‘He leave a suicide note?’
‘Nope.’
‘Any sign of a choke hold or drugs in Stan’s blood?’
‘No.’
‘So you can’t prove a thing.’
‘Damn, you’re good, McCabe.’
46
Friday. 10:30 A.M.
McCabe half expected Sandy to turn up on his flight back to Portland. Thank God, she didn’t. Sitting next to Sandy, chatting about her coming weekend with Casey, would have been more than he could have handled. Anyway, it was early. Sandy was probably still in her West End Avenue apartment, picking out the perfect wardrobe for parental visitation. Something conservative and motherly. Sandy was good at playing roles, equally good at dressing for them.
The plane was one of those small commuter jobs with undersized seats. He looked around to see if he could snag an empty row before squeezing into his assigned aisle seat. No such luck. The flight was packed. Next to him a distracted businesswoman in full New York chic rummaged through her Ferragamo briefcase. He smiled at her. She smiled back as she extracted a Wall Street Journal and stowed the briefcase under the seat. Then she immersed herself in the paper, signaling a lack of interest in small talk. McCabe leaned back in agreement, closed his eyes, and thought about his conversation with Melody Bollinger. Was Lucas Kane dead and buried in Florida or alive and cutting out hearts in Maine? He was ready to bet on the latter.
His cell phone vibrated shortly after the plane bumped down at Portland International Jetport. Maggie’s name appeared in the window. ‘What’s up?’
‘Good news, bad news. The good news is I’m back on the case and on my way to search Spencer’s house. Thought you might want to join us. Unless you’re still in New York.’
‘No, I’m here. Just touched down. What’s the bad news?’
‘We don’t know where Spencer is.’
‘He’s gone?’ McCabe looked out the window. The plane seemed to be crawling to the gate. ‘Gone where?’
‘We don’t know. The cop watching his house doesn’t know. The hospital doesn’t know either. Woman at the Levenson Heart Center said he was supposed to be in surgery this morning. He never showed up.’
Spencer would never miss surgery, would he? The plane stopped about a hundred yards short of the terminal. ‘When was the last time anyone spoke to him?’
‘At 6:00 A.M.,’ said Maggie. ‘Hospital called him at home. He answered.’
Maggie was interrupted by the voice of the captain. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid there’ll be a short delay while we wait for a gate to open up. Shouldn’t be more than a minute or two.’
‘Shit,’ McCabe said. Too loudly. The woman next to him gave him a look. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. He looked out the window. Couldn’t see anything.
‘A teenage boy died early this morning,’ Maggie continued, ‘from injuries in a car crash. Spencer was supposed to be installing his heart in a thirty-two-year-old woman named –’ Maggie paused. Seemed like she was checking her notes. ‘– Lisa Lynch.’
‘He never showed up?’
‘You got it. They called Dr. Codman to cover. Almost lost the heart and the woman.’
Why would Spencer not show up? There were a lot of reasons, none of them good. ‘You tried the house yourself, and his cell?’
‘Yeah. Voice mail picks up on both. I think we were wrong about him not being involved. I think he flew the coop,’ said Maggie.
McCabe doubted it. Even if Maggie was right and Spencer was involved, taking off would practically be an admission of guilt. Okay. They had the earring, and the blood from the Lexus, but even taken together that wouldn’t be enough to convict. Not with a lawyer like Sheldon Thomas. Hell, they couldn’t even prove Spencer was driving the Lexus. The evidence they had was a lot less damning than OJ and his Bruno Magli shoes. Thomas would have told him that.
The plane inched forward again.
Maggie’s voice was in his ear. ‘I think maybe he’s guilty and Tasco rattled him more than you thought during that interview. He decides we’re getting close to nailing him and bango, he hits the road.’
‘Yeah. Maybe,’ McCabe said. Although he wasn’t buying it. The plane reached the gate. The pilot turned off the seat belt sign, and people all around him started getting up. ‘What about Hattie?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know where she is either. I think they took off together.’
The woman next to McCabe was looking at him again. He was still in his seat, and she wanted out. He stood up and banged his head on the overhead. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked, pushing his way into the aisle and rubbing his head.
‘We’re just leaving 109.’
‘Have you put out an ATL yet?’ He didn’t want to use Spencer’s name.
‘Yeah. For both the BMW and the Porsche. Every department in Maine plus the New Hampshire staties.’
The flight attendant opened the door, and the line of people started inching out.