was clear. The road before him empty. McCabe turned on his flashers and pushed the Bird up to 110 . . . everything the old V8 was able to give.
His mind went to his daughter sleeping peacefully in her bed. The red-haired kid leaving the building. He imagined Casey getting up. Sneaking out for a secret late-night rendezvous. I love you. I love you too. He saw them kissing. Groping. And then . . . what? Rape? Murder? He told himself to stop it. Stop getting weirded out by stupid thoughts. Stop being an asshole. Still, he couldn’t push the image from his mind.
K E L L Y H ADDON’S CALL woke Maggie from a restless sleep in her apartment on Vesper Street on Portland’s Munjoy Hill.
“Yeah. What is it?” she mumbled into her cell.
“Some kid’s gotten herself killed,” said Haddon. “McCabe says he wants you to get to the scene. Seems he’s up near Rumford. He’s on his way back.”
Rumford? Rumford was the back of beyond. What in hell was McCabe doing in Rumford at three in the morning? She wondered if he was still drunk. Or maybe just hungover.
She flipped the phone to speaker, took it with her into the bathroom. “Okay. Tell me what you know.”
She listened to Haddon while she washed her face and brushed her teeth.
“Young woman, maybe a teenager, was found stabbed and naked on the Loring Trail just off the end of the Eastern Prom. Patrol guys are there now. Jacoby’s people are on their way.” Bill Jacoby ran the PPD’s Crime Scene unit. “I don’t have a lot of specifics.”
“Okay. Thanks. Be there in five.”
Maggie hit End. She threw on some clothes, attached her gold shield to her belt, strapped on her weapon and headed downstairs.
Less than three minutes later, she pulled her red Chevy TrailBlazer in behind a cluster of PPD cruisers and a MEDCU ambulance that practically filled the small circular parking area around the Loring Memorial. Located at the far end of the Eastern Prom, the place was a vest pocket park dedicated to the memory of a dead war hero.
“Hiya, Mag, how you doing?” The greeting, called out in a throaty growl, came from one of the PPD’s veterans, Sergeant Pete Kenney. Kenney’d been one of Maggie’s trainers when she first joined the department fourteen years ago, and she still had a soft spot for him. He’d put in his thirty and was now only weeks from retirement. She’d just RSVP’d yes to the invite for his farewell party, a family affair at Bruno’s Tavern, an Italian place located in front of the Portland Boxing Club on Allen Avenue.
“Hiya, Pete. Any reporters pick up the scent?”
“Not yet. But it won’t be long. It never is.”
Kenney had given himself the job of keeping anyone, but especially the press, from heading down the steps toward the scene.
The Loring Trail was a narrow dirt path descending at a sharp angle from the memorial down to the water. It was both the shortest and steepest way to cut down the backside of Munjoy Hill to the running and biking trails that ran along the edge of Casco Bay and Back Cove for miles in each direction.
“Who’s watching from below?”
“Walt Ghent and John Freeman.”
Maggie started for the trail. Kenney stopped her. “Take this,” he said, handing her a MagLite. “Dark as doom down there and plenty to trip over.”
She nodded her thanks, slipped under the yellow crime scene tape that’d already been stretched across the opening to the trail and started her descent.
Chapter 16
From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.
Entry dated June 20, 1924
I begin this journal by noting that while my heart died twenty years ago this month, the rest of my body will only be joining it now. To be precise, not exactly now, but surely within a few short months. I write seated at a simple wooden table and chair in Aimée’s studio on Whitby Island. I have decided to spend my last months here alone with my memories of the woman I loved more than any other, in the place we both loved more than any
His mind went to his daughter sleeping peacefully in her bed. The red-haired kid leaving the building. He imagined Casey getting up. Sneaking out for a secret late-night rendezvous. I love you. I love you too. He saw them kissing. Groping. And then . . . what? Rape? Murder? He told himself to stop it. Stop getting weirded out by stupid thoughts. Stop being an asshole. Still, he couldn’t push the image from his mind.
K E L L Y H ADDON’S CALL woke Maggie from a restless sleep in her apartment on Vesper Street on Portland’s Munjoy Hill.
“Yeah. What is it?” she mumbled into her cell.
“Some kid’s gotten herself killed,” said Haddon. “McCabe says he wants you to get to the scene. Seems he’s up near Rumford. He’s on his way back.”
Rumford? Rumford was the back of beyond. What in hell was McCabe doing in Rumford at three in the morning? She wondered if he was still drunk. Or maybe just hungover.
She flipped the phone to speaker, took it with her into the bathroom. “Okay. Tell me what you know.”
She listened to Haddon while she washed her face and brushed her teeth.
“Young woman, maybe a teenager, was found stabbed and naked on the Loring Trail just off the end of the Eastern Prom. Patrol guys are there now. Jacoby’s people are on their way.” Bill Jacoby ran the PPD’s Crime Scene unit. “I don’t have a lot of specifics.”
“Okay. Thanks. Be there in five.”
Maggie hit End. She threw on some clothes, attached her gold shield to her belt, strapped on her weapon and headed downstairs.
Less than three minutes later, she pulled her red Chevy TrailBlazer in behind a cluster of PPD cruisers and a MEDCU ambulance that practically filled the small circular parking area around the Loring Memorial. Located at the far end of the Eastern Prom, the place was a vest pocket park dedicated to the memory of a dead war hero.
“Hiya, Mag, how you doing?” The greeting, called out in a throaty growl, came from one of the PPD’s veterans, Sergeant Pete Kenney. Kenney’d been one of Maggie’s trainers when she first joined the department fourteen years ago, and she still had a soft spot for him. He’d put in his thirty and was now only weeks from retirement. She’d just RSVP’d yes to the invite for his farewell party, a family affair at Bruno’s Tavern, an Italian place located in front of the Portland Boxing Club on Allen Avenue.
“Hiya, Pete. Any reporters pick up the scent?”
“Not yet. But it won’t be long. It never is.”
Kenney had given himself the job of keeping anyone, but especially the press, from heading down the steps toward the scene.
The Loring Trail was a narrow dirt path descending at a sharp angle from the memorial down to the water. It was both the shortest and steepest way to cut down the backside of Munjoy Hill to the running and biking trails that ran along the edge of Casco Bay and Back Cove for miles in each direction.
“Who’s watching from below?”
“Walt Ghent and John Freeman.”
Maggie started for the trail. Kenney stopped her. “Take this,” he said, handing her a MagLite. “Dark as doom down there and plenty to trip over.”
She nodded her thanks, slipped under the yellow crime scene tape that’d already been stretched across the opening to the trail and started her descent.
Chapter 16
From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.
Entry dated June 20, 1924
I begin this journal by noting that while my heart died twenty years ago this month, the rest of my body will only be joining it now. To be precise, not exactly now, but surely within a few short months. I write seated at a simple wooden table and chair in Aimée’s studio on Whitby Island. I have decided to spend my last months here alone with my memories of the woman I loved more than any other, in the place we both loved more than any
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