​

Part 1

 

"That’s what makes it so interesting,” said Monica. “His cockamamie story.”

 

She and Hart were having coffee and muffins at The Squawking Gull, as they had fallen into the habit of doing every Wednesday morning after the Seeburg murder case.  Today’s meeting was business related. Monica was briefing Hart on a client for North Shore Legal Aid, the non-profit that she and her attorney husband, Sam Tull, had founded to help low-income people cover the costs of litigation. Monica had originated the idea and handled the business end. Sam, a Harvard Law graduate who grew up in Roxbury, Boston’s historically Black neighborhood, handled the legal end. He also provided the firm’s street savvy and creds. NOSHLA had Hart on retainer as their chief investigator.

 

Hart still didn’t like the wrought-iron chairs at The Squawking Gull, which were way too small for his oversized avoirdupois. But his attachment to Monica, and the Gull’s muffins, made the discomfort bearable, and he enjoyed the view of Main Street from the window table.

 

It held special interest since an ICE arrest had taken place there, in broad daylight, a few days ago. Two Senegalese fishermen weren’t carrying their green cards. Voices were raised, bodies slammed to the pavement, wrists cuffed. The mild hysteria infecting the city of Gloucester since the election of Donald Trump rose to Alert level. Yesterday the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which was still a major employer in the city despite its declining fishing industry, had announced layoffs, and health benefits would be costing substantially more, with fewer options and more restrictions on coverage beginning January 1st. Everyone in town was on edge.

 

As usual, Hart was wearing his overcoat to hide the disparity between his rear end and the thimble-sized seat he was perched on. It was one of the few things that betrayed uneasiness about his gargantuan dimensions, which otherwise never crossed his mind. His complexion he could do nothing about.

 

Being a gentleman, however, he’d placed his fedora on the table.

 

“Sounds like he grabbed it out of thin air,” said Hart, taking a bite of his muffin. Carrot this morning. “The story, I mean. Not the card.”

 

“Like, what, a fucking gnat?  Ever try it?  Harder than a long-haul truck driver after a week on the road.”  Monica had a mouth that belied her appearance, which most men, and women, too, found sweet and beatific. Long golden curls, sky-blue eyes, rosebud lips. Nothing about her had any connection to her personality except her last name, “Spinoza,” which was Italian for “thorny.”

 

Hart was used to the discrepancy. He’d known Monica and Sam since high school.

 

“Only thing harder is thin air,” Monica continued. “You have to be a magician to pull that off. The coin that isn’t, and then it is?  The man isn’t smart enough to make up something like that. ‘Here, do the Lord’s work’”?

 

Hart only nodded. His mouth was full of muffin. He took a sip of coffee and said, “OK. Suppose he’s telling the truth. He’s standing there with his Apocalypse Now sign, and a woman driving a blue Prius gives him a credit card . . . ”

 

“’Tosses.’ It has to go in the basket.”

 

“Ok, ‘tosses,’ and she makes the basket.  My question is, why?”

 

“It was a sign. From the Lord,” Monica said with a straight face.

 

“No, I mean, why give him the credit card?”

 

“I assume she stole it or found it, and used it, and was afraid of getting caught with it.”

 

Hart was about to take another bite of his muffin but put it back on his plate. He’d lost his appetite.

 

“So why not throw it away?” he asked.

 

Monica shrugged. “Offset the bad karma?”

 

The subject of Monica’s and Hart’s conversation this bright, hot September morning was Jeremiah Pennington, who’d been arrested for credit card fraud the day before.

 

Jeremiah had materialized over Labor Day weekend on a traffic island at Grant Circle, the rotary where the Route 128 freeway feeds cars from the rest of Massachusetts into Route 127, a twisty, two-lane road circumnavigating Cape Ann. This was at evening rush hour, so the backup was sizeable, giving motorists time to fish a few coins out of their pockets while they waited for a gap in the swirl of traffic.

 

He was wearing a burlap sack cinched with rope. His hair fell past his shoulders and his beard stuck out like a flat-nosed shovel. Two skinny legs clad in blue jeans and torn sneakers poked out beneath.  He held a hand-printed cardboard sign that said, “The End of the World is Coming!” and at his feet was a battered wicker wastebasket painted red, white, and blue with another sign: “Are You Saved? Make a Basket and FIND OUT!”  There wasn’t much in it—maybe enough to buy him a large black at Dunkin’. But coins lay glittering in the sun all around it, like a halo.

 

A couple of weeks went by. Jeremiah became a fixture. Also, a nuisance.

 

Two days ago, on Monday, a patrol officer told him he’d have to change locations because he was impeding the flow of traffic. Since it was morning rush hour, the Prophet of Grant Circle was standing on the traffic island opposite his previous location and was now facing cars headed into Boston from East Gloucester. He cited his rights under the First Amendment. “I have the right to speak my mind and I have the right to worship as I choose,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m doing the Lord’s work.”

 

“Yes you do and maybe you are,” replied the cop, “but not here.”

 

He was back next morning at still another compass point on the circle, the traffic island on the north side. The same cop spotted him and warned him for the last time.

 

“I moved,” said Pennington, pointing to where he stood the day before.  The officer gave him the stink-eye and stayed parked there, blue lights flashing, while the Prophet picked up his things and left.

 

Later the same morning, the store manager at The Common Crow, a natural foods market on the corner of Eastern Avenue and Pond Road, called to report a man trying to use a credit card without proper identification.

 

“That’s not against the law,” said the desk sergeant.

 

“The card belongs to a woman,” said the manager, then added, “It’s that nut case from Grant Circle.”

 

Pennington was arrested as he emerged from the store. He was clutching a Sandy Bay Bank credit card belonging to a “Patricia McCabe.” His basket, signs, and burlap nightshirt were nowhere in evidence. Nor were any purchases. He’d been turned down.

 

Pennington was read his rights but waived them. He said he had nothing to hide. The card was “a gift from the Lord,” and he explained how he’d come by it. “I was going to buy some birthday candles,” he added, when asked.

 

“They have organic birthday candles here?”

 

Pennington nodded. “Beeswax.” When asked if it was his birthday, he replied, “They’re for the altar.”

 

He lived in a plastic-sheeted refrigerator box hidden among the witches’ weeds and blueberry patches of Cape Ann’s forested interior, known locally as “Dogtown.” One of the earliest settlements on the Cape, Dogtown had dwindled long ago to a few cellar holes and an occasional squatter, like Pennington. Only the mosquitoes had survived the passing of centuries.

 

The police drove Pennington to the trail head for “Historic Dogtown,” off Cherry Street, and together they walked the fifteen minutes to the man’s abode. It was just off the Adams Pines Trail, near Granny Day’s Swamp. Inside they found his panhandling paraphernalia, a filthy woolen blanket, some scraps of food covered with ants, a bible, and a small pile of rocks bristling with candle stubs. He lit the candles when he prayed, the Prophet said, or needed light to read The Book.

 

“Why not use the card to buy some ant traps?” one officer asked. This was the one who’d told him to move.

 

Pennington explained his “Basket Sortilege.” Anything that fell on the ground was meant to sustain God’s Prophet until the Rapture. The money in the basket was the Lord’s, for worship purposes only.

 

“It made the basket,” he said. “Didn’t even touch the rim. So who am I to question His wisdom?”

 

A background check showed Pennington was a decorated former GI who’d served in Afghanistan. Also, he’d spent two years at MCI Concord for credit card fraud. That and his lack of an address meant bail was out of the question.

 

The case was initially given to a junior detective, but Pete Fallon asked for it. The younger officer was glad to step aside. No glory here.

 

Detective Lieutenant Fallon wasn’t looking to add to his workload, but the name “McCabe” rang a bell. Also, Fallon had served in Iraq, and Pennington had seen combat, so there was that. As for the man’s story, it was too crazy not to be true. But maybe Pennington was crazy. Fallon decided to find out. After thirty-five years on the force, he thought he’d seen everything. He hadn’t seen this.

 

First thing he did was call the customer service number on the card. He was told the owner of the account would be notified.

 

“Could I have Ms. McCabe’s phone number?” he asked. Not without a court order, he was told. Rules are rules. “Have her contact me as soon as you reach her, will you?” he asked.

 

Second thing Fallon did was call Monica and her husband, Sam. The state’s public defenders were on strike again and Pennington would need all the help he could get. Fallon had met the couple through Hart, who’d helped him solve the Seeberg case, and he’d immediately taken to Monica. She was tough, smart, and as cynical as a death-row priest.

 

“This is strictly against protocol,” Fallon told her. “You didn’t get it from me. And it changes nothing. You do your job, I do mine.”

 

NOSHLA agreed to handle Jeremiah’s defense. The interrogation took place later that afternoon, with Sam Tull sitting next to his client. Pennington had already told his story, so that was in the record. To all of Fallon’s other questions he replied, as instructed, “No comment.”

 

Now, twenty-four hours after Pennington’s arrest, nothing had changed. What Monica knew about the incident she’d gotten from Sam. Attorney-client privilege extended to NOSHLA staff as well as investigators on retainer, like Hart, who phoned Fallon on leaving The Squawking Gull.

 

“You believe him?” Hart asked. He’d left the rest of his carrot muffin untouched. Faced with things that didn’t add up, he often forgot to eat.

 

“I want to believe him,” said Fallon. He paused and Hart could hear the crackle of a lit cigarette. “The man did his time for the credit card business, and he’s a decorated vet, honorably discharged. So I’m willing to give him the benefit, if anyone can tell me how his story makes sense.” Hart pictured Fallon standing outside the parking lot entrance, a gray man in a gray suit standing in a gray cloud, scratching his head with his cigarette hand. “That would help.”

 

#

 

Back at his desk, Fallon received a call from the desk sergeant. A Tommy McCabe was on the line. He said he was Patricia McCabe’s husband.

 

“I’m afraid she’s been abducted,” said Mr. McCabe. “By ICE.”

 

As soon as he heard the word “ICE,” Fallon remembered where he’d seen the name on the credit card.

 

Patricia McCabe was minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Wickham, a sleepy semi-rural community several miles west of Cape Ann. For the last three months she’d been reaching out to colleagues up and down the North Shore to help her organize a sanctuary network for immigrants feeling threatened by the current wave of Federal arrests and illegal detentions. She’d drawn a great deal of press, along with unwelcome attention from Immigration and Customs Enforcement and other security agencies.

 

“When did you last see your wife?” Fallon asked.

 

“Yesterday morning,” said McCabe, “just before I left for work. That was about a quarter past seven. She was getting ready to head over to the church. The secretary called me an hour or two later to see if she had some errands or had changed her mind. She wasn’t answering her phone.”

 

“Did you call the Wickham police?”

 

“Yeah.” McCabe sounded aggrieved. “They said she had to be missing for three days before they could begin looking for her. So I thought I’d try you guys. I know she had business in Gloucester later that morning, and she was planning to take a walk in Dogtown, just to get some fresh air and clear her mind. She’s hardly seen daylight since the new wave of arrests started.”

 

Fallon told McCabe about the credit card. The Reverend’s disappearance was now part of a criminal investigation, so there’d be no question it would be pursued. “But what makes you think this is an Immigration and Customs Enforcement matter?” asked Fallon.

 

“Don’t you read the news?”

 

“Sorry, Mr. McCabe. I mean, is there anything specific to make you think it’s ICE?”

 

After a pause, McCabe said, “No. Not so far.”

 

“I take it you’ve tried her phone number.”

 

“It goes straight to voicemail.”

 

“Could I have it?”

 

McCabe recited the number and Fallon entered it into his contacts. He’d try it after hanging up.

 

“What was your wife wearing when she left the house yesterday? And what kind of car does she drive?”

 

“Khaki pants, striped blouse. She took her green windbreaker, I think. It’s not here. And a straw hat with mosquito netting. She drives a blue Prius.”

 

 

Part 2

 

The Prius was found the next morning, Thursday, in the parking lot at Goose Cove Reservoir. It was reported by a local resident out walking his dog. The dog noticed the smell before his owner did.

 

The body of Patricia McCabe was lying in the cargo area under the tonneau cover. The back of her head was crushed in and blood had soaked the fabric of the wheel-well panel beneath her.

 

She’d been dead for about 48 hours. The autopsy might narrow that down, but determining the exact time of death would be tricky. The sun beating on the hatchback window for two days had sped up decomposition.

 

Patricia McCabe had on the khaki pants and striped blouse she was wearing when she left for work. Her handbag was lying beside her, open, with the wallet missing, but the car registration confirmed her identity. A green windbreaker and a straw hat with a mosquito net veil also lay next to her. The hat was stained with blood.

 

The parking area at Goose Cove was about a half hour’s walk from Pennington’s refrigerator box. A thorough toss of his possessions revealed nothing incriminating, but a close examination of the area around the murder scene uncovered a good-sized rock with what looked like blood stains on it. The lab would determine that. The rock’s surface was too rough to retain fingerprints. There was also blood on the grass near the bike path around the reservoir.

 

The police found a wallet containing Patricia’s driver’s license in the underbrush next to the bike path, about fifty yards from the Prius. It held no money, but all the credit cards were there, except for the one found in Pennington’s possession.

 

Sam briefed Hart that afternoon in Hart’s office on Main Street, since the big man didn’t have a car. His size prevented him from buying anything smaller than an SUV and he couldn’t afford one. He hated driving anyway.

 

Pennington had been interrogated again and shown Patricia McCabe’s photo but said the woman who tossed him the credit card was wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. No, didn’t see any mosquito netting. She could be McCabe, but he couldn’t swear to it. No, she wasn’t wearing a jacket. Yes, Pennington nodded, a blue striped blouse. He denied any knowledge of the murder. He insisted that the woman had tossed the credit card and continued north, toward Goose Cove, and that he never laid eyes on her after that.

 

“He’s been charged with homicide, first degree,” said Sam, “and the arraignment is scheduled for next week. So you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

 

“What’s your take on Pete Fallon?” asked Hart.

 

“He’s pissed, of course. He trusted Pennington enough to help him get a decent defense attorney and now the man’s a prime suspect in a murder investigation.” 

 

“So what do we have in our favor?” asked Hart.

 

“Two things,” said Sam. “Timing, first of all. But just barely.”

 

The coroner placed the time of death at somewhere between 6 and 10 am Monday morning. Given the heated interior of the car, that was her best estimate.

 

“The police assume McCabe went to Goose Cove to take that morning walk she mentioned,” said Sam. “Someone doing Tai Chi reported seeing her heading for the bike path—or at least someone dressed like her. The mosquito veil was down.”

 

“That’s suspicious on the face of it.”

 

Sam nodded. “The witness couldn’t name an exact time, but not long after 7:30. That's when they arrived. No sightings after that.”

 

“Do we know why McCabe didn’t stop at her church, or see her colleague here in town first, like she planned to do?” said Hart.

 

“No, but her reasons are irrelevant. Pennington’s whereabouts aren’t. According to the police log, he was standing on the island where 127 heads up to the Reservoir when he was told to move at 8:17. Even if he happened to be in the Goose Cove parking lot earlier, when McCabe arrived just after 7:30—and why would he be? It’s not on his way to Grant Circle—could he have waylaid her next to the bike path, grabbed her wallet, taken the credit card, and then dragged her body to the car, thrown it in the back, and make it back to the rotary in just half an hour? And all without being seen? That rules out his murdering McCabe before he starts his day at the Circle.”

 

“And it's almost certain our witness would have seen him," said Hart. "OK, one possibility down."

 

“Pennington says he wasn’t planning to leave the rotary until 11 o’clock. Wanted to stick around for the morning beach traffic.”

 

“Too bad the cop told him to move on. He’d be in the clear.”

 

“He took the cop’s warning as a ‘sign.’ The woman who tossed him the credit card said, “Do the Lord’s work, but do it fast. The End is near.” He didn’t know how near, he says, until the cop told him to pack up his things.”

 

“So let's do the math for killing her after the cop tells him to leave," said Hart, “What would it take him? Maybe 45 minutes, at least, to reach Goose Cove by foot, right?”

 

Sam nodded.

 

“That means he’d get there around 9 am, well within the ETD.”

 

Sam nodded again.

 

“I take it no one saw the toss?”

 

“No, and Pennington doesn’t own a watch, so he can’t tell us when his encounter with the woman in the Prius took place.”

 

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” said Hart, “and someone may still come forward.”

 

“Sure, but let’s work with what we know. The police tell him to leave the rotary at 8:17, so allowing for a few minutes to smart mouth the cop and pack up his stuff, let’s say he actually leaves at 8:20. Then he isn’t seen again until he gets to The Common Crow a little more than two hours later, at 10:26. As the police figure it, that gives him enough time to walk to Goose Cove Reservoir, kill McCabe, ditch the robe and other stuff at his squat, and walk to the store. Tight, but time enough, they say.”

 

“What does Pennington say?”

 

“He says he went straight to his refrigerator box, where he knelt down and asked God what he should buy with the card. While he was praying, the last candle on his altar burned out. Of course he took that as another sign. So he left for The Common Crow, where he usually shopped for his food—

 

“Organic? Isn’t that expensive?”

 

“'My body is the Lord’s temple,’ he says, ‘and I will not desecrate it.’" Sam did a tolerable impression of James Earl Jones. "Or something like that. Anyway, he went there to buy more birthday candles.”

 

“He wasn’t worried that the name on the card wasn’t his?”

 

“God works miracles.”

 

“Without the detour through Goose Cove Res, he could have covered the distance from Grant Circle to his squat via the Dogtown Road trailhead—that’s a lot nearer than Goose Cove—and then to The Common Crow, all in under two hours, right?”

 

“Bet, bruh,” said Sam, who liked to pepper his White English with AAVE every now and then, just to show he could. “Well under.”

 

“And for the murder scenario to work, there couldn’t be more than a second or two of delays,” said Hart.

 

“Right. Pennington would have to reach the parking lot just as McCabe was getting back from her walk. That would put her at the Res at around 9 am. He’d have to find a rock, sneak up on her from behind, bludgeon her, and put the body in the car—all without being seen by hikers, dog-walkers, or nearby residents, and without getting blood on his clothes. The police didn’t find a trace--not on his shirt or jeans or shoes, or his robe.”

 

Hart brightened up. “But why would Pennington follow McCabe to Goose Cove Res in the first place? He’d have to know where she was headed, and that means she had to tell him, right? And that would give credibility to Pennington’s story about the toss, wouldn’t it?  And how he came to have her credit card?”

 

Sam nodded. “But if she did tell him where she was headed when she stopped, that helps the police, because now they have a reason for Pennington to look for McCabe at the Res. The credit card gave him the idea there was more where that came from.”

 

Hart thought it over.

 

“So,” he said, “They didn’t like the story for the fraud rap, but they like it now for the murder rap.”

 

“Exactly. So your first assignment is to nail down Pennington’s exact route after he was told to move on. Did he go to his squat via the Cherry Street entrance or Goose Cove Res? Find witnesses. Maybe canvass residents?”

 

Hart nodded as he entered notes on his iPhone. “What’s the second thing in our favor?”

 

“ICE,” said Sam.

 

#

 

Prompted by McCabe’s suspicions, Fallon called Silent Eye, the state-wide citizens’ organization monitoring ICE arrests and detentions, to see if anyone had reported witnessing an arrest in Rockport or Gloucester the morning of Patricia McCabe’s murder. Someone had, a jogger, on one of the less populated stretches of the Bass Rocks Road loop just south of Good Harbor Beach. This was about four and a half miles from where the body was found.

 

“The siting was around 8:30, 8:40 am,” said Sam, “on the morning she was killed.”

 

“Leaving plenty of time to murder her within the window for the ETD.  When was the call made?”

 

“Yesterday afternoon.”

 

“That’s like thirty-six hours later. Why the delay?”

 

“The caller said they were reluctant to come forward.”

 

“‘They?’”

 

“Silent Eye wouldn’t provide any details.”

 

Hart thought a moment. “Bass Rocks Road isn’t anywhere near Goose Cove, and that’s where Pennington says she was headed."

 

“Right. But it's just off the route to East Gloucester, where McCabe had her appointment that morning. She could have missed a turn on the way there and got confused.”

 

“Was there video?”

 

“Caller said they didn’t have their phone at the time, but the description fit McCabe and the car was a blue Prius.”

 

“Were they sure it was ICE?” asked Hart. “What kind of vehicle were the arresting officers driving? Were they wearing their badges? Were they wearing masks?”

 

“A black SUV. The caller couldn’t see any insignia on the car or the officers. There were three of them. And yes, they wore masks.”

 

“Have the police ID’d the caller’s phone number?”

 

“Silent Eye no longer keeps that kind of information,” said Sam. “That way they can guarantee anonymity. Best way to defeat a subpoena.”

 

“So what do they do when someone calls?”

 

“They send two volunteers to the site of the arrest to confirm and record it, if it’s ongoing, and to get more information. You'd be surprised how talkative some of these Feds can be. Most of them think they’re just enforcing the law. All in a day’s work.”

 

“But it was over long before Silent Eye could check it out.”

 

“Right.”

 

“More and more suspicious. I mean the call. Anonymous . . .”

 

“Lots of witnesses are afraid to identify themselves these days,” said Sam.

 

“. . . and no video, and no number, and uncorroborated. And what happened to the Prius? How did it get to Goose Cove Res?”

 

“Two agents got into the SUV with McCabe. The third impounded her car and followed. That’s according to the witness.”

 

Hart shook his head. “I still don’t buy it.”

 

“But it is an item in our favor,” said Sam. “It muddies the water. No one can prove it didn’t happen.”

 

“What does Fallon say?”

 

“Not much these days, but when I put the case to him directly he said the ICE field office in Burlington denied deploying any unit to Gloucester that day . . .”

 

“If you can believe them.”

 

“. . . and it’s not their M.O. to murder detainees.”

 

“No, leave that to the police in El Salvador.”

 

Sam paused and looked at Hart as if to ask, “Are you through?” Then he resumed.

 

“Given the masks and lack of ID, Fallon thinks it’s possible McCabe was kidnapped by ICE imposters. But there were no ransom demands—she was killed practically before anyone could make them. Did her organization get targeted by some anti-immigration KKK? Very unlikely. What kind of threat did it pose? Since there’s no hard evidence the abduction took place at all, Fallon’s inclined to think the caller was mistaken.”

 

“Or it could have been a diversion,” said Hart, not looking up from his notes.

 

“But for whose benefit?” asked Sam. “Certainly not Pennington’s. The body hadn’t been found at the time the call came in, and Pennington wouldn’t be charged until after that.”

 

“Anyone you’d like me to talk to?”

 

“McCabe’s church secretary might have more information about the Sanctuary Network and Patricia McCabe's personal life. And get in touch with the Reverend Manuel Figeroa, minister of The Synod Assembly Church of God in Christ, down in East Gloucester. That’s who was supposed to meet with McCabe.”

 

“And the husband?”

 

“His alibi checks out. He told Fallon he left the house not long after Patricia did, at seven-thirty or thereabouts, and picked up two co-workers along the way. They all work at the NOAA offices here in Gloucester, and he drives for their car-pool. The first rider lives in Wickham, about five minutes from the McCabe residence, and the other one in Gloucester, on Eastern Avenue—maybe another twenty minutes. Both told Fallon that they were picked up and arrived at NOAA on time, just before eight."

 

“Could he have murdered her at home? Packed the body in the Prius, driven it to . . .”

 

“How would he get back to Wickham if he left the Prius at the Res?”

 

“A Lyft?”

 

“Too risky.”

 

An accomplice?”

 

“Like?”

 

“Wouldn’t hurt for me to contact him. How did he take it?”

 

“Fallon drove to his home to break the news. McCabe took it calmly. Said he’d been preparing himself for this ever since Patricia got mixed up in the immigration crack-down. Here.” Sam texted Hart the phone number. “But from what Fallon tells me, he’s already convinced it’s Pennington. You might have a hard time getting him to open up to the Prophet’s private investigator.”

 

“What about the ICE field office?”

 

“You’re unlikely to learn anything that Fallon didn’t, which is nothing, so don’t waste your time.”

 

Before he left, Sam reminded Hart to keep everything under wraps. “Leave the public statements to me. The police will release theirs later today. I’ll talk to the press after that.”

 

​

Part 3

 

It was already late afternoon and there was a heat advisory that made the idea of canvassing Cherry Street door-to-door profoundly unappealing. Hart decided to wait for cooler weather tomorrow. Instead, he called the Reverend Figeroa, then caught a CATA bus to East Gloucester.

 

The Synod Assembly Church of God in Christ was an evangelical outfit occupying a former bait and tackle warehouse built on pilings that extended over the outer harbor. The neighborhood abutted the historic artists’ colony of Rocky Neck and included the Gloucester Stage Company and a few restaurants. The mansions (“summer cottages”) of old East Gloucester were clustered not far from here, at the south end of the peninsula.

 

Figeroa looked young, in his mid-20s. He had a black, pencil thin mustache and wore jeans and an open-necked short sleeved shirt with no clerical collar. He was also an exception to the general run of evangelicals that Hart knew, who ardently supported the president and his anti-immigration crackdown. The Synod Assembly Church included lots of Hispanic, Portuguese, and Asian immigrant families. Figeroa told Hart he was supposed to meet with McCabe Tuesday morning to hear her pitch for joining the Sanctuary Network, but she never showed. He was surprised to hear she’d been reported missing.

 

“When was it for?” asked Hart.

 

“Ten o’clock,” said Figeroa.

 

“Why drive all the way here?” asked Hart. “Why not make the pitch by phone? Or use What’s App?”

 

“I asked her the same question when she called to set up the appointment. She said she didn’t trust phones or online communication generally, because they’re all monitored. I don’t know if that’s true, but she believed it. I half-believe it myself.”

 

“What do you know about the organization?”

 

“Only what she was willing to share over the phone—the other churches involved, their mission, what they offered for individuals and families at risk. All public knowledge. She said she’d give me the details when we met, if she decided to trust me. That’s another reason she wanted to meet in person.”

 

“You know that declaring a church or a town a ‘sanctuary’ has no legal weight, right?”

 

“Sure, and so did Patricia. It’s only symbolic. But she said the Network had put some teeth into it.”

 

“Any idea what she meant?”

 

“Not really. She said the Network had figured out how to ‘keep ‘em guessing,’ as she put it, and . . .”

 

“To keep ICE guessing?”

 

“Yes. I think she meant how to keep them wondering whether a church was hiding illegals or not.”

 

“So, a misinformation campaign of some sort—get ICE thinking there were illegals hiding in the church when there weren’t?”

 

Figeroa nodded.

 

Hart thought for a moment, then asked, “But why get them interested in the first place? Why call attention . . .”

 

“Or the opposite,” said Figeroa.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Get ICE to assume they couldn’t be there, when they were.”

 

“But ICE would laser in on any church signed into the Network. Everybody knows who they are. So how would you get them . . .”  Hart stopped himself in mid-sentence.

 

“Mr. Hart? You were saying?”

 

Hart shook his head. “Never mind,” he said, then added, “How is your church doing? I mean, with arrests, harassment . . . “

 

“So far, we’ve been left alone,” said Figeroa.

 

“Any idea why that is?” asked Hart. “I mean, you have a lot of immigrants in your flock. I’d have thought . . . “

 

Figeroa shrugged. “The Lord is looking out for us.”

 

Someone is, thought Hart.

 

#

 

On his bus ride back, Hart dialed the UU Church in Wickham. No one was in the office this late in the day, so he left a message for the church secretary asking if she could meet with him tomorrow morning. Then he called Tommy McCabe.

 

Based on what Pete told him, Hart expected McCabe to hang up the second he learned who the caller was. So he was surprised to hear the man say, “I think they’ve got the wrong guy. I think it’s ICE. Or some gang posing as ICE.”

 

Hart waited to hear more. McCabe sighed.

 

“I’m going to share some confidential information, but first you have to swear to me that you’ll keep it confidential, at least until a week from now.”

 

“If I’m subpoenaed . . .”

 

“Yes, I know. But otherwise. I mean, not only from the police, because frankly we don’t trust them, but from Pennington’s defense team, too.”

 

“Sorry, I can’t do that,” he said, wondering, Who’s “we?” “If it helps my client, I have to use it, and if I have to use it, the police will know.” He paused to think. “I can’t guarantee a week, but I promise to hold onto your secret as long as I can.” When McCabe didn’t reply, he added, “Does it have anything to do with moving illegal immigrants from church to church?”

 

The Sandy Bay credit account, it turned out, was a clandestine information hub for the Sanctuary Network, with Patricia as primary account holder. The other four Network ministers had been added as co-signers and issued cards in their own names. Patricia McCabe had arranged to have all card holders notified the second any activity appeared on the account.

 

The card had two functions. First, using it to get a cash advance at an ATM would let other members know when illegals at one church needed to be moved to another because ICE was about to raid the sanctuary church.

 

“So, a kind of shell game, using illegals as peas?” asked Hart. “’Keep ‘em guessing?”

 

“Yes,” said McCabe.

 

“But how does . . . ?”

 

“The advances are number coded,” McCabe continued. “Each amount begins with a numeral from 1 to 5 indicating the current sanctuary church, followed by another numeral indicating the destination church, followed by a zero to round the withdrawal to a multiple of ten.”

 

“That adds up, doesn’t it?”

 

“The advances are immediately re-deposited, so the interest is minimal. It doesn’t take much to cover them.”

 

“But how does the network know when ICE is going to strike, and where? And how can they sneak the illegals in and out? Wouldn’t ICE have all the Network churches under surveillance, just waiting . . .?”

 

“They’re never there.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The illegals. They’re never at a church. Any church.”

 

“So where are they?”

 

“I can’t reveal that. But I can tell you where they’re headed: Canada.”

 

“An Underground Railroad.”

 

“For illegals. And the credit card codes are to keep ICE looking in all the wrong places. Patricia told everyone she knew that she didn’t trust phones because they could be hacked. She was certain her suspicions would get back to ICE. All she had to do next was arrange for the Feds to find out about the credit card code without suspecting they were being set up—which, she told me, wasn’t too hard. They didn’t have to know the code. Just knowing it existed made them zero in on the churches.”

 

“What will happen in Canada?”

 

“We have people there to help refugees secure their rights under Canadian law—something they can’t count on here, of course. Things could take a turn for the worse if the Strong Borders Act is passed, but it’s stalled in Ottawa with a long way to go before coming to a vote, and we’ll empty out our hidey-holes before then. Without Patricia, the operation can’t continue anyway. She’s the only one who knew where the illegals were supposed to be at any given time. Kept it all in her head.”

 

Like a chess grand master playing without a board, thought Hart, who was fond of the game.

 

“You said the card had another function?”

 

“As an alarm,” said McCabe. “If any member of the Sanctuary Network felt they were in imminent danger of being arrested by ICE, all they had to do was order something online or enter the nearest store or find a drive-up window and use the card to make a purchase, in any amount. The group would immediately be notified and contact the Network’s lawyer.”

 

“I take it you’re also on the account?” Hart asked.

 

“Yes. But Patricia never got to use the card, so I never received the alarm.”

 

“She must have noticed she was being followed and was afraid of being jumped by ICE the second she pulled over.”

 

“So she tossed it to Pennington—"

 

“‘Do it fast! The End is near!’”

 

“—and Pennington was arrested before he could use it.”

 

Hart said nothing for a long while. McCabe broke the silence this time.

 

“Remember your promise.”

 

“I’ll keep it as long as I can.”

 

 

Part 4

 

The next day was Friday, the day Hart emptied and cleaned his aquarium. He always started and finished before doing anything else, including brushing his teeth. 

 

He’d once been an untidy man. Living alone can make you that way. Landing his first detective job at Continental Investigations, in Boston, had forced him to start taking better care of himself.  Dress better, at least. “Get a suit that fits!” his boss snarled at him the last time he was called to the Old Man’s office. Hart was an Operative now! He represented Continental! The lesson stuck, even after Continental went belly up, a victim of the Great Covid Resignation.

 

That was two years ago. His present apartment, a second-floor renovated unit on Main Street just a few blocks away from his office, was still something of a mess, but his closet now had two tailored suits, sizes large and larger. Hart’s weight and width tended to fluctuate depending on if he was working a case. Faced with a knotty problem to solve, he typically lost his appetite, sometimes for days. His two suits kept closet company with a black pair of wingtips that he shined at the end of every day. (Just one pair. Shoe sizes didn’t change much, whatever your weight.)

 

Having a job made him pay attention to how he looked. That, and he’d fallen in love while working the Fletcher Kraft case, his last at the firm. Long story short: she wasn’t what she seemed. But to be fair, neither was he. Male, yes, but . . . . He was never sure how to put it.  Not gay, not trans, not bi. For that matter, not sexual. Or let’s say, not especially interested. Yes, he’d “had sex” (an anemic turn of phrase, if you considered how much time and effort people put into it), but only with women he cared about. He’d never figured it out, so how could he expect them to?  Still, he liked women, was always falling in love. Sentimental. Chivalrous.

 

And big.

 

And so, alone.

 

He liked to clean the tank before getting dressed, while drinking his first coffee of the day. That’s when he’d listen to WCRB, the classical music station. Unless it was pledge week. In that case, he’d listen to WHRB, “The Jazz Spectrum.” This was pledge week.

 

He turned up the sound.

 

Betty Carter was scat-singing “Giant Steps.”

 

As he took the cover off the tank, he was reminded of the first time he heard Carter. It was at Wally’s, a basement be-bop shrine on Mass Ave. Monica had insisted on taking him. She was a vocalist at the time, enrolled at the Berklee School of Music, a fifteen-minute walk away. Berklee’s students would regularly jam at Wally’s. Sometimes big names performing in town would drop in after their regular gigs and join the fun. This was Carter’s night.

 

The room was long and narrow and packed, full of cigarette smoke and with nowhere to sit. The two of them stood in the back, just inside the door.

 

Even at that distance, Hart was mesmerized. Carter made nonsense make sense. She expressed the difficulty of saying what you mean by meaning more than she could say. He understood the silent misery of his life for the first time, as though Carter were speaking their own secret language. He’d remained a fan ever since.

 

“Giant Steps.” Ironic accompaniment for a large man tiptoeing around a thirty-gallon tank with a tiny net and a quart sized zip-lock of water.  Ironic, too, for an overweight detective who was late to the starting line and eager to move fast but had to take baby steps so he could examine, with the care it deserved, everything the person ahead of him had dropped along the way.

 

Hart emptied the last net full of tetras into the zip-lock, sealed it, and began uncoiling the corrugated suction hose over the counter between the dining ell and the kitchen. He reviewed what he knew so far.

 

First, the scene of the crime.

 

The Goose Cove parking area was a small public space and if you drove there around 8 am on any day of the week you’d be almost certain to run into a dog walker or an early rising hiker or jogger or people working out, like Fallon’s Tai Chi witness. An unlikely place and time to choose for a murder. You’d have to be an idiot, and Pennington, delusions of imminent Armageddon notwithstanding, was no idiot.

 

Nor was Tommy McCabe.

 

According to Fallon, McCabe was sure ICE had abducted his wife when he called to report her missing, despite not having received any notification of a purchase made with the Sandy Bank credit card. Hours later, he’s hot for Pennington. Next day, he’s all for ICE again. Cold, hot, cold. “He could be guessing without thinking it through,” Hart muttered to himself. Still, McCabe’s sudden changes in temperature didn’t sit well with him. And the man lived in the same house as the victim. Plenty of opportunity.

 

In any case, whether it was ICE or Tommy McCabe or a killer or killers unknown, bludgeoning Patricia McCabe to death in or near the parking area of Goose Cove Reservoir in broad daylight, at any time of day, made no sense.

 

“So,” Hart said aloud, addressing his bag of tetras, “let’s assume the murder scene was staged by the killer and Patricia McCabe died somewhere else. See where that leads.”

 

Hart took the tetras’ silence for assent.

 

If the murder scene was staged and the murder occurred elsewhere, someone drove the body to Goose Cove Reservoir in the Prius. That would be the person Pennington described as a woman, or someone dressed as a woman, wearing Patricia’s straw hat—the person who threw him the credit card.

 

That would also, most likely, have been the woman the Tai Chi person had seen walking toward the Res.

 

Death was caused by severe head trauma from several blows with a jagged piece of granite found at the scene and stained with the victim’s blood. Forensics had concluded, from close examination of the wound, that the rock was indeed the murder weapon. But if the victim was killed elsewhere, the granite could have come from anywhere and been planted at the scene. That wouldn’t have drawn much attention.

 

The victim had been placed in the car soon after the blow was struck, to judge by the amount of blood that had seeped into the carpet of the cargo bin. A sunhat with mosquito netting was lying next to her, stained with the same blood. Next to that was Patricia’s windbreaker, also smeared with blood. In the shrubs next to the bike path, a few yards away, lay her wallet, stripped of currency and missing one credit card—the one Pennington had tried to use.

 

More and more, it was beginning to look like Pennington was being set up for Patricia McCabe’s murder. But why bother? If the idea all along was to point the finger at ICE, or ICE impersonators, why not just use the card to make a purchase, trip the Network alarm, and put the Feds in the center ring of possible suspects? Leave the body in the car and park it on Bass Rocks Road. No need to send a heads up to Silent Witness.

 

It struck Hart that the only finger pointing at ICE so far belonged to Tommy McCabe. It had shifted its target to Pennington, according to Pete Fallon, when Pennington got involved, and then shifted back to ICE when McCabe learned about the phone call to Silent Eye.

 

But again, if the idea was to implicate ICE, or ICE wannabees, why would the person driving the Prius toss Pennington the victim’s credit card? Was it just to implicate him? Multiply suspects? If so, giving him the card was a pretty unreliable option. The window for Pennington’s completing the necessary itinerary—rotary to Res to squat to Common Crow—was tight almost to the point of impossible. And if he’d stayed in the rotary until 11 am, as he’d planned, his alibi would be airtight. Plenty of motorists could have vouched for his whereabouts at the estimated time of death. For that matter, the chances were good the Prophet wouldn’t even try to use the card, especially after having served time for fraud.

 

And it had to make the basket, for Christ’s sake!

 

But whoever tossed it into the basket couldn’t know any of that, could they?

 

What could they know?

 

Hart stood next to the sink holding the drain hose in mid-air, like a motorist at a gas pump choosing a grade of gasoline.

 

What would they have to know?

 

Or think they knew?

 

Because they’d have to know or think they knew something. The toss wasn’t from impulse or a road-to-Damascus conversion to evangelical Christianity, not if you’re in the middle of driving a dead body to a fake crime scene. Moreover, the driver would have to have Patricia McCabe’s credit card in hand or on the passenger seat, ready to toss. They couldn’t start fishing around in the victim’s wallet when the Prophet hove into view. They’d be expecting to see Pennington standing in the rotary at the far end of the A. Piatt Andrew bridge, as usual, as they drove up.

 

So, if the toss was premeditated, and if implicating Pennington as a suspect was too long a shot to rely on, implicating ICE would be the only reason left to put the credit card in play. “Do the Lord’s work,” the woman said, according to Pennington, “but do it fast.”

 

Alert the Network.

 

And that was something else the murderer would have to know about: the Network. Make it look like Patricia McCabe thought she was in imminent danger of arrest . . .

 

But now we were back to wondering why the person driving the blue Prius couldn’t just alert the Network by stopping to buy something in Gloucester or buying it online. If online, it would have to be while driving, using the phone. Clearly, timing was important. The alert had to coincide with the ETD, and having no way of knowing how long it would take to find the body at Goose Cove Res, the murderer or accomplice couldn’t be certain how much latitude there’d be.

 

But again, why go through Pennington?

 

Pennington just didn’t fit. Period.

 

Wait. Go back.

 

Hart put down the drain hose.

 

The phone.

 

If the driver was the murderer (or an accomplice) impersonating Patricia and intending to alert the Network, they might well have her Sandy Bank credit card—they left it in the victim’s wallet, which was left at the scene—but not her phone.

 

Hart walked over to his desk where the case folder was lying open from last night. The sheet listing the victim’s personal possessions found at the scene was third from the top.

 

No phone.

 

Surely, whoever drove Patricia’s body to Goose Cove Res would have left her phone there, if they’d had it. How else could they have made it look as though she'd initiated an alert?

 

Why didn’t they leave it, then?

 

Returning to the aquarium, Hart took out the coral and the tchotchkes—the deep-sea diver, the treasure chest—scooped out the gravel and started scrubbing the inside of the glass with warm soapy water.

 

They could have forgotten to take the phone with them, it could have been broken in the death struggle—hell, it could have run out of juice just before Patricia was killed. No matter. Forgotten, broken, or dead, without it the driver would have to use their own phone.

 

Which would leave a traceable number.

 

So now the driver needs to stop at some retail establishment to use the card. But they can’t. Why not?

 

They might be afraid of being recognized. Or, more likely, they might be afraid that the blue Prius would be spotted at a store or a gas station and the spotter—a pedestrian, maybe, or a self-serve gas pumper, or a store clerk—remembering the driver and not matching the driver with Patricia’s photo, if they were shown one.

 

Applying his plastic sponge to the tchotchkes, Hart decided he liked the “forgotten” option best. It would mean the driver only realized they didn’t have the phone when it was too late to go back for it. They’d be afraid to stop and purchase something. And then, they’d think of Pennington, and pull over to the shoulder of the highway to rummage around for the card and be ready for him.

 

Hart picked up the empty aquarium and carried it over to the kitchen sink to rinse out with the hand sprayer.

 

But Pennington hadn’t been able to use the card. Thus, the anonymous phone call to Silent Eye, to point the finger, again, at ICE, where it (apparently) was meant to point to begin with.

 

By the time he’d added fresh gravel and replaced the tchotchkes and the filter, Hart had decided on four things. They were far from certain but taken together they made sense in light of the probabilities. As he refilled the tank, he reviewed them.

 

First, Patricia McCabe hadn’t been killed at Goose Cove Reservoir. She’d been killed elsewhere and her body driven to the reservoir’s parking lot in her own blue Prius sometime between seven and eight am, and left there.

 

Second, the driver (according to Pennington) had been wearing clothes identical to those found on Patricia’s body. Somebody was impersonating her. That meant the person seen heading for the bike path around Goose Cove Res wasn’t Patricia McCabe.

 

Third, Jeremiah Pennington didn’t kill her. He was an innocent bystander enlisted, without his knowledge, in a last-minute, failed attempt to fool the Sanctuary Network into thinking Patricia had been abducted by ICE, or by ICE impersonators.

 

Fourth, anyone involved in the murder of Patricia McCabe had to be a member of, or know about, the Sanctuary Network. That put her husband squarely in the spotlight . . . that plus the means—any big rock would do—and opportunity. Patricia had been killed between 6 am and 10 am on Tuesday morning, and the last person to see her alive, from the moment she woke up to the moment she left for work (or was killed before she left for work) was Tommy McCabe.

 

Having tested the pH and adjusted the tank’s heater, Hart submerged the ziplock bag of tetras in the clear water and opened it up.

 

“But why?” Hard asked, aloud.

 

The tetras ignored him.

 

#

 

The phone. The fucking phone.

 

Pete Fallon woke up after lying awake most of the night asking himself why Patricia McCabe’s phone wasn’t found at the scene of the crime. Not, “Where is it?” or “What happened to it?”  But why anyone, besides Patricia McCabe, would want it.

 

He’d gone over the possibilities a dozen times, at least, and boiled them down to three that seemed likely.

 

The killer destroyed it because it had incriminating evidence. Or Patricia didn’t have it with her when she was killed. Those were the first two.

 

If it was missing but still had a charge, it would ring before going to voicemail. But Fallon’s calls to her number went straight to voicemail and “That number is unavailable. . . .”  Same held true if it was destroyed..

 

Bottom line: the phone was gone for good, so there was no reason to lose any more sleep over it. Nothing about it could point in the direction of the killer, and Patricia’s phone records had revealed nothing suspicious so far.

 

But the third possibility was worth exploring.

 

If Patricia McCabe didn’t have her phone before she was killed Tuesday morning, that narrowed the window for her time of death considerably. It also narrowed the circle of known suspects down to one. Tommy McCabe said his wife left the house at 7:15 am or thereabouts. The three things anyone would be sure to have on their person when leaving for work were their wallet or purse, their car keys, and their cell phone. Time of death was after 6:00 am but before Patricia McCabe had her phone in her possession. Conclusion: Patricia McCabe was killed at home, before she left for work, at some point between 6:00 and 7:15 am.

 

Fallon sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor. At that moment his phone rang. He picked it up off the nightstand as he headed for the bathroom.

 

The screen showed Hart’s number.

 

Fallon slid the green button over.

 

Simultaneously, they said, “Tommy McCabe.”

​