Free The Chill of Night by James Hayman Page B

Shockley asking Fortier to leave and to shut the door. Then the chief switched off the speakerphone and spoke in a low, threatening voice. ‘McCabe, if you want to stay in this department, if you even want to stay in Portland, you’d better learn to keep a tighter handle on your righteous indignation.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘You also better learn to get your facts straight.’
    ‘If I was mistaken, Chief, I apologize. But maybe you want to turn on News Center 6.’
    There was a brief silence as Shockley turned on the set in his office. In the background, McCabe could hear what sounded like Josie Tenant’s live report. Shockley came back on. ‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Josie ought to know better than that.’ His voice sounded tight and angry. A second later he hung up. If he hadn’t managed to get himself fired, McCabe figured he might at least have damaged Tenant’s inside line to the department.
    Maggie exited the Fish Pier and turned right on Commercial, heading east into the heart of the Old Port. McCabe leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. With the windows closed and the heater starting to blast warm air, the strong, greasy smell of Chicken McNuggets filled the car. McCabe’s foot found the empty container. He picked it up and peered in. There were a couple of cold McNuggets left on the bottom. ‘Mind if we get rid of this? It’s making me feel sick.’
    ‘Sorry. My dinner,’ said Maggie, an unrepentant junk food junkie. Somehow it never seemed to affect her. There wasn’t much fat on her long, lanky frame. She pulled over by a curbside trash bin, and McCabe tossed the box in. He left the window open to release the smell.
    ‘You okay?’ she asked. ‘Not going to puke or anything?’
    McCabe was leaning back, looking out the open window, breathing in cold air. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m fine.’
    She turned left onto Market. Cold or not, it was still Friday night in the Old Port, and the bars and clubs were hopping. Kids armed with ID, fake or real, darted from one noisy doorway to another.
    ‘Y’know, it’s weird,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you look at, what, a dozen murder victims over the years? Some cut up, some shot up, some missing arms, legs, and other body parts. Some bloated and turning green. Almost all of them bloodier than Our Lady of the Icicles. Yet never once have I seen you turn the color you did back there. Remember the song “A Whiter Shade of Pale”? That was you.’
    ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’ 1967. Procol Harum. Number one on the British charts for six consecutive weeks. Only made number five in the U.S. Sometimes McCabe wished he had a delete button for all the crap sloshing around in his brain. ‘Okay. What about it?’
    ‘Just that I’ve never seen you react like that before. I was wondering why this time.’
    ‘You said you wouldn’t ask.’
    ‘I changed my mind.’
    ‘Too much booze on an empty stomach. Nothing to worry about.’
    ‘Come on, McCabe, I know you better than that.’
    ‘It was the booze,’ he said flatly.
    ‘Bullshit. It wasn’t the booze. It was the body. You did a triple take. Like you knew her or something. And those phone calls to Sandy? What was that all about?’
    He looked at Maggie looking at him. He supposed he ought to tell her something. She was the closest thing to a friend he had in Portland, not counting Kyra or Casey. Finally he shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t know her. I just thought I did. She looked like my ex-wife.’
    ‘Sandy?’
    ‘The one and same. Casey’s mother. The wonderful woman who walked out on both of us and never looked back. I took one look at the body in the trunk, and, boom, I wasn’t looking at Jane Doe or Elaine Goff or anyone else. I was looking at Sandy. Dead. Naked. And frozen like a rock. It was like it really was her.’
    ‘Weird.’
    ‘Yeah. Weird.’ He didn’t tell Maggie the rest of it because he didn’t know how, and he wasn’t sure it was her business