The Girl In The Glass

by James Hayman

  “There’s that. But did I tell you I spoke with Kraft last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “While we were talking . . .”

  “And you were flirting?”

  “Yeah, and I was flirting, I asked him how he got his job with Whitby. Turns out he was recommended by the founder of Orion. It also turns out the founder of Orion is a man named Dennis McClure, who just happens to have done a substantial amount of work for Whitby Engineering & Development.”

  “And who just happens to have a sister named Deirdre?”

  “You got it. Mrs. Deirdre McClure Whitby, the woman too upset by the killing, too emotionally fragile to even talk to us on the island yesterday. Her big brother runs a company crawling with contractors, both current and former employees, all of whom are certified experts in killing people. ‘Gee, Dennis,’ Maggie vamped, ‘your little sister needs a little help.’ ”

  “Those guys are probably certified experts in taking out vehicles with rocket-propelled grenades as well,” said McCabe. “And Mrs. Whitby also has access to all the money she needs to pay the bill.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Weird, isn’t it? The idea of Edward Whitby’s wife using Edward Whitby’s money to kill Edward Whitby’s daughter.”

  “Makes perfect sense though. Deirdre takes Aimée out of the picture and, bingo, just like that Julia moves up in the rankings to become Edward Whitby’s new dearest, favorite little girl.”

  McCabe thought about that for a minute. “I wonder if there was more to it than Deirdre and Julia being jealous of Aimée.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like money. With Aimée gone, Julia now stands to inherit twice as much of the Whitby fortune than she did two days ago. And Deirdre probably does better as well.”

  “I don’t know. Whitby’s only in his forties. Isn’t he a little young for his wife to be thinking inheritance?”

  “He would be. Unless Lady Macbeth and the RPG man are planning, I don’t know, let’s say an unfortunate helicopter accident that would tragically make her a widow. I think maybe I better have a chat with both Mr. and Mrs. Whitby.”

  “Not until after Casey’s graduation, you don’t. It starts in less than an hour.”

  Chapter 50

  MCCABE WAS LATE. Graduation was scheduled for ten o’clock, and it was well after nine when he got back to the apartment and nearly ran into Casey going the other way. She was wearing a white dress and carrying her blue robe over her arm. Her mortarboard was sitting at a silly angle on top of her head.

  “There you are,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

  McCabe smiled at his daughter. Dressed up and made up as she was, it staggered him how much she looked like Sandy the day he’d first met her in a casting session at NYU Film School. Same features. Same long, dark hair. Same gorgeous blue eyes. Sandy then was the same age Casey was now. McCabe remembered falling instantly in love the minute she’d walked through the door.

  “Is this where they’re auditioning actresses for the student film?” she’d asked, “the one being directed by somebody named McCabe?”

  McCabe forced his mind back to the present. “Sorry I’m late,” he told Casey. “I’ll just run up and take a shower, shave and change. You take the car. I’ll grab a cab and see you at Merrill.”

  “You take it. I’ve got a ride.”

  “Good,” he said and headed into the building.

  “There’s something I better tell you.”

  “Later,” he called out and darted up the stairs.

  “It’s important,” she called out. But he was already gone.

  THE PORTLAND HIGH School graduation ceremonies were taking place in Merrill Auditorium, an elegant, white-and-gold, nineteen-hundred-seat concert hall that had been built into the side of the new city hall in 1911 and totally renovated in 1997. McCabe circled the block three times looking for a parking space, finally said the hell with it and pulled into a lot on Pearl Street, where a guy was waving a flag and collecting five bucks for parking. McCabe hated giving it to him, since the police garage was only a couple of blocks away and was free, but he had less than five minutes to get to his seat before the kids started marching in. He rushed to the entrance and threaded his way through the two hundred or so graduating seniors who filled the entry hall. Spotted Casey and waved. She waved back.

  The seats at the front were reserved for the graduates, and the rest of the orchestra section was packed. McCabe stood there, scanning the place for even a single vacant seat. That’s when he spotted Kyra waving to him on the far aisle about midway up. His heart skipped a beat.

  He went up and slipped into the seat she’d been saving for him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I figured somebody ought to be here for Casey. You know, in loco parentis?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? In loco parentis?” McCabe’s whisper was louder than he intended. Several people turned and looked at him. “I’m parentis and I’m here.”

  “I saw the news about the Whitby murder yesterday, and knowing you like I do . . . well, at the last minute, I hopped the red-eye to Boston, rented a car and drove up here to play surrogate mother in case Casey needed one. I hope you’re glad to see me.”

  “Of course I’m glad to see you, but if you were thinking there was any way I was going to miss my daughter’s graduation, I’m afraid you were wrong. Does Casey know you’re here?”

  “Yes. I drove straight to the apartment. Since you were out hunting your killer, I told her I’d drive her to the ceremony.”

  “Nevertheless saving me a seat?”

  “Hope springs eternal.”

  “You should have called me from the airport.” He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and kissed her on the lips. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m really glad to see you.”

  “Me too.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  Just as Kyra whispered, “I’m not sure,” music filled the hall and the two hundred plus members of Portland High School’s graduating class of 2012 marched in and filled the front six rows of seats. Principal Roseanne Hatcher climbed up on the stage and welcomed parents, family members and friends of the graduates. “Before we proceed to awards,” she said, “I’d like to introduce the top ten graduates of the class of 2012 and ask them each to please rise.”

  Casey was number five. “Cassandra McCabe,” said Principal Hatcher, “is the daughter of Sergeant Michael McCabe of the Portland Police Department and Cassandra Ingram of New York City. Casey, as we call her, is a member of the class executive board and participated in the Anatomy of Leadership program. She was on the women’s swimming, tennis and soccer teams and was a member of the drama club, art club and Shakespeare club. She also earned membership in the National Honor Society and was the recipient of the Brown University Book Award. Casey plans to attend Brown in the fall.”

  Casey stood and acknowledged the applause before returning to her seat.

  The ceremony continued for another hour and a half before the graduates filed out. Kyra and McCabe caught up with Casey on Congress Street. They all spent twenty minutes chatting with Casey’s friends and their parents.

  “Shall we all go somewhere for brunch?” asked McCabe.

  Casey scrunched her face up and said in an apologetic voice, “Sorry, Dad, I can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “A bunch of kids are going out to Higgins Beach for a barbecue. Since I wasn’t sure you were going to be here, I promised I’d go.”

  “What made you think I wasn’t going to be here?”

  “Well . . . you know? What with the murder and all, I thought you’d be too busy. I’d cancel, but I’m in charge of hamburgers and hot dogs.”

  Kyra put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s all right. You go with your friends. Your father and I have some catching up to do anyway.”

  McCabe gave Kyra a maybe you ought to butt out look, but he managed to
hold his tongue.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, the two of them were sitting in the back booth at Tallulah’s.

  Max came around to take their orders. “Hey, back again,” she said.

  “I told you I hang here a lot. This is Kyra. Kyra, Max.”

  “You feeling okay?” asked Max, sounding more than a little concerned.

  McCabe smiled, nodded and thanked her for asking. Kyra ordered a mushroom omelet and coffee, McCabe a burger and a beer.

  “Why did she want to know if you were feeling all right?”

  McCabe shrugged. “No clue. Just takes an interest in my well-being, I guess. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Then when I got to the apartment, you weren’t there.”

  “I was at the hospital.”

  Kyra waited for the explanation.

  “Maggie nearly got blown up last night.”

  “Oh, my God. What happened?”

  “She found the bad guy and was chasing him. A real old-fashioned car chase, like in The French Connection. Unfortunately, it turned out he was more heavily armed than she thought. A whole lot more. Since her car was faster than his, he lured her into a small side road and fired a rocket-propelled grenade. Totally destroyed the car she was in.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, thank God,” McCabe sighed. “She just managed to jump out of the way. She seems fine, and the doctor says he thinks she’ll be fine. Still, she suffered a blast concussion, and you never can be sure of the long-term effects when the brain gets bounced around like that.”

  “Did you catch the killer?”

  McCabe shook his head. “Not yet. But we will.”

  Max brought his beer and Kyra’s coffee. Said the food would be out in a second.

  McCabe reached across the table and took her hand. “How long are you staying?”

  “I don’t know. A few days at least. I want to see my parents while I’m here. They just opened up the house in Tenants Harbor and . . .”

  “Stay a little longer,” said McCabe. “Come stay at the apartment.”

  Kyra shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.”

  “Please. We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Nothing we haven’t talked about a dozen times before.”

  “I think we should give it one more try.”

  “Don’t do this, McCabe. You’re going to make me cry. And I’d feel really silly bawling like a baby in the back booth at Lou’s.”

  “Just promise you won’t go back to the coast till we’ve had a little time together.”

  “How can we have time together when you’re in the middle of a murder? That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?”

  “I’ll make time.”

  “What’s wrong with this weekend?”

  McCabe sighed. “Like you said, I’m in the middle of a murder.”

  Chapter 51

  AT A FEW minutes after four on Saturday afternoon, McCabe watched Edward Whitby emerge from the Cathedral Church of St. Luke on State Street. Unlike their first meeting on the island, Whitby was now clean-shaven and dressed in a jacket and tie. The man next to him wore an ecclesiastical collar.

  He had told McCabe that he would be spending much of the afternoon at the church, completing arrangements for Aimée’s funeral. McCabe wondered what say, if any, Tracy had in the plans. Probably none. She didn’t believe in religion of any kind, and Whitby liked running things.

  McCabe got out of the car and approached the two men.

  “Sergeant McCabe,” said Whitby, “this is Bishop Stephen Crocker, who will be officiating at the service for Aimée.”

  McCabe extended his hand. The priest shook it.

  “The sergeant is running the investigation into Aimée’s murder.”

  “A horrible thing,” said Crocker, “for someone so young who had so much to live for.”

  “When will the service be?”

  “We’re planning for Tuesday at eleven o’clock here at the cathedral.”

  McCabe made a mental note to attend if the case was still open. “Will there be a burial?”

  “Aimée’s body will be cremated and her ashes buried in the Bishop’s Garden, in the cloister outside the chapel,” said Whitby.

  “Well,” said Crocker, “I’m sure you gentlemen have much to talk about. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sergeant.” He excused himself and went back inside the church.

  “You wanted to talk privately,” said Whitby. “Why don’t you walk with me back to the house? It’s not far.”

  McCabe agreed. He needed the exercise anyway. The two men walked up State Street, turned left, and continued on Pine. Most of the people they passed were locals out doing weekend chores and enjoying the fine weather.

  “I take it Aimée’s mother is comfortable with having her ashes buried there.”

  “Yes. We discussed it. We’re both comfortable with cremation. Tracy suggested scattering her ashes to the wind. I preferred St. Luke’s. Whitbys have worshiped here since shortly after the Civil War. Tracy said fine, one place was as good as any other.”

  “Sounds like Tracy.”

  “I understand you once had a brief fling with Aimée’s mother.”

  “Did Tracy tell you that?”

  “No. I had Kraft do a little background research on you.”

  “Investigating the investigator?”

  “Yes. I wanted to make sure you and Savage are as good at what you do as your reputations suggest. According to Charles, you are. Both very good and very thorough.”

  “Glad to hear Charles feels that way. Yes, I did have a relationship with Tracy when I first came to Portland. Aimée was a child at the time, and I actually met her. None of that will affect how I approach the case. It was a long time ago.”

  “For both of us,” said Whitby. “But I’m still very fond of Tracy. I’ve always liked strong-willed women, and she is definitely that.”

  “Would you describe your current wife that way?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Now, what did you want to talk about?”

  “I want to do a little background research on you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tracy told me that when you and she were married, you asked her to sign a prenup specifying how much money she would get in the event of a divorce. She said she signed it. She also said it wasn’t very much.”

  “I’m not sure what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “Maybe nothing. But I’d appreciate it if you could humor me with the details.”

  “All right. Yes, there was a prenup. It specified that Tracy would receive exactly one hundred thousand dollars if we divorced. It also said I would take care of all the costs of child support and education. Which I have.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars isn’t much for someone like you.”

  “No. But that’s what she agreed to, and that’s what she got.”

  “Did you have the same terms in your agreement with Deirdre?”

  “Identical.”

  “What about your will?”

  “What about it?”

  “Who gets your money if you die?”

  “I’ve made substantial bequests to the Portland Museum of Art, Penfield Academy and Princeton. Smaller amounts to various other charities. However, the bulk of the estate would be split equally between Aimée and Julia and any other children we might have had. Guess now she’s gone I’ll have to amend it.”

  “How about your wife? What does she get?”

  “She gets five million dollars.”

  “Was Deirdre familiar with the details of your great-grandmother’s death?”

  “Yes, she’s read the newspaper accounts.”

  “Was she bothered by it?”

  “Not especially.”

  “What did Deirdre feel about the portrait of Aimée you paid more than two million for?”

  “She thinks it’s beautiful.”

  “Did she tell you that?�
��

  “No. But I’m sure she does.”

  “You’re sure she does?”

  “Well, I don’t actually remember her describing it that way or really any other way. Listen, McCabe, I’m trying to be cooperative, but what in hell are you getting at?”

  By this time McCabe and Whitby had reached the Western Prom.

  “Why don’t we sit over there on that bench and finish our conversation?” said McCabe. The two men crossed the circular road and sat down.

  “Were Aimée and Deirdre particularly close?”

  “I asked you before what you were getting at. What exactly are you insinuating?”

  “Please, Mr. Whitby, just bear with me. Were Aimée and Deirdre particularly close?”

  “I don’t know. I think they were when the girls were little. She’d sometimes take them both on outings. She tried to be a good stepmother to Aimée when she was staying with us.”

  “Did you love Aimée more than you loved Julia?”

  “How dare you?”

  “Did you? Love her more, I mean? At the graduation party you apparently referred to Aimée as ‘my dearest, favorite girl.’ ”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You did. I’ve got it right here on video.”

  McCabe pressed Play and handed Whitby the phone.

  Whitby looked at the clip in silence. Handed the phone back.

  “Sure sounds to me like you loved Aimée more.”

  Whitby said nothing.

  “What about Julia?” asked McCabe. “What was she? Your second-dearest favorite girl? I wonder what she felt like, standing in that room surrounded by two hundred people and hearing that?”

  “I am very sorry about that, but it was merely a slip of the tongue. I love my daughters equally.”

  McCabe waited for Whitby to say more. He didn’t. He just seemed to be staring at the view of Mt. Washington outlined hazily in the distance. After a minute or so, McCabe continued. “You said the other day on the island that Deirdre didn’t want to talk to us because she was so upset about the murder. You described her as emotionally fragile. Yet ten minutes ago you said you’ve always been attracted to strong-willed women. Would you describe Deirdre as both emotionally fragile and strong-willed?”