Darkness First (7 page)

9:36
A.M.
, Saturday, August 22, 2009

Eastport, Maine

M
aggie had no trouble finding Pike and Donelda Stoddard's house at 190 Perry Road. A plain, grey-shingled Cape with a red front door set off by itself on a quiet road. Blinds on the windows either side of the door were drawn. One had a couple of broken slats. Flowerbeds looked weedy and uncared for. A ‘For sale by owner' sign on the front lawn looked like it had been there a while, a phone number magic-markered underneath. Were the Stoddards trying to sell because they needed money? Or because they wanted to get out of town?

On the left side of a patchy lawn an American flag hung limply from a white pole. Below the stars and stripes, a bright red flag, its Marine Corps globe and anchor hidden in the folds of the fabric. A ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee Sport sat in the dirt-and-gravel driveway.

The car had a handicap symbol on its plates and a bumper sticker Maggie had seen often enough before stuck on the rear hatch. It read ‘National Marine Fisheries Service: Destroying Fishermen and their Communities since 1976.' A bitter but in some ways true sentiment that was shared by just about every Maine fishing family she knew.

Before going in to face the Stoddards, Maggie called McCabe. There was bound to be press coverage, her name might be mentioned, and she didn't want him blindsided by events. He picked up on the second ring. ‘Hiya, Mag. What's up?'

Maggie could hear a chatter of voices and some music playing in the background. ‘Where are you?' she asked.

‘Down at Lou's place, having brunch.'

Lou's place was Tallulah's, McCabe's favorite Portland watering hole. A big comfortable bar and restaurant halfway down Munjoy Hill with oversized booths separated by tall dividers, great steaks, good burgers and a big enough selection of single malts for McCabe to sample a different one every day for a month, which is exactly what he did when he first started going there. McCabe always said walking into Lou's place after arriving in Portland and seeing all those bottles was one of the first things that convinced him that he, a born and bred New Yorker, could be happy making a new life in a small city in Maine.

‘A little early for you to be out and about, isn't it?' asked Maggie. At 9:30 on a Saturday morning, when he wasn't working, she half expected that McCabe would be still in bed. Probably, with his girlfriend Kyra.

‘Too damn hot to sleep last night,' he said. ‘Too hot this morning. Kyra's away so Casey and I came down here for some cheese omelets and a little cool air.' Casey was McCabe's drop-dead gorgeous sixteen-year-old daughter. Wanting someplace more kid-friendly than the mean streets of Manhattan to bring her up was a big part of why he'd moved to Maine in the first place. ‘Why don't you come on down and join us?' he asked. ‘Your apartment's got to be even hotter than mine.'

‘I'd love to. Unfortunately, I'm working. I also happen to be about four hours away.'

‘Really? Where? Working on what?'

Maggie told him about the middle-of-the-night call from her father. About Stoddard's murder and Blakemore's. She also told him about the injury to Emily. McCabe had met Em a number of times and liked her a lot.

He listened without comment as she described the details of what had gone down in the parking area of Machias State Park and about her conversation with Sergeant Sean Carroll of the Maine State Police.

‘What's Carroll like?'

‘Don't really know. Aside from being way too handsome for his own good.'

‘I see. And Sergeant Handsome agreed to let you help?'

‘He agreed. But just through Monday. After that it's on a let's see what happens basis. I may want to put in for some vacation days next week, assuming you'll approve them.'

McCabe didn't answer immediately. Seemed to be considering what she'd told him about the killings.

‘Okay,' he finally said. ‘I'll let the higher-ups know what you're doing. Not that much going on at the moment so they should be okay with it.' He told her he and Cleary could handle the arraignment of Kyle Carnes. If anything else came up, he'd do his best to cover for her. Or, if necessary, let her know it was time to come back to Portland.

‘One last thing,' he said. ‘Did Carroll assign you a partner or you gonna be working up there on your own?'

‘Supposedly directly with and for Carroll. Whether he's going to hang back and play supervisor or get down in the weeds and work with me is still unclear.'

McCabe waited a beat. She could tell he wasn't happy with her answer. ‘I see,' he finally said. ‘In that case I want you to give me a call if things start getting hairy.'

‘Not necessary, McCabe.'

‘Necessary. I'm not crazy about you being the new kid on the block working alone in what sounds like it could be a dangerous situation.'

‘I'll be fine,' Maggie insisted. ‘I have no intention of dragging you into this.'

‘No dragging required. Just let me know and I'll be there in a heartbeat. You'd do the same for me.'

She didn't argue. He was right. She would.

N
o cop ever volunteers for next of kin notification. There's never an easy way to tell someone their husband or wife or especially their child is dead. All the standard phrases – ‘I'm sorry for your loss', ‘She didn't suffer very much', ‘She's probably in a better place' – no matter how sincere, always come out sounding wooden and rehearsed. Given the tragedies the Stoddard family had already suffered, this NOK promised to be one of the worst.

The only response to Maggie's knocking on the Stoddards' door was a series of deep-throated barks. She knocked again. The barking got louder. She was debating going around back when the door opened a crack. The black and tan muzzle of a big Rottweiler pushed into the crack, its barking replaced by a low, threatening growl. Above the dog's head, at wheelchair height, a pair of dark, suspicious eyes and a gaunt, white face.

‘Pike Stoddard?'

‘Who wants to know?'

Maggie held up her Portland shield and ID. ‘Detective Margaret Savage,' she said.

‘Portland?'

‘I'm on special assignment with the state police.'

‘Savage, huh? You related to the Sheriff ?'

‘I'm his daughter.'

‘Jesus,' Stoddard snorted. ‘Another Savage. How many damn Savages they got down there in Machias? All right, Sheriff's daughter, what do you want?'

‘May I come in?'

‘No. Not unless you tell me what the hell you want.'

Stoddard was making this tougher than it had to be.

‘Is your wife home?'

‘What do you want her for?'

‘I'd like to talk to you both at the same time.'

Pike Stoddard's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He ordered the dog to lie down and shut up. The animal obeyed and Stoddard opened the door an inch or so wider.

‘What's all this about?'

‘Please. May I come in? It's something I'd rather not discuss on the steps.'

He peered at her for a few seconds more, then reversed his motorized chair, pulled the door open and waved her in.

Boucher had told her Stoddard was in his late forties. That'd make him about the same age as Billy Webb. A few years older than her brother Trev. He looked ten years older than either. Grey stubble added to the impression of age.

‘Come in, if you're coming.'

‘He's okay with that?' Maggie cocked her head toward the dog, which hadn't taken its eyes off her.

‘He's a she, name's Electra and she does what she's told. You don't want to mess with her but she won't go for you unless I tell her to.'

Maggie walked into a room furnished with the kind of living-room set you saw advertised on cable TV.
All five pieces just $999!
Only this set was old, dirty and beat up. Tightly closed blinds covered every window. Dozens of cheaply framed watercolors, mostly seascapes, many showing the red and white striped lighthouse at Quoddy Head State Park, leaned two and three deep against the walls. Half a dozen more hung on display. Donelda Stoddard's stock in trade, she supposed.

‘All right, lady detective, what's this all about?'

‘It's about your daughter Tiffany.'

‘What about Tiff ?'

‘Is your wife here?'

‘Hasn't been in an accident has she? She done something wrong?'

‘I need to talk to both of you.'

‘Oh, for chrissake.' He rolled to the bottom of the stairs. A chair elevator was installed on the banister. Stoddard's wife probably had to lift him on to it every time he went up or down. ‘Hey, Donnie,' he shouted. No answer.

‘Jesus Christ, damn woman's deaf as a post. Donnie,' he shouted again, this time louder.

‘What?' An irritated female voice from upstairs.

‘Get the hell down here. Some cop's here. From Portland. Needs to talk to us about Tiff.'

‘Aw, shit, what now? All right, give me a minute. Just got out of the shower. I gotta get dressed.'

Pike Stoddard turned to Maggie. ‘Look, why don't you just tell me what you've gotta tell me?'

‘I'd rather talk to you both at the same time,' said Maggie, wondering if she was going to be able to do what she came to do. Not only inform the Stoddards of the death of their daughter but, since Pike Stoddard owned a boat more than capable of making the run to Saint John, also probe for their possible involvement in it.

Stoddard rolled back into the living room. Sat silently looking at Maggie, who busied herself looking at a few old family photos hanging on the wall. One shot was of Stoddard's three daughters, aged maybe eighteen, fifteen and five. They were standing on the deck of a red-hulled lobster boat. Terri and Tiff on either side, wearing waterproofs, and the youngest, Tabitha, the afterthought kid, standing in the middle, wearing thick glasses, short shorts and a t-shirt. A pre-accident Pike stood behind them, a hand on his two older daughters' shoulders.

‘Girls ever work on the boat?'

‘Time to time when I was active. Not scalloping. Summers mostly when they were out of school, I'd take 'em out lobstering.'

‘Know how to handle her?'

‘They could handle her well enough. Taught all three of them the basics. Terri was never all that interested. Tabitha's still a little young. Tiff is the knowledgeable one. Knows her way around a boat damn near as well as I do. Knows her way around an engine too.'

Another photo showed a much younger Pike Stoddard, perched on a shiny black Harley. A pretty young woman with long, dark hair was holding on from behind, arms wrapped around Pike's middle. Pike looked happier, at least less angry, and much, much younger.

‘Who are you and what do you want?' A woman's voice behind her.

Maggie turned to see an older, painfully thin version of Tiffany Stoddard standing on the bottom step, eyeing her. Donelda's mostly grey hair, still wet from her shower, hung limply below her waist. She was dressed in loose jeans and an oversized men's shirt spattered with paint stains.

‘Can we sit down?' Maggie asked.

‘You're a police officer?'

‘That's right. Detective Margaret Savage. I'm on assignment with the state police.'

The suspicion in Donelda's eyes morphed into fear. Strange, Maggie thought. Somehow people always knew. Maybe not the specifics. But they always knew when you came to tell them something terrible had happened. ‘I'm afraid I have some bad news.'

Donelda put a hand out and steadied herself on the banister. ‘Is she dead? Is that what you're here to tell me? Another one of my babies is dead?'

Maggie took a deep breath. Nodded. ‘Yes. I'm very sorry.'

Tiff Stoddard's mother closed her eyes, breathed in and out slowly a couple of times, then opened them again. She nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘What happened?' she asked in a small voice. ‘Tell me what happened.'

‘Please sit down. Mrs Stoddard?'

‘I don't damn well want to sit down,' she said, her voice suddenly harsh and angry. ‘Just tell me what happened to my daughter!'

Maggie had to wait a couple of beats before she could get the words out. ‘She was murdered.'

The thread that was barely holding Donelda Stoddard together broke. Her face crumpled in on itself. She slid to a sitting position on the bottom stair and covered it with her hands.

‘Her body was found early this morning lying next to her car in the parking area of Machias State Park,' said Maggie. ‘She was stabbed to death sometime earlier. Probably late last night.'

She heard Pike's voice behind her. Quiet. Trying to hold in any emotion he felt. ‘You're sure the person you found was Tiff ?'

‘We're sure. We found her backpack and wallet with photo ID next to the body. Her car was parked a few feet away.'

A harsh primal sound, something between a sob and a guttural wail, heaved from the depths of Donelda's body. She wrapped her arms around herself and began rocking back and forth.

Maggie started toward her, the urge to comfort nearly overwhelming.

Donelda sensed the approach without looking up. She held up one shaky hand. A signal for this stranger, this messenger of death, to come no further. ‘You stay away from me.'

Pike sat motionless as if any verbal or physical expression of emotion was beyond him. Just sat in his chair staring first at Maggie, then at Donelda. Grief? Anger? Fear? Maggie wasn't sure what she saw in his eyes. Neither husband nor wife looked at each other. Neither made any attempt to comfort the other. Maggie could see no sign of affection here. No relationship. Pike and Donelda seemed to be nothing more than two strangers cohabiting a common space. Fellow passengers completing the wretched journey of their lives alone.

‘Where is she now?' asked Donelda. ‘Where's Tiff ? Where have you got her?'