The Girl In The Glass (21 page)

Maggie lifted the lid on the computer. At the moment, the screen was dark, either turned off or in sleep mode. She punched the space bar a few times. The machine lit up, and she typed GGB1788 in the login box. The screen opened to page thirty-­three of an eighty-­five-­page Microsoft Word Document titled
A Mourning of Death
1.3.docx. She read:

DISS. TO EXTERIOR SHOT. A GRAY DREARY MORNING. THROUGH SWIRLS OF FOG WE CAN SEE THE ISLAND STUDIO.

CAMERA MOVES IN FOR A MCU AS DOOR OPENS. DANIELLE BURSTS OUT. SHE IS NUDE,
HER BODY SPATTERED WITH BLOOD.

CUT TO CU HILTON’S FACE STANDING IN THE DOOR OF THE STUDIO.

HILTON (OC): Danielle come back! Please come back!

HILTON FOLLOWS HER TOWARD THE CLIFF.

Obviously Byron Knowles was working on more than a biography of his namesake. This was a screenplay based on the events of 1904, a dramatization of the murder on Whitby Island. Byron had changed the name of the place to Barnett Island and also changed the names of the characters. Maggie wondered if Aimée had provided Knowles with any information Edward Whitby had not mentioned. Information possibly not included in the news accounts and court records of the day. Maggie would ask Jacoby to print out the screenplay, and she’d read it tonight after the autopsies. She pressed Save and closed
A Mourning of Death
. Then she shut down the computer, called Jacoby and told him to send a team over to the apartment to do a thorough search for both fingerprints and DNA. They could pick up a key at Mullaney Realty.

Chapter 41

From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.

Entry dated July 11, 1924

On a cold night in January in the winter of 1904, the seeds of jealousy that had lain dormant in the recesses of my brain for so many months began to germinate. The immediate catalyst was a suggestion I made to Aimée. That night the two of us enjoyed a quiet dinner at home with our children, Charlotte, Teddy and Annabelle. After dessert, we all went into the sitting room, where Charlotte read stories to the two younger ones. When the stories were done, we kissed all three good night and asked Nanny to take them upstairs to get ready for bed. Charlotte objected.

“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

L
EAVING 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.”

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

“
I
S 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.”

“Because you were good at it?”

“Yeah. Because I was good at it. Look, Detective, if this is going where I think it’s going, you’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t kill Aimée. I didn’t kill her boyfriend either. Though I might have if I’d known her teacher was screwing her on a regular basis.”

“What makes you think they were having sex?” Maggie asked. Shockley hadn’t announced that. Nor had the papers printed it, though they had insinuated the possibility. Perhaps Kraft, in spite of his self-­confidence, had just slipped up.

“Julia talks to both of us.”

“When did she tell you?”

“On the helicopter flying back to the mainland this morning.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“Just that Aimée and Knowles had been getting it on for most of senior year.”

“Anything else?”

Kraft shrugged. “She also started spouting a lot of nonsense about Aimée being the reincarnation of their great-­great-­grandmother and that she was fated to be killed in the same way. To be murdered by her lover who then committed suicide.”

“Is that the term she used? ‘Fated’?”

“Yeah. But Jules has always been a little weird when it comes to the woo-­woo stuff.”

“How did Julia know about the affair? Did Aimée tell her?”

“I’m not sure, but I would guess she didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because when I asked Jules how she knew, she became evasive. All she would say was that she just had a special way of knowing about things like that.”

“Interesting.”

“My guess is
her special way
was nothing more than hacking Aimée’s e-­mails and texts. Probably been doing it for quite a while.”

“Why?”

“You want my theory?”

“Sure.”

“I know for a fact that Julia was seriously jealous of Aimée. Always has been. Not hard to understand why. Aimée’s the prettier sister. The smarter sister. The better athlete. Plus they’re exactly the same age. Worst of all, Aimée’s the one Daddy loves most. At least in Julia’s mind he does.”

“Is she right about that?”

“I think so. A situation like that can be brutal for a kid growing up. I think jealousy led Julia to obsess about Aimée. What she was doing. Who she was doing it with. What secrets she wasn’t revealing. Turned out one of those secrets was Byron Knowles. You want another Coke?”

Maggie shook her head no. Kraft held up his glass. Maggie watched Gloria fill it to the top, watched Kraft start sipping it. How was it, she wondered, that every guy she found both interesting and attractive seemed to drink too much? Maybe the problem wasn’t theirs but hers. Maybe she was just genetically attracted to alcoholics. Hell, even her father found it tough to say no to a bottle of good bourbon.

“Last night at the party,” said Kraft, “when Aimée made her grand entrance, dressed exactly like the woman in the painting, Jules couldn’t hold her anger in. I was watching her, and I thought for a minute she was really going to lose it and go for Aimée. Rip the damned dress right off her body.” Kraft chuckled. “Catfight like that would have been one hell of a show. Of course, there’s no way Julia would have come out on top. Aimée would have kicked the crap out of her.”

“Did anyone else notice Julia’s anger?”

Kraft shrugged. “No idea.”

“Why were you watching her so closely?”

“When I saw Aimée make her grand entrance, I had a feeling Jules might react that way. I’m paid to keep things from getting out of hand. Specially stuff like that.”

Maggie thought about it. Jealousy again. Just like Gina Knowles. Seems Julia was consumed by it. The oldest motive for murder in the world. Gina was eight months pregnant and physically incapable of pulling it off. But Julia was young and fit. Could she be the one who killed Aimée and Knowles? Could she have murdered her own sister? Maggie thought about words she’d read in Sunday school as a kid.
When Cain realized that God was not pleased with his sacrifice but accepted Abel’s
,
his heart became wicked. He became angry and jealous of his brother and
killed him out of envy.
Had Julia Whitby grown angry and jealous of her sibling and killed her out of envy? Certainly seemed possible. Though to pull it off she would have had to have gotten the drop on them somehow. Or have found someone to help her.

“How many ­people have you killed?” asked Maggie.

Kraft’s eyes narrowed. “Quite a few. Either directly or by ordering someone else to do it.”

“Don’t you remember how many?”

“I didn’t keep a running count. In a place like Iraq, death is delivered in so many different ways sometimes you don’t even know how many may have died. So no, I don’t remember how many.”

“But you’re capable of killing.”

“I already told you I didn’t kill her. Or him.”

“I know, but what I’m wondering is do you think Julia is capable of murder?”

“Given the right circumstances, I think almost anybody is. But Jules? I’m not sure she’d be very good at it.”

“Good at it. Like you, you mean.”

“Yeah. Like me.”

“Tell me something. How long did you work at Orion?”

“Five years, give or take.”

“How many other ­people like you worked there?”

“Maggie, haven’t you figured it out yet?” Kraft grinned. “There are no other ­people like me.”

“I’m not joking, Charles. How many others?”

“At the moment?”

“Either current or former. ­People you knew?”

“A ­couple of hundred.”

“All good at killing?”

“Maggie, not only did I not kill Aimée but I also didn’t pass on any names of Orion ­people who might have. I swear that’s the truth. I liked Aimée. I work for and like her father. I wouldn’t do something like that to either of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Yes, I could have given Julia the names of plenty of ­people who could do the job. But I didn’t. And even if I did, I’m not sure Julia would have had enough money to pay the bill. Mercenary killers don’t come cheap.”

“So who do you think did it?”

“Me?” Kraft shrugged. “I’m a believer in Occam’s razor. In the absence of contradictory evidence, I believe the simplest solution is usually the correct one.”

“And what’s the simplest solution here?”

“That Knowles killed her. Then killed himself.”

“Why did he carve the letter
A
?”

“Who knows?” Kraft shrugged. “Julia said he specialized in the romantic poets. Maybe he knew about the murder of the first Aimée and thought it might be romantic to duplicate it as closely as possible.”

“Darkly romantic.”

“Very darkly.” Kraft slipped off his stool and made his way to the men’s room. Maggie sat there and considered the possibilities. Something she hadn’t thought about before popped into her head.

Charles returned. “How about we blow this place and go somewhere a little quieter?” he asked.

“Some other time, maybe, and I mean that. But not while I’m working. However, I do have one more question.”

“Shoot.”

“You worked for Orion for five years, right?”

“Right.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I got a better offer from Whitby.”

“Were you looking for another job?”

“No.”

“So how did you find out about the job at Whitby?”

“They found me. I told my boss, the guy who founded Orion, that I’d had enough of the contract work and was planning on looking for something else. He said he knew Whitby was looking for a security guy.”