safe places anymore. Maybe there never were. Any idea who did it?’
‘No. We’re just beginning the investigation.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Like I said, the first thing I need is next of kin. I was hoping you’d have the name on file.’
‘We should.’ Kotterman woke up her sleeping computer and started tapping keys. ‘All employees give us an emergency contact number on their first day of work,’ she said. ‘It’s usually a relative.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘This may not help you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, most people list a family member. Lainie didn’t.’
‘Who’d she put?’
‘A woman named Janie Archer. New York City address.’
‘Maybe a sister?’
‘Lainie lists her as a friend.’
‘Lainie and Janie, huh? Can you give me the contact info for Ms Archer?’
She wrote an address and telephone number on a Post-it note and handed it to McCabe. Upper East Side Manhattan address, 212 area code. He committed both to memory and tossed the note.
‘That contact info is six years old,’ said Beth Kotterman. ‘Everyone’s supposed to update their information annually, but a lot of people never bother. Lainie’s friend may not live there anymore.’
It wasn’t a big problem. He should be able to track Archer down using either of the public databases Portland PD subscribed to, Accurint or AutoTrackXP. ‘Do you have anything else to indicate next of kin?’
‘Yes. There’s one more place I can check.’ Kotterman started tapping keys again. ‘All employees get a term life policy as part of their comp package. I’m looking to see who Lainie put down as beneficiary.’
‘How much is the policy worth?’ asked McCabe.
‘One and a half times annual salary. For Lainie that’d be in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.’
Not a bad neighborhood, McCabe thought. Certainly enough to offer a reasonable motive for murder. But if money was the motive, why go through all the show-off stuff down at the pier? Why not make the death look like an accident? The only reason McCabe could think of was to throw investigators off track, and that didn’t seem likely. ‘Does the policy pay out if the employee is murdered?’
‘I’ll have to double-check with our agents, but I would think so, yes. Hmmm.’ Kotterman was peering over her glasses at the screen. ‘Now isn’t that interesting?’
‘Isn’t what interesting?’
‘There’s no family member listed as beneficiary either. Lainie’s primary isn’t even a person. It’s an organization. Something called Sanctuary House. Portland address. I have no idea what that is.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said McCabe. ‘Don’t know much about it. Just that it’s a small charity, some kind of shelter for kids.’ It was beginning to look like there was no next of kin. Like Lainie Goff was an orphan. He wondered what her connection to Sanctuary House might be.
‘Well, they’re about to get a healthy chunk of money.’
‘From what I hear, they can use it.’
Kotterman closed down her computer and leaned back. She looked tired. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?’
‘Did you know Lainie well?’
‘No, hardly at all. Palmer Milliken has over three hundred employees. I’ve only talked to her occasionally. Usually about HR procedures.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘At our Christmas party.’
‘When was that?’
‘Friday, December sixteenth. At the Pemaquid Club. Most of the partners are members, and the firm took over the whole place.’ The Pemaquid Club was a membership-only gathering place for Portland’s rich and well connected. It was housed in a century-old redbrick mansion on the city’s West End.
‘Did you speak to her at the party?’
‘Just in passing. Merry Christmas. Have a great holiday. That sort of thing. Lainie wasn’t a woman who’d waste much time chatting up someone like me. She had bigger fish to
‘No. We’re just beginning the investigation.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Like I said, the first thing I need is next of kin. I was hoping you’d have the name on file.’
‘We should.’ Kotterman woke up her sleeping computer and started tapping keys. ‘All employees give us an emergency contact number on their first day of work,’ she said. ‘It’s usually a relative.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘This may not help you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, most people list a family member. Lainie didn’t.’
‘Who’d she put?’
‘A woman named Janie Archer. New York City address.’
‘Maybe a sister?’
‘Lainie lists her as a friend.’
‘Lainie and Janie, huh? Can you give me the contact info for Ms Archer?’
She wrote an address and telephone number on a Post-it note and handed it to McCabe. Upper East Side Manhattan address, 212 area code. He committed both to memory and tossed the note.
‘That contact info is six years old,’ said Beth Kotterman. ‘Everyone’s supposed to update their information annually, but a lot of people never bother. Lainie’s friend may not live there anymore.’
It wasn’t a big problem. He should be able to track Archer down using either of the public databases Portland PD subscribed to, Accurint or AutoTrackXP. ‘Do you have anything else to indicate next of kin?’
‘Yes. There’s one more place I can check.’ Kotterman started tapping keys again. ‘All employees get a term life policy as part of their comp package. I’m looking to see who Lainie put down as beneficiary.’
‘How much is the policy worth?’ asked McCabe.
‘One and a half times annual salary. For Lainie that’d be in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.’
Not a bad neighborhood, McCabe thought. Certainly enough to offer a reasonable motive for murder. But if money was the motive, why go through all the show-off stuff down at the pier? Why not make the death look like an accident? The only reason McCabe could think of was to throw investigators off track, and that didn’t seem likely. ‘Does the policy pay out if the employee is murdered?’
‘I’ll have to double-check with our agents, but I would think so, yes. Hmmm.’ Kotterman was peering over her glasses at the screen. ‘Now isn’t that interesting?’
‘Isn’t what interesting?’
‘There’s no family member listed as beneficiary either. Lainie’s primary isn’t even a person. It’s an organization. Something called Sanctuary House. Portland address. I have no idea what that is.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said McCabe. ‘Don’t know much about it. Just that it’s a small charity, some kind of shelter for kids.’ It was beginning to look like there was no next of kin. Like Lainie Goff was an orphan. He wondered what her connection to Sanctuary House might be.
‘Well, they’re about to get a healthy chunk of money.’
‘From what I hear, they can use it.’
Kotterman closed down her computer and leaned back. She looked tired. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?’
‘Did you know Lainie well?’
‘No, hardly at all. Palmer Milliken has over three hundred employees. I’ve only talked to her occasionally. Usually about HR procedures.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘At our Christmas party.’
‘When was that?’
‘Friday, December sixteenth. At the Pemaquid Club. Most of the partners are members, and the firm took over the whole place.’ The Pemaquid Club was a membership-only gathering place for Portland’s rich and well connected. It was housed in a century-old redbrick mansion on the city’s West End.
‘Did you speak to her at the party?’
‘Just in passing. Merry Christmas. Have a great holiday. That sort of thing. Lainie wasn’t a woman who’d waste much time chatting up someone like me. She had bigger fish to
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