It was exactly one week since Lucinda Cassidy was kidnapped on the Western Prom, and all McCabe could do was hope she was still alive. His flight to LaGuardia took a little over an hour and, for a change, they landed right on time. Melody Bollinger was waiting for him by the baggage carousel. As it turned out, she was zaftig and then some. She resembled an updated version of Joan Blondell, maybe twenty pounds rounder. She was wearing a pair of tight khaki pants McCabe figured she bought at least fifteen pounds ago. A blue blazer covered most but not all of the bulge. They had no trouble recognizing each other.
‘McCabe?’
‘Melody?’ The terminal was jammed with people. ‘Let’s go get some coffee,’ he said, looking around. ‘There’s a Starbucks upstairs.’
‘You know your airports.’
‘I’ve been here a few times before,’ he said. ‘I’m a New Yorker.’
‘I know. I did a backgrounder on you. Your career with the NYPD, your little run-in with the drug dealer – and, of course, the Dubois case.’
They found a table in the corner, and he bought them both some coffee. She declined his offer of a pastry. ‘I’m on Atkins, but thanks anyway.’
He handed her the coffee. ‘Alright,’ she asked, ‘what’s this all about? What’s Kane’s connection to your case?’ She flipped on her recorder.
He reached over and flipped it off. ‘Take notes,’ he said. ‘I’d just as soon not be on tape or quoted for attribution. Consider me an unnamed source. Plus I’d like you to hold off printing any of this.’
‘McCabe, you know better than that. I’m a reporter. You tell me something that’s news, expect it to be printed.’
‘Just hold off a couple of days. Say until Monday. You’ll have a better story if you do. If we clear it by then, I’ll make sure you get details nobody else will have.’
‘What if something happens in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime, print whatever you want as long as it doesn’t come from me.’
She thought about this. ‘Alright. Deal.’ She put the recorder back in her briefcase. ‘Now, why are you interested in Kane?’
McCabe showed Bollinger a postmortem photograph of the man Maggie had killed in Sophie Gauthier’s hospital room. ‘Do you know this man?’
She picked up the picture and examined it. ‘Sure. It’s Duane Pollard. Lucas Kane’s bullyboy. Who killed him?’
‘You’re sure it’s Pollard?’
‘I’m sure. Either him or his twin brother. Is this the guy the female cop shot in the hospital yesterday morning? The one identified as Darryl Pollock?’
‘You do your homework.’
‘Story came in from the AP last night. Is this Darryl Pollock?’
‘Yes. My partner shot him just in time to save my life. Saved a key witness’s life as well.’
‘Interesting. When did Duane turn up in Maine? And why?’ Bollinger started writing notes.
‘Let me ask some questions first. Do you think Pollock – let’s call him that, it’s his real name – do you think he killed Lucas Kane?’
She looked up. ‘No. His alibi was corroborated six ways to Sunday. He couldn’t have pulled the trigger.’
‘Could he have recruited someone else to do it?’
‘Unlikely. Kane was his meal ticket.’
‘Maybe they had a spat.’
‘Yeah, maybe, but I don’t think so. I don’t know what you’re looking for here.’
‘I’m trying to figure out exactly why this thug ended up in Maine trying to put a bullet through a key witness’s head. All I know so far is that Pollock’s ex-boyfriend, the late Lucas Kane, was buddies with a doctor in Maine who may be involved in the case.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I’d like to know what you know about the murder of Lucas Kane.’
‘About all I can add to what you read in the Herald is a couple of things I’ve always thought of as weird. Or at least questionable.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
‘Like whoever shot Kane shot him from an angle and chose a weapon guaranteed to blow away his dentures and turn his face into mincemeat. The only reason I can think of to do that is to make positive ID as hard as possible. Why?’
‘I don’t know. You wrote that the cops suspected a mob hit.’
‘Yeah, but that was bullshit. If in doubt, blame the mob. Any mob. Everybody just nods and accepts it. It’s a convenient out.’
‘You think this wasn’t their style.’
‘I know it’s not. So do you. If they wanted to kill Kane, they’d just go bang-bang-you’re-dead. No reason to hide his identity.’
McCabe chewed on that for a minute. ‘Okay. That’s weird number one. What’s weird number two?’
‘The fingerprints.’