re going to go away quietly. Knowing your type, practically nothing would be as painful to you as public humiliation. I’m leaving Saturday for two weeks’ vacation. When I get back I expect you to be gone. I also expect you to let me know where you are and what you’re doing. If both those things don’t happen, I go public. Now get out of here before I puke. You’re stinking up my apartment.’

The guy made a guttural sound. Somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Barely loud enough to be picked up by Andy Barker’s lousy mike. He closed his eyes. Laid his head back on the back of the chair. And there he was.

McCabe froze the frame and stared at the image. It wasn’t full face, and the lighting was bad. But it was enough. McCabe knew they had to find Richard Wolfe and find him fast. He just hoped they weren’t too late.

Thirty-Eight

McCabe called Winter Haven. Abby Quinn was in a room on the third floor. Room 317 North. He told the operator to connect him with the unit nursing station.

While the phone rang on the other end, he scribbled Wolfe’s home and office addresses and all three of his phone numbers. ‘Call in an ATL,’ McCabe said, handing the note to Fraser. ‘He drives a black Lexus IS 350.’ McCabe closed his eyes, reconstructing the precise image of the car parked by the building on Union Wharf. ‘Maine plates. 4351LN. He’s probably still got the .22, and remember, he’s already killed three people. Right now he doesn’t know we know it’s him, but once he figures it out, he’ll have nothing to lose.’ Fraser nodded and picked up the conference room phone.

The nursing station phone was still ringing. McCabe handed Maggie another Post-it. ‘Here’s his cell. See if the Call Center can triangulate current location.’

‘If he’s got it turned on,’ she said. ‘He’s not dumb.’

‘Like I said, he doesn’t know anything about Andy Barker’s videos. Doesn’t know we’re after him.’ She took the Post-it and flipped open her cell.

‘Three North. Amanda Moehler.’ The voice of a middle-aged woman. Probably an experienced nurse. That was good.

‘Ms. Moehler. This is Detective McCabe. Portland police. I need you to check on your patient Abby Quinn.’

‘What? Why?’ Moehler sounded puzzled. ‘She’s fine. She’s resting. We just gave her –’

‘Ms. Moehler, please. Quinn may be in danger.’ McCabe spoke quietly but added an unmistakable urgency to his voice. ‘Please go to room 317 right now and check on Abby Quinn.’