The Girl In The Glass

by James Hayman

  Maggie took out her phone and made a call. “Headmaster Cobb, please.” Pause. “I see. This is Detective Margaret Savage of the Portland Police Department. I’m investigating the murder of Aimée Whitby.” Pause. “Yes, it was a terrible thing.” Pause. “Is there anyone there who can tell me if the book The Scarlet Letter was assigned in Aimée’s English classes? Thanks. I’ll hold.”

  Maggie waited. A minute later she introduced herself to someone else and asked the same question. She waited again. Nodded and thanked whoever she was talking to. “Okay,” she finally said to McCabe. “I still don’t know what it means, but Byron Knowles has assigned The Scarlet Letter to all his senior students for the last eight years.”

  “So anybody who’d taken his class would know that A stands for adultery.”

  “I guess. But there is one problem with that,” said Maggie.

  “What?”

  “Well, we know adultery was committed. But Knowles was the adulterer, not Aimée. She wasn’t married.”

  “I don’t know,” said McCabe. “Isn’t sleeping with a married man considered adultery?” He looked up the word on his iPhone. “Okay. Here it is. ‘Voluntary sexual intercourse between a married person and a person who is not his or her spouse.’ So I guess technically they’re both adulterers. Anyway, why else carve the A?”

  Maggie shrugged. “We’ve been over that. Because it’s the first initial of her name? Or she’s the first in a series of killings and he wants to sign his work. Or maybe like that guy in New York, he wants to become known as The Alphabet Killer.”

  Before McCabe could answer, Maggie’s phone rang.

  “Yes, Mr. Whitby?” she said, flipping to speaker so McCabe could hear.

  “I just watched a tape of Shockley’s press conference.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You didn’t tell me about the letter A when we spoke earlier.”

  “No, I’m sorry. The specifics seemed less important than telling you about your daughter’s death.”

  “Well, the specifics are important. I suggest you and McCabe get your tails out here pronto. There’s something you need to know. And to see. I’ll have the chopper waiting on the company helipad.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  Maggie looked over at McCabe, who nodded.

  They headed back to the car.

  “You drive,” said Maggie. “I want to ask Terri something.”

  “Hi, Mag, what’s up?” said Terri Mirabito.

  “One more question. What if Whitby had sex with two different guys and there’s semen from both?”

  “What about it?”

  “Can Joe Pines differentiate between two different specimens? Can we get DNA reads for both?”

  “Yes. The tests would give us indicators for both.”

  “Good. Thank you. When are you cutting?”

  “I plan on doing both autopsies today. I’ll start at three. The Whitby girl first. Then Knowles. Will you and McCabe be joining me?”

  “No. Just me.” She glanced over at McCabe. “McCabe is taking his daughter to Fore Street for dinner to celebrate her graduation.”

  “Hey, that’s great. Congratulate them both for me.”

  “I will.” Maggie broke the connection and smiled at McCabe.

  “We’re in the middle of a double murder and you decide, all on your own, that I’m going out for dinner instead of doing my job?”

  “Yup.”

  “A little arbitrary on your part, don’t you think? Especially since I just told Brian he couldn’t meet his buddies for the Sox game.”

  “Sox games don’t count. They play a hundred and sixty a season. You, on the other hand, have only one daughter. The two of you should be celebrating tonight, and you should be going to Casey’s graduation tomorrow. She needs to know you care more about her than you do your job. Which is probably what Kyra needed too. And maybe still does.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” McCabe said, glancing into Maggie’s brown eyes. “Thank you. I suspect you’re right.”

  “And don’t worry about the autopsies. I’m happy to cover.”

  Chapter 37

  From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.

  Entry dated July 3, 1924

  The unraveling of our lives began, as I suppose such things often do, in a most prosaic manner, with a letter that arrived unexpectedly just after breakfast on a beautiful Saturday morning in June. It had come from the Museum School in Boston and was addressed to Aimée. She tore it open as we sat together sipping our coffee on the terrace behind the house.

  “Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! I can’t believe it.” She was holding the pages of the letter in both hands and was staring down at them. Her excitement was palpable.

  I looked up from my morning paper and smiled. She looked particularly lovely that morning, her face so alive, so filled with energy as she read whatever news was contained in the letter that I longed to take her in my arms and thank her again for being my wife and the mother of our children. It had been a long time since I’d felt so close to her. Perhaps that is why I reacted so fiercely to what she said.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What is it that is giving you such pleasure? Please share your news.”

  “I’m not sure I should, Edward. I’m afraid it may be something you won’t like. But before I tell you, I want you to know that I am thrilled.”

  My pleasure turned to suspicion about what she was going to say. “What is it?” I asked again.

  “I have been invited by Mr. Mark Garrison to teach a class in painting seascapes at the Museum School in Boston. He says I am the first woman ever asked to be an instructor there.”

  I’m sure I must have frowned, because she said, “Edward, don’t look so downcast. This is something that makes me happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  “How did Garrison happen to think of you?”

  “We’ve met a few times at gallery openings in Boston, and when he said they would be adding an instructor for this September, I applied for the position, more on a lark than anything else. I never imagined it would actually happen. But listen to what Garrison says. ‘I greatly admire your work, Mrs. Whitby, particularly the oils in what you call your island series. They are strong. They are vibrant. They bring the ocean and the rocky coast of your island to life with all the strength and power I’m sure they possess in life. If you are half as good an instructor as you are a painter, I am confident that you will be a credit to this institution. I must add that, at this time, we can only offer you a part-time position. Your classes will meet only one day a week, one in the morning and one in the afternoon on Thursdays, and the stipend is small. If you are still interested, please telephone me at your earliest convenience so that we can arrange a time to meet in person and discuss the details further.’ ”

  “Well,” I said. “I suppose I should congratulate you on the offer. It’s quite an honor to be the first woman invited to join the faculty of such a prestigious institution. But I’m afraid you must let Garrison know you weren’t serious when you sent in your application ‘on a lark,’ as you say. You will telephone Mr. Garrison Monday morning and thank him for the offer but tell him that it no longer works with your schedule.”

  “No. I’m going to call him Monday and accept.”

  Though her words triggered a barely containable rage inside of me, I said nothing.

  “Please be happy for me, Edward,” said Aimée, sensing my anger. “Accepting this job is something that could save my life.”

  The irony in those words didn’t strike me until nearly a year later.

  Chapter 38

  THE HEADQUARTERS OF Whitby Engineering & Development took up three acres on the far end of the Portland waterfront. McCabe flashed his badge at a bored-looking guard, who said yes, Mr. Whitby had called, and yes, he could direct them to the helipad. He provided brief instructions and said that the pilot was waiting for them.

  The pad itself was a circular concrete apron extend
ing out over the Fore River with something that looked like a target painted in the middle. A gleaming white AgustaWestland AW139 chopper was perched in the bull’s-eye. A tall, skinny kid walked over to meet them. He was dressed in navy blue trousers, spit-shined black shoes and a white shirt with the Whitby E&D logo sewn over the pocket.

  “Sergeant McCabe? Detective Savage?” he asked.

  “Yup,” Maggie said. “He’s McCabe, I’m Savage.”

  “Hi, I’m Jack Summers. I’ll be your pilot.”

  Maggie looked him over carefully. He looked like he hadn’t started shaving yet. “You been doing this long?” she asked. “Flying helicopters, I mean.”

  “Nope. This will be my first time.”

  Maggie frowned.

  “Well, actually, I’ve had my learner’s permit for, heck, let me see, two weeks now, but my instructor says I’m really doing well. But this will be my first time flying solo. And I am really excited.”

  He paused, maybe waiting to see if she thought that was funny. Her look told him she didn’t.

  “Sorry. Yes, I know I look young, but I’ve been flying choppers for over eight years.”

  Maggie raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Really. Six years in Army Aviation, including two combat tours in Iraq, mostly flying Kiawas. I got out two years ago, and I’ve been flying for Whitby ever since. Right over there is my baby. An AgustaWestland 139. One of the best machines money can buy.”

  “A lot of money, I assume?” asked Maggie.

  “Oh yeah. A hell of a lot.”

  He opened a sliding door. Inside was a luxurious passenger cabin complete with six soft white leather seats facing each other, three and three. Between them, an expensive-looking walnut coffee table. “I can put you both back here in first class, or one of you can ride up front with me. Your call.”

  “Up front works for me,” said Maggie. She wanted to see if she could get any useful information out of Summers.

  “You go for it,” said McCabe, climbing in. “I’ll enjoy pampering myself in the back.”

  “You’ll only get about five minutes to enjoy it,” said Summers.

  He opened a separate cockpit door and climbed in first. Maggie followed. She watched him check a whole bunch of dials and gauges and then start the engine. “She’s got to warm up for a few minutes before we take off.”

  “You ferry people to and from the party last night?”

  “Yup. Ran a regular shuttle service. From about five to ten thirty or so.”

  “That’s when the last guests left?”

  “The last ones who were flying with me.”

  “Anyone interesting?”

  “Nope.”

  “Really? I heard there was at least one movie star and one senator. Any other big cheeses?”

  “Sorry, Detective. I don’t get paid to give out passengers’ names. If Mr. Whitby wants you to know who I flew to and from the island last night, he’ll tell you himself.”

  The chopper rose, hovered in the air for a moment, then set off flying due east over the water.

  “I’d offer you snacks and beverages,” said Summers, “but you’ll be on the island in five minutes.”

  “How about Aimée? Did you give her rides out here very often?”

  “Fairly often. But work for the company always takes precedence.”

  “Pretty girl, don’t you think?”

  “Aimée? Oh yeah. Absolutely gorgeous. To die for.”

  Summers looked relaxed and smiling as he said that. Maybe he hadn’t heard about the murders yet. Maybe he didn’t watch much television.

  Maggie turned her attention to the glittering waters of Casco Bay passing below. It was a breezy morning with considerable chop, evidenced by a number of whitecaps. They flew out between Cushing and Harts Islands, then turned slightly north, passing just to the south of Cliff and Jewell. Eagle Island, where famed Arctic explorer Admiral Robert Peary had a home, could be seen to the north as they began their descent onto Whitby.

  Two men and a young woman stood waiting as the chopper came down. It all made Maggie feel like the president coming in on Marine One. It was easy to tell which of the men was Whitby. He looked like a taller, well-tanned, male version of Aimée, as handsome in his way as she was beautiful in hers. She obviously carried the Whitby genes. Whitby was dressed in preppy weekend gear. Khaki shorts, a striped polo shirt and a pair of beat-up topsiders with no socks on his feet. On any other morning here on his island, he probably would have looked relaxed and at ease with the world, but on this morning, even from the window of the chopper, he appeared stiff with tension, his face simultaneously sad and angry. He hadn’t bothered shaving.

  Following Summers’s instructions, Maggie pushed the cockpit door open and climbed down, acutely aware of the rotor blades spinning what seemed just inches above her head. This being her first time on a helicopter, she bent her six-foot frame as low as she could as she walked out from under. While possible death in the line of duty was something all cops accepted, decapitation by helicopter blades wouldn’t have been Maggie’s first choice of how to go.

  Summers climbed down and slid open the passenger door for McCabe and he followed them out.

  “Sergeant McCabe? Detective Savage? I’m Edward Whitby.”

  They all shook hands. Whitby had a strong, confident grip.

  “This is my daughter Julia, Aimée’s half twin.” A young woman with a mane of curly red hair and a face full of freckles offered her hand. Maggie shook it. Julia wasn’t beautiful, like her half sister, but she wasn’t unattractive. Quite pretty, actually. At the moment, however, her looks were diminished by a pair of tired, reddened eyes, which might have been caused by crying. Or maybe she was still hungover from last night’s festivities.

  “Julia probably knew Aimée as well or better than anyone else, so she should be able to offer you some helpful insights. And this is Charles Kraft, our director of corporate security. You can count on Charles to help your investigation in any way he can.”

  Kraft was about the same age as Whitby. He had a hard face with steel-gray eyes and a linebacker’s build. He sure as hell looked like a pro. “Are you a former police officer, Mr. Kraft?”

  Kraft’s smile suggested he found the question amusing. “No,” he said, “I’ve never been a cop.”

  “FBI then?”

  “Not that either.”

  Whitby filled the silence that followed.

  “Charles spent twenty years with Army Special Forces. Served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. After he got out, he spent a couple of years working for an old pal of mine as a private contractor, providing security for US diplomats and corporate clients in Iraq, Afghanistan and other hot spots.”

  “Blackwater?”

  “No,” said Kraft. “The Orion Group. We were smaller and, I think, better. Not so many loose cannons.”

  McCabe had heard of the company. Remembered their logo, a particularly artful adaptation of the constellation Orion, the hunter, wielding a sword with stars and lightning.

  “Kill anybody over there?”

  “My share.”

  “Any civilians?”

  “My share.”

  Based on background, the guy was bound to be an efficient and expert killer. Someone like Byron Knowles wouldn’t have stood a chance against him. Nor would Aimée. But what possible motive would Kraft have for killing his boss’s daughter? The only one McCabe could think of was sexual. Kraft wanted her, maybe was in love with her, and she spurned his attentions. Or maybe he already had something going when she dropped him for Knowles. The lover spurned.

  “Are you going to be around for a while, Mr. Kraft?” asked McCabe.

  Whitby answered for him. “At the moment both Charles and Julia are taking the chopper back to the mainland. I’ll give you their cell numbers. You’ll be able to reach them there.”

  “I wonder if you’d mind coming downtown to police headquarters for a chat? Maybe sometime this afternoon?”

 
Kraft studied McCabe for a moment, perhaps assessing him as a possible adversary. “Sure. Why not? What time?”

  “We’ll let you know.”

  “Anybody else on the island at the moment?” asked Maggie.

  “My wife, Deirdre. She’s Julia’s mother and Aimée’s stepmother. She’s in her room. I’m afraid she’s too upset by the news to talk to anyone at the moment.”

  “Really? I spoke at length with Aimée’s mother. But her stepmother is too upset to talk to us?”

  “Let’s just say she’s emotionally fragile and leave it at that.”

  Interesting. “Emotionally fragile” didn’t sound at all like the woman Tracy described to McCabe earlier that morning. Brash and aggressive was more like it. Maybe eighteen years of marriage to Edward Whitby had worn her down. Or maybe there were things the second Mrs. Whitby didn’t want to discuss. “I’m afraid it’s important that we get any information she may have on this.”

  “She’ll be back to town tomorrow. You’ll be able to reach her there.”

  “Anyone else still here?”

  “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Jolley, who live on the island. They have their own cottage.”

  “Must be a lonely existence living here full-time. Specially in winter.”

  “The Jolleys seem to like it.”

  “Did they attend the party?”

  “Not as guests. Mr. Jolley tended one of the bars. Mrs. Jolley helped organize the caterers.”

  “All right. We’ll need to talk to them as well.”

  “That’s fine,” said Whitby, “but there is something I think you ought to see before you go any further in the investigation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come with me.”

  Chapter 39

  MAGGIE AND MCCABE followed Edward Whitby across a bluestone patio toward a large shingled house that was almost but not quite as big as the one on the Western Prom. He led the way through a pair of mullioned French doors into a spacious, tastefully furnished living room. Nothing grandiose, just expensive. Once inside, he closed and locked both patio doors. Then he locked the two doors that led into the room from the interior hallway.