Thursday. 4:30 P.M.
McCabe asked Maggie to meet him for a drink at Tallulah’s. Despite the high-toned name, Tallulah’s was a neighborhood hangout for the singles crowd on Munjoy Hill. As usual, the place was noisy and crowded. A couple of off-duty cops were hanging at the bar, ones McCabe didn’t know very well. They found an empty table in the corner, far enough away from the cops not to be overheard. An artist friend of Kyra’s, Mandy something or other, took their order. Like most artists, she couldn’t support herself selling her work, and, unlike Kyra, she had no trust fund to take up the slack. Everyone should have a trust fund, McCabe thought. Of course, then there’d be no waitresses or dishwashers or plumbers or cops. Just artists and drinkers. McCabe ordered a Glenfiddich with a Shipyard chaser. Maggie just ordered the Shipyard. Then, after a brief, losing struggle with her inner demons, she also ordered a plate of nachos. McCabe could never figure out how she stayed so slim.
Kyra’s friend left to get the drinks and food.
‘Okay, I found out some interesting stuff.’ Maggie went first. ‘Number one, Cumberland Medical Center’s not the blood-type connection. Only one of our four victims was ever a patient there. Number two, they all used different doctors.’
Before Maggie could tell him number three, Mandy came back with their drinks. ‘Your nachos’ll be here in a sec.’
When she was gone, McCabe asked, ‘So what is the connection? A testing lab?’
‘Nope. The Red Cross.’
McCabe considered that for a second. ‘Blood drive?’
‘Yes. Wendy Branca, Brian Henry, Katie Dubois, and Lucinda Cassidy all gave blood within the last year.’
‘So somebody hacked into the Red Cross computer?’
‘No. Here’s where it gets interesting. For the past eighteen months, wouldn’t you know, a certain doctor’s wife has been volunteering at the Red Cross three days a week.’
‘Well, do tell. With full access to the records?’
‘According to my source, yes.’
McCabe stirred the warm whiskey with his index finger and then sucked it off. Pieces were falling into place. Pieces he hadn’t expected.
Maggie continued. ‘The way I see it, McCabe, we always thought one of the Spencers was involved. Why should we be surprised if both of them are?’
The nachos arrived, cheese dripping off. Maggie positioned a jalapeno in the middle of one and managed to lower it neatly it into her mouth.
‘Interesting. Just when I was beginning to have doubts.’
Maggie stopped munching. ‘Doubts about what?’
‘Doubts about Dr. Phil. About his involvement. At least in the murders. Maybe now in the surgery as well.’
‘McCabe, if it’s not uncool to remind you, yesterday you had no doubts.’
‘Today I have doubts.’ He sipped the Scotch.
‘So what’s changed?’ She took another nacho and offered him the plate. He shook his head.
‘For one thing,’ he said, ‘Sophie seems pretty damned sure he’s not the recruiter.’
‘Okay. He could still be the surgeon. He could still have cut out Katie’s heart.’
‘Yes, he could, but whoever the recruiter was, he told Sophie his name was Philip Spencer. If Spencer was involved, why would the recruiter do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘To frame Spencer in case the shit hit the fan?’
‘Framing Spencer only makes sense if Spencer had nothing to do with any of it,’ said McCabe. ‘If Spencer was one of the surgeons and he found out “Harry Lime” was framing him, he’d talk. Anybody would.’
‘Which means framing Spencer only makes sense if he knows nothing, if he’s innocent.’
‘Right – and there’s more. We just had Spencer in for an interview at Middle Street.’
‘And?’
McCabe signaled Mandy and ordered another Glenfiddich. Maggie settled for a seltzer. ‘He didn’t behave like he was guilty. He was too relaxed. I mean, whoever killed Katie and the others knows we have a witness. He ought to be worried about it. Hell, we know he’s worried about it. He’s already tried to kill her twice and failed both times. His hit man is dead.’
Maggie pulled out another cheesy nacho. McCabe waited until it was safely in her mouth, then said, ‘Spencer wasn’t worried. I don’t think he had a clue.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Jacobi’s guys found blood in the back of the Lexus – and Katie Dubois’s earring.’
Maggie’s eyebrows went up. ‘Incriminating evidence, don’t you think?’
‘It ought to be, but Spencer didn’t recognize or react to the earring when Tom showed it to him. On top of that, I had Tasco ask him about Paul Oliver Duggan and Carol Reed. He never heard of them.’
‘Who’s Carol Reed?’ asked Maggie.
‘The director of The Third Man. The male director. Any real movie buff, anyone using the alias Harry Lime, ought to at least know the name. Spencer didn’t. I’m sure of it. Anyway, we’ll know for sure in forty-eight hours. We gave him a glass of water and got a saliva sample. The lab’s doing a DNA match with the blood on Cassidy’s dog’s teeth. That’ll prove it one way or the other.’
‘Okay, let’s suppose Spencer isn’t the murderer. So how did the blood and the earring end up in the back of the car?’
‘Maybe you just gave us the answer to that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hattie.’
‘Hattie Spencer?’
‘You know any other Hatties?’
‘C’mon, McCabe, maybe Hattie Spencer dug up Katie’s blood type, but she didn’t rape her or kill her. Or dump her body.’
‘No, she didn’t – but she probably passed on the information about the blood types to somebody who did.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know who, but she did tell me she lent the Lexus to a friend last Wednesday through Friday while she was up in Blue Hill. At the time, I thought she was covering for her husband. Now I think she may have been telling the truth.’
McCabe picked up a nacho. The jalapeno slipped off the top and landed on his shirt. ‘Shit.’ He picked it off and ate it, but it left a greasy ring behind.
Maggie dipped her napkin in the seltzer, went around the table, and dabbed at the spot on his shirt. He watched her, a grumpy expression on his face. She looked up and smiled. ‘Y’know, you’re really very cute when you get all pouty.’ She leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Too bad you’re taken.’
He glanced over to where the two cops had been sitting.
‘They left ten minutes ago,’ she said, ‘and the waitress is in the kitchen. Nothing to worry about.’ She turned to go to the ladies’ room. ‘Be right back,’ she called.
McCabe thought about what Maggie had done. Totally unexpected, but not totally unpleasant. In fact, he kind of liked it, wouldn’t have minded doing it back. Except he was taken – and, for now at least, he was happy with that.
Maggie slid back onto her chair. ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, Hattie lent the Lexus to a friend. What friend?’
McCabe looked into her dark brown eyes and realized, not for the first time, how attractive she was. There was no time to think about that now.
‘Mike, what friend?’
He held up a finger.
‘What friend?’
‘Just give me a minute.’ He forced his mind back to the picture in Spencer’s office. Four surgeons. Four friends. All gazing down from the summit of Denali. We all went to medical school together. We did residencies together. All but one in cardiac surgery, transplant surgery… bringing the dead back to life. The Asclepius Society.
All but one. Lucas Kane. Lost his license. Murdered in Miami. A tragic, tragic loss. A great talent. In some ways, the most talented of us all.
Spencer went to the funeral. Hattie didn’t.
Lucas Kane was somebody I knew a long time ago, Hattie had said. His parents had a summer place not far from ours.
Was Lucas Kane a friend?
A friend? No, I never would have called Lucas that. If not a friend, then what? A lover?
What about the other surgeons in the picture? DeWitt Holland and Matthew Wilcox. One in Boston. One in North Carolina. Did they attend Kane’s funeral as well? Did they all meet the shooter there? McCabe wondered if there was a press photographer at the funeral, if there were pictures. Maybe it was time to contact Melody Bollinger, the Miami Herald reporter who covered the case.
‘Mike, what are you thinking about?’
He told her about the Denali picture. ‘Sophie said there were two surgeons in each of the transplant operations. Maybe it’s time we talked to Dr. Holland and Dr. Wilcox.’
She considered this. ‘Makes sense. Surgeons. Old med school chums. If Spencer wasn’t involved, maybe one or both of them were.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out about Wilcox,’ said McCabe. ‘Meantime, you drive down to Boston and talk to DeWitt Holland.’
‘I’m supposed to be confined to my desk, you know?’
‘Holland won’t know that.’
‘Yeah, but Fortier will.’
‘Call in sick.’
‘I guess. Anyway, I’ve got an old pal on the Boston PD. Homicide guy. We used to date. I think he’ll help.’
McCabe took another nacho.
Maggie looked thoughtful. ‘McCabe, you said there were three other surgeons with Spencer in that picture. Holland and Wilcox are two. Who’s the third man?’
‘The third man,’ he said, ‘is Lucas Kane – and, like Harry Lime, he’s supposed to be dead.’