The Cutting (11 page)

‘Sorry. No.’

‘I can get a court order, if I have to.’ McCabe wondered if the doctor knew he was bluffing. Getting a court order from any judge to go rummaging through the personal backgrounds of more than a hundred respected doctors might be a tall order.

‘Then that’s what you’ll have to do. I’m not giving you access. You can always try HR, but I don’t think you’ll have any better luck there.’

He thought about the murder of Elyse Andersen. ‘Any of your surgeons move here from Florida in the last couple of years? Orlando maybe?’

‘You’re starting to annoy me, Detective.’

Spencer’s patience was wearing thin. McCabe decided to drop the issue, at least for now, and try another tack. He glanced again at the Denali picture and again was struck by Spencer’s expression. What was it?

‘I see you’re a mountain climber,’ he said.

‘I’ve done some climbing, yes. Denali, as you can see. Logan in Canada, El Pico de Orizaba in Mexico, Katahdin here in Maine.’

Was Spencer relieved to be changing the subject? McCabe wasn’t sure. ‘Those other guys are friends of yours?’

‘Old friends. We all went to medical school together. We did residencies together. All but one in cardiac surgery, then transplant surgery. At the time, we called ourselves, a little arrogantly I suppose, the Asclepius Society.’

‘Asclepius?’

‘Yes. After the Greek god of healing. Asclepius was so skilled a physician he could actually bring the dead back to life. That’s what we thought we would be doing as transplant surgeons. Bringing the dead back to life.’

McCabe remembered the story from classics class at St. Barnabas. Instead of being pleased with the healer, Zeus became so angry with Asclepius for co-opting the ability to bestow immortality that he slew him on the spot. Seared him with a lightning bolt, like an ancient Tony Soprano.

‘How about you?’ asked Spencer.

‘How about me what?’

‘Are you a climber?’

McCabe thought back to his muddy descent down the slope of the Western Prom. ‘No. I’m definitely not a climber,’ he said. ‘It’s not anything I’ve ever thought about doing.’

‘Maybe you should.’

‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘Well, I could give you a lot of rigmarole about healthful exercise, but I’ve always thought the best answer to why anyone climbs mountains was George Mallory’s. Mallory was a British climber who tried an ascent of Everest back in 1924. He wanted to be the first man to reach the summit. When people asked him why he was determined to make a climb most considered impossible, and some thought suicidal, his answer was “Because it’s there.”’

‘That’s why you climb? Because it’s there?’

‘That’s why any serious climber climbs. Climbing is physically demanding. It can be dangerous. It can’t be called fun in any conventional sense of the word. It forces me to push myself further than I ever thought I could. Test myself. Find out how good I am. To me, and others like me, pushing the limits of our skill is what makes life worth living. It’s always exhilarating. Either hanging from a precipice twenty thousand feet up or cutting open a human being and replacing a heart in an operating room. That sense of exhilaration is what led me into transplant surgery.’

The word ‘risk-taker’ popped unbidden into McCabe’s mind, and he wondered again where Spencer was at the critical times. ‘I gather Mallory didn’t make it,’ he said. ‘Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay were the first to climb Everest.’

‘Yes. Thirty years later. In 1953. A New Zealand bee-keeper and a Nepalese Sherpa. Mallory tried and died in the attempt. The equipment available to him in 1924 wasn’t up to the task. Everest is easier today because of modern equipment. Not easy, but easier. I’m curious. Isn’t there anything you do to test your own limits? To see if you can? Because it’s there?’

McCabe shrugged. ‘I chase murderers. Like Everest, they’re there – and catching them
can
be challenging.’

Spencer smiled. ‘You’re joking, but I’m serious. You know, I’ll be going up to Acadia in a few weeks for a training climb up the Precipice. It’s a fairly easy climb, but it does have a few tricky patches. Short, steep verticals that can be tough for a beginner. Would you like to give it a try?’

McCabe was surprised by the invitation, wondered why it was offered. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? You look reasonably fit. I know you don’t lack courage. Tom Shockley told me you ran into the Twin Towers and saved someone’s life on September 11.’

‘Tom Shockley’s got a big mouth.’ McCabe wasn’t surprised Spencer knew Shockley. Portland was a small town. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, either, by Shockley’s indiscretion. It was the nature of the beast. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t something I planned. Like an ascent of Everest. Or Denali. I happened to be in a meeting at police headquarters on Center Street that morning. It’s about a five-minute drive from the Towers. When the first plane hit, we all rushed over to see if we could help.’

‘But
you
ran into the building?’

‘Only because that’s where help was needed. Look, Dr. Spencer, I’m a cop. What I did a lot of other cops did, too. I was just luckier than some. I made it out alive. It wasn’t fun. Or challenging in the way you mean. It’s also personal, and I have to tell you I don’t appreciate Shockley talking about it. To you or anyone else.’

‘How does he know about it?’

‘He didn’t hear it from me.’

‘Interesting.’

‘If you say so. Did Shockley say anything else?’

‘Just that you were a top New York homicide cop who’d gone through a nasty divorce. That you came to Portland because you wanted a safer, more wholesome environment to bring up your daughter.’

Spencer’s beeper went off. He glanced at the screen. ‘Detective, I’m afraid I have to run out on you. They’ve started harvesting my heart.’ As he stood up he added, ‘I’ll be happy to read Dr. Mirabito’s autopsy report and talk to her about whether the wounds on the body were consistent with a harvesting procedure. From your description I suspect they were. As to whether or not a black market in hearts for transplant is even remotely possible, and I don’t think it is, you might want to talk to our transplant co-ordinator here at Cumberland. She can tell you far more about the logistics than I ever could.’

Spencer put his hand on McCabe’s elbow and led him toward the door. They passed the Denali photo. Looking at it close up, McCabe was struck even more than before by something in Spencer’s expression, something in the attitude. He still wasn’t sure what.

‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Detective. Good luck in catching whoever it was who cut up that girl. Please let me know if there’s any other way I can help.’

McCabe interrupted Spencer’s dismissal. ‘Just one last question,’ he said.

‘Okay, but make it quick.’ Spencer headed toward the elevator bank.

McCabe followed. ‘You know that Denali picture? Who are the other three guys?’

‘I told you, old friends from medical school. Why do you want to know?’

‘Are they all transplant surgeons?’

‘So that’s it. Listen, I told you this murder was not about heart transplants.’ Spencer pushed the down button harder than he need have.

‘But those men are transplant surgeons, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, two are, not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Not all three?’

‘One’s dead.’

The elevator arrived. McCabe followed Spencer in. Spencer pressed five for himself and the lobby for McCabe. ‘What are the names of the two who are alive?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, this is ridiculous.’

‘Humor me.’

The doors opened at five and Spencer stepped out. McCabe followed. Spencer stopped and turned to face him. ‘You’re not going any farther.’

‘What are their names? I can find out on my own. It’ll just take longer.’

Spencer didn’t say anything for a minute. He just stared at McCabe with distaste, as if he had eaten something unpleasant. ‘The man on the left, next to me, is DeWitt Holland. He’s at Brigham in Boston. The one on the far right is Matthew Wilcox, who’s at UNC in Chapel Hill.’

‘Who’s the dead guy? The one you’re looking at in the picture?’

‘His name was Lucas Kane.’ Spencer’s attitude softened. ‘A tragic, tragic loss. In some ways Lucas was the most talented of us all.’

‘How did Kane die?’

‘Lucas was brutally murdered about four years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Spencer turned his back and walked away.

‘Just one last question, Dr. Spencer,’ McCabe called after him, the image of Peter Falk’s Columbo popping into his mind. ‘Where were you around midnight last Thursday night?’

Spencer turned. ‘At home. In bed.’

‘Your wife was with you?’

‘Yes. We usually share a bed.’

McCabe rode alone to the ground floor. He passed through a swirl of people in the lobby without noticing them. He left the building and headed toward the Bird. A gaggle of smokers, mostly hospital workers, stood clustered in the corner of the parking lot sucking on their weeds. McCabe was tempted to see if he could bum a smoke from one of them. He’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker for years, and burning tobacco still smelled good to him. He only broke the habit after Casey was born.

10

Saturday. 8:30
P.M.

It was nearly eight thirty when McCabe got back to the condo. He was carting a plastic bag filled with frozen dinners and wondering if Casey had managed to scrounge up anything to eat. Before he could fish the keys out of his pocket, the door swung open. Kyra stood on the other side, a concerned expression on her face.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Your wife called,’ she said.

‘My wife?’

‘Your ex-wife, if you prefer.’ She took the bag of groceries and went to the kitchen. ‘You know?’ she called out. ‘Cassandra? The drop-dead gorgeous one in the picture Casey showed me.’ Kyra stuck the food in the freezer, took out a cut crystal highball glass, and poured him three fingers of Scotch. She put the bottle back, then paused, took it out again, and poured herself a short one, diluting it with ice and a little water.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that ex-wife. Did she say what she wanted?’

‘She’s flying up here. She wants to see Casey.’

He stood quietly for a moment, absorbing the information. ‘When?’

‘The end of the week.’

‘Does Casey know?’

‘Yes. She took the call. They talked for a couple of minutes.’ Kyra handed him his drink, sat down on the couch, and sipped her own. He’d never seen her drink hard liquor before.

‘How did she react?’ he asked.

‘From what I could hear on this end, she pretty much blew Sandy off. Said she didn’t want to see her. Sounded cool. Hung up after a minute or two. I asked her who it was on the phone. She told me.’

‘She okay?’

‘I don’t know. Abandonment isn’t easy to come to terms with.’

McCabe sat on the broad window seat and gazed down at a million lights shining across the bulk of an enormous white cruise ship as it pulled out of Portland harbor. The
Princess
something. Kyra flipped off her sandals and stretched her legs out on the couch. She looked very much at home.

‘Where’s Casey now?’ he asked.

‘I gave her some dinner and drove her to Sarah Palfrey’s house. Presumably to watch TV and do some homework. Aside from anything else, that gives you a chance to sort out how you feel before you discuss it with her.’

McCabe was hit by a sudden surge of anger. ‘I know exactly how I feel,’ he said. ‘Sandy’s got no right to suddenly drop back into Casey’s life. Not after three years of silence.’

‘You’ve never told me much about your relationship with Sandy.’

‘You never asked.’

‘I’m asking now.’

McCabe sighed. The anger ebbed. He didn’t like talking about his failed first marriage, but maybe it would help – and maybe Kyra did have a right to know. He sucked in a breath, held it for a minute, let it out slowly, and then began to talk.

‘My relationship with Sandy was different in just about every way from what we have between us. It was built on lust, not love. That was true at the beginning, even truer at the end. For the last few years there was nothing between Sandy and me but sex. That never stopped. She could always turn me on, and she loved proving it. My emotional life focused on Casey – and, I guess, on my job. You know how I am. When I get involved in a case I can’t just turn it on and off. It consumes me. Sandy couldn’t deal with that. She hated it.’

McCabe swirled the Scotch in the Waterford glass. A wedding present from his sister Fran. One of a set of four. Sandy had taken two to her new life. He’d broken one in the move to Portland. This was the last.

Kyra watched him as he finished the drink. ‘Didn’t you love her in the beginning?’

‘I thought I did. Unfortunately, Sandy didn’t have much use for my love. She loved herself more than enough for both of us. In the end, any feelings I might have had for her withered away.’

‘Why didn’t you split earlier? File for divorce?’

‘I thought about it.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘Fear of losing Casey. In most divorce proceedings the mother gets custody. The father gets to visit. I wasn’t about to let that happen. I was totally in love with my daughter from the instant she was born, and I wanted her with me.’ McCabe rose from the window seat and went to the kitchen to pour himself another Scotch. He held up the bottle. ‘You want another?’

‘Not for me. I’m not sure you should have one either.’

‘I’m all right,’ he said. He poured the Scotch and returned to the window. ‘In the end, Sandy solved the problem for me. She started screwing around with some rich banker. Not her first affair, by the way. Just the first who asked her to marry him. She walked out and never looked back.’

‘Then you got Casey. The perfect solution, right?’

‘Not quite perfect. I assumed at the time that Sandy would want to see her daughter occasionally. Y’know, one day a week, one weekend a month, alternate school vacations, whatever.’

‘She didn’t?’

‘No. She didn’t. She hardly even bothered to call. She was always too busy shopping. Or getting a pedicure. Or whatever the hell else it is that Sandy does with her time. Casey was ten years old and in an emotionally fragile place, and here was her own mother telling her she didn’t care enough to take a cab across town or even pick up the phone to talk to her. I found that unforgivable at the time. I always will.’