Fiction of the Month
The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
by Roman Sympos
​
Part 1
​
Their bodies were found in the early morning hours of St. Valentine’s Day, in a fish shed at Lane’s Cove. That’s in Lanesville, on the opposite side of Cape Ann from downtown Gloucester. The shed was part of a film set for a movie about a young woman from a fishing village in Maine who runs away at sixteen and becomes a famous actress. The movie starred a young woman from Lanesville who ran away at sixteen and became a famous actress. Her name was Gloria Vin, but she’d been christened Marianne Pomeroy just a few blocks away, at Sacred Heart Church, before the building was desanctified and turned into condos.
It'd been a hectic homecoming week. Receptions, a banquet, a parade, a rally at the high school. "Stay in school!" said the glamorous, wealthy dropout. Red-carpet all the way.
The set was going to be dismantled and packed up in the morning.
Gloria and the other three victims seemed fast asleep when the security guard opened the door around 1:00 am. The mercury had dipped to 12 degrees by then. Empty wine bottles and plastic cups littered the floor and an unlit propane heater stood in the corner.
Fresh snow on the ground showed footprints, so the first officers on the scene made sure the EMTs went around them. No one knew what to make of anything yet. It was best to treat the shed as a crime scene for now.
Peter Fallon and his partner, Victor Ulrich, arrived in an unmarked car. Fallon, a thirty-year veteran of the force, was a gray, wiry man with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip. He wore an unbuttoned parka over a rumpled gray suit and looked like he’d rolled out of bed and got dressed lying on the floor. Ulrich, recently promoted to Detective Sergeant, was noticeably taller, with the build of a long-distance runner. He looked fresh, clean-shaven—could have come straight from a board meeting. They reminded Alan Rose, the security guard, of a mismatched pair of shoes.
He told the detectives Gloria and her three friends, along with her stepbrother, Stevie, arrived at his trailer around eight o’clock. They’d just come from a farewell dinner at the Beauport Hotel with Gloria’s family and wanted to party in the shed, like when they used to sneak into the condemned fishing shack across the cove and carry on ‘til dawn.
The fishing shack was still there, but it was a public meeting room now and locked up tight. The watchman didn’t see any harm—Gloria was the reason they were here, after all. And she was used to having her way. He called Sylvie Conrad, the set manager, who okayed it.
The young people were quiet, said Rose, kept their voices low, played some music. It was still playing when the stepbrother left. Rose saw him passing the window. That was around ten, ten-thirty. Half an hour later Rose saw Stevie coming back. He was carrying a shopping bag. Snow was falling by then. A few more minutes went by before the stepbrother stuck his head in, said he was going home—early day tomorrow. Gloria and her friends would stay awhile.
After a while, Rose noticed the quiet. No more voices, just music. He glanced at the thermometer outside the window and became mildly concerned. But he was reluctant to crash the party. Gloria had a hair-trigger temper and was not popular with support staff, especially on location shoots.
“She could make trouble for me,” said Rose, scratching his chin, “if she had a mind to.” He’d been working security for twenty-five years, the last ten on film sets, and had never met a leading lady as difficult to work with as Gloria Vin. Fallon wondered if she’d already made trouble for Rose on some earlier occasion.
Another hour went by and nothing changed except the temperature, which continued to drop. So Rose went back there and knocked on the door.
#
Fallon and Ulrich examined the scene and waited for the ME to arrive before driving to Rockport, where Stevie lived with his father and stepmother.
Rockport is the modestly upscale, picture postcard version of Gloucester tucked just north of it on the tip of Cape Ann. Alice Pomeroy and her second husband, Joe Mancuso, had moved there from Lanesville not long after Gloria Vin scored her first big hit with Maverick, a Netflix original. Gloria wanted to buy them a house in LA but they said no, they wanted to stay near their friends. That was five years ago.
Delivering the bad news was half the assignment. The other half was questioning Stevie. He wasn’t a person of interest, not so far. What happened at the shed looked like an accident—probably carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty propane heater. The ME said he’d know more in a day or two. Accident or not, Steven Mancuso was the last person to see the victims alive. The detectives didn’t even know their names, except for Marianne Pomeroy’s, let alone how to contact their next of kin.
The address turned out to be a new shore-side overlooking Cathedral Rocks. As Ulrich drove up the carriageway the security lights came on, and by the time they reached the door Mr. Mancuso was standing there in his bathrobe. “Is he in trouble again?” he asked. Before the detectives could answer he added, “He’s asleep. We’re all asleep,” as though that would make them go away.
The living room was European contemporary: high beamed ceiling, sectionals the size of aircraft carriers, lots of dark wood, and a wall of black glass that, Ulrich assumed, showed the ocean by day. He’d mistaken it at first for a giant flat-screen TV.
Fallon broke the bad news and, as the horror sank in, Ulrich pulled a travel pack of Kleenex from the side flap of his topcoat. He was the Good Cop. It came naturally and he made it a point to be ready when called on. Fallon, the Bad Cop, braced himself. This was the worst part, yes, but not the hardest. The hardest was managing the transition from the worst part to the next worst: the questioning.
That’s when the cold reality behind the detectives’ expressions of sympathy and concern became impossible to hide. Enough with the tears and fainting and wailing. We’re here to put your grief in a lockbox and get to what really matters. The questioning always made Fallon uneasy, even after he apologized for it.
Adding to the uneasiness this time around was Stevie’s quick recovery. His shock and grief seemed genuine, but his agitation disappeared the minute he started answering their questions. Fallon suspended judgment while Ulrich, leaving his pack of Kleenex on the coffee table, jotted down names and relationships:
Patricia Lafferty, Marianne's BFF in high school, Gloucester resident.
Michael Walker, Lafferty’s steady boyfriend back then, now living in Essex, next town over.
Christine Walker, Michael’s wife of two years.
“She was Christine Sobiczynski in high school,” said Alice Pomeroy in a shaky voice. “They have a toddler at home.” She reached for another Kleenex.
“Can you spell that?” asked Ulrich.
Mrs. Pomeroy shook her head, tried to speak, took a deep breath. “But I have the Laffertys’ number, and Tom’s parents.” She left to get her cell phone. The detectives looked at Stevie.
“Can’t help you there,” he said. “They were her friends, not mine. I was just tagging along.”
It had always been that way, what with the three years’ difference in their ages. The gap seemed light years wide when Marianne Pomeroy was starting high school and her stepbrother was a preadolescent.
A precociously good-looking preadolescent, Fallon recalled. A dreamboat, as they used to say. Trim, muscular, curly black hair and dark eyes. Big for his age. Big now.
Was that what got him in trouble? Drinking, shoplifting, weed. Dropped out of high school. Dropped out of Voc school. Living with his dad and stepmom the last, what? Five years.
It started when Marianne Pomeroy disappeared ten years ago. Maybe she and Stevie were close and when she left he couldn’t keep it together. Maybe they were still close. His matter-of-factness under questioning seemed to contradict that idea, but it could be a way of controlling his emotions. That was something Fallon understood.
“Could we go over what you know?” he asked Stevie. “Start with dinner. Who was there?”
It was a party of nine: Marianne, Pat Lafferty, the Walkers, Stevie, his dad, his stepmom, and Mike Walker’s parents, who were friends of Alice’s from before she met Joe.
“How about Christine’s parents?” asked Ulrich. “Were you friends with them?”
“We knew them,” said Alice Pomeroy, “but just to say hello. We had nothing in common.”
When dinner ended Christine suggested they have drinks in the fish shed. Parents not invited.
“She reminded Marianne of how they used to sneak into the old fishing shack after dark, through a hole in the foundation,” said Stevie. “Marianne said the set crew had already packed up the big propane heaters. I said I’d bring ours.
Fallon and Ulrich glanced at each other.
“The one that’s there now?” asked Fallon.
Stevie nodded.
Joe Mancuso looked stunned. “You mean the new one, I hope,” he said.
“I mean the only one,” said Stevie. “I threw out the old one, like you asked, remember?” When Joe didn’t reply, he turned back to Fallon, “Marianne was going to bring it home with her.”
“You didn’t think to crack a window?” asked Ulrich. “Doesn’t it need ventilation? To prevent . . .”
“It’s for indoors,” said Stevie. He sounded irritated, as though Ulrich was implying something. “It’s got an ODS.” Seeing their blank looks, he added, “An oxygen depletion sensor. Shuts off automatically if oxygen gets too low.”
Doesn’t seem to have worked, thought Fallon. “What was wrong with the old one?” he asked.
“Wasn’t burning properly. It was out of warranty, not worth repairing. So we got rid of it.”
Ulrich looked at his notes.
“You said, ‘bring it home.’ Was Gloria—I mean, Marianne—staying here?”
Joe spoke up. “She always does.”
Fallon was surprised.
“So this trip isn’t unusual?”
“Only the publicity,” said Joe. “She’s been home more than few times since she became Gloria Vin. Holidays, for instance.”
“And nobody recognized her?”
“She’d contact close friends, like the Walkers, and they’d get together here, or if they went out it’d be, like, for a stroll in the woods. She’d stay for a day or two, and then she’d be gone.”
Alice Pomeroy returned with the phone numbers and Fallon let Ulrich take them down before asking Stevie, “The security guy said you left the shed around ten o'clock. Why?”
Stevie nodded. “I went out to get more wine, and then I went to bed.” He gave them the name of the liquor store.
“The security guy said you had to get up early.”
Stevie paused before answering. “I made that up. I could tell when I got back I wasn’t wanted. They were talking about stuff that wasn’t my business and broke it off when I walked in. Didn’t take me long to see I was a fifth wheel.” He stopped, surprised at what he’d said. “Huh. Literally the fifth.”
“How’d that make you feel?” asked Ulrich.
Stevie looked at him steadily for a few seconds. “I was used to it,” he said. “Like I said, when we were kids Marianne would let me tag along sometimes. But it always ended the same way. Like tonight.”
The rest of what Stevie Mancuso had to say matched Alan Rose’s account.
​
"You didn't feel any dizziness? Headaches?" asked Ulrich.
​
"No," said Stevie, "Not at all."
“Stay in town for a while, ok?” said Fallon. “We may need to get in touch with you.”
#
It was nearly dawn by the time they made the last of their grim rounds. They got a break on “Sobiczynski” when the Walkers’ baby-sitter called Christine’s cell for the third time wondering where she was and Fallon picked up. Christine’s mother was her emergency contact.
Ulrich dropped Fallon off then drove himself home. Later that morning, after a couple hours of sleep, he’d drive them both to the station to begin going through the evidence gathered at the scene. City Hall was working on a statement by then and setting up a press conference for that afternoon. The Mayor expected to have something to announce. Fallon knew he’d have nothing to give him until the coroner’s office and forensics weighed in, and that wouldn’t be today.
The evidence at the scene was meager. No signs of a break-in or a disturbance of any kind. The victims were all in repose, lying in or on sleeping bags. There were two sash windows, both closed, and Alan Rose had found the door closed and latched. The latch was double-sided.
Stevie had the receipt for the wine. Ed’s Mini Mart confirmed his purchase, and the approximate time.
Despite a few stray prints from first responders, the footprint photos showed two sets of tracks, one presumably belonging to Stevie, the other to Alan Rose. Stevie’s were less visible due to the snow that had fallen between his final departure and Alan Rose’s trip to the shed. Rose’s were still clear, however, and his distinct tread marks were sharp. There’d been no wind that night.
The tale of the prints corroborated the two witness statements. Stevie’s footprints returned and left in a straight line. Rose’s went to the shed door, then emerged and wandered around while he called 911. The only anomaly was a patch of Stevie's footprints next to the door, on the hinged side.
They called Stevie in for further questioning. He stopped by after lunch.
“I stood outside, smoking,” he said, “before I left to get the wine.”
“Why not smoke on the way?” asked Ulrich.
“I wanted to enjoy the evening. It was really beautiful.” He paused. “Also, I don’t like to stink up my car.”
“What did you do with the butt?” asked Fallon. No butts had been found near the door or within flicking distance.
“I pinched it and pocketed it,” said Stevie. “I’m no litterbug.”
Fallon thought Stevie was beginning to sound smug.
Within the week the celebrity broadcasters and tabloids and influencers and Instagrammers were calling it “The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.” Reporters from news agencies and papers of record, national and international, roamed the city hunting down anyone who’d known Gloria Vin personally. They packed the news conferences and fast-food joints and booked every two-star motel on the North Shore to capacity. Marianne Pomeroy’s mom and stepdad insisted that she be buried in Gloucester, not LA. But her body had yet to be released pending the completion of the autopsy and forensics reports.
The reports verified what seemed obvious from the start. The blood of all four victims showed lethal amounts of carbon monoxide, presumably from the propane heater. The burner tip and glass mesh screen were coated with soot from incomplete fuel combustion, a well-known cause of CO buildup. The irregular pattern of soot distribution suggested something had obstructed it, although the feeder tube was now fully open. The lab concluded that whatever the obstruction was had eventually burned away, but not until after the CO in the shed had passed the danger point.
“The place was sealed tight against the cold,” said Sam Blalock, the forensics tech assigned to the case. “The security guard told us the gas smell was overpowering when he opened the door.”
“So the flame went out but the gas kept coming?” asked Fallon.
Blalock nodded. “That alone would have been enough to kill them. But we didn’t detect any propane in their blood samples. They were already dead from the CO.”
The real mystery was why the oxygen depletion sensor hadn’t shut off the fuel supply before then. The heater was brand new. The sensor should have turned it off as the oxygen in the shed was burned up and replaced by carbon monoxide. Even a slight reduction would have been enough. To test it, Blalock cleaned off the soot, fitted the heater with a fresh propane canister, and ignited it in a sealed reaction chamber.
“It burned with a blue flame,” he said, “indicating complete combustion, until the oxygen in the chamber was insufficient to keep it burning. The flame started turning yellow and flickering and producing soot, just as if it were clogged. That’s when the ODS is supposed to kick in, and it did.”
“So are you saying the incomplete burn wasn’t caused by an obstruction?” Ulrich was confused. “Just poor ventilation?”
“No,” said Blalock. “As I said, the irregular soot pattern indicated an obstruction was the cause.”
“Aren’t there physical symptoms of CO poisoning, though?” asked Fallon. “Wouldn’t they know something was wrong?”
“They’d been drinking,” said Blalock. “Their blood alcohol levels tested high. That would have made the symptoms hard to recognize. They might even have passed out before feeling anything.”
There were no signs the heater had been tampered with.
Barring any new evidence to the contrary, the conclusion was death by accidental carbon monoxide poisoning.
“It happens,” said Blalock. “That’s why you need a CO detector nearby, just to be safe.”
The Mayor called another press conference. The reporters went away disappointed. They were waiting for their OJ moment. But they didn’t leave Gloucester, not yet. There was still the funeral—no, funerals!
With the criminal case officially closed, the studio had the crime scene taken apart and shipped to a storage facility in LA.
But Fallon wasn’t satisfied. By now he felt sure Stevie Mancuso knew something. Maybe his father, too. He meant to find out what. Neither the father nor the son was a suspect, not yet. Fallon couldn’t think of a motive. Hell, what motive would anyone have to kill all four of them? What did the victims have in common, other than Gloria Vin?
He didn’t know the wheels of justice were already in motion elsewhere. The day before Gloria Vin’s casket emerged from the front doors of Our Lady of Good Voyage on its way to Locust Grove Cemetery, the first civil suit for wrongful death in the St Valentine’s Day Massacre was filed in Essex County Superior Court.
Part 5
By the time Hart finished talking to Fallon, washing up, and getting dressed, he felt as though some bits of the puzzle were falling into place. He expected to learn more from Dorothy (“Call me Dot”) Hillers, the receptionist at the UU Church of Wickham. She’d told him the previous evening that she’d be glad to see him any time this morning after 11 am.
Hart noticed, in the mirror, that his suit was getting a bit baggy. He hadn’t lost enough weight to fit into the smaller one, but no matter. His wing tips, freshly polished, gleamed reassuringly. He called a Lyft and put his phone away. As he went out the door he heard the faint notes of Die Moldau emerging from his coat pocket. It was Sam.
“They’ve released Pennington on his own recognizance. He’ll be facing trial for credit card fraud, not murder.”
“They still don’t buy his story?”
“Makes no difference. He knew it wasn’t his.”
“Does that mean I’m out of a job?”
“For now. But you’re still on retainer and Pennington remains a person of interest, so don’t make any vacation plans.”
“Fallon and I think it’s Tommy McCabe,” said Hart. He explained why, leaving out the Sanctuary Network’s emergency credit card code. He hadn’t felt the need to let Fallon know about it, either, at least not yet. He didn’t want to put any fugitives at risk unless he had to. Of course, McCabe might be making it up, just to keep ICE in play, but that would be risky. The other ministers in the network would be able to confirm or deny its existence, maybe even Dot Hillers.
“The ICE dodge was just blowing smoke,” Hart added. “I wouldn’t be surprised if McCabe called in the siting himself.”
“Have you seen the news this morning?” asked Sam.
Barely twelve hours had passed since the police department held their press conference announcing the murder. Thirty minutes later Silent Eye released a statement saying that, just hours before her body was found, an anonymous caller reported seeing the minister being abducted by ICE.
“The protest group outside ICE headquarters in Burlington has already tripled in size and plans to be there for the whole working day. Reporters and news vans showed up minutes ago, waiting for ICE agents to come out swinging batons.”
“Shit storm,” he said.
“Ya’ think? And the crowd outside Gloucester police headquarters is almost as big.”
​
Poor Fallon, thought Hart.
On his way to Wickham, Hart asked his Lyft driver, a young woman of color who spoke with a Spanish accent, what she thought of it all. His Lyft app told him her name was “Dolores.”
Dolores shook her head and shrugged, then glanced in the rear view mirror as if to ask, “And you?”
It occurred to him that this woman had no reason to trust him. In fact, in his suit and overcoat and fedora, he looked like he could be working for the government. After a long silence, Dolores said, “I got my papers, my green card.”
As if to let me know, thought Hart, just in case.
“But I know people who got picked up,” she added.
“Did they have their papers?”
Again, Dolores shrugged.
“Were they released?”
“Not yet.” Another pause, waiting for a response. “It was right in town, right on Main Street.”
Just outside the Squawking Gull, thought Hart.
“One of them had two kids,” she added. “Seven and twelve.”
“Sorry to hear that. Were they taken away, too?”
“They’re with me now.” So these were relatives, maybe.
“I hope the parents will be released soon.”
Dolores’s eyes returned to the rear view mirror.
“Not getting your documents in order,” she said. “It makes life hell for all of us.”
#
The Unitarian Universalist Church of Wickham met in a traditional if modest white meeting house whose steeple needed painting. A rainbow flag and a Black Lives Matter banner were hanging above the entrance. The wayside pulpit on the front lawn had already attracted dozens of flower arrangements, signs, and candles. The building was deserted at this time of the weekday except for Dot Hillers, who was speaking in a low, urgent voice to someone on the phone as Hart approached her office. She glanced up as he walked in.
“Yes, Tommy,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the flowers.” Hart could hear a murmur on the other end. “Yes,” said Dot. “Have to go now.” Replacing the receiver (it was a corded desk phone) she started writing something on a pad in front of her.
“Sorry,” she said. “We’re planning a memorial service for Sunday morning and the florist has the wrong information. And there's so little time. . . . .” She stopped as the tears came, put down her pen, and reached for the box of tissues on her desk. “We can't get the body yet, for a proper funeral, but we have to do something . . . ." She wiped her eyes. "You came at a good time, though. The reporters just left and there’s a lull right now. I don’t know how long it will last.”
“That was Mr. McCabe?”
She nodded, “Something about getting the flowers delivered on time. The florist called him . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence to blow her nose, then dropped the tissue into a wastebasket and instantly composed herself. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
Ms. Hillers was a slim, attractive middle-aged woman with prematurely gray hair that she took no pains to disguise. As she stood to shake his hand, Hart could see she was wearing a mid-length black skirt in addition to her dark gray blouse, as if in mourning. She wore no rings.
Dot Hillers said she had nothing to add to what she’d told the nice police detective. She arrived at the church at 8 am, as usual, and
Nice?
“You mean Detective Fallon?” asked Hart.
“No, his partner. Ulrich, I think. Is that her name?”
Vicky Ulrich, the detective sergeant who handed off Pennington’s case to Fallon at the start. Now she was riding shotgun on the McCabe murder, when she could have been in the driver’s seat.
“Did she also interview the two co-workers who ride-share with Mr. McCabe?”
“I think so. One of them, Nick Gifford, is a member of our church and lives nearby.” Hart didn’t reply, so she continued. “Nick and Tommy go way back. Attended high school together, played baseball together. They even won a division championship on the strength of Nick’s pitching.”
“Sounds like he was quite an athlete.”
“High school batters aren’t used to lefties.”
“Also sounds like you’re a fan.”
She shrugged. “We were classmates. And I played girls' softball. Outfield.” She was proud but embarrassed, as if Hart might think she was bragging.
To test McCabe’s credibility, Hart asked Dot if she knew about the Sandy Bay Bank credit card and its role in the Sanctuary Network.
She looked surprised.
“Mr. McCabe told me,” said Hart. “He swore me to secrecy.”
“Thank you,” said Dot.
“But as I told him, if the information can help my client, I’m going to have to share it with the police.”
“Didn’t they let that poor man go?”
“They dropped the murder charge, but he’s still up for credit card fraud.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“So let me ask. Mr. McCabe thinks ICE was involved. Do you?”
She considered the question, then shook her head.
“I think they’re capable of nearly anything, but not that. Why not detain her and send her to a foreign jail on false charges? And it was so badly mishandled. The way she was killed? And kidnapped on a public street, at midday? She was often here at the church after hours, working until late, alone. A sitting duck.”
“You’d make a good detective,” said Hart.
“But ICE impersonators—I can believe that. Wasn’t there an incident recently? In Florida. And just the other day, someone was killed in Chicago.”
“Not by phonies. Assault, rape, intimidation—that’s what they have in mind. Not carjacking or murder. No evidence of gang activity, either.”
“There’s always a first time.”
Hart didn’t contradict her.
“One last question. Was there any friction or unhappiness in the McCabes’ marriage?”
Hart expected Dot Hillers to bristle at the idea. Instead, she looked him in the eye and said, “What marriage is without it?”
She paused to consider what she’d say next.
“I don’t want to get Tommy—Mr. McCabe—in trouble,” she went on. “I hope you don’t suspect him. Pat dedicated her ministry to social justice, a real woman warrior. And Tommy stood behind her a hundred percent.” She paused again. “After a while, it became too much for him.”
“Couldn’t take the heat?”
“That wasn’t it. He’d have held her hand and walked through fire if she asked him to. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that she might get so wrapped up in saving the world she’d forget he was there at all.”
“He felt neglected. Did he find someone else?”
“Not that I know. I just know he was miserable.”
“He told you?”
“She did.”
#
As soon as he got back to the office, Hart called Fallon for an update. He started by asking if Ulrich had mentioned anything about the McCabes’ marital troubles. It was a conversation he didn’t want to have in the back seat of a Lyft, with a driver present.
“Interesting. No, she didn’t. Maybe she forgot to ask. But here’s something that might tie in. I just got off the phone with an insurance investigator wanting to know if I could share any information. You may get a call, too.”
“Let me guess. The two-year clause.”
“They suspect something.”
“I take it Tommy McCabe is the beneficiary.”
“Looking at two hundred.”
“Now he has to wait.”
“They haven’t decided. They’re considering.”
“What did you tell the investigator?”
“Nothing. But politely.”
​
“Have you talked to McCabe yet?”
“He says they agreed to take out the extra policy when his wife got involved in the Sanctuary Network—a kind of hazard hedge. Includes personal injury. She signed off on it.”
“Listen. Is Ulrich in today?”
“She’s on another assignment this morning but should be back after lunch. Why?”
“I understand she got the witness statements from Tommy’s ride-shares. I’d like her impressions.”
“It’s all written up.”
“Could you tell her I’d like to talk to her, maybe stop by after lunch?”
“Call her yourself.”
“You know she won’t pick up.”
Two minutes later the insurance investigator called. His name was George Tonelli and he wanted to offer Hart a job.
“I’m on retainer,” said Hart, “working the Pennington case for Sam Tull.”
“Isn’t Mr. Pennington back at his post, soliciting cash for Christ? They say the Big Guy has a return ticket.”
“Jeremiah’s still up for credit card fraud, and he’s still a person of interest in the McCabe murder.”
“It would pay well—much better than you’re making now. And it could lead to something permanent. Good benefits. Opportunities for advancement.”
“I had something permanent once. It’s now permanently kaput.”
“Continental, Boston Branch. I know. Impressive”
“If you know that, you also know I’m not for sale.”
Tonelli didn’t miss a beat. “My apologies. I had to try. Before you hang up, though, could you at least confirm a piece of information for me?”
“Depends.”
“Is it true that Patricia McCabe was having an affair with one of her husband’s ride-share passengers?”
“Which one?”
“Uh-uh, you first.”
“What’s your source?”
“That’s all I need to know, Mr. Hart. Thanks for your time.”
#
DS Victoria Ulrich had never liked Theo Hart, not even when she called herself “Victor.” So she wasn’t pleased to see Pete Fallon’s message on her cell.
Hart coming by after lunch.
She was already in a bad mood. The protesters and reporters outside headquarters had slowed her up and Kings (“No apostrophe!”) was crowded with late season tourists by the time she arrived, so she had to wait for a seat at the counter. Lots of cops ate at the diner, just a two-minute walk from the station. A blue uniform got you some consideration here. But detectives wore plain clothes. Not that anyone would recognize her in uniform these days.
Vicky swore under her breath, put away the phone, and bolted the rest of her sandwich. She had ten minutes left.
Hart.
Pete had been working with him, off and on, as far back as the Seeburg case. Yeah, Hart figured that one out, wore the wire, got the confession. She wasn’t saying he was dumb. But he wasn’t a cop, and by now Pete was treating him like his new partner.
It didn’t help that Hart entered the picture just as Ulrich began his transition to a “she.” First the hormones, then wearing dresses and make-up to work. Pete was supportive, but uneasy. As her hair grew out and her breasts began to show, Vic attracted male attention and Pete’s uneasiness turned to disgust. You can’t change a gut feeling by inviting it to leave. Without ever talking about it, they edged away from each other. The goofy insults, the wise cracks, Drake Maye’s chances? All of that was gone. What Vic was going through Pete couldn’t make sense of and he didn’t want to. Or need to. He was nearing retirement. So they found less and less to talk about except casework. And you can’t build a partnership on casework.
Then came the surgery. Vic (she was still “Vic” at work) was on medical leave for two months. The department kept her spot open, Fallon partnering with whoever was available until she got back. But it was never the same. Pete would send her to look for files in a basement somewhere or take witness statements alone, while he compared notes with Hart. When Vic did get his attention, if the conversation came anywhere near gender or trans identity, he’d shut down or change the subject.
She’d lost her mentor and now she was getting roped into helping her replacement. Fallon’s message was an order, not an option.
Hart was standing next to her desk when she got there.
She put down her handbag and looked at him.
“And?”
“You took witness statements from Tommy McCabe’s ride-shares, Gifford and Statler.”
“Didn’t you read them?” Why was he wasting her time?
“I read them. Not much there.”
“Pete was satisfied.”
“But are you?”
“There were no inconsistencies. McCabe picked up Gifford at his home in Wickham around 7:30, Statler twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes later. They arrived at NOAA at eight, to the minute.”
“Gifford. You believe him?”
The question caught her by surprise.
“You know something,” she replied.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ Or at least, ‘not sure.’ Let me ask you something else. Do you think it’s possible Patricia McCabe was having an affair with either of these guys?”
She didn’t answer. She was thinking.
“Pete must have told you we’re zeroing in on Tommy,” Hart continued.
That got her attention.
“And the life insurance benefit. I’m looking for a motive.”
“Pete didn’t say anything.”
“Sorry. We just found out a couple of hours ago. When you were out.” The apology almost sounded sincere. Was he embarrassed for her? “I mean about the life insurance.”
“Pete doesn’t tell me anything these days.”
“The benefit’s 200k. Thing is, I don’t think it’s enough to kill for. He’s got to have another motive. Jealousy. Revenge.”
She was about to reply, but now he was off and running.
“But if it’s revenge, why kill her and not her lover? Or is he next? Or else Tommy needs the money for something specific. Something urgent. Blackmail?”
“It’s not Gifford,” said Vic. “To answer your second question, about Patricia having an affair. If she is, it’s with Ben Statler.”
Hart looked at her inquisitively. Which was more than she’d gotten from Fallon.
“Gifford’s in transition. He’s getting ready for a sex-change operation.”
“You can tell?”
She looked annoyed.
“Breasts, hips, thighs. Baby smooth face. I looked him up on LinkedIn. He hasn’t reached the point of coming out, so he hasn’t changed his photo yet. Quite a transformation. Female hormones are the only explanation.”
“Does Fallon know?”
“He didn’t want to hear.”
“And you’re right. Has to be Statler. A woman falling in love with a man who’s turning into a woman? Sounds like something out of Ovid.”
Whoever the fuck that is, thought Vic.
“The opposite makes more sense,” Hart continued. He glanced at Vic. “To me at least. Falling out of love with a man turning into a woman.”
Vic nodded. “I know what you mean.”
Now Hart was thinking.
“Or falling in love with the woman someone is turning into,” he said.
​
Part 6
Walking to his office through the crowd outside the station, Hart called Monica to ask a favor.
“What is it?” Hart heard the sound of chanting in the background, then a roar, and Monica’s voice suddenly growing faint as she shouted to someone, “Just a fucking second!" Then she was back. “Make it fast. I’m in the middle of a protest demonstration.”
Hart didn’t ask what the demonstration was protesting. It didn’t matter. Monica was often taking part in demonstrations these days. He knew she’d tell him anyway. “We’re protesting the cut in health benefits for trans federal employees.”
“Where are you?” he asked. Now that he was past the crowd at the station he could hear chants coming from the direction of Dale Avenue, where the post office was located.
“At the post office,” said Monica.
“Listen. When you’re finished, I need a favor. It has to be done this afternoon.”
“I’ll call you back,” she said.
When he got to his office, Hart opened his laptop and started searching online for pictures of Nick Gifford. Hart didn’t have a LinkedIn account, so he couldn’t access the photo that Ulrich had seen.
No luck. He’d ask Ulrich to text it. She might humor him. Their brief conversation had ended amicably.
When Monica got back to him, he asked her to call the church and tell the secretary that she wanted to send flowers for the Sunday morning service.
“Tell her you were an admirer of Reverend McCabe and the work of the Sanctuary Network and ask for the name of the florist. As soon as you find out, give me a call. Don’t call them yourself. Oh, and ask if the church has a photo directory of its members.”
Monica called a half hour later.
“She said any florist would do. I didn’t press her. I thought it might raise suspicions.”
“That’s ok. I have a backup plan.”
“Why did you want to know?”
“Too long to explain now. And the church directory?”
“She asked me what for. I said I was thinking of joining and wondered if anyone I knew was a member.”
“And?”
“They have one, but it’s confidential to protect members’ contact information.”
“Should have guessed. I’ll call Cal and see what he can do.” Cal Guillermos had worked with Hart and Monica at Continental before it was shut down, handling IT, electronic surveillance, security, and online investigations. He ran his own firm now, in Marblehead, and both Hart and NOSHLA were regular customers.
“That would be illegal,” said Monica. “Hacking into it.” She paused. “Oh, I get it. Listen, Theo, I don’t want you fucking up our client’s defense just so you can swoop in wearing your cape . . .”
“Ok, ok.”
“And neither does Sam.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find another way.”
“How about you just back your fat ass out of that parking space altogether?”
Hart didn’t reply because he planned to keep his fat ass right where it was.
#
Saturday went by without further developments. Pennington was off the rotary and staying in a homeless shelter on Essex Avenue for the time being. Demonstrations continued at the Post Office, Police Headquarters, and the ICE offices in Burlington. Sam and Monica were visiting her relatives in the North End with their toddler, Portia. Hart was catching up on casework for his other clients.
Only Pete Fallon was at his desk. He’d had another sleepless night, finally nodding off at dawn and not waking up until almost noon.
Late yesterday a district judge had rejected his request for permission to examine Tommy McCabe’s phone records and search his residence. There wasn’t enough evidence, just speculation and surmise. He’d been in touch with the chief of police in Wickham to ask if they could stake out the house, keep track of McCabe’s movements, visitors, deliveries. The chief said they had their hands full preparing security for the memorial service tomorrow morning. So he called Ulrich. She didn’t take it well. She had other plans for today.
Turning over the pages of the case file, Fallon’s eye came to rest on the name “Figeroa.” In his witness statement the pastor of the Synod Assembly Church of God in Christ told Fallon that Patricia McCabe was on her way to see him the morning she was killed because she wanted to recruit him for the Sanctuary Network. Now Fallon wondered why she had to do that in person. Why not do it when she called, save herself a trip? Maybe Figeroa said he needed to meet with her before making up his mind. That would make him the reason Pat McCabe was on Cape Ann at all that morning. He decided to give the Reverend a call.
Figeroa didn’t pick up, so Fallon left a message. Then he thought of trying the office number.
“Who is this?” It was a female voice, Hispanic. And angry.
Fallon introduced himself and asked for Figeroa.
“He’s not here,” said the woman abruptly. “He’s in Wickham. At a walk-through for the service tomorrow.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“His wife. I’ll tell him you called.” The line went dead.
For some reason, George Tonelli’s question about Pat McCabe having an affair with one of the ride shares popped into Fallon’s mind.
A minute later Figeroa called.
“I’m sorry to take up your time with this,” said Fallon. “I called your office and your wife . . .”
“She takes my business calls,” said Figeroa.
“She sounded angry.”
Figeroa hesitated before saying, “She’s always angry these days. The illegal arrests, the abductions—half my congregation are immigrants. They’re terrified.” He was almost yelling. He seemed to realize it and immediately calmed down. “It’s kept me away from home, her, my kids. And Pat McCabe’s murder made it worse.”
“Must be hard,” said Fallon. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to clarify something. In your statement you said Reverend McCabe was driving over that morning to discuss joining the Sanctuary Network. Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. That’s why you were at the walk-through.”
“It’s not just Network pastors. Clergy from all over the North Shore will be there. We all admired what she was doing. The Network will be getting more recruits because of her death. I just happened to be the first in line.”
“One more question and then I’m through. When you say Pat McCabe contacted you to set up an appointment, do you mean she reached out and asked you to join? Or did you contact her first, to ask about it, and she was getting back to you?”
Figeroa hesitated. Fallon could almost hear the gears ticking. “I contacted her, left a message. Then she called back.”
The second Figeroa hung up, Fallon called Ulrich and re-deployed her to East Gloucester. She’d be surveilling the Reverend Manuel Figeroa for the rest of the afternoon.
#
Hart was poking a fork at a Hungry Man TV dinner—chicken piccata tonight—and working on a chess puzzle (playing black) when his cell pinged. He wasn’t a hungry man tonight, so it took no effort to put the fork down and reach for his phone.
It was a text from Ulrich, with a photo of Nick Gifford attached. Hart opened it up, synced it with his computer, then left the puzzle at the third move (white’s queen pinned by black’s only rook) to examine it more closely in Photos, blown up.
The picture was a headshot, so Hart couldn’t get an idea of the man’s height. He wore a neatly trimmed stubble beard and a full head of chestnut brown hair, and his easy smile revealed a row of bright, perfectly aligned teeth. His blue eyes were electric. Hart tried to imagine him the way Ulrich had described him in person, but he had difficulty visualizing it, let alone picturing Gifford as a woman.
It wasn’t yet 6:00 pm when Hart left his foil tray cooling on the dining room table and headed for the shelter where Pennington was staying. He found the man sitting in the common room. The TV was on, but Jeremiah wasn’t watching. He was staring at the wall opposite him as though gazing into the future, a future about to happen any minute. Without his burlap robe, he looked like any other elderly homeless person.
They hadn’t met, so Hart pulled out his business card as he approached and gave it to Pennington. “I’m working with Sam Tull,” he said. “And I want to show you something.” He pulled out his cell and double-clicked the picture of Nick Gifford.
“Is this the person who was driving the Prius?”
Pennington lowered the business card and squinted closely. “That’s a man,” he said. “And he’s got a beard.”
“He could have been dressed as a woman.”
Pennington shook his head. “Sorry. Could be. That’s the most I can say.” He went back to watching the wall.
“Anything you can tell me about her arm, the one she threw the credit card with? Was the sleeve down or rolled up?”
Pennington turned his head in Hart’s direction but kept his eyes on the blank wall.
“Cuff was turned up,” he said. Then, "Freckles."
After a few seconds, the eyes swiveled around.
“She threw overhand. Don’t see that very often.”
#
Ulrich pushed “Send.” She’d seen Hart’s request for a copy of the Gifford photo early this morning but hadn’t kept a copy herself and hadn't had time to sign into LinkedIn again until now, after returning from her stake-out in East Gloucester and getting debriefed by Fallon.
It had been an uneventful afternoon at the Figeroa parsonage, except for two incidents. She’d been parked down at the end of the block only a few minutes before Figeroa pulled into the drive. A Latina woman she took to be his wife came storming out of the house. Ulrich rolled down her window and started taking pictures.
“How could you?” the woman shouted as her husband emerged from the car. Ulrich had trouble hearing the rest of the tirade except for “woman” and “liar” and “snake.” Figeroa made placating gestures and said something, but it only made her angrier. She began beating his chest, then turned and stalked back into the house. Figeroa followed her, looking up and down the street as he did so.
Ulrich stayed parked where she was until 5 pm, leaving the car only to use the restroom in a restaurant a block away. She propped her phone on the dashboard to record anything that might happen while she was gone. When she returned, Figeroa’s car was still in the driveway, with another, a black SUV, behind it. The video showed a stocky man with a buzz cut getting out of the car and walking up to the front door. A shoulder holster bulged under his suit jacket.
Ulrich got out and walked briskly down the street toward the Figeroas’ driveway, holding her phone up to her ear while taking a photo of the SUV’s license plate as she passed. A few yards further on, she looked at the photo. It was a federal plate. She hurried around the block to her car, got back in, and waited. In half an hour the stocky man came out of the house and drove away.
“What’s your conclusion?” Fallon asked her. It was the first time since Patricia McCabe’s murder that he’d asked Ulrich’s opinion.
“The wife’s ballistic over something her husband did. That’s obvious. Looks to me like ‘Heaven hath no fury’ stuff. He’s having an affair.”
“Or had one,” said Fallon.
“Or that,” said Ulrich. “But if it’s over, why is the missus still so upset?”
“Maybe Pat McCabe isn’t the only one.”
Fallon paused, then asked, “Could she have done it? Overheard her husband and the Reverend making plans, ambushed her somehow when she left the house?”
“Or when she arrived at Figeroa's house?" Fallon paused. "Then how does Tommy fit in? Or doesn’t he?”
They were silent for a few seconds.
“Hart told me you were looking at him,” she added.
More silence.
“That Fed has me wondering, though,” said Fallon.
“You told me Figeroa’s joined the Network.”
“That might put him under surveillance, but if they’re staking out the church or his home, keeping a low profile, they wouldn’t be knocking on his door, would they?"
Ulrich agreed.
“Listen,” said Fallon. “There’s a memorial service tomorrow morning at the UU Church in Wickham, at 10:30. I want you there to see who shows up. Dress appropriately, a black or gray . . . uh . . . whatever . . . .” He turned to his computer screen. “You can figure it out.”
Ulrich could see he didn’t want to discuss how much she knew about women’s fashion.
“I can,” she said.
​
Part 7
As the driver came around the back of the church he noticed a tall, fat man in a baggy suit and overcoat standing under the maple tree on the far side of the parking lot. The fat man waited until the van pulled up to the delivery entrance before approaching.
“Those for the service?”
The driver nodded and opened the double doors at the back of the van.
“Are mine in there?”
The driver asked for the name and looked at the invoice, then shook his head.
“I was afraid of that,” said the fat man. “Someone told me there was a problem with the order.”
“News to me,” said the driver.
“Could you call and check?”
The driver pulled out his phone and punched in a number.
“They don’t know a thing about it,” he told the fat man as he put the phone away. “You sure you got the right store?”
#
Dot Hillers heard the florist’s van arriving and then voices. She got up from her desk and looked out the window. It was that detective, and the delivery man. Their voices were muffled, but she could guess what they were talking about.
She watched until the detective tipped his hat and walked away. Then she called Tommy McCabe.
#
DS Ulrich stood in the back of the church, right behind the last pew so she could get an unimpeded view. She was dressed appropriately, even fashionably. Mourning became her.
She was surprised when Callie Figeroa, Manuel Figeroa’s wife, intercepted Tommy McCabe as he headed for his seat and engaged him in an animated conversation, waving her hands and speaking rapidly. She wasn’t offering condolences. As they spoke, Ms. Figeroa glanced pointedly at her husband, who had taken his place among his colleagues in the second row of pews. He glared back.
There was a woman in the front pew next to where McCabe took his seat. She was wearing a black veil. Ulrich hadn’t felt the need for one, they were so out of date, and a veil would make it hard to see. Did McCabe have a sister?
Ulrich couldn’t spot Nick Gifford. But Gifford was short, easy to miss in this crowded space, and folks were hard to recognize from the back anyway. She’d look for him at the reception.
Ben Statler was sitting on the aisle two rows behind McCabe. His freckled bald scalp, surrounded by a halo of blonde hair, made him hard to miss. Now he was standing up and walking forward to say something to McCabe. Or was it the woman next to McCabe?
#
Not for the first time in his life, Tommy felt thankful that he’d been born an only child. Also, that his parents were dead. He didn’t need family right now. He needed his best friends.
And here they were, Dot and Nick, sitting right next to him. He wished Dot wasn’t so upset, but she’d get over it.
Sharing the front pew were Pat’s mom and dad and two older sisters. Behind the friends and relatives, filling the second row on both sides of the church, were Pat’s colleagues from the North Shore and beyond, nearly all robed in black.
Pat had made a difference.
The little church was filled to overflowing, SRO, including a huge guy in a dark blue suit standing in back, who was hard to miss. Tommy had spoken with him on the phone but never laid eyes on him until this morning, when Dot told him who to look for. Outside there were cars lining the streets for three blocks in every direction, including two black SUVs. Their former occupants were stationed at the street corners flanking the church and talking, apparently, to themselves. In front was a police car with two cops inside, staring straight ahead, trying to stay awake. Also, not far from the entrance, a white van with the logo of a local TV station and an extension antenna sprouting from the top. The press was barred from the service, but allowed to attend the reception afterwards, in the parish hall.
The organ prelude came to an end and the officiating minister, a thin guy from Rockport with a shock of red, curly hair that made him look like a pencil with a new eraser, rose from the dais and approached the lectern to begin.
#
In the vestibule, Hart found himself beside Ulrich, who was heading for the reception.
“Aren’t you . . .?” she asked, nodding her head toward the stairs.
“I’ll take up too much space,” he replied, then added, “Who was that blonde Latina speaking with McCabe just before the service?”
Ulrich led him out of the foot traffic and told him what had transpired the day before at the parsonage of the Synod Assembly Church of God in Christ. Also about the visit, minutes later, of Mr. Buzzcut.
“And here he is,” said Hart, glancing through the open front doors. “Protecting us against the vermin and the scum.”
“Must be doing a good job,” said Ulrich. She looked around. “Don’t see any.”
Then she continued toward the parish hall.
“Nice dress,” Hart called after her. Once outside, he dialed Monica.
#
Monica hated funerals and wakes, but Hart had talked her into it when he explained what he needed, and why.
“Her, and this guy.” He showed her the LinkedIn photo of Nick Gifford that Ulrich had sent. “He’s not wearing a beard now, so he may be hard to spot.”
The place was crowded with mourners, which made picture taking difficult. Monica found she had to maneuver close enough to her targets to get an unimpeded view without being conspicuous about it. After a few minutes she decided to give up on candid shots and use her fake press badge as an excuse to barge in on people and pose them.
She managed to get a photo of the woman with the veil, who’d lifted it for the reception. Hard to eat otherwise.
Also, the two others.
She didn’t see Nick Gifford.
#
“You look great, Nick!”
“Thanks, Dot. So far, so good.”
He was fortunate, Nick thought, to have found such an accepting congregation. The hormone therapy was an ordeal, and he badly needed the support. Especially now.
“When’s the surgery?” asked Dot. Up close, and without the veil in the way, he could see her eyes were red from weeping. She was taking this hard, he thought, but she’ll come around.
Nick reached for a tea sandwich and swallowed before answering. “Early next year—that’s when I’m aiming for. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Ulrich spotted him then.
He’s left-handed, she thought.
And I’m an idiot.
#
Mr. Portman, the librarian at the high school, was eager to help.
“That was a red-letter year for us,” he said as he led Hart to the yearbooks shelf. “State champs in men’s and women’s.”
He pointed to the relevant volume, then looked at his watch. “You have fifteen minutes. Sorry. I teach at 11:20 and I need to lock the room.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” said Hart.
He wasn’t disappointed. There it was: Nick Gifford, striking out Hampton’s last batter in the bottom of the ninth, and next to it, the Fishermen’s all-star catcher, Tommy McCabe, holding the ball aloft. Two pages further on he found Dorothy Hillers making the winning throw to home plate to get the final out of the game for the Lady Lions. There was even a photo of Ben Statler on page 16. Chess club.
Hart was tying up some loose ends this Monday morning because Jeremiah Pennington was missing.
The Prophet had gone out for a walk Sunday afternoon, when Hart came to visit him, and hadn’t returned for dinner. The police had checked his squat, or what was left of it, and put out an APB, but as of ten this morning there’d been no sign of him.
On his way out of the high school, Hart heard his phone humming. It was Ulrich.
“They found him at Pigeon Cove. He was sitting on the far side of the sea wall, facing the ocean. Harbormaster spotted him. Looks like he was there all night.”
“Is he ok?”
“Possible hypothermia. He’s at Addison-Gilbert for observation. Then it’s back to jail.”
“When can I see him?”
“You can’t,” said Ulrich. “But I can.”
“I’ve got some pictures to show him. From Monica.”
“I was wondering what she was doing there. Text them to me.”
“I also found out a few things this morning that you should know.”
He told Ulrich about the yearbook photos.
“I knew about Gifford,” she said, “from when I finally spotted him at the reception. I didn’t know about Hillers. So, they’re both left-handed.”
She heard a ping and opened the text message with the three photos Hart had sent.
“Just what I’d have picked,” she said. “Especially Gifford’s. I didn’t recognize him until I saw him at the reception.”
“Yeah—it’s way more than I’d hoped. And while we’re on the subject, let me ask you something. You know anything about benefits for LGBTQ and trans federal workers?”
“You mean the new ban? I know it goes into effect the first of January. Thank God, I don’t work for the feds.”
“Do you know what ‘gender affirming’ would include?”
#
He’d seen it. Coming up above the horizon. Streaming blood. That’s how he knew he wouldn’t live to see it set. No one would.
He didn’t mind lying here, with the IV in his arm. It was peaceful. Quiet. It reminded him of the hospital at Camp Bastion where they’d removed the bullet from his right leg. He’d lost a lot of blood, they told him later. Femoral artery. They thought he was dead.
And he was. He was standing next to the gurney, looking at himself lying there, when Jesus walked in. It was no dream. It was real. The Lamb of God walked into the operating room and looked him right in the eye and said, “You have more work to do, Jeremiah, before I return.” Then His face became as bright as a million suns, and Pennington had to close his eyes. When he opened them, he was lying in a hospital ward with an IV just like this one stuck in his arm. Same arm.
As the memory faded, Pennington became aware of a presence in the room. A woman. A beautiful woman. He knew how Jesus and the Saints took the form of ordinary people to deliver their messages. Like the gardener outside the empty tomb. Or Jesus at the supper at Emaus. He knew how to read the signs. She was dressed in blue, the color of the Virgin.
“Mr. Pennington,” she said, “I’m Detective Sergeant Victoria Ulrich. I have some photos I’d like to show you. Please tell me if any of them look familiar.”
Jeremiah let her show all three of them before he asked to see the first one again.
​
"That's her," he said.
Witness statement? Why not? What did it matter?
Part 8
Jeremiah Pennington didn’t last the day at Addison-Gilbert. After signing his witness statement and handing it back to Ulrich, he rolled onto his side, put his hands under his head, and closed his eyes for the last time.
The coroner couldn’t locate any next of kin, so after two weeks Fallon arranged with the Chief Medical Examiner to pay the funeral costs himself. He also obtained a waiver to cremate the remains, which usually required waiting a year for relatives to show up and give permission.
He didn’t bother to contact the state Department of Transitional Assistance for reimbursement. “The man was awarded a Purple Heart,” Fallon told Ulrich. “I’d want someone to do as much for me.”
#
They were seated under a big umbrella on the patio behind the Seaport Grille, facing the ocean. Hart ordered last, and most. He still had some catching up to do.
He was wearing his larger suit this morning, but it was already 80 degrees in the shade so he’d removed the coat. He wished they were indoors, where it was air-conditioned. But Fallon was paying.
And there was the view.
When he was through ordering, the table fell silent.
“Grand Jury is when?” asked Sam.
“Two weeks from now,” said Ulrich.
“DA’s gonna have a hard time selling Pennington’s statement.”
“Dying declaration,” said Fallon.
“Non compos mentis is my guess,” replied Sam. “Gifford’s attorney will have a field day.”
“It’s a Grand Jury,” said Fallon, “All they need is probable cause. Maybe at trial. We’ll have to wait and see. McCabe’s confession will help.”
“The phone,” said Sam. “Run that past me again?”
“She left it in the pulpit at the church the night before, timing a sermon, it looks like. She must have forgotten it—maybe she was interrupted. Anyway, the battery was low, so it ran out of juice overnight. The timer app was the last one she used.”
“And no one noticed it all week?”
“The minister officiating at the run-through for the memorial service,” said Ulrich. “He didn’t know whose it was, so he asked Dot Hillers. She turned it over to me the next day.”
“And McCabe and Gifford just assumed the victim had it in her handbag.”
Fallon nodded. “Gifford was halfway to Gloucester when he thought to open the bag and found it wasn’t there.”
“Talk about the Gang that Couldn’t Shoot Straight.”
“Right,” said Fallon. “So he called McCabe, who was walking out the door. McCabe didn’t have it, didn’t have time to look for it if he was going to pick up Gifford on time. So Gifford had to improvise.” He looked at Hart.
“The whole point,” Hart said, “was to tip off the Sanctuary Network, make it look like Pat McCabe thought she was in imminent danger of being arrested. Put ICE in the frame.”
“Or ICE imposters,” said Ulrich.
“Right. They weren’t planning to call Silent Witness or anyone else. Just let the Network do its thing, get the ball rolling.”
“But they ended up having to call anyway,” said Monica.
“Because the Lord works in mysterious ways,” said Hart. “Gifford did manage to get the card into the basket. I think his pitching skills came to his aid, even after twenty years.”
“He was a leftie,” said Ulrich.
“Yeah. Any driver would have to use their left,” said Hart. “So he had a better chance than most. Pennington told police that if the card missed, he’d know not to use it. He’d already been sent to jail for credit card fraud under the same circumstances. But making the basket—now it was God’s money, and God’s money was for God’s work.”
“But how could Gifford know all that?” said Monica.
Hart shrugged. “He didn’t. But he’s competitive. He had to try. The main thing was to get the card in play. ‘Do the Lord’s work. But do it fast.’ It was long odds to begin with, even without the three-pointer, but there was no other choice.”
“And even with Jesus on his side, Pennington couldn’t complete his mission,” said Monica.
“The Pennington angle never made sense to me from the beginning,” said Hart, “unless throwing him the card was an act of desperation. Getting rid of a stolen card or using it to do ‘the Lord’s work’ didn’t qualify. Failing to notify the Network did. McCabe and Gifford waited to see if the card had been used in time, but after twenty-four hours, nothing. Which left them no option but Silent Witness, and back-dating the time of the siting to make it closer to the ETD.”
“Help me out here,” Monica continued. “Pete told you McCabe was on board when he heard Pennington was the prime suspect, but you told me by the time you called him he’d switched back to ICE.”
“When I questioned him, after his confession, Tommy told me it was Gifford’s idea to pile on Pennington, once the man was in the crosshairs. McCabe didn’t like it, said it didn’t sit right with him, framing an innocent man.”
“Pretty selective conscience,” said Monica, “for a wife-killer.”
“And not very robust, apparently. He went along with the idea until they thought of making the burner call to Silent Witness.”
“They should’ve left it alone,” said Fallon. “They should have left the whole ICE thing alone. But that’s not how first-time killers think, even the most intelligent.”
“Especially the most intelligent,” said Ulrich. “Cocky bastards.”
“I don’t know,” said Hart. “A murder victim left in the cargo area of her own car, in a public parking area? It screams ‘off-site.’ And who’s the first suspect in a case like that? The spouse. McCabe and Gifford did a good job of hiding their tracks. And the fox-and-geese stuff was a work of genius. But they wanted just that little sliver”—he held up his pudgy fist with the thumb and index finger almost touching—"of extra assurance. Why not try to point us in the wrong direction, especially if they could let the Network do it for them?”
“The fox-and-geese,” said Sam. “How did you figure it out?”
“It was staring us all in the face,” said Hart. “The missing phone suggested three possibilities: it was lost or stolen before Pat left for the day, probably on the day before. Or it was taken by the murderer after she was killed and, if so, probably destroyed. Or she forgot to take it when she left the house.”
“But she didn’t,” said Sam. “She forgot it at the church.”
“Wherever and whenever she forgot it is irrelevant to narrowing down lines of inquiry. If it was lost or stolen or destroyed, there was nothing to think about, no leads to follow. So why not think about the third possibility and see where that takes you?”
Fallon nodded.
“Yeah,” said Hart, glancing at him. “Pete came to the same conclusion. If the phone was still at home, it was unlikely she forgot it. No one forgets their phone when they’re heading out for the day. She was killed at or after 6:00 am. If the phone was still at home when she was found, then she was killed before she could grab it off the nightstand or wherever she kept it. That meant we should be looking at Tommy McCabe.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Sam. “The other two possibilities were still in play. How could you be sure it wasn’t lost—as it turned out to be—or the murderer didn’t take it?”
“I couldn’t, not at first. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“The fox-and-geese,” said Monica.
“That’s what had me stumped,” said Hart. “McCabe’s alibi was his two ride-shares, Nick Gifford and Ben Statler. Both men said McCabe picked them up right on time—Nick in Wickham, Ben in Gloucester—and they all arrived at NOAA on time. How could McCabe have murdered his wife and left the body at the Goose Cove Res, in her own car, when he was driving himself and his two ride-shares to work? Even if he left early enough to get back in time, how would he get home at all? He had no vehicle, and calling a Lyft or Uber or a taxi would be too risky.
“Then I found out from Dot Hillers that Nick and Tommy were close friends—Dot, too, for that matter—going all the way back to high school. What if Nick had agreed to help his old teammate get away with murder? Driven the body to the Reservoir parking lot, left the Prius there, and been picked up by McCabe, who’d be driving not far behind. Then the two of them would pick up Statler, as usual. Gifford could have dressed like Pat McCabe and waited for someone to show up—a dog-walker or an early morning runner . . .”
“. . . someone doing Tai Chi,” said Monica.
“. . . right, to make sure the Reverend was seen walking into the woods, mosquito net down to cover her face.”
“Just the way McCabe said in his confession,” said Fallon. “Then hide in some bushes, strip off the blouse and hat and stuff them in a plastic bag and walk out in the T-shirt you were wearing underneath, but at a different point on the bike path . . . .”
“Macomber Street,” said Hart.
“ . . . where Tommy would be waiting for you.”
“By the time Dot told me about Tommy and Nick,” said Hart, “I knew, from Tommy, about the credit card alarm the Network was using, and ICE had been dragged into the picture by that suspicious call to Silent Witness, which I didn’t buy for a moment. So I added ICE to the cocktail and figured Gifford must have tried to alert the Network by using the credit card but couldn’t, for some reason, so he tried using Pennington, and that failed, too.
“Now, why did he need to have Pennington use the card? To set him up? That didn’t make sense, once you stopped to consider it closely. Then it dawned on me: Gifford couldn’t risk stopping to make a purchase in person, so he’d have to do it online, by phone. But he’d need Pat McComb’s phone.”
“And he didn’t have it.”
“Exactly.
“And that’s something, as you say, that the victim was unlikely to forget when she left the house,” said Sam. “So she must have been killed at home, before she left. And if she kept it in her handbag . . . .”
“. . . where Tommy always said she kept it . . . “
“. . . and Gifford had the handbag right next to him, he’d assume he had it.”
“I guess Tommy forgot to check,” said Hart, “or he thought Nick had already checked. Who knows? The point is, it wasn’t where Nick expected it to be, and he had to think fast.”
“And when Pennington failed to deliver, that’s when they called Silent Witness.”
The waiter arrived with their orders. Hart paused and unwrapped his flatware.
“But what would Nick’s motivation be?” he asked, a forkful of omelet hovering in front of him. “That, I couldn’t figure.” The fork completed its journey and, after a moment, he resumed. “It had to be more than Old Lang Syne. You don’t help a friend—even an old and dear friend—kill their spouse just because they ask. And for that matter, why would Tommy McCabe want to kill her? Yeah, Dot Hillers said Tommy was feeling neglected. Why not get a divorce?”
Nobody said anything. They all knew why by now.
“Tonelli,” said Fallon
Hart nodded. “If the insurance companies were getting interested, then they suspected something was wrong. Which meant we should keep liking Tommy McCabe.”
“Turned out they were right,” said Fallon, “but for the wrong reason. It didn’t have anything to do with an affair between Ben Statler and Pat McCabe.”
Hart looked at Sam. “I called Tonelli afterwards and asked about it. He told me he’d heard from an unnamed source, second or third hand, that something was going on between “McCabe”—just the last name—and one of the ride-shares, and because both ride-shares were male, he assumed it must be Pat.”
“Missed by a mile,” said Ulrich. “But so did I. And I have no excuse.”
“You saw that Nick Gifford was in transition. That was crucial,” said Hart. “The new health plan restrictions on ‘gender-affirming’ care wouldn’t have occurred to me otherwise. Kill your wife for a measly 200k? This wasn’t Double Indemnity.”
No one asked what he was referring to, but not because they knew (except for Monica). They just didn’t care. Hart was always making obscure references no one understood. Best to let him get on with it.
“And,” he continued, still talking to Ulrich, “you knew exactly how much the surgery would cost.”
Ulrich nodded. “But that just makes it worse. How did I not see it?”
“Wait,” said Sam. “Hold up a minute. The policy was written a year ago. That’s long before Trump was even elected. Were McCabe and Gifford already planning . . . ?”
Hart shook his head. “No. According to Tonelli, it was Pat’s idea. She wanted to provide for Tommy, in case . . . well. And it included injury. She was already stirring things up, getting anonymous threats. She didn’t know she was signing her death warrant. At that point, neither did Tommy.”
“The only problem now was proving it,” said Ulrich. “We needed an up-to-date photo of Nick Gifford for Pennington to identify. All we had was that picture from Linkedin—pre-transition, all buff and bearded—and Pennington couldn’t tell from that.”
Fallon looked at Monica. “Vicki told me she saw you at the memorial service.”
“Hart asked me,” said Monica. “He thought Gifford might show.”
“I tried to stop her,” said Sam. “I don’t like her helping with investigations, especially murder investigations. She’s a mom now. She needs to be more careful. But once she gets that detective jones . . .” He stopped and looked around the table. “I see three detectives sitting here. Don’t any of you know how to take a surveillance photo?”
“It had to be crystal clear, full on and close up,” said Ulrich. “That’s hard to do at distance, even with the best equipment. And ours isn’t the best.”
“And this was the quickest option,” added Hart. “If he didn’t show, there was still the long, slow route.”
“But Nick couldn’t suspect he was the target,” Monica told Sam. “As a press photographer I could pose people at random, so he didn’t feel singled out. I sold Tommy and Dot on the idea by emphasizing the good publicity it would generate for the Network. Hart asked me to get a picture of Dot, too, and as he left the church he called and added the veiled woman and Callie Figeroa, with a description.”
“And Gifford was the veiled woman,” said Sam, shaking his head.
“Doing our work for us,” said Hart. “I knew the UUs were all over social justice issues, and the banners they had out front confirmed that, including a rainbow flag. And I remembered Vicky telling me about cross-dressing as part of the transition. Later, when I asked Dot, she told me Nick often dressed that way when he attended Sunday services.”
“But why the veil?”
“Gifford said out of respect, in his statement. But I think he wanted to show his lover his support without the cops recognizing him and getting ideas. The less the two were seen together outside of driving to and from work, the better.”
“And cops weren’t allowed at the reception, so veils up?”
“And there was food to eat.”
“But why Dot Hillers and Callie Figeroa?” asked Sam.
“Callie because of what Vicki told me right after the service,” said Hart, “about her big blow-up with her husband, and what I saw just before the service began. Was he having an affair with Pat McCabe? Would that be motive enough for Ms. Figeroa? Was I all wrong about Tommy and Nick? I had to eliminate her as a suspect. Same with Dot. I didn’t trust her.” He told them about Dot’s lying to him about Tommy’s troubles with the florist and how chummy she was with her two former classmates. “And she had no one to corroborate when she arrived at the office that morning.”
“And she pitched for the girls’ softball team,” added Ulrich.
“No,” Hart said. “She played outfield. Even made the winning throw to home plate in the state championship. Distance, accuracy—more than enough of both to score overhand on the basket toss. And she was a leftie, just like Gifford. All the more reason to make sure.
“So why did she lie about the florist?” asked Fallon.
“She was in love with Tommy and wanted to protect him. She didn’t know he was involved in Pat’s death, but she knew he’d be suspected. She’s been carrying a torch for him since high school and the marriage was souring, which raised her hopes. Now, with Pat gone, she saw her chance. But it was clear, almost from the start, that Tommy only had eyes for Nick, his best friend in the world, who was becoming the woman he’d loved all along without knowing it. That’s why Dot was crying the morning I showed up at the church. It wasn’t for Pat. She’d just learned the truth from Tommy, that he wasn’t interested in her. She was hurt but she still cared for him, so she grabbed at the first explanation she could think of.”
“And Callie?” asked Sam. “What was going on there?”
“Something I should have suspected,” said Hart, “but lost sight of.”
Manuel Figeroa had been collaborating with ICE in exchange for protection for his flock. Callie Figeroa had found out when ICE called her number—the church’s business number—to arrange a visit from Mr. Buzzcut, who’d failed to reach the Reverend on his private line during the memorial service walk-through. Callie was outside at the time, working in the garden. Mr. Buzzcut left a message with a bit too much information.
Hart turned to Ulrich. “You witnessed the aftermath.”
“You said you ‘should have suspected.’ Why?”
“When I paid him a visit to ask about his appointment with Pat McCabe, he told me no one in his congregation—and it’s brimful of immigrants, with and without green cards—he told me no one’d been detained or arrested by ICE, or even harassed. I thought at the time that was a degree of protection even the Lord of Hosts couldn’t provide. Later, when I pressed him on how his appointment with Pat McCabe was arranged, he admitted he’d initiated contact.”
“So he became their mole,” said Monica.
“To protect his flock,” said Hart.
“Should have talked it over with his wife, first,” said Monica.
“Not that it would have done much good,” said Sam, scowling in her direction.
Monica turned to Fallon. “How are the rest of them doing? The passengers in the Underground Railroad?”
“All safe. All gone,” he said, then looked at his watch.
“It’s time we were, too.”
#
An hour later they were bobbing up and down outside the three-mile limit, on a 20-foot boat owned by New England Burials at Sea.
“Why at sea?” Monica asked. “He wasn’t in the navy.”
“That’s where he was looking when they found him,” said Fallon. “East. At the sunrise.”
He wanted to toss Pennington’s Veteran’s ID Card into the biodegradable urn before it was lowered into the water. But the captain said no. Plastic wasn’t biodegradable. So he put his Bic lighter to it and dropped it in, then waited for it to burn itself out before he replaced the lid.