The Girl In The Glass (2 page)

Chapter 2

Portland, Maine

June 2012

G
R
A
D
U
A
T
I
O
N
W
E
E
K
I
N
Portland. All six of the city’s high schools, public, private and parochial, had scheduled their commencement ceremonies to take place at some point during this week. Some of the events would be large, with hundreds of graduates. Others much smaller.

Thursday morning was Penfield Academy’s turn. It was a bright, sunny day, warm for early summer, with temperatures edging well into the seventies. By 10:50, all eighty-­seven graduating seniors of the smallest and, arguably, most prestigious secondary school in the city had gathered in an excited cluster on the far side of the lacrosse field. Forty-­five girls and forty-­two boys. Marilyn Bell, the headmaster’s assistant, scurried among them, clipboard in hand, determined to create order out of chaos. One by one, she called out the graduates’ names in a loud whisper. Told each where she wanted them to stand and, when necessary, pushed and prodded an inattentive body into his or her proper position.

Finally all eighty-­seven were in place, waiting restlessly in the warm sunshine for Headmaster William S. Cobb to finish telling the assembled audience what a terrific school Penfield was. How smart and talented the students. How capable the faculty and staff. How generous the trustees, parents and alumni.

At the head of the waiting procession stood the class valedictorian and, by general consensus, the class beauty as well. Veronica Aimée Whitby, Aimée to almost everyone who knew her well. Aimée was the kind of girl teenage boys dream about, talk about, follow in the halls at school. Nearly every one of the Upper School boys had, at one time or another, found themselves breathing a little faster and walking a little more slowly when either good fortune or good planning placed them five or six steps behind her in the halls or on the paths of Penfield. When this occurred, most would try to position themselves to catch the most revealing glimpse of flesh, especially when Aimée came to school, as she often did in warm weather, wearing a low-­cut tank top, a high-­cut miniskirt or both.

For four long years, several hundred hormonally charged Penfield boys had been inhaling Aimée’s scent. Dreaming about burying their faces in her silky blonde hair. Imagining her long, muscular legs, tan from the summer sun, wrapped around their bodies. They’d feel themselves growing hard watching or even just thinking about her perfectly rounded ass as it swung in an easy, sensuous rhythm that was all her own. The shyer, less confident boys looked away when she caught them checking her out. The bolder ones kept looking. Hungrily. Pointlessly. Even though the smiles she bestowed were always warm and occasionally flirtatious, virtually all the boys knew they didn’t stand a chance. Perhaps with one of the other Penfield girls, perhaps with Aimée’s less beautiful sister, Julia. But not with the princess herself.

Still they couldn’t help looking. Try as they might, not one among them could resist a stolen glance, and Aimée enjoyed every one. Enjoyed them even more because she knew, and had known since the beginning of senior year, that the Penfield boys weren’t the only ones who noticed her. Weren’t the only ones who wanted her. There were others. Older, more interesting and, as far as Aimée was concerned, more desirable. At least for the moment.

T
O
A
I
M
É
E
’
S
R
I
G
H
T
,
at the head of the long line of graduates, stood Aman Anbessa, the class salutatorian. A supersmart Eritrean kid, Aman’s parents had come to Portland from their native land eight years ago. After four years in Portland’s public schools, Aman had won a coveted full scholarship to Penfield and had proved himself worthy of it, finishing second in the class and winning a full scholarship to Tufts University in the fall. Still, his ambitious father wasn’t quite satisfied. He drilled it into Aman’s head that if only his son had studied ten hours a day instead of just six or seven, perhaps he wouldn’t have gotten that one B that ever so slightly lowered an otherwise perfect record and allowed Aimée Whitby to slip past him into the number-­one spot.

Inwardly, Aman didn’t resent his parents for their relentless
encouragement
. If he harbored any anger, it was directed at Aimée. He was sure she’d achieved her perfect record not just because she was smart and worked hard but also because she came from one of the richest families in Maine. And because of her endless sucking up to the teachers. Especially the male teachers. Double especially Mr. Knowles, the AP English teacher who had given Aman his only B.

Aman told himself he should hate Aimée. Not just for beating him out as valedictorian but for being rich and spoiled instead of a hardworking scholarship kid like himself. For driving a fancy car to school instead of walking two miles from an apartment off Fox Street. But what made Aman Anbessa truly resent Aimée was the fact that she barely noticed him. That she didn’t want him like he wanted her. That made him feel diminished. Like less of a man. And that was something he could never forgive her for.

Nell Barnhart, president of the senior class, stood behind Aimée. Next to Nell, and behind Aman, was Emily Welles, who rated a place up front because she was the winner of the headmaster’s award for good citizenship. The rest of the seniors were paired off and lined up behind the first four in alphabetical order. At the end of the line, along with the other two Ws in the class, was Aimée’s half sister––her half twin, some said, though they looked almost nothing alike––Julia Catherine Whitby.

All the girls were dressed modestly in knee-­length white dresses. Some, like Julia, had their hair up. Others, like Aimée, let it fall loosely around their shoulders. Each carried a dozen red roses. The boys wore khaki trousers, blue blazers, white button-­down shirts and ties.

There was a pause in the headmaster’s remarks and the kids looked up, wondering if, at long last, he’d actually stopped thanking ­people. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “parents, relatives, alumni, faculty and staff, as well as other honored guests, please rise and welcome our graduates. I proudly present Penfield Academy’s graduating class of 2012.”

The strains of the school’s traditional processional march emerged from half a dozen speakers strategically placed around the field. The crowd of more than four hundred rose to its feet. Cameras, smartphones and video recorders were plucked from pockets and handbags. The graduates entered and passed slowly down the center aisle through the crowd.

As she walked, Aimée glanced around, acknowledging faces she recognized. Smiling at some. Finger-­waving others. She blew a kiss at her father and Deirdre, her stepmother, who were seated among the trustees. Next to Deirdre was Charles Kraft, Whitby Engineering & Development’s director of corporate security. She wondered why Kraft was here. A Penfield Academy graduation didn’t seem like his kind of show. Or one where Daddy would need security.

Aimée felt Kraft’s eyes study her as she walked by closely enough for him to smell the delicate scent she was wearing. Perhaps he had come for her. A frisson of desire passed through her at the thought. Or was it simply fear? Charles was definitely sexy, but also more than a little scary, even to a girl as sure of herself as Aimée. One of the few men she didn’t feel certain she could handle. Still, he was exciting. Maybe she’d play the game a little and see what happened.

She wondered if Charles would show up at the party tonight. She wouldn’t have expected him to, but then she wouldn’t have expected him to come to graduation either. Having passed, she glanced back for just an instant. He caught her look and smiled. She turned away. Felt herself blushing. Aimée hardly ever blushed.

R
E
A
C
H
I
N
G
T
H
E
F
R
O
N
T
row of seats, the two lines of graduates split left and right and climbed the steps on either side of the wooden stage constructed for the occasion. Aimée, Aman, Nell and Emily took their designated places, front and center. The other graduates filled the remaining front-­row seats, then filed into the second, third and fourth rows. Aimée glanced back and spotted Julia off to the side in the last row. Threw her a smile and a wave. Jules smiled back.

When the graduates were settled, Headmaster Cobb began talking again. He introduced the Penfield trustees one by one, asking each to rise and be acknowledged. He then launched into his favorite subject. Money. For ten minutes he spoke about how generously the families of the graduating seniors had supported the school once again this year. And how he hoped he could convince those few families who hadn’t yet given to do so soon. “Any amount helps,” he said. “Even just a few dollars will help sustain this school we all love and the programs it offers.” Cobb paused for effect . . . and then went on. “While we’ve received many generous gifts, I feel obligated to make particular mention of one very special graduation gift given by one of Portland and New England’s most prominent business leaders in honor of his two daughters, both of whom are graduating today.”

Aimée could see the eyes of her classmates and their parents honing in on her father.

Cobb continued. “Two million dollars has been given by Edward Whitby, a sixth-­generation Penfield alumnus and the father of both this year’s valedictorian, Veronica Aimée Whitby, and her sister, Julia Catherine Whitby. It represents,” said Cobb, “the largest single donation this school has ever received and will be used, as Mr. Whitby has directed, in the construction of a new visual and performing arts center that will rival and, I daresay, surpass any offered by any other independent school in New England. An appropriate use of the money I think, given that one of Mr. Whitby’s two graduating daughters”—­Cobb turned and gestured with one hand toward Aimée, who smiled back—­ “is not only this year’s class valedictorian but also one of our most talented artists. And his other daughter . . .” Cobb turned and stretched a hand in Julia’s direction. She raised a hand in response. “ . . . Julia has proven herself an exceptional actress, whom many of you applauded for her brilliant performance in the lead role of Blanche DuBois in this year’s senior production of
A Streetcar Named Desire.
Naturally, our new facility will be named the Edward V. Whitby Center for the Arts.”

The audience rose and applauded. Ed Whitby rose and waved. Cobb waited for silence, then started speaking again. “Now it’s my distinct pleasure to introduce the valedictorian of the class of 2012. A young woman who has achieved an unprecedented record in her four years in the Upper School. Thirty-­six courses. Thirty-­six A pluses. All the while distinguishing herself not just as a student and an artist but also as a member of both the women’s soccer and lacrosse teams. Next fall Aimée, as we all call her, will be taking that remarkable record to the Rhode Island School of Design in Providence, where she will follow in the footsteps of her namesake, a celebrated turn-­of-­the-­century artist and her great-­great grandmother, Aimée Marie Garnier Whitby. When Aimée enters the American art scene four years from now, I would warn all the current icons of the contemporary art world to pick up their game. Aimée will be gaining on you. Ladies and Gentlemen, it is now my distinct pleasure to present Penfield Academy’s newest valedictorian.” Cobb again extended his hand.

As Veronica Aimée Whitby stepped to the dais, she was thinking that she had seldom, if ever, felt so good or so excited about the future. This indeed would be the first golden day of the rest of her golden life.

She had no inkling it would also be the last.

Chapter 3

A
T
E
L
E
V
E
N
F
I
F
T
E
E
N
that same morning, Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe hissed the words
selfish
bitch
into the old-­fashioned telephone receiver before slamming it down. He didn’t know if the woman on the other end had heard the words or not, but if she had, she was probably enjoying having goaded him for the hundredth, if not the thousandth, time into a barely controlled rage. The fact that his ex-­wife could still manage that trick after all these years added to McCabe’s irritation. He resisted a strong urge to pick up the phone and slam it down even harder, no doubt destroying city property in the process.

Instead he ordered himself to calm down. Breathed in deeply a few times. Breathed out. He glanced around at the old wooden desks lined up in neat rows in the squad room on the fourth floor of Portland PD headquarters at 109 Middle Street. Looked to see which, if any, of the half dozen detectives seated behind them had the balls to return their boss’s gaze when he was so obviously pissed off.

Tasco, Cleary and Sturgis pretended to focus on their work. On the other side of the room, Detective Will Meserve was, as usual, oblivious. Either he hadn’t heard the hiss and bang, or, if he had, he couldn’t care less. Meserve was leaning back in his chair, phone to his ear, guffawing loudly at something somebody on the other end had said. Detective Bill Bacon was on his way back from the men’s room. Bacon had probably missed the whole thing.

Only Maggie was looking at him. Detective Margaret Savage. McCabe’s number two in the Crimes Against ­People unit and, when serious cases arose, his partner.

He ignored her look, picked up the file he’d been reviewing and opened it. For more than a minute he tried to focus on the words on the page. They refused to fall into place. Finally he tossed the file on his desk and leaned back, closing his eyes and massaging first his temples and then the hard little knot he could feel forming on the back of his neck. It had been a hell of a spring, and not just because of the call.

Sensing someone approach, McCabe opened his eyes. Maggie was leaning against his desk, studying him.

“What?” he asked.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?”

McCabe frowned. “Talk about what?”

Maggie shrugged. “The Bronstein case?”

“What about the Bronstein case?”

“I’m writing up probable cause for a warrant to search Bronstein’s house, and I’d like your thoughts.”

McCabe knew Maggie needed his “thoughts” writing up probable cause like a fish needed water wings. Bronstein in theory was an open-­and-­shut case of domestic violence. Unusual only in the fact that the guy accused of beating up his wife badly enough to land her in the hospital was a respected anesthesiologist and not some punk or drunk. His defense was that he wasn’t home at the time, but he didn’t have an alibi. He said he was out “driving around,” and Rita Bronstein had been attacked by someone else. He claimed she wouldn’t admit to that because the someone else was a lover she was trying to protect. For her part, Mrs. Bronstein denied the existence of any such lover and said that Jacob was both full of shit and guilty as sin. Claimed the doctor blew up when she told him she wanted a divorce. Maggie wanted to search the house, because after several long interviews, she suspected the doctor might be telling the truth and that the wife and her lover might be addicted to one or more illegal substances. Maggie figured if she could find both the drugs and evidence of the lover’s existence, the case against Bronstein would fall apart and the case against the lover would gather momentum. With Rita still in the hospital, Jacob awaiting bail hearings in the Cumberland County jail and the presumed lover nowhere to be found, Maggie figured this would be an excellent time to take the place apart.

McCabe glanced at the wall clock: 11:25. “Okay. The Bronstein case. How about we get out of here and I buy us some coffee? You can tell me what you need while we sip.”

Maggie smiled. “Thanks.”

McCabe put on his jacket, retrieved his gun and holster from his bottom drawer and slid the file folders that populated his desk into the space where the gun had been.

Sharing the elevator with Will Meserve, they rode down in silence.

“Where do you want to go?” asked Maggie as the doors slid open and Meserve departed. “Starbucks? Bard?”

“Nah. They’ll both be mobbed. Let’s walk for a while.”

“Okay.”

They headed out into bright sunshine and turned right on Middle Street. “Now what’s all this baloney about needing help with Bronstein?” McCabe asked.

“Just baloney. The warrant’s already signed. I thought you might want to talk about what got you so worked up back there. And maybe why you look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. Or possibly months. Not to put too fine a point on it, McCabe, but you look like shit.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“That obvious. Plus you spend most of the time being cranky, irritable and, frankly, a royal pain in the ass.”

“Some ­people would tell you I’m always a royal pain in the ass.”

“Well, they’d be wrong. Now what was going on back there?”

“It was nothing. Just a phone call.”

“Nothing? Really? You damn near destroyed the receiver over nothing?”

“Listen, Mag, I know you’re trying to help, but if I said it was nothing, just accept that it was nothing. Okay?”

Maggie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to him. She arched a single dark eyebrow. “I wonder if it’s all men,” she sighed, “or just the men I care about who have such a hard time talking about their feelings? In that respect, you’re so much like my father it makes me want to scream.”

McCabe smiled. “How is the old coot? Still cancer-­free?”

“Yes. He’s doing fine, but let’s not change the subject. At the moment, Sergeant, I’m probably the best friend you’ve got in the world except maybe for Kyra and Dave Hemmings.” Kyra was the woman McCabe lived with. Hemmings had been his partner for six years working homicide at the NYPD’s Midtown North Precinct. “If you’d rather talk to them instead of me about what’s going on, fine. But please don’t keep bottling it up inside. It isn’t good for you.

McCabe started walking again. Maggie kept up.

N
O
W
T
H
A
T
S
U
M
M
E
R
was almost here, the streets of the Old Port were crowding up with tourists and shoppers. In Tommy’s Park, a small urban green space on the other side of Exchange Street, clusters of tattooed teens talked and smoked cigarettes they were technically too young to buy. Toward the back of the park, near the outdoor tables belonging to a popular steakhouse called The Grill Room, a young street entertainer expertly juggled four burning torches. The kid looked like he knew what he was doing, since he hadn’t set himself or anybody else on fire. An Abe Lincoln top hat sat on the ground by his side. A passerby tossed in a few dollar bills before moving on.

Closer by, a girl singer in an ankle-­length gypsy skirt and bright orange dreads was seated on a bench, playing acoustic guitar and hitting all the right notes on Patsy Cline’s
Walkin’ After Midnight
. McCabe and Maggie stopped for a minute to listen.

“Okay,” McCabe finally said. “Maybe you’re right. Let’s walk some more and then we’ll talk. How about lunch?”

Maggie checked the time. “A little early, but why not? Tallulah’s?”

“Yeah. The walk up the hill should help me burn off some steam.”

They cut through the park back to Exchange Street and headed up past the old
Press Herald
building. The paper would soon be vacating the space it had occupied since 1923 in favor of a ­couple of floors in a bigger building near Monument Square. Like papers all over the country, Portland’s only daily was facing tough times. It had already closed its D.C. and Augusta bureaus and laid off as many ­people as it could. Now it needed to economize even further. Rumor had it the old building was going to be turned into a hotel. Another place for the growing hordes of tourists to bunk. It seemed to McCabe that there were already too many.

They turned right on Congress and headed up Munjoy Hill. Tallulah’s sat on the far side of Washington Avenue, about a third of the way up. At this hour, it was mostly empty. Just a ­couple of regulars hanging at the bar. Lou greeted McCabe with one of her trademark bear hugs and told him his favorite booth in the back was free. She’d once promised to put up a brass plaque over the booth proclaiming
Reserved permanently for M. McCabe
, but she’d never followed through. Passing through the bar, Maggie stopped for a quick hello and a peck on the cheek from a defense lawyer she’d dated a few times. McCabe and the lawyer exchanged nods. When McCabe and Maggie reached the booth, they slid into their accustomed seats, McCabe with his back to the wall, Maggie facing him.

“You still seeing that guy?” McCabe nodded in the direction of the lawyer.

“No. It didn’t work out.”

“His idea or yours?”

“Mutual but mostly mine. A little too slick for my taste. Plus I couldn’t get used to being with a guy who makes his living defending the creeps I knock myself out putting behind bars.”

“Sort of like sleeping with the enemy?”

“A: Who said anything about sleeping? And B: who I sleep with or don’t sleep with is none of your business. Anyway, we didn’t come here to talk about my love life. We’re here so you can get whatever’s bugging you off your chest.”

McCabe heaved a sigh. “You really want to know?”

“If you can force yourself to talk about it, I’m a good listener. If not, we can just have lunch.”

A heavyset waitress with short-­cropped black hair and thick arms tattooed from wrist to shoulder came up and told them her name was Max.

“Max?”

“Yeah. Short for Maxine.”

“You’re new,” said McCabe.

“Started Monday. You come here a lot?”

“A whole lot. My name’s McCabe. This is Maggie.”

“Pleased to meet you both. What can I get you?”

They both ordered hamburgers. Medium rare. No cheese. Sweet potato fries on the side. McCabe with a pint of Geary’s HSA. Maggie with a Diet Coke.

The drinks arrived. Max disappeared.

McCabe took a long pull of his beer.

“So?” asked Maggie.

McCabe waved her off. “Really. It’s not that important.”

“Okay.”

More silence. The burgers and fries arrived. Maggie slathered hers with ketchup. McCabe, his with A.1. Sauce.

After a ­couple of minutes of munching, Maggie asked, “So how
is
Sandy these days?” Sandy was McCabe’s ex-­wife, who had walked out on both their marriage and their only daughter to marry a zillionaire Wall Street banker.

McCabe’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think it was Sandy?”

Maggie shrugged. “She’s the only
selfish bitch
I know of who has the ability to get you that pissed off in public. What did she do this time?”

“Maybe, like with your lawyer friend, it’s none of your business.”

Maggie nodded. “Okay. That’s fair. Let’s finish our burgers and head back to the office.”

McCabe signaled Max, and instead of asking for the check, he ordered another drink. This time a Scotch. Twelve-­year-­old Macallan single malt. Neat.

“Starting a little early, aren’t you?”

“If you wanna know my secrets, this’ll help.”

Maggie declined another Coke. Instead she pulled herself back against the end of the booth, lifted her long legs up onto the wooden bench and waited for McCabe to start talking.

Tallulah’s was starting to fill up, and the level of noise was rising exponentially. McCabe looked around. The lawyer was gone, and he didn’t see anyone else he knew. His whiskey arrived.

“I guess what set me off is that the lovely Cassandra just announced she’s not coming to Casey’s graduation.” McCabe’s eighteen-­year-­old daughter, also named Cassandra, was graduating from Portland High on Saturday morning, just two days away.

“And you thought she was?”

McCabe sighed. “Yeah, we both did. Casey and I. Silly us. True to form, Sandy calls me at the office forty-­eight hours before the commencement. Tells me ‘I’m so sorry but I won’t be able to make it. Could you let Casey know?’ ”

“She couldn’t call Casey herself?”

“I don’t think she wanted to listen to her only daughter tell her that she doesn’t give a shit if Mommy Dearest shows up or not. That, in fact, she’d rather not see her at all.”

“So if Casey doesn’t care, what’s the problem?”

“There really isn’t one except Sandy made such a huge deal about coming to the graduation and taking Casey out to a celebratory dinner tomorrow night at Fore Street blah blah blah. Then, at the last minute, she calls it off. It just pissed me off.”

Maggie narrowed her eyes. McCabe was being evasive. So far, he hadn’t told her anything that would explain his depressed state for the last few weeks. “What supposedly came up?”

“England.”

“England?”

“Yeah. She’s leaving today. Won’t be back for a week.”

“And she just called this morning?”

“Yeah. Actually called from JFK. Flight leaves in . . .” McCabe paused to check his watch. “ . . . twenty minutes now. First class of course.”

“Why’s she rushing off to England? Maybe it’s something urgent.”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely urgent.”

Maggie waited for the explanation.

“You’re familiar with her rich husband?”

“You’ve mentioned him. Peter Ingram, right?”

“Yeah, Peter Ingram. Well, Mr. Ingram left for London on business last Sunday night. Sandy was going to be on her own for ten days. Sandy hates being alone. She needs amusement, and she needs an audience. I guess she thought the graduation would provide both. But then she got a better offer. Turns out Ingram’s been invited for the weekend to the la-­di-­da country estate of Lord somebody or other who asked if”—­McCabe put on a faux British accent—­“ ‘
any chance
,
old man
,
your wife could join us?
’ Obviously a bit part in
Downton
Abbey
appealed to Sandy more than the title role in
Mother of the Grad.
So off she went
.
”