The Chill of Night (11 page)

‘Would anybody be there now?’

‘Nope. Office won’t be open till eight o’clock Monday morning. We’ve got a number we’re supposed to call in case of emergency. You want that?’

‘Yes.’

Jackson opened a drawer and pulled out a business card. He handed it to McCabe. The name on the card was Scott Ginsberg. He knew Ginsberg. He’d retired from the PPD’s Community Affairs Division two years earlier. Maybe there was life after leaving the force. His cell number was 555-1799.

McCabe pointed to a bank of small screens behind the desk. ‘How about your video. Are you recording, or is it just live?’

‘Recorded.’

‘Tape?’

‘No. Digital.’

Made sense. Digital meant there was no good reason not to record. The images could be fed right into a computer at METCO’s offices. Storage wasn’t a problem. Neither was the cost of videotape. There was no reason not to hold on to the images more or less forever. McCabe called Eddie Fraser and, after congratulating him on Tinker Bell’s rave reviews, gave him Scott Ginsberg’s number and asked him to start reviewing the video. ASAP. So far all they had was the body and the note. They needed more. Starting with a next of kin.

McCabe gave Jackson his card. Told him to get in touch if he thought of anything else. Then he asked him to call Beth Kotterman.

They exited the elevator at five. ‘My office is at the end of the hall to the right,’ said Kotterman. She led. McCabe followed. The corridor was dimly lit and empty. The air was cold.

Kotterman read his thoughts. ‘Heat’s programmed to go down to fifty at seven o’clock unless somebody calls to have it left on.’

‘Nobody working late tonight?’

‘I’m sure some of the lawyers are.’

‘No lawyers on this floor?’

‘No. Five’s mostly administrative. HR. Accounting. Office management. That sort of thing. We tend to be more nine-to-five types.’ She unlocked her office door and flipped on the lights.

As head of HR, Beth Kotterman rated a corner office. It was furnished in generic midlevel modern. Not what the partners would get, but a hell of a lot more comfortable than anything at 109. Kotterman had added a lot of touches that kept the place from being generically boring. A small jungle of indoor plants that included a ceiling-sized ficus dominated one corner. One wall was covered with family photos and a large crayon drawing titled
Gramma Bethby.
Bethby was wearing a bright green dress and had oversized feet and big glasses. The portrait was framed and carefully hung in a place of honor. It was signed
BECKY
.

Kotterman didn’t bother taking off her coat. She sat and pointed McCabe to a straight-back chair in front of her desk. The interview chair, McCabe guessed. ‘How old’s Becky?’ he asked.

Kotterman relaxed a little. ‘Seven now. She was four when I sat for the portrait. How sure are you that the body you found is Lainie Goff? The other officer, Detective Cleary, said you didn’t know yet.’

‘We’ve tentatively confirmed her identity from photographs,’ said McCabe. ‘We’re ninety-nine percent certain the dead woman is Elaine Goff.’

‘Not one hundred? It could still be someone else?’

‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope. We’ll do a dental records check to be absolutely certain, but I think you can assume it’s Goff.’

‘I’m going to have to let people in the firm know.’

‘That’s fine. Most of them probably already know. News Center 6 jumped the gun on that.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘I agree. We always like to inform next of kin before they hear it from the media.’

‘Of course. And you think Lainie, assuming it is Lainie, was murdered?’

‘Yes.’

‘Odd.’ Kotterman looked away. ‘One doesn’t expect that sort of thing to happen in Portland, but I guess there are no 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 fry.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the partners. Especially the senior partners. Most especially the male senior partners. She was, from what I hear, an extremely ambitious woman.’

‘Really?’ said McCabe. ‘Now, who did you hear that from?’

Kotterman rolled the question around in her mind before answering. ‘The grapevine. People talk.’

‘While they were talking, did any of them say anything about Lainie Goff being involved?’ he asked. ‘Maybe with one of the partners? Maybe with more than one?’

‘You know, Detective, it’s late and I’m tired. I’ve probably said too much already.’

‘I appreciate that, Ms Kotterman, but I’d also appreciate it if you could tell me who you saw Lainie talking to at the party. Who she spent time chatting up, as you put it. Anyone in particular?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

McCabe knew Kotterman wouldn’t give him much more, but he had nothing to lose by trying. ‘A minute ago you said she had bigger fish to fry? I’m wondering who that might have been.’

‘I’m sorry, Detective. I probably misspoke. I didn’t know Lainie all that well. As you can imagine, I’m very upset by the news of her death. I’m sure everyone in the firm will be. Why don’t we just leave it at that?’

‘Just a few more questions.’

‘I don’t think so.’

McCabe wondered if the head of HR was going to refuse to tell him anything more. It was her right to do so. ‘It’s important,’ he said.

Kotterman sighed. ‘Alright. As long as your questions aren’t of a personal nature.’

McCabe nodded assent. ‘Okay. How long has Lainie Goff been with the firm, and what exactly did she do here?’

‘She’s an attorney. A senior associate. She started here shortly after she graduated from Cornell Law in 2000. She worked in the Mergers and Acquisitions Group.’

‘Was she on track for a partnership?’

‘I have no idea. The partners don’t generally share their intentions with me. My role is more administrative.’

‘But she would have wanted one, right?’

‘Of course. All associates want partnerships. The ones who don’t get offers usually leave the firm.’

‘Do you know who her friends were at the office? Who she hung out with?’

‘I already told you I didn’t know Lainie very well. Why don’t I make you a list of the people who worked in the same practice area? That might be the simplest thing.’

‘Okay. Let’s start there.’ McCabe watched as Kotterman turned back to her computer. It was clear the older woman didn’t like Goff. That wasn’t surprising. The Beth Kottermans of the world didn’t like Sandy much either. So how much of what she implied was based on truth and how much on simple resentment of the beautiful diva? He needed to find out. ‘Who was Lainie’s boss?’

‘The senior partner in charge of M&A. Henry Ogden. She reported to him.’

Ogden. Okay. He was the guy who signed out of the building ten minutes after Lainie. Had Henry Ogden seen Lainie that night? Was he the last person to see her alive? McCabe had no answers. Just possibilities. He had a lot of work to do. ‘Does Ogden know about Lainie’s death?’ he asked.

‘Not from me. I was waiting until I knew for sure it was Lainie. Until after I’d spoken to you. I’m going to call him at home after you leave.’

‘I need to speak to Mr Ogden as soon as possible. Can you give me his home number and, if you have it, his cell?’

She wrote both numbers on another Post-it note and handed it to McCabe.

‘Is there anything else you need from me, Detective, before I go home?’

‘Yes. I’d like to take a look at Lainie Goff’s office.’

‘I can show you where her office is, but I’m afraid you can’t go in. She almost certainly kept her files in there, and we’d have big client confidentiality issues.’

‘That could present problems.’

‘You can check with Henry Ogden, but I’m sure his answer will be the same. That Lainie’s office, her files, and her computer are off-limits unless and until you get a subpoena. Even with a subpoena I’m not sure we can give you access to our client files.’

‘Fine. We’ll request a warrant first thing in the morning. In the meantime I’m going to post a uniformed officer and have a padlock put on the place. We’ll also put a
DO NOT ENTER
sign on the door. I’d appreciate it if you could let everyone at Palmer Milliken know that the office is off-limits.’

Eight

Harts Island, Maine

Friday, January 6

11:30
P.M
.

Abby Quinn didn’t know how long she’d been in the closet at the Castellanos’ empty summer cottage, but it seemed like a long time. The thin strip of daylight that earlier seeped under the closed door had faded hours ago. This was her fourth hiding place since Tuesday, the fourth in four days, but now she’d made the decision to leave the island it would also be the last. Her plan was simple. The Castellanos’ house was no more than a hundred yards from the ferry landing. The last boat Friday nights left the island at eleven fifty-five. Bobby Howser was the mate on the late boat. She went to high school with Bobby. He used to be a friend. As soon as she saw him getting ready to haul in the gangway, she’d sprint the hundred yards and, if she timed it right, leap on just as the boat was pulling away from the dock, leaving the monster stranded on the island. The monster she thought of as Death.

Abby pushed the button that lit the face of her old, cheap digital watch. Twenty-five minutes to go. She pressed back against the wall of the closet and wrapped her arms around her knees. She squeezed as hard as she could, as if by squeezing, she could push the fear from her body, the urge to run screaming into the night.

Last Tuesday replayed itself in Abby’s mind for the thousandth time. The day had started out normally enough. Another day so cold Abby couldn’t think of a good reason to get out of bed. She slept late, and when she finally woke up she spent most of the afternoon lying under her heavy quilt reading the latest Stephanie Plum and listening to her mother clank around downstairs.

Things were going pretty good for a change. She was staying on her meds, and they seemed to be working. The Voices were quiet. She was living like a real person and not some freak. She was working the dinner shift at the Crow’s Nest and doing okay. Taking orders and getting them right. Reciting the specials from memory. Writing out the checks. Asking customers how they were. Telling them she was doing fine. She was making money and saving it and thinking she might somehow have a life.