Even in the blackness of the room, Lucy could feel his presence. She lay perfectly still, holding her breath. She knew he was there, but where? And why? She listened as hard as she could but heard nothing.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, two hands touched her face. Her heart jumped. Her muscles tightened. She stifled a cry as she felt the hands slide slowly and smoothly down her neck, then over her body, exploring, probing. Still she was afraid to move, afraid to speak. One at a time she felt him loosen and release the restraints that held her hands. He took her wrists, rotated and massaged each in turn. Then his hands moved down her legs. He released the ankle restraints, then moved her feet as he had her hands.
He pulled off her gown and washed her all over with a warm, moist cloth that smelled like lavender. She could feel the warmth of his body, the movement of air from his breath. ‘I think, Lucy,’ he said, his voice a whisper, ‘it’s time for you and I to get to know each other a little better.’
She stiffened and froze, pressing her legs tightly together, balling her fists, waiting for the inevitable.
24
Monday. 8:00 P.M.
The note was in the mailbox when McCabe got home around eight. He didn’t notice it at first, hidden among the advertising circulars and bills piled up from deliveries he hadn’t bothered to collect. It was in a plain white envelope with the words DETECTIVE MCCABE, 134 EASTERN PROM penciled in block letters across the front, as if written by a child’s hand. No stamp. No postmark. No return address. He decided to wait until he was upstairs before opening it. A blast of music from Casey’s bedroom assaulted his ears as he entered the apartment.
‘Hello. I love you,’ he shouted from the doorway, ‘and turn that damn thing down.’
He heard no response, either verbally from his daughter or in a reduction of decibels from her room. He crossed to the kitchen, dumped the junk mail in the recycling bin, took a bottle of Geary’s from the icebox, opened it, and took a long swig. He was in a foul mood, pissed at Sandy, pissed at Shockley, pissed at the world. At least the cold fizz of the beer felt good going down.
McCabe went down the hall and leaned against the frame of Casey’s open door. She was sprawled, tummy down, diagonally across her bed, feet resting on her pillow, head hanging over the edge, reading what appeared to be a science text open on the floor below. He couldn’t figure out how she could actually see the words on the page from that position, but it didn’t seem to be a problem. She mostly got A’s.
‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ he called from the door, shouting to be heard over the music. Casey looked up and then, without acknowledging his presence, looked back down at her book. McCabe went to the stereo and hit the power button. Silence flooded the room. Casey looked up again. ‘Isn’t that why I bought you the iPod?’ he said. ‘So I wouldn’t be subjected to that noise?’
‘It’s not noise. It’s Propaganda.’
‘What?’
‘Propaganda. That’s who’s singing. They’re very hot.’
‘I can tell. The iPod. Please.’
Wordlessly she rolled off the end of the bed, walked to her desk, got the iPod, inserted the earbuds, and resumed her position on the bed. McCabe retreated to the living room.
He tossed the bills on top of the small desk in the corner, where they joined an unopened stack. He sat in the big chair, feet on the glass coffee table. More bills than money. Always. How much longer could he afford being a cop? In a few years there’d be college to pay for on top of everything else he couldn’t afford. He could sell the condo. Move to a smaller place away from the water. Move backward. Move down. Maybe Sandy was right dumping him for a rich guy. Maybe the rich guy would pay for college. The idea depressed him.
Maybe he should quit the department once the Dubois case was resolved. Shockley might fire him anyway for his big mouth once there was no longer a political price to pay. A guy he knew at NYU who was now CEO of a hot biotech in Boston once talked to him about a corporate security job. The dollars mentioned were a lot more than he was making now. Even so, he wasn’t sure it was worth it. Maybe he could become a PI. Spade & Archer? Savage & McCabe? He could do a passable Bogey imitation, but there were damned few Maltese Falcon cases out there. Mostly he’d spend nights sneaking around hot-sheets motels, getting the goods on philandering husbands and wives. Nope. Not a PI.