What the Fly Saw Read online

  She had dealt with the other three. If she had gotten rid of her—Detective Hannah McCabe—everything would have been all right.

  Nichols moved her head from side to side. Relax, she told herself. Think calming thoughts. She could fix this. She had made herself into Lisa Nichols. She had bewitched a man who had his choice of women and had never offered any of them marriage until he met her, Lisa. She could fix this.

  The lawyers he hired for her believed there was a good chance they could get her off. Then she would get Ted back. He knew she needed him … he would be there to keep her safe, to protect her. She could have that life again. She could carry out her assignment and still have that life.

  Shrieks and curses erupted on the other side of the room. Nichols retreated behind her chair. She jumped when a hand grabbed her elbow.

  “Sit down and stay seated,” the nurse said. Then, in a whisper, “Read this later.”

  Nichols peered down at the wad of paper that had been pressed into her hand. She slid it into the pocket of her jumpsuit.

  Across the room, nurses and orderlies separated the two women wrestling on the floor. Nichols sat down in her armchair. God, please, she thought, let this note be about getting me out of this loony bin and back with Ted.

  4

  Sunday, January 19, 2020

  7:03 A.M.

  In the small, but well-equipped station house gym, McCabe stepped into a booth and set the geosimulator for “country run on spring day.” Up hills and down, fields and cattle. Soundscape on—chirping birds, the sound of the tractor the farmer was riding, her own feet pounding the asphalt. But she skipped the brainwave function with the subliminal messages, supposed to optimize performance. She never quite trusted those messages even if the federal agency in charge of approving health and fitness products had ruled the input safe.

  Three miles and a cooldown later, she headed for the showers. She’d forgotten to pack conditioner. McCabe pulled a comb through curly hair, dark tinged with red courtesy of her African American mother and Scots-Irish father. She twisted it into a topknot before it could dry. Not stylish, but under control.

  Baxter was taking off his thermo jacket when she walked into the bull pen. Face still flushed from the cold, blond hair damp with snowflakes, he looked a lot better than he had a week ago when he had gone home early with a cough and fever.

  “Howdy, partner,” he said, flashing his grin. “Great morning, isn’t it?”

  “Wonderful morning,” McCabe said. “After four hours’ sleep on a cot in the women’s locker room, I’m ready to tackle whatever the day brings.” She snagged her Elvis mug from her desk. “With this weather, I thought you might try to wrangle another day of sick leave.”

  Baxter reached for his APD mug. “One of my former colleagues from Vice with an all-terrain offered to swing by and give me a lift. But the city’s new snowplows are doing a pretty good job. They’ve got this extension like an elephant’s trunk.”

  “I’ve been wanting to see one in action, but I could have skipped the blizzard. And with more snow coming down even as we speak, it’s probably going to be a mess for a while.”

  “Then we’ll have to keep on our galoshes,” Baxter said, following her to the coffee machine.

  “Was your friend involved in the zombie nest raid?” McCabe asked.

  “That’s why she was heading in early this morning. It turned out to be a major bust. Is this drinkable?”

  “Almost. They’re trying another brand this week.”

  “Remember the coffee we had at Ted Thornton’s house? Made from real, fresh-from-the-grinder beans.”

  “And served by Rosalind, your favorite robotic maid.”

  “My dream woman. So what’s happening with that? With Lisa Nichols? I heard the trial starts on Tuesday. Are you due in court?”

  “Nope, not until they call me to testify. That could be a while. Got to do jury selection first.”

  “Twelve impartial jurors. No problem.”

  “None at all. Only about as easy as establishing a permanent colony on Mars.”

  “Big-time loss for her dream team when they couldn’t get a change of venue. I guess Teddy didn’t have as much influence as they thought.”

  “Assuming he tried to exercise his influence.”

  “Right,” Baxter said. “He probably opened his checkbook to pay her lawyers and then stepped out of it.”

  “That might be what happened.” McCabe took a sip of coffee. “Aside from being homicidal, she did betray his trust.”

  “But he still hired her lawyers. So I’m guessing the guy’s not quite over his ‘killer blonde’ yet.”

  “Then he’s out of luck,” McCabe said.

  * * *

  Sarah Novak looked down into the backyard from her bedroom window. The door of her workshop had stayed shut during the blizzard. The piece of wood she had wedged against it was still in place. As soon as the snow was gone, she needed to get their contractor over to install the new shelving, and have him take care of the faulty hinge on the door while he was at it.

  She heard a movement behind her. She turned and smiled at her husband. “It’s Sunday morning. Church is canceled. We’re officially snowbound. We might as well go back to bed and cuddle.”

  Her smiled faded when he didn’t respond. “Hello! Earth to Kevin.”

  Kevin Novak, standing in their bathroom doorway, toothbrush in his hand, shook his head. “Sorry … I’m a little groggy.”

  “The way you tossed and turned last night, I’m not surprised.”

  “I didn’t mean to keep you awake.”

  “You didn’t. I was tired enough to fall asleep,” Sarah said. “Before I did, I almost asked what was wrong. But since I had already asked that question earlier in the evening, and you hadn’t answered—”

  “Everything’s okay.” Kevin paused and looked at his toothbrush as if he were surprised he had it in his hand. He shoved it into his robe pocket. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering how I’m going to get five funeral services done in the next three days with snow piling up on the streets and in the cemeteries. It’s one of those moments when being a funeral director is like running an airline.”

  “Funerals on hold and unhappy customers?”

  “But there’s nothing to be done about it. And since we don’t have church this morning, what say we go down to the kitchen and make a big breakfast?”

  “I’d rather cuddle.”

  “Me, too.” He hunched his shoulders in the navy blue robe she had given him for Christmas. “But I think I’m coming down with something. No point in both of us getting sick.”

  Sarah knotted the belt of her own robe. “If you’re coming down with something, a good breakfast with lots of fresh-squeezed orange juice is definitely in order. Aren’t you glad I ordered those miniature orange trees when we built the greenhouse? Let’s go see what we can find.”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes. I think I’ll have a shower to wake myself up.”

  “You usually start the process with coffee.”

  “This morning I feel like starting with a shower. I’m really groggy. Must be a drop in the barometric pressure or something.”

  “That must be it. The blizzard’s probably causing all kinds of weather effects.” Sarah pushed her hair back behind her ears. “So I guess I’ll go start breakfast.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Kevin said. “And I’ll be down to make my famous bacon and mushroom mini quiches.”

  “Thank goodness the power didn’t stay off,” Sarah said. “I was dreading the prospect of shivering while we ate sandwiches.”

  “Better knock on wood. The blizzard won’t be out of here until late this afternoon.”

  “All the more reason to have a hot meal while we can. See you downstairs.”

  Kevin watched his wife leave the room. He wanted to call her back. Instead, he went to have his shower.

  5

  Sunday afternoon

  5:14 P.M.

 
; Lt. Dole announced the detectives who had been on blizzard duty could go home if they wanted to tackle the streets. Having had her fill of life at the station house, McCabe opted to make the trip, even if she had to do it at a crawl. She wanted her own bed and to be with her father while they waited for news about Adam and Mai.

  McCabe slid her ORB into her field bag. “Need a ride?” she asked Baxter.

  He shook his head. “The Vice cop who dropped me off is going to pick me up.”

  “Is she really? Something going on there?”

  Baxter grinned. “Jealous, partner?”

  “Not in the least. See you in the morning.” She turned to go and stopped. Lt. Dole stood there, his expression grim.

  “Come into my office before you leave, McCabe. You better come, too, Baxter.”

  “Oh-oh,” Baxter said under his breath. “What’d you mess up while I was out sick?”

  “No idea,” McCabe said.

  If the lieutenant had been asked to break bad news about Adam … but he wouldn’t have told Baxter to come in, too. Get a grip, McCabe, she told herself.

  In his office, Dole gestured for them to sit down. McCabe sat and waited.

  “Just got some news,” Dole said. “Lisa Nichols was found dead in her room at the psychiatric facility.”

  “Lisa Nichols?” McCabe said. “How could she be dead?”

  “Suicide. Apparently she was stockpiling her medication or gained access to medication.”

  “How could she gain access to medication?” Baxter said. “Don’t they keep their pills locked up?”

  “However she did it,” Dole said, “she’s dead.”

  McCabe’s gaze met Baxter’s. They had worked their butts off on the serial killer case. Finally found what connected two twenty-something young women, Albany born and bred, and a Broadway actress visiting Albany. Finally traced it all back to Lisa Nichols. And now she was dead. She had beaten them after all.

  Baxter shook his head. McCabe saw a muscle twitch in his clenched jaw.

  “Thank you for letting us know, Lou,” McCabe said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go home now.”

  She left before Baxter could get up to follow her out. They could talk about it tomorrow.

  * * *

  In his penthouse apartment in the City, Ted Thornton closed his ORB. He turned to Bruce Ashby, his aide and friend, who was waiting for him to answer a question about the bid on the seawall project in Virginia.

  Ashby said, “Of course, we could just pull out of this. I know you think it’s important, but we could end up losing money on this one.”

  “Lisa’s dead,” Thornton said. “Suicide.”

  Silence. Then Ashby said, “I’m sorry, Ted. I know how you felt about her.”

  “But you’re also pleased that the situation’s been resolved.”

  “It was a difficult situation.”

  “Damn awkward,” Thornton agreed.

  “Do you want to make a statement to the press?”

  “A statement? You can say I regret the death of my former fiancée. And I intend to return to Albany and continue with the business initiatives under way there.”

  Ashby said, “We’re going back to Albany?”

  “We had to sooner or later,” Thornton said. He strode over to the bar and reached for a bottle of whiskey. “Make the arrangements. I want to head back upstate as soon as the airship can take off and land.”

  “That will probably be sometime tomorrow afternoon. But I’ll let the pilot know.”

  “And contact a funeral director in Albany.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  Thornton took a long sip of his whiskey. “If I don’t, who will?”

  Ashby looked as if he were about to argue the point. He changed his mind.

  “I’ll make the arrangements. But you’ll probably have to wait until they’ve done an autopsy.”

  “Bruce,” Thornton said. “Get the hell out of here. Okay?”

  “Ted … I’m sorry.” Ashby left, closing the door behind him.

  Thornton stared at the closed door. His mind went back almost thirty years to his first day of college when he’d walked into his dorm room and met Ashby, his new roommate. They looked at each other, grinned, and knew they were going to be friends. Both business majors, they went out for pizza and spent hours talking about their plans to conquer the world of finance. After graduation, when he was starting his own company, he offered his former roommate a job. He never regretted doing that. He had found his perfect second-in-command: hardworking, focused, ultra loyal. But it had been a trade-off. Somewhere along the way, the man he thought of as his best friend had become a workaholic, incapable of an inefficient emotion like compassion.

  Not, Thornton thought, that he needed a shoulder to cry on. But having someone to talk to might have helped him sort through what he was feeling right then.

  Thornton took another sip of his whiskey and walked over to the window. He stood watching the windblown snow swirl. The lights of Manhattan glowed in the background.

  6

  “Hi, dog,” McCabe said.

  The rescue dog she had brought home back in November barked his delight at seeing her. His tail swished so hard, his whole body wiggled.

  But he managed to restrain himself from jumping up and knocking her over with his enthusiastic greeting. The obedience training was kicking in. He was eight months old, a mixture of Great Dane on his mother’s side and Lab, Dalmatian, and mutt on his father’s.

  And they really did need to find him a name.

  “Pop, I’m home,” McCabe called out.

  “I know you are,” Angus said, coming into the hall from the direction of his home office. “I heard the dog barking his head off.” He rubbed his fingers across his forehead, leaving a streak of ink. “I got busy and forgot to make dinner.”

  “That’s okay,” McCabe said. “Working on something?”

  “Yes, but not that damn memoir. Even with the extension I don’t know if I’m going to get that written. But I had another idea. Something I found when I was going through my old files.”

  McCabe shrugged out of her thermo jacket. “What’d you find?”

  “I’ll tell you about it after I’ve done some more digging. I did stop long enough to catch the news stream.”

  “Me, too. But there was no mention of what’s happening on Roarke’s Island.”

  “With the damage to the mainland, sending in a rescue squad for the rich tourists on the resort island ain’t the first thing on the prime minister’s to-do list. But my contact at the State Department says our government is keeping the pressure on. The president has offered to send support.”

  “Great. I wish she’d go ahead and do that.”

  “She’s got to wait until the offer’s accepted. She can’t go sending the US military in just because some of the tourists are Americans.”

  “Yes, I suppose diplomacy is called for.”

  “It is when you’re dealing with a government that claims the United States is an imperialist dictatorship.”

  “That would be news to President Kirkland.”

  Angus didn’t bother to respond to that. They’d discussed why Kirkland’s presidency was on life support too often for either of them to have anything to add.

  “I heard something else on the news stream,” Angus said. “What’s this about Lisa Nichols being dead? Suicide?”

  McCabe stooped down to fish one of her sweat socks from beneath the coffee table. It was soggy from dog saliva.

  “My fault for not closing my bedroom door,” she said to the dog.

  He sat down and slapped his tail against the hardwood floor.

  “Lisa Nichols,” Angus said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know any more than you heard on the news stream,” McCabe said. “She apparently took an overdose of whatever pills she was able to get her hands on in the psychiatric facility where she was supposed to be under observation.”

  �
��Are you buying that?”

  “What else do you think might have happened?” McCabe picked up the plastic-covered magazines from her father’s collection that were scattered across the coffee table. She tucked them into the wicker magazine basket.

  Angus said, “From what I saw of her when she was being arraigned, she didn’t strike me as the type to kill herself.”

  “I guess you were wrong. Faced with the likelihood of spending the rest of her life in prison if her temporary insanity defense didn’t work, it makes sense that she would have been depressed.”

  “Those high-priced lawyers Thornton hired might have gotten her off.”

  “But she didn’t know that.”

  “So instead of waiting to see what was going to happen, she swallowed some pills and killed herself?”

  “If she didn’t kill herself,” McCabe said, “then that would mean someone killed her. I think that’s rather a leap based solely on your impression of her during her arraignment.”

  “Don’t take it out on me because I’m saying something you’re wondering about.”

  “Pop, how do you know what I’m wondering about?”

  “I’ve known you since you were born. But if you think she did kill herself, then you can let it go and move on.”

  “Exactly what I intend to do. What would you like for dinner?”

  “Anything but chicken. I baked a big hen so I’d have food cooked if the power went out. I ended up giving half of it to Bigfoot.”

  “Pop, we are not going to name him ‘Bigfoot.’ So, please, stop calling him that. It’s insulting.”

  “Yeah, your ‘Spot’ would be a whole lot better for his self-esteem. And what was it your brother wanted to call him?”

  “Adam likes ‘Muttkenstein.’ But we are all going to get a lot more original and come up with a real name. If nothing else, we’ll choose a dignified name he can grow into like ‘Max.’”

  Angus nodded his head toward the dog. “Does he look like a ‘Max’ to you?”

  McCabe looked at the dog and sighed. “Well, we’re going to do better than Bigfoot, Spot, or Muttkenstein. Go back to what you were doing and I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”