The Chill of Night by James Hayman Page A

ask building management.’
    ‘You still have the sign-in sheets from that day?’
    ‘Not here. METCO might. I don’t know how long they hold on to them.’
    ‘Would anybody be there now?’
    ‘Nope. Office won’t be open till eight o’clock Monday morning. We’ve got a number we’re supposed to call in case of emergency. You want that?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Jackson opened a drawer and pulled out a business card. He handed it to McCabe. The name on the card was Scott Ginsberg. He knew Ginsberg. He’d retired from the PPD’s Community Affairs Division two years earlier. Maybe there was life after leaving the force. His cell number was 555-1799.
    McCabe pointed to a bank of small screens behind the desk. ‘How about your video. Are you recording, or is it just live?’
    ‘Recorded.’
    ‘Tape?’
    ‘No. Digital.’
    Made sense. Digital meant there was no good reason not to record. The images could be fed right into a computer at METCO’s offices. Storage wasn’t a problem. Neither was the cost of videotape. There was no reason not to hold on to the images more or less forever. McCabe called Eddie Fraser and, after congratulating him on Tinker Bell’s rave reviews, gave him Scott Ginsberg’s number and asked him to start reviewing the video. ASAP. So far all they had was the body and the note. They needed more. Starting with a next of kin.
    McCabe gave Jackson his card. Told him to get in touch if he thought of anything else. Then he asked him to call Beth Kotterman.
    They exited the elevator at five. ‘My office is at the end of the hall to the right,’ said Kotterman. She led. McCabe followed. The corridor was dimly lit and empty. The air was cold.
    Kotterman read his thoughts. ‘Heat’s programmed to go down to fifty at seven o’clock unless somebody calls to have it left on.’
    ‘Nobody working late tonight?’
    ‘I’m sure some of the lawyers are.’
    ‘No lawyers on this floor?’
    ‘No. Five’s mostly administrative. HR. Accounting. Office management. That sort of thing. We tend to be more nine-to-five types.’ She unlocked her office door and flipped on the lights.
    As head of HR, Beth Kotterman rated a corner office. It was furnished in generic midlevel modern. Not what the partners would get, but a hell of a lot more comfortable than anything at 109. Kotterman had added a lot of touches that kept the place from being generically boring. A small jungle of indoor plants that included a ceiling-sized ficus dominated one corner. One wall was covered with family photos and a large crayon drawing titled Gramma Bethby. Bethby was wearing a bright green dress and had oversized feet and big glasses. The portrait was framed and carefully hung in a place of honor. It was signed BECKY .
    Kotterman didn’t bother taking off her coat. She sat and pointed McCabe to a straight-back chair in front of her desk. The interview chair, McCabe guessed. ‘How old’s Becky?’ he asked.
    Kotterman relaxed a little. ‘Seven now. She was four when I sat for the portrait. How sure are you that the body you found is Lainie Goff? The other officer, Detective Cleary, said you didn’t know yet.’
    ‘We’ve tentatively confirmed her identity from photographs,’ said McCabe. ‘We’re ninety-nine percent certain the dead woman is Elaine Goff.’
    ‘Not one hundred? It could still be someone else?’
    ‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope. We’ll do a dental records check to be absolutely certain, but I think you can assume it’s Goff.’
    ‘I’m going to have to let people in the firm know.’
    ‘That’s fine. Most of them probably already know. News Center 6 jumped the gun on that.’
    ‘That’s unfortunate.’
    ‘I agree. We always like to inform next of kin before they hear it from the media.’
    ‘Of course. And you think Lainie, assuming it is Lainie, was murdered?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Odd.’ Kotterman looked away. ‘One doesn’t expect that sort of thing to happen in Portland, but I guess there are no