The Girl In The Glass (19 page)

Chapter 38

T
HE H
EADQUARTERS 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 extending 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

M
A
G
G
I
E
A
N
D
M
C
C
A
B
E
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.

McCabe and Savage barely noticed the locking of the doors. Both were too distracted by the large oil painting hanging over the fireplace. A portrait of Aimée certainly. Not as they’d last seen her, dead on the Loring Trail, but amazingly alive. She was looking down at them as if she was just itching to leap off the wall and join the conversation. She was dressed in an elegant, low-­cut black evening gown, her blonde hair swept up high on her head, a string of pearls around her neck and a wry, mischievous smile on her face.

What struck McCabe as odd about the painting was that the canvas itself looked far too old to be a portrait of Whitby’s daughter. It showed some of the same signs of aging that Kyra once pointed out as she was giving him a quick lesson in art authentication. There were also some barely noticeable repairs on the gold frame.

Whitby joined them. “I asked you to come to the island because I wanted you to see this painting.”

“This couldn’t be a portrait of your daughter,” said Maggie.

“It’s not, but it might as well be. It’s a painting of my great-­grandmother, also named Aimée, commissioned by my great-­grandfather. It’s by an artist named Mark Garrison. She was twenty-­eight when he painted it. Ten years older than my Aimée.”

“The resemblance is extraordinary.”

“Yes, the two are practically identical. You can see it not just here but also in some old family photographs. Put them side by side with photos of my daughter and, except for the hairdos and clothing, it’s next to impossible to see any difference.”

“Interesting,” said McCabe, “but why was it so important that you had to show us this immediately?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know if the painting itself has any direct bearing on what happened to my daughter last night, but because of the timing, I think it might. That’s when I unveiled it to the more than two hundred ­people who attended the party. Plus, I suppose, the waiters and other help who were in the room. The fact that Aimée was killed only a few hours later may just be a weird coincidence, but I’ve been around long enough not to believe in coincidences.”

“Had anyone seen it before last night?”

“It’s been in private hands for more than a hundred years. I purchased it at auction less than two months ago. Only my wife and daughters and a few close friends saw it when I first had it delivered. But no one else except a restorer who did a little work on it and made some repairs to the frame.”

“What possible connection could unveiling a painting have with the murder?” asked Maggie.

“I don’t know for sure that it does. But there are circumstances surrounding the creation of this painting that are certainly connected.”

“Okay. Where would you like to start?” asked McCabe.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Whitby pointed them to a pair of chairs that faced the fireplace and the painting above it. McCabe supposed he wanted them to look at it as they spoke. Whitby then took the seat facing them. The face in the painting smiled down at the detectives from over Whitby’s right shoulder. From this vantage point McCabe had an eerie sense that the first Aimée Whitby was hovering over her great-­grandson and, like him, wanted Maggie and McCabe to know something.

Whitby spoke first. “I told Detective Savage that I watched Tom Shockley’s press conference this morning. I learned that Aimée’s body was found nude, that she was stabbed in the abdomen and that the letter
A
was carved into her upper chest deeply enough to have formed permanent scars had she survived. Accurate so far?”

“Accurate,” said Maggie.

“Shockley also said the body of Aimée’s English teacher, Byron Knowles, washed ashore in Cape Elizabeth. An apparent suicide.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he killed her before killing himself?”

“We think that’s one possibility,” said Maggie, “but only one. We’re not certain that he’s the killer.”

“Why not?”

A frown line formed between Maggie’s eyes. “Just what are you getting at, Mr. Whitby?”

“Answer my question first, then I’ll answer yours. Why don’t you think Knowles killed my daughter?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Maggie. “I said we weren’t certain.”

“Do the two of you agree with Shockley that Knowles’s death was a suicide?”

“He sent his wife a text message that makes it look that way.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Again we think it’s possible.”

“But not certain?”

“That’s right. Not certain. Both Aimée and Knowles may have been victims of a killer we have yet to identify.”

“Shockley said Knowles was married.”

“Yes,” said McCabe. “With one child and another on the way.”

Edward Whitby paused and took a deep breath before asking, “Do you have any evidence that indicates Knowles was having an affair with my daughter?”

Maggie and McCabe exchanged glances. “We know he was,” said Maggie, closely watching Whitby’s face as she spoke. “We have clear evidence that Byron Knowles and your daughter have had an active sexual relationship since at least last November.”

McCabe didn’t know what reaction he was expecting from Whitby, but there was practically none. His expression remained more sad than angry. His eyes drifted to the view of the ocean beyond the stone patio. “How old was Knowles?”

“Thirty-­six,” said Maggie. “Twice your daughter’s age.”

“Was he planning to leave his wife?”

“We don’t know. All we know is that the marriage wasn’t in good shape and that Knowles’s wife suspected he was having an affair. She told us she didn’t know with who.”

“Any evidence that Aimée told Knowles she wanted to break things off?”

“Not that we’ve seen.”

“And you’re not certain whether or not Knowles killed my daughter?”

“Either he killed her,” said McCabe, “or somebody is trying very hard to make it look that way. Now perhaps you can tell us what connection this painting may have with your daughter’s death.”

“My daughter is not the first murder victim in this family. The woman you see in that painting, my great-­grandmother, the first Aimée, was also murdered. The story goes that she was murdered by Mark Garrison, the artist who painted the portrait. Garrison was also her lover. He killed her here on Whitby Island by stabbing her in the abdomen. He also carved a letter
A
into her chest, just like the one Tom Shockley described this morning. After killing Aimée, Garrison committed suicide in the small studio we have here on the island.

“It seems perfectly obvious to me that my daughter’s killer, whether it was Knowles or someone else, knew about and copied the details of a murder that happened here on this island one hundred and eight years ago. Not only were the two victims physically identical, so was the method of killing them and so was the fate of the suspected killer. That’s what I thought you should know before proceeding with your investigation. I thought it might change the way you approach it.”

Maggie and McCabe exchanged glances. A copycat murder with identical victims. Whitby was right. Knowing that changed everything. Including the possible meaning of the letter
A.

“What was Garrison’s motive?” asked McCabe. “Why did he kill her?”

Looking up once again at the portrait, McCabe had the strangest feeling that the woman looking down from over the fireplace was listening with great interest to every word they were saying. Perhaps only she knew the answer to his question.

“Like I told you earlier, Mark Garrison was Aimée’s lover. The police at the time came to the conclusion that after what they called an illicit assignation in the studio, Aimée told Garrison that her husband, my great-­grandfather, had learned of their relationship and because of this she could never see him again.”

“Did your great-­grandfather confirm that he knew about the affair?”

“Yes. He told Deputy Inspector Elijah Handy of the Portland Police Department, who was the chief investigator on the case, that he had discovered what was going on and that he had confronted Aimée with an accusation. He said that after many denials she finally admitted the truth. After which she asked for a divorce. He said no. Divorce wasn’t an option for someone in his position. She threatened to leave him. He told her that if she did, he would never allow her to see her children again. He said that with her being an admitted adulteress, he was sure any judge would grant him custody. Since my great-­grandfather had most of the judges in the state firmly in his pocket, and since most of them were puritanical and suspected all foreigners, but particularly French foreigners like Aimée, of immoral behavior, I’m sure he was right.

“Anyway, my great-­grandfather said at the inquest that he wouldn’t divorce Aimée because, in spite of the affair, he still loved her. He also feared that the scandal of divorce would damage the reputation of both the Whitby family and the Whitby business.

“He told the jury that he demanded that she break off the affair immediately, send Garrison packing and say nothing of it to anyone. Apparently she gave in and agreed to tell Garrison that they could never see each other again.”

“Okay, then what happened?”

“It’s a little murky. As best we can reconstruct it, Aimée must have arranged for Garrison to meet her secretly on the island, where she planned to tell him their affair was over. She may also have allowed him to make love to her one final time, I suppose as kind of a farewell present before breaking it off. After which she gave him the bad news, and Garrison, in a rage at being rejected, grabbed a knife, stabbed Aimée and carved the
A
in her chest.”

“What makes you think they made love before she told him she was breaking it off?” asked Maggie. “Was her body ever examined by a doctor for signs of sexual intercourse?”

“Not to my knowledge. Apparently the police concluded they’d made love because she was naked when she was discovered at the bottom of the cliff at the far end of the island by three fishermen. Anyway, it seemed likely to the police at the time that they had made love. I truly don’t know the answer to that.”

“Okay. So she tells him she’s breaking things off, he loses his temper, grabs a knife, stabs her and carves the
A
on her chest,” said McCabe.

“Yes. That’s what the inquest concluded.”

“But there’s no proof it actually happened that way?”

Whitby sighed. “Not really. I suspect my great-­grandfather applied pressure on the mayor, the attorney general and the coroner to make the whole thing go away as quickly and quietly as possible. Unfortunately, the newspapers didn’t cooperate with his efforts. It was exactly the kind of sordid tale they loved, and they played it to the hilt.”

“Did anybody have any idea what significance the
A
might have had?” asked Maggie.

“No one knew. Journalists had a field day comparing it to Hawthorne’s
Scarlet Letter.
You know the book? Hester Prynne forced to wear a scarlet
A
for being an adulteress? Which Aimée was. But Garrison was also a married man and just as guilty of adultery, so the idea that he wanted to mark her with the label has always bothered me. Of course the
A
could have stood for something else, including her name. So who knows? In any event, the knife wound didn’t kill her. She fled the studio and apparently ran, for reasons known only to her, toward the high cliff on the seaward side of this island. Garrison supposedly gave chase, and Aimée either fell or was pushed by Garrison over the edge.”

“How does anyone know this?” asked Maggie. “Weren’t the two of them alone on the island?”

“No one really does. It was pure conjecture on the part of Inspector Handy, based on the fact that one of the fishermen—­just a boy of twelve—­ who came ashore in a dinghy to try to rescue her later testified at the inquest that, as they were loading her body onto their boat, he spotted a man’s face peering at them from over the edge of the cliff. The boy waved at him, but he didn’t respond. He simply disappeared.”

“Did he know who the man was?” asked McCabe.

“No.”

“Did the police show the boy any pictures to help identify him?”

“No, they did not.”

“It would have been standard police procedure to do so. Even back then.”

“I think there was considerable pressure from the Whitby family to just make the whole thing go away. Blaming Garrison for both Aimée’s and his own deaths. Whether she fell or was pushed by Garrison, she was somehow still alive when the fishermen found her. She died on the way back to Portland, where they handed her body over to the police.”

“And Garrison? What happened to him?”

“The story is that, overcome with guilt and horror at what he had done, he took his own life. Hung himself in the studio.”

“How did he do it?”

“With his belt. He looped it around his neck. Attached the buckle to a large hook that was attached high up on the wall and kicked away the stool he was standing on.”

“Did the fall break his neck?”

“No. According to the doctor who examined the corpse, he died of asphyxiation.”

“Did he leave any kind of suicide note?” asked Maggie.

“Yes, a note that said ‘I am consumed by guilt. I loved her far too much to go on without her.’ ”

Maggie looked over to McCabe. “ ‘I can never forgive myself for the terrible things I have done,’ ” she said.

“I’m sorry. What?” asked Whitby.

“Nothing,” said McCabe. “I assume the note was handwritten?”