Almost as if reacting to the request, the guy reached up, put a hand on the dark cowl, and held it there.
‘C’mon, baby, just pull it off.’
The guy paused. There wasn’t a sound in the conference room. They were all holding their breath. The intruder dropped his hand.
There were moans and grumbling from around the table.
Still hooded, the intruder walked to the bookcase on the right side of the room. He shined the light at the top shelf. The camera angle was down and at his back, and you couldn’t see a damned thing except the coat and hood and the flashlight beam running along the row of books. The light stopped at one of the books. Then another. Then it went back to the first and stayed there. He reached up and pulled it down from the shelf. It was an oversized volume, maybe an art or travel book. He set the flashlight carefully on one of the lower shelves and rotated his body to the right. A thin sliver of face became visible. But not enough. You could tell he was a white guy, but that was it. He stood there, angling the book so the light was pointed directly at the pages. Happily, so was the spycam.
They watched him riffle through the pages until he found what he was looking for. A nine-by-twelve orange envelope. He removed the envelope, closed the book, returned it to its space on the top shelf. He turned the envelope in his gloved hands. Once. Twice. He paused.
McCabe could make out something written in the upper left-hand corner, where a return address would go. He froze the image, then moved ahead one frame at a time, but it was impossible to read what the words said. Palmer Milliken? Maybe. Maybe Starbucks could enlarge it and play with the focus so they could read it. Maybe not. McCabe hit play again. The guy turned the envelope over again. Probably debating whether to open it here and now or wait till later. Apparently here and now won, because he removed the leather glove from his right hand and slid a bare finger under the seal. He reached inside and pulled out what looked like a stack of black-and-white photographs. McCabe again froze the image and advanced the frames one by one. He couldn’t tell what the pictures were of. Again he’d have to depend on Starbucks to manipulate the images. The intruder slid the pictures back in the envelope and folded it lengthwise and pushed it into his coat pocket, not seeming to care if he bent the pictures. The pictures must have been what he was looking for, because he took his flashlight, headed for the door, and left. The time code read
2:36:15
. He’d been in the apartment less than three minutes. He’d turned out no drawers. Dumped nothing on the floor. McCabe was certain it wasn’t the same guy who tossed the apartment night before last. This guy had found what he wanted. That guy hadn’t. McCabe fast-forwarded through the rest of the disk. It was empty. He hit eject, and it slid out.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ asked Shockley. ‘Is that your murderer?’
‘I’m sure it was,’ said McCabe. ‘Unfortunately, we still don’t know if it was Kelly or someone else.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake McCabe, every piece of evidence we’ve got points to Kelly. Even the DNA says it’s him. I say we arraign the sonofabitch and stop screwing around watching TV shows.’
‘Let’s just see what’s on the next disk.’
He inserted the disk marked
LR-12/20/06
. The camera turned on when the top of Lainie Goff’s head entered frame. Same fish-eye view as before. The time code read
12/20/06. 8:34:44
. Seventy-two hours before her abduction. Two weeks to the day before her death. Lainie turned on a table lamp, the sudden light creating a white flash in the upper corner of the frame. There was a knocking sound. She crossed the room, opened the door a crack, and peered out.
She said something to whoever was on the other side of the door. A male voice said something back. Both voices too far from the mike to make out what was being said. The male voice spoke again. Lainie seemed to hesitate, as if debating whether or not to let him in. She apparently decided she would and opened the door all the way. If she knew he was a killer, why would she do that?
The guy was wearing the same dark hooded coat as before, only this time the hood was down. Now you could see the top of his head but not his face. Still, it was enough to tell them it wasn’t John Kelly. This guy had neatly cut gray hair, parted on the left and combed across to the right. It looked like Henry Ogden’s hair. Like Wallace Stevens Albright’s hair. Even kind of like Kyle Lanahan’s, only a little shorter. In fact, it could have been any number of parties both known and unknown. Mr Gray Hair looked nervously around the room, then moved to the white couch and sat down. He was sitting almost directly under the lens, head down. Lainie sat across from him in one of the white chairs.
‘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.’
There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line; then Moehler said, ‘Hold on.’
Thirty seconds later she was back on the line. ‘She’s not there. I don’t understand how she could’ve just disa –’
McCabe cut her off. ‘Have you seen Dr Wolfe?’
‘Yes. He was with her about an hour ago, but he left. I haven’t seen him since.’
Shit. A whole hour since Wolfe had left. And McCabe himself had told the bastard to try hypnotherapy. Abby could be anywhere wandering around in a hypnotic trance. Even worse, she could be with Wolfe. ‘Ms. Moehler,’ McCabe said, ‘transfer me to hospital security now.’
While he waited for Security to answer, he told Cleary to get Gorham PD on the phone. Chief John Sax.
‘Winter Haven Security. Garth Andersen speaking.’
‘Andersen, this is Sergeant Michael McCabe, Portland PD.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘I need you to organize an immediate search of the building and the grounds.’
‘Alright. Who or what am I looking for?’
‘A patient named Abby Quinn. Brought in last night. Female schizophrenic. Twenty-five years old. Reddish brown hair. She may be wearing civilian clothes, and she may be with Dr Richard Wolfe.’
‘Wolfe? I know Wolfe. I can just page him.’
‘Don’t do that. Tell your people not to say anything to Wolfe.’ The last thing McCabe needed was some unarmed security guard alerting Wolfe they were after him and getting his ass shot off in the process. ‘Just find Quinn and take her into custody. If Wolfe’s with her, tell him you’re under orders and call us immediately. If he objects, don’t interfere. Just keep an eye on him and call me.’ He gave Andersen his number. ‘Gorham police will be there to back you up in a few minutes.’