Wednesday. 4:00 P.M.
McCabe hated surveillance, especially from the front seat of a rental car. This one was a Dodge Stratus. About as devoid of personality and creature comforts as a vehicle could get. It wasn’t even inconspicuous. In this neighborhood nobody but cops or Jehovah’s Witnesses would drive anything so dull – but it was all Fortier would pay for. He didn’t know how long the Bird was going to be impounded, but it could be a while. Even afterward, getting the windshield fixed, and maybe some other stuff, too, would take additional time. At least the Stratus had a CD player and a passable, though not great, sound system.
McCabe was parked in front of 24 Trinity Street. He’d already been there two hours waiting for the green Lexus to return. He’d invited Burt Lund to sit with him, and Lund was getting antsy. Tasco and Fraser waited across the street in a PPD Crown Vic. Mostly McCabe passed the time leaning back listening to Marcus Roberts play some very familiar Gershwin on the piano. He alternated the Roberts CD with one by Oscar Peterson, who created similar magic with Cole Porter.
‘Any word on what’s planned for Kevin Comisky’s funeral?’ asked Lund.
‘Yeah. Memo came down from Shockley’s office this afternoon. Service is scheduled for Monday at the cathedral. Color guard. Bagpipes. Twenty-one-gun salute at the gravesite. The whole nine yards. Cops will be coming in from all over New England to attend. Shockley plans to deliver a eulogy.’
‘That’ll be nice for the widow.’
McCabe glanced over at Lund. ‘Nice doesn’t bring her husband back.’
‘No.’
They lapsed into silence. The warrant to search the Lexus waited in McCabe’s pocket. Both McCabe and Lund agreed they wouldn’t serve it unless and until the Lexus was right there in front of them. Go banging on the Spencers’ front door while Phil Spencer was driving around loose and you’d invite some asshole lawyer to hold them up for days while he challenged probable cause.
An ATL for the Lexus had been issued to all patrol units. If the SUV was spotted, officers were to report the sighting and follow the vehicle but not intercept it. McCabe’s phone rang. It was Jacobi. ‘How you doing, Bill?’
‘I’m good. What fun and games do you have planned for us today?’
‘We’re over on Trinity Street waiting on a Lexus SUV. It’s the one I think was used to haul Katie Dubois’s body over to the scrap yard. I want you to go over it and find what we need to put this asshole away.’
‘The asshole being Dr. Spencer?’
‘You got it.’
‘Being an asshole is not necessarily a punishable offense.’
‘Don’t start, Bill. I’ve got good reason to think this guy might have been involved in the murder.’
Jacobi sighed. ‘So you’re looking for what? Prints, hair, fibers?’
‘Yeah, all that, but mostly blood. I don’t see how he could have hauled Katie’s body around cut up the way it was without getting some blood on the vehicle. Most likely on the cargo space in back. I don’t care how hard he scrubbed it -’
Jacobi finished the sentence. ‘Luminol will show it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, call me when your pigeon arrives and we’ll send over a flatbed. We’ll have to bring the Lexus down here to the garage to really go over it. I’ll also want to remove the seats and open up the spare tire well.’
‘That’s fine.’
Another hour passed before Harriet Spencer drove the green SUV through the gates of the Spencers’ inner sanctum. McCabe pulled the Stratus into the driveway behind her, effectively blocking retreat. He called Jacobi to send over the flatbed and then walked up to the Lexus’s driver’s side window. ‘Please exit the vehicle, Mrs. Spencer.’
‘What are you doing here? I thought I told you to leave my property and not come back.’
‘I’m serving you with a warrant, Mrs. Spencer, signed by District Court Judge Paula Washburn, authorizing us to conduct a thorough search of this vehicle in the police garage. A tow truck’s on its way now. We have reason to believe your car may have been used in the murder of Katie Dubois.’
‘You’re out of your mind. How dare you accuse us like this?’
‘We’re not making any accusations, Mrs. Spencer. We’re simply searching the car for evidence. If we don’t find anything, it will be returned to you with our apologies. This is Assistant Attorney General Bert Lund.’
Lund smiled. ‘How do you do, Mrs. Spencer?’
‘Mr. Lund will verify the validity of this warrant. You may also show it to your own attorney. Now please exit the vehicle.’
Hattie Spencer briefly examined the paper McCabe offered, then looked up at him. ‘May I take my groceries inside, or do you want to search those as well?’
‘Yes, but please don’t take anything else. I’ll have one of my men help you.’
‘Don’t bother, Detective.’ She gathered up half a dozen plastic bags from Hannaford’s and carried them to the kitchen door McCabe had used to leave the house three days before.
From the kitchen, Hattie Spencer called Philip’s cell. ‘The police are here. That detective McCabe and some others. They want to search my car. The Lexus.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Did they show you a warrant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alright. Don’t say anything to them. Nothing at all. I’ll call George Renquist. Then I’ll come back.’
Philip hung up. Hattie stood holding the dead phone for a minute. He sounded so calm. Philip always sounded calm. Finally she, too, hung up. She walked through the house and stood by the big front window watching the scene on the driveway.
She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. Her world, the one she had so carefully constructed, so carefully cared for, for twenty years, seemed to be closing in on her. The men outside with their cars and vans and official pieces of paper were storming the barricades, and there was nothing she could do about it. Across the street she could see that nosy little suck-up Ellen Markham staring from the front step of her house. She was going to love telling her money-grubbing lawyer husband all about it tonight at dinner. As well as her friends, whoever they might be.
‘Imagine!’ Hattie could hear them saying. ‘The police were at the Spencers’ half the day. I hear it has to do with the murder of that girl. Katie Dubois? What do you suppose they were looking for?’
Yes, by tonight it would be all over Portland. Hattie went to the burled walnut drinks cupboard and filled a cut crystal water goblet about halfway up with gin. She could take their snide innuendos. She was tougher than that. She walked back to the window with the drink and resumed her vigil as she sipped. She wondered what they were looking for, what they might find. What exactly did happen last week while she was up in Blue Hill? She had a feeling she might know.
Philip’s car, the black BMW, turned into the driveway. It stopped behind the car that blocked the Lexus. A uniformed cop directed Philip to park on the street. He did, but when he emerged his face showed that strange, quiet rage she knew so well. He walked over to McCabe and the pudgy lawyer McCabe had with him. Bert Lump. Philip said something. McCabe handed Philip the warrant. He looked at it and said something else. She guessed he was quietly threatening them. That was Philip’s way. Letting them know how many important people he knew. Then their attorney, George Renquist, arrived. George looked at the warrant and said something to Philip. Philip and George turned away from the police. George said something. Philip disagreed. He walked toward the house. The front door opened and closed. He walked past the drawing room and climbed the stairs. She called to him. ‘Philip?’ He looked down at her but said nothing. He walked to the bedroom and closed the door. Hattie returned to her post by the window, sipped her gin, and watched a tow truck pull the Lexus up and onto its bed. Then they drove it away.