‘More’n we ever got. Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Lime was driving an SUV, probably dark green. Same kind of vehicle we caught on video near where the body was dumped. We’ve got a doctor in the area, a heart surgeon, who owns a similar vehicle. I’m trying to get a warrant to search it. That’s it so far.’
‘Sounds like you’re making progress.’
‘Let’s hope so. You busy otherwise?’
‘Who me? Hell no.’ Cahill’s voice slipped into sarcasm. ‘We’ve just been whiling away the days waiting for the next hurricane to come knock us into next week. McCabe, I’ll tell you, it’s been a hell of a summer down here, and they’re telling us there’s more to come.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been reading about it.’
‘You get those case files I sent your way?’
‘They’re right here on my desk. Haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. I’ll do that at home tonight. Let’s talk in a couple of days.’
‘Okay, I’ve gotta run. Keep me posted.’ Cahill hung up.
21
Monday. 1:30 P.M.
Had Katie Dubois died in any of the ordinary ways teenagers die, from illness or an accident, from an overdose of alcohol or drugs, her funeral would have passed largely unnoticed. As it was, it ranked as one of the major media events of the year in Maine, and the city’s press corps and public personages turned out en masse.
Detectives Margaret Savage and Michael McCabe arrived early at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, home of the Diocese of Portland, a massive Gothic Revival redbrick church with a soaring two-hundred-foot spire that was crowned with a golden cross.
As agreed, Maggie positioned herself outside the main door, trying to camouflage herself behind the cluster of reporters and news photographers. She carried an SLR digital camera Starbucks had given her that was fancy enough to look professional. Her job was to shoot head shots of everyone entering or leaving the church. The camera’s endless buttons, dials, and levers baffled her when Starbucks first handed it over. He set it on full automatic and told her just to point and click. So far she was doing okay.
McCabe went inside. He’d been in the cathedral a couple of times before, for Christmas concerts with Casey and last year with Kyra as well. Each time the church’s soaring, luminous white-and-gold interior briefly seduced McCabe into a fantasy of returning to the religion he’d abandoned twenty years before, something he knew would never happen. He stood alone in a quiet corner, watching the faces of the mourners as they filed in. He felt self-conscious in his only suit, a dark gray pin-stripe he once thought pretty dapper. He hadn’t worn it since leaving New York and only managed to get the trousers buttoned by sucking in his gut.
The organ was playing something sonorous and sad. People filled the pews, pressing themselves into every corner of the large church. The misnamed Mayor Short seated himself near the front, directly behind Katie’s family. The city council came in a group, all in gray or blue suits like McCabe’s. A sprinkling of state legislators and local celebrities arrived. Chief Shockley showed up in full dress uniform, Bill Fortier trotting along by his side. McCabe was surprised to see Terri Mirabito. She didn’t see him. He’d never seen her at a funeral before.
Teachers and tight clusters of teenagers, many openly weeping, were everywhere. McCabe recognized the boyfriend, Ronnie Sobel, from a photo in the murder book. Tobin Kenney came alone and sat alone. A young woman seated with some students, another teacher, McCabe supposed, beckoned Kenney to join her, pointing to an empty seat next to her. He shook his head and stayed where he was. She shrugged and turned away.
McCabe examined the faces as people entered and sat down, registering those he recognized, studying those he didn’t, filing their images away in the hard drive he carried in his head. He wondered if the murderer was among them. There was no way of knowing.
The Most Reverend Leo F. Conroy, DD, ThD, STL, Bishop of Maine, presided over the requiem mass. He greeted Katie’s coffin at the door of the cathedral. McCabe was sure the elegant mahogany box had cost the Ceglias more than they could afford. People always pay too much when they bury their child. The bishop sprinkled the coffin with holy water and intoned the words of the De profundis.