The Chill of Night by James Hayman Read Free Book Online Page B

guy’s intention. Have some clueless kid take it for a joyride. Get his prints all over it. Get blamed for the murder when he was finally caught, nobody believing his denials. Not a bad plan. Might’ve worked. Except this was Maine, and nobody bothered stealing it.
    He could see half a dozen trawlers tied up, two abreast, on either side of the pier. All good-sized commercial fishing boats. Some of the names were visible. The Emma Anne. The Katie James. The Old Jolly. They looked dark and empty, and none of them looked very jolly. McCabe wondered if any of them might have been here the night the car was driven onto the pier. If anyone might have seen anything. Probably not. Trawlers must be in and out of this place all the time. Taking on ice and fuel. Unloading fish for the auctions. Worth checking, though.
    ‘Who takes care of the boats while they’re here?’ he asked Maggie.
    ‘What do you mean, takes care of?’
    ‘Services them. Fuel. Water. Ice. Stuff like that.’
    ‘Actually, I do know. Company called Vessel Services. Right over there. I know someone who works for them.’
    ‘Suppose they keep a record of which boats were here from Wednesday afternoon into Thursday morning?’
    ‘Probably. But if you’re thinking witnesses, why would someone spend a freezing cold night on board when he didn’t have to?’
    ‘It’s possible.’
    ‘An out-of-town boat, maybe. A Portland boat, I doubt it. These guys spend too much time at sea not to be home with their wives, girlfriends, or whoever they can rustle up. Specially in this kind of weather.’
    ‘Would you mind calling your friend at Vessel Services anyway? Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
    Maggie told him she’d call. McCabe’s mind went back to the scene. The BMW was backed up close to the edge of the pier. Why? Was the killer getting ready to toss the body overboard? If so, why hadn’t he? Maybe it was already frozen into the trunk and he couldn’t get it out. Maybe he was interrupted by someone walking by or someone on one of the boats. Again, a possible witness.
    ‘Have we learned anything about Goff?’ he asked.
    ‘Not much. Full name’s Elaine Elizabeth Goff. She’s a lawyer at Palmer Milliken. Twenty-nine years old. Single. Lives’ – Maggie stopped herself – ‘or possibly lived at 342 Brackett Street here in town. Car’s brand-new. Initial registration dated the first of December.’
    ‘We think that’s Elaine in the trunk?’
    ‘That’s what we think. Officially, she’s still Jane Doe.’
    ‘You tried reaching her?’
    ‘No listed number. Probably only uses a cell. I tried her extension at Palmer Milliken and got voice mail. I’m waiting on the Call Center to come up with a number for the cell. I asked Tom Tasco to track down her landlord.’ Tasco was one of the unit’s senior detectives.
    McCabe took another deep breath of cold air. His head was clearing, but he still felt a little sick. ‘Do we know what killed her?’
    ‘Can’t tell from looking.’
    ‘No obvious wounds or trauma?’
    ‘Some marks that look like bruises, that’s all.’ Maggie paused. ‘They don’t look lethal. She’s lying on one side with her knees tucked up tight, so you can’t see that much of her.’
    ‘Could be a wound on the other side.’
    ‘Could be. Also her hair’s covering her face, so you can’t see that at all.’
    ‘Terri on her way?’ Terri was Terri Mirabito, a deputy ME with the chief medical examiner’s office in Augusta, an hour and some away. Because she lived in Portland, Terri was always the first choice when a body turned up at night in the city. She was McCabe’s first choice anyway. He couldn’t stand her boss, Maine’s chief medical examiner, Donald A. Fry, a.k.a. the Donald. A pompous know-it-all who never missed an opportunity to demonstrate to McCabe and his detectives how dumb they were and how smart he was. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mac, it’s obvious what happened here, isn’t it? No, Donald, it’s not