The Girl In The Glass

by James Hayman

  “I’m nearly eight years old, Mommy,” she said. “I shouldn’t be made to go to bed when the others do.”

  “You needn’t turn your light out for another hour,” said Aimée, “but I’d like you to go upstairs and get ready for bed. There’s school tomorrow.”

  Charlotte harrumphed, then looked at me, preparing, I knew, to appeal her case to higher authority. I cut her off.

  “No arguments, young lady. Do as your mother says.”

  She harrumphed again before trudging up the stairs behind the others.

  Aimée and I remained in the sitting room. A heavy snow was falling outside the windows. It had started at about four that afternoon, and by eight o’clock there was a good six inches on the ground, which a strong northeast wind was blowing into drifts.

  Even from a distance of twenty years, I can still see myself sitting in the big leather chair in front of the fireplace, smoking a cigar and sipping a snifter of Armagnac as I listened to Aimée at the piano playing one of Chopin’s nocturnes. Opus 62 in E Major. I’d rarely seen her look so beautiful.

  “I’ve been thinking of commissioning a formal portrait of you,” I said when she finished the piece.

  She turned to face me. “Another portrait? We already have the two my father painted.”

  “You were a child when he painted those. Only twelve when he did the first one.”

  “Sixteen for the second,” she said. “Not such a child.”

  “No. Not such a child. Still, I’d like another of you as you are now. My wife. The mother of our children. And even more beautiful at twenty-eight than you were when I met you. I’d like to hang it over the stone fireplace on the island.”

  She looked at me curiously. “Why the island?”

  “Because I know how much you love the island. How you think of it as your home far more than you do this house. Besides, the portraits your father painted are already hanging here.”

  “Very well. As you wish.”

  Aimée walked over and kissed me on the cheek. I received the kiss gratefully, though I would rather it had been on the lips. It had been a long time, at least six weeks, since we had been physically close. I stood, put my arms around her and tried to kiss her properly.

  She pulled away and sat once again on the piano bench.

  “Have you considered an artist for this portrait?” she asked.

  “I’ve already written Sargent to see if he’d be interested in taking the commission. He wrote back saying he would but that it would have to wait at least until summer. He’s going to be in Europe until then.”

  “Why Sargent?”

  “Because he’s the best.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Aimée, please. I and just about everyone else in our circle who knows anything about art considers John Singer Sargent the finest portraitist of the age.”

  I had a feeling that she would object, and she did.

  “I’d rather Garrison paint it.”

  “Mark Garrison? I grant you he’s a talented painter, but compared to Sargent?” I made a dismissive gesture with my hands.

  “I don’t want to hang as one more of Sargent’s grandes dames. I really don’t think you know Mark’s work. I think he’s every inch the equal of Sargent. And because he and I know each other, I think he’s more likely to create a painting that truly captures the spirit of who I am.”

  I felt the first flutters of jealousy hearing these words. I knew she’d been taking the train down to Boston more frequently of late and not just the once a week required by her duties as an instructor. When I’d asked her why, she’d offered little, other than to say that she enjoyed visiting the city for shopping, visiting the galleries and museums and sometimes sharing lunch with an old school friend of hers from France named Delphine Martineau, who, like Aimée, had married an American. Delphine had recently been widowed, and since the death of her husband she’d been living in a small town house on Beacon Hill.

  Initially, I accepted Aimée’s explanation. I knew that Delphine had telephoned on several occasions, presumably to make plans for their excursions. Now I was wondering if these visits with Delphine might not just be a cover for excursions of another kind.

  “I see,” I said, “and exactly how well has Mr. Garrison gotten to know you?”

  Aimée knew from our days in Paris how jealous I could be of other men, how easily my suspicions were aroused.

  “We’re colleagues at the Museum School. Nothing more.”

  “And there’s nothing else going on here that you’re not telling me?”

  “Edward, if you’re implying what I think you are, the answer is of course not. What on earth could you be thinking?”

  Against my better judgment, I relented and agreed that we would offer Garrison the commission. Within days the deal was done. He would paint his portrait of Aimée on the island as soon as the weather turned warm enough to open the house for the season and trips across the bay became more comfortable.

  Over the next few months, however, I became so obsessed with the idea that Aimée was having an affair with Garrison that I could think of little else. Finally, unable to carry on without knowing the truth, I engaged the services of a private investigator named Albert Whelan, who had impressed me with his discretion while performing some sensitive inquiries in behalf of Whitby & Sons.

  The next time Aimée went to Boston, Whelan followed her. She was met at the North Station by a man who fit the description of Garrison. They hired a taxi, and Whelan managed to hear Aimée instruct the driver to take Garrison and herself to number 22 Walnut Street on Beacon Hill. I knew this was the address of the house belonging to Delphine Martineau. Whelan found another cab and followed them. Aimée must have had a key, Whelan said, because when they got to the house, they let themselves in.

  Chapter 42

  LEAVING THE AUTOPSY room at Cumberland Med a little after seven thirty, Maggie left her car in the visitors lot and walked the quarter mile or so to the big white house on the Western Prom. She rang the bell, and this time Brenda Boatwright opened the door promptly. She peered out at Maggie with scarcely disguised dislike.

  “What do you want now?”

  “Is Mrs. Whitby here at the house?”

  “No.”

  “How about Julia?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Maggie sighed. “I’m not your enemy, Ms. Boatwright. I’m working hard to solve what you surely know by now are a pair of tragic murders. I’d appreciate it, as I’m sure the Whitbys would, if you would stop putting petty roadblocks in my way. Now, if Julia’s at home, would you please let her know that I need to speak with her.”

  Boatwright harrumphed. “Wait here,” she said and turned. Maggie shook her head. At least the housekeeper hadn’t told her to go around and wait by the tradesmen’s entrance. A couple of minutes later Julia appeared. She was wearing a maroon Penfield T-shirt and a pair of tight jeans. Her feet were bare.

  “Come in,” she said. Without another word she led the way into a large, elegantly furnished study overlooking a formally planted garden. She pointed Maggie to a large leather sofa and plopped herself down in a matching easy chair.

  “Do you want a drink or anything?”

  “No, thank you. Your mother’s not here?”

  “No. She went out. She said she had some business to attend to.”

  “And your father?”

  “He’s here. He told me to come down and help you in any way I can.”

  “Your father said you knew your sister better than anyone.”

  “I guess.”

  “Would you say you and Aimée were friends?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “Best friends?”

  “I loved my sister. That’s more than just being best friends.”

  “And she loved you back?”

  Julia didn’t answer for what must have been ten or fifteen seconds. “Of course,” she finally said. “I loved her and she loved me.”

&n
bsp; Maggie didn’t subscribe to the theory that people blink a lot when telling a lie. She’d interrogated too many practiced liars who barely blinked at all. Still, Julia was blinking frequently. Maybe she wasn’t practiced enough.

  “Did you and Aimée share most things?”

  “You mean like clothes?”

  “No, I mean like secrets.”

  More hesitation. More blinking. “We talked about a lot of stuff.”

  “Like boyfriends and things like that?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Did you know Aimée and Byron Knowles were having an affair?”

  “An affair?” Julia’s tone was suddenly angry. “Is that what you call it? A teacher fucking one of his students. I’m not sure I’d call that an affair.”

  “All right, did you know Knowles was fucking your sister—”

  “Half sister,” Julia interrupted.

  “Half sister, then. Did you know about it before last night?”

  “No.” Julia paused, perhaps thinking over her answer. “Well, yes. Sort of.”

  “Did Aimée tell you about it?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Well, then how did you know?”

  Julia shrugged. “It was more like, I don’t know, intuition. I mean we’ve been together since we were born. A lot of times I know what she’s thinking or doing, and she knew the same about me. It’s like a kind of telepathy.”

  “Did Aimée ever drop a hint about what she and Knowles were up to?”

  “Not really. It was more in the way she looked at him. Talked about him. Like it made me think something was going on there.”

  “Did you ever ask her about it?”

  “Yeah, once.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “ ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Jules. You can’t go messing around with your teachers.’ Something like that.”

  “But you thought she was lying?”

  “I knew she was lying.”

  “Did that make you angry?”

  “I just thought it was stupid. Aimée could have any guy she wanted any time she wanted, and she goes and picks a married, middle-aged English teacher? Jesus Christ, how stupid is that? Still, she always had a thing for older guys.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like who?”

  “Like Knowles.”

  “Like who else?”

  “Like Charles Kraft. I think she’s had the hots for Charles for a while. And he kind of has the hots for her. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Knowles killed her. Maybe Aimée dumped him so she could go after Charles, and Knowles got pissed off and did the deed.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance Kraft might have killed your sister? Let’s say out of jealousy?”

  Julia shrugged. “I don’t know. Killing is something he’s probably pretty good at.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Kraft all day. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “Do you know a place called Nasty’s?”

  Chapter 43

  “IS THIS SEAT FREE?” Maggie asked as she slipped onto the barstool next to Charles Kraft in Nasty’s. The place was one of the more popular dive bars on the west end, and at eight thirty on a Friday night, things were just beginning to roar.

  “Well, the truth of it is,” Kraft said with a smile, “I was saving it for my girlfriend.”

  Maggie looked around. “Oh, really? Now which girlfriend would that be?”

  Maggie felt Charles Kraft’s eyes assessing her, dressed as she usually was in her trademark black. Black sweater, black trousers, and a black cotton jacket that barely concealed the black Glock 17 nestled in its black holster. Kraft seemed to like what he saw.

  “Haven’t decided yet,” he said, scanning the crowd pushing in toward the bar. “Maybe you could help me. What do you think of that one?” Kraft nodded toward a small, pretty brunette, no more than five-one or five-two, wearing a T-shirt and pair of tight leggings that revealed every ripple in her very nice ass. She was standing at the end of the bar, laughing loudly with a couple of less attractive girlfriends. They were all drinking Miller Lite out of bottles Maggie figured they were just old enough to buy.

  “Cute. Nice body. But a little giggly, don’t you think?”

  “Umm. Maybe you’re right. How about that blonde over there in the booth?”

  Maggie nodded. “Not bad as long as you don’t mind muscling out the dude she’s with.” The dude looked to be six-three, with a lean body and heavily muscled arms covered with elaborate tattoos from wrist to shoulder. “Course, for a former Special Ops guy like you, that shouldn’t be hard.”

  Kraft smiled. “Might even be fun. On the other hand,” he said, giving Maggie another once-over, “maybe the best is already here. What’ll you have?”

  “Diet Coke works for me.”

  “You working or something?”

  “Or something.”

  Kraft signaled the bartender, a bottle blonde with large breasts that were pushing their way out of a low-cut T-shirt two sizes too small. “Damn,” the blonde said. “If it isn’t Maggie Savage. Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age? Still chasing bad guys?”

  “What else?” said Maggie. “Charles, this is Gloria. Gloria, Charles. Glo’s been working the bar at Nasty’s for, jeez, what is it? Twenty years now?”

  “Twenty-two come next month.” She turned to Charles. “You one of the bad guys she spends her time chasing?”

  Kraft smiled at Maggie. “I don’t know, Detective. Am I bad? And are you chasing me?”

  Maggie smiled back. Under other circumstances she might well consider “chasing” him. “Well, you never know, now, do you, Charles? Depends how bad you are.”

  “Pretty damned bad.”

  “Is that so? Would that be why you haven’t returned my phone calls? I tried you three times. I was beginning to think you were trying to avoid me.”

  Kraft pulled out his phone and looked at it. “Yup. Three times. Says so right here. So how’d you find me?”

  “Julia told me you like to hang out here.”

  Gloria came back and handed Maggie her coke, then filled Charles’s glass with a couple of fresh ice cubes and a double measure of Ketel One.

  “Tell me, Charles, what exactly did you have against Aimée Whitby?”

  “Oooh, nice interrogation technique, Detective,” said Kraft. “Make the witness feel defensive. Exactly what do you have against the Americans, Ahmad, that convinced you to join the jihad? Did they teach you that in cop school?”

  Maggie didn’t answer. Just sipped her Coke and waited for Kraft to answer her question.

  “I had absolutely nothing against Aimée. In fact, I’ve always been rather fond of her. She could be a little arrogant at times. But then she had a lot to be arrogant about.”

  “Did you find her attractive?”

  “Poor choice of words.”

  “How so?”

  “Calling Aimée Whitby attractive is like calling Shakespeare a pretty good writer or LeBron an okay basketball player. Aimée was movie star gorgeous. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

  “Did you ever think about making her your girlfriend?”

  “Think about it? Sure. Probably every guy she met thought about it. But Aimée was my boss’s daughter, and I happen to like my job. And frankly, she was a little young for me.”

  “Yes. Only eighteen. More child than woman. Too young to die, don’t you think?”

  “Of course she was. On the other hand, I can’t count the number of eighteen-year-old kids I saw getting killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. And that was just on our side. If you count the dead on their side, the bodies started piling up just outside the womb. In some cases even before they got out of the womb.”

  “How do you feel about what you did in the war?”

  “Let’s just say I thought it was necessary. At least I did at the time. Either way, I was good at it.”

  “Good at what? Killing people?”

  “Among other things.”


  “How did you feel about it? Killing people, I mean?” Maggie’s own brother Harlan had been a Marine sniper in Iraq, and she knew for a fact that he’d killed twenty-three Iraqis before leaving the war with a serious head wound. To this day the memory of those twenty-three dead haunted him. Not to mention the civilian dead Kraft was alluding to.

  “I was doing my duty. Defending my country against people who wanted to do us harm. That’s what soldiers do.”

  “Did you ever get off on it?”

  “You mean sexually?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No. But there were guys who did. War does weird shit to your brain.”

  “Do you think that the person who killed Aimée may have been one of them?”

  Maggie studied Kraft’s face as he swirled his vodka in his glass.

  “Maybe. Probably. I can’t think of any other reason to have done what he did. Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked.

  “Only once. A psychopathic murderer who was about to cut my partner’s throat.”

  “McCabe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you like it? The act of inflicting death?”

  “No. I hated it. Even though the guy was a sicko who killed people for fun. He deserved to die.”

  “So you gave him what he deserved?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “A lot of people in a war zone who see their buddies getting waxed begin to feel the same way. The jihadis deserve to die. So you kill them.”

  “And you were good at it?”

  “Yup.”

  “How come you quit the army and joined Orion?”

  “The pay was better. Base pay for a captain with six years service is roughly sixty-five K a year. Orion paid me four times that for what was essentially the same job. Plus bonuses.”