The Girl In The Glass

by James Hayman

  “I don’t know. Were you?”

  Aman looked into her eyes and said without smiling, “Time will tell.”

  “Yes, I suppose it will. Anyway, welcome to Whitby Island.” She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. To her surprise, he kissed her back, his lips lightly brushing hers.

  “See you later by the cliff?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She left and headed back toward the bar for a refill.

  Before she got halfway, she felt a hand descend on her ass.

  Moseley. Of course. She hadn’t noticed him approaching.

  “What’s up with you, Aimée?”

  Not eight o’clock yet and Will was already slurring his words. He took a sip from the whiskey he was holding, and then glanced over at Aman.

  “Getting it on with our friends from Africa now?” he said. “Eager to see how a little dark meat tastes?”

  Aimée’s slap across Moseley’s cheek had enough power behind it to snap his head back. He balled his hand into a fist and drew it back. Aman moved toward them.

  A number of guests on the patio turned and stared.

  “Stay out of this, monkey boy,” Moseley snapped. Still, he relaxed his fist.

  “Jesus Christ, Moseley. You are such an asshole.” Aimée spat out the words. “I can’t believe the garbage that comes out of your mouth. Now why don’t you apologize to our guest and then get your racist ass off my island and leave me alone?”

  Moseley didn’t move.

  “All right. If you won’t apologize, I will. I’m sorry, Aman, for what this jerk said.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve heard worse.”

  Aman turned and started walking into the darkness, away from the house.

  Aimée watched him go, then started toward the French doors. Moseley followed. He was stopped short by Charles Kraft, who stepped between them.

  “Give me the drink.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, Kraft?” said Moseley in a voice loud enough for everyone on the terrace to hear him. “What are you, the bouncer or something?”

  “Or something,” Kraft said quietly. “Now give me the drink. You’ve had too much.”

  Moseley insolently took another sip.

  Aimée stared at the two of them, wondering if Moseley was drunk enough to take Charles on, kind of hoping in a way he would. He was two inches taller, maybe twenty pounds heavier, played football for Yale. Still, she was sure he’d get his ass kicked.

  “Give him the drink, Will.” Daddy had come out the door. He didn’t look happy. “Right now. Before you embarrass yourself any further.”

  “Yes, sir.” Moseley handed the glass to Kraft, who took it and went inside.

  “And you’re not to have any more tonight.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Daddy said to the half dozen or so guests who’d gathered around to watch, “I apologize for the interruption. Just a young man getting carried away with the joys of alcohol. Please go back to enjoying yourselves.”

  The gawkers wandered away. Daddy followed.

  “You liked that little show, didn’t you?” Moseley said to Aimée.

  “Actually,” she said with a small smile, “I was hoping for a little more action at the end.”

  Moseley glared at her for a minute. If looks could kill, Aimée thought to herself. If looks could only kill. Will stormed off in the direction of the dock where the Moseley yacht was moored. She knew for a fact there was plenty of booze on board.

  Chapter 11

  BY MIDNIGHT MOST of the guests had left. Julia found herself growing more and more irritated by the minute. Her mother was in the hall, locked in conversation with a hard-looking man Julia didn’t know. From her expression, Jules could tell she didn’t want to be disturbed, and she couldn’t think of anyone else she could commiserate with. Everyone, aside from Julia and her mother, thought the painting and Aimée’s little star-turn were so very wonderful. She walked over to the bar near the patio door. Mr. Jolley was gone, so Jules poured herself another glass of champagne from one of the bottles he’d left for the remaining guests.

  Julia knew she’d already had too much, but she was in no mood to stop. She took a sip and studied the century-old image of her half twin hanging on the other side of the room, a self-satisfied smile on her face, as if this room, this house, this entire fucking world had been made for her and her only. It made Jules crazy knowing that every time she came into this room, probably for the rest of her life, her bloody bitch of a sister would be staring down at her with that fucking smirk.

  Of course, Jules had gushed appropriately when Daddy unveiled the painting. But even then she knew she’d never be able to enjoy this room again the way she had in the past. It was as if Aimée was laying claim to it. Just as she’d laid claim to the old studio because she, and not Julia, was a painter like the first Aimée. And laid claim to Will Moseley, who wanted Aimée so much more than he’d ever wanted Jules.

  According to the New York Times Arts Section, Daddy had paid $2.4 million for the painting. And he probably would have gone higher. All for his beloved Aimée. His two beloved Aimées. Would he have paid so much if the painting had looked like Julia instead of Aimée? If the genetics had gone the other way and she’d inherited the Whitby genes, or, perhaps more accurately, the Garnier genes and Aimée hadn’t? But there was no way to answer that, because then she’d be her sister and her sister would look like a blonde reporter for the Press Herald. Julia told herself to stop thinking that way. It would make her crazy.

  She walked across the living room, where her father was still talking to the few remaining guests, and into the empty study, closing the door behind her. She went to a glass case that stood against the far wall. She looked down at the Tanto, the antique Samurai dagger, with its elaborately carved bone handle and sheath. Dating back to the fourteenth century, it was purchased by the first Edward Whitby on one of his voyages to the Far East. It was still sitting where it was supposed to have been, but wasn’t, the day Garrison used it to murder his mistress. What if she followed Garrison’s example? She imagined herself climbing a ladder late at night, slipping the Tanto from its sheath, raising it high and shredding the fucking painting into a million worthless pieces. Daddy would get his money back. She was sure he’d insured it for at least what he’d paid for it. Maybe more. But of course he’d never forgive her. She’d be disowned and disinherited, assigned forever to Whitby purgatory, if not to hell. On the other hand, was there any reason he had to know it was she who’d wielded the blade? Julia reached for the sides of the glass case and began to lift it. She just wanted to feel the heft of the knife in her hand.

  “A real bitch, isn’t she?”

  She started at the sound of Will Moseley’s voice coming from behind the back of the leather couch. She hadn’t noticed him lying there. Had he seen her opening the case where the knife was kept? She couldn’t be sure.

  “A real honest to God bitch,” he repeated. “Aimée, I mean.”

  Moseley got to his feet and took a long swig from what looked like a glass of whiskey. He must have brought it from his father’s boat, or perhaps filched it from the kitchen. The bartenders had all been instructed not to give him anything more to drink. Still, that had been four hours ago, and he seemed more sober now.

  “Aimée?” Julia responded. “A bitch? Don’t be silly, Will. Everybody knows how wonderful Aimée is. No, I take it back. Wonderful’s not nearly a good enough word. Not for Aimée. Perfect is better. Yes, perfection in every way. The perfect daughter. The perfect student. The perfect girlfriend. And, oh yes, I guess when it comes down to it you really are right, the perfect bitch.”

  Julia flopped down in a big leather chair opposite the sofa. “And there she’ll be, the bitch over the fireplace, staring down at us forever.”

  Will said nothing.

  “I wonder if you have any id
ea, my darling Will, what it’s been like having to play second fiddle every day of my life to such an amazing, beautiful, perfectly wonderful sister.”

  Will smiled. “Don’t worry, Jules. You’ll get your chance to shine.”

  Julia smiled a bitter smile. “Will I? Who knows? But I can promise you one thing. I have no intention of living in Aimée’s shadow forever.”

  Moseley rose, went to the chair where Julia was sitting and pulled her to her feet. He put both his drink and her champagne on a side table and put his arms around her waist. He pulled her close.

  She pulled away. “Don’t play games with me, Will. Not tonight. I know it’s Aimée you really want. Just like every other male in the place. At least the ones who don’t need Viagra. And, frankly, I’m in no mood tonight to play the role of that other Whitby girl. You know, the not quite so pretty one? The one who didn’t quite make valedictorian. Oh darn, what’s her name? I can’t seem to remember. No. No more of that. Not tonight, Will. Not with you. Not with anyone. Not ever. I’ve been cast in that role for far too long. It’s time for me to put a stop to it.”

  Moseley, still hopeful he could somehow work his magic, moved in and nuzzled her neck. “Oh, come on, Jules. You know how much I’ve always liked you. Because you’re you and not ‘that other Whitby girl.’ ”

  “Maybe some other time, Moseley, but not tonight.”

  Will sighed. “Fine.” He moved his hands from around Julia’s waist. “So who’s the perfect bitch hanging out with tonight? That black guy? Or maybe that asshole Kraft? Or has she found some other poor sucker?”

  “You really want to know?” asked Julia, lowering her voice to a whisper, as if she was about to reveal a deep, dark secret.

  Moseley nodded. “Yeah. I really want to know.”

  “Who’d you have for senior English?”

  “At Penfield?”

  “Yes, at Penfield.”

  “You have got to be kidding. That poetry-spouting twink? He’s got to be at least twice her age. And, frankly, I always thought he was a fag.”

  Julia smiled. Exactly what her mother had said when Julia told her about Aimée’s affair a couple of weeks ago. She was certain her mother would put a stop to it. But she hadn’t. At least not yet.

  “Ssssh.” Julia put a finger over Moseley’s lips. “Not so loud. They’ll hear you. But you’re at least half right. He’s thirty-six.”

  “Jesus. Did Aimée tell you this?”

  “Of course not. It’s her secret. And his. If it ever went public, Penfield would kick his tail out of there so fast it’d make his head spin. And God knows what Daddy would do. Of course, Will, I know I can count on you not to breathe a word of it.” She smiled at him conspiratorially. “I mean I can, can’t I?”

  “If it’s such a big secret, how come you know about it?”

  Jules smiled her cat-who-swallowed-the-canary smile. “Oh, I have my ways.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as figuring out people’s passwords. But I can count on you not to say a word about this, can’t I?”

  “Who would I tell?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Your old Penfield buddies. Your father maybe.”

  “Not a word.” Moseley smiled and took another slug of his whiskey. “Not a word.”

  Chapter 12

  MCCABE WOKE WITH a start when he heard the front door open and then softly close.

  A male voice came from the living room. “You got any beer?”

  He instinctively reached for his weapon. It wasn’t there. He didn’t remember locking it up. He sat up, ready to get out of bed and find it, when he heard Casey’s urgent whisper. “Sssh. Be quiet. My father’s here. He’s sleeping.”

  He looked at the bedside clock to see if she’d made curfew. Just after midnight. Nearly an hour early. Which he would have felt good about if his head wasn’t hurting and his mouth didn’t feel like sandpaper.

  The male voice came again, this time speaking in not quite a whisper.

  “Sorry. You got any beer?”

  “Yes. But you can’t have any.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a cop, you jerk, and you’re underage. If he woke up, he’d probably throw both of us in the clink.”

  “C’mon. You’re kidding, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m kidding. He’d only throw you in the clink.” There was a brief silence. “All right. He wouldn’t throw you in the clink either, but he wouldn’t be happy.”

  McCabe knew he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on his daughter and somebody who might be her boyfriend, but it was too much fun not to. He was tempted to wander out and say hi and give the kid the once-over, but he knew Casey would give him absolute hell if he did. Not knowing what else to do, he piled up four pillows—his two and Kyra’s two—and lay back on his bed without turning on the lights. Parenting was hell.

  Okay, he told himself. It was just after midnight. He’d been dead to the world for nearly nine hours. Unlikely he’d get any more sleep. He wondered if the world had changed in any meaningful way since he’d gotten himself so stupidly, staggeringly drunk. He checked his phone. No calls from Kyra. It was only a little after nine in San Francisco. She was probably out at dinner with some guy who wasn’t a cop.

  Nearly dawn in England. He supposed Sandy was still snoozing in London, dreaming about shooting grouse or riding to the hounds or whatever the hell it was Lord MuckyMuck had planned for the weekend. On the other hand, maybe her plane had crashed and she was dead. That’d suit him just fine, except a lot of other people would have died with her. So maybe her plane had just developed engine trouble and had been diverted to someplace like Gander, Newfoundland. Man, would Sandy ever be pissed off finding herself in Gander. Who the hell can you show off to in Gander?

  Tired of lying down, McCabe got up again and listened to Casey and the boy speaking softly. Nothing of consequence. Then the talking stopped. He supposed they were making out. Hoped the kid, whoever he was, deserved whatever affection he was getting. He was pretty sure things wouldn’t go very far. Not with Daddy, the cop, supposedly asleep in the next room. He heard soft laughter. A whispered good-night.

  I love you.

  Yeah, I love you too. See you Saturday.

  The door to the apartment opened and closed. The door to Casey’s bedroom opened and closed. McCabe walked to the window and peered through the blinds. He watched a tall skinny kid with carrot-top hair leave the building. Kind of geeky looking. Geeky is good, McCabe told himself. Geeky wouldn’t push things too far too fast. The kid stopped. Took out a cell phone. Began texting. With his fingers still pecking away at the phone, he got into his car, an old Saturn, started the engine and drove away.

  I love you. I love you too. See you Saturday.

  Probably wouldn’t come to anything. She’d be in Providence come September. Ready for new adventures with college boys. The idea of being without her, of being alone with both Casey and Kyra gone, was painful.

  Okay. No way was he going to sleep any more. He supposed he could go to the office, but he didn’t have much to do there either. Maybe go for a run? Nah. Running while hungover wasn’t appealing. He looked around the room. The bed, the rocking chair, the empty closet where Kyra’s clothes used to hang. It all felt like it was closing in. He needed air. And space. He went to the kitchen. Put on a pot of coffee. Came back. Took off the clothes he’d been sleeping in. Blue button-down shirt, crappy tie and gray pants. Clearance rack stuff from Men’s Wearhouse. The raspy voice from the commercials growled through his mind. You’re gonna like the way you look. But he didn’t like the way he looked. Point of fact he thought he looked like shit. Still, you had to save money somewhere.

  He took a one-minute shower. Dried himself and found a pair of jeans and a blue sweatshirt with USM written across the front. He pulled them on. Sorted through the shoes in the closet and found some black Nikes. He unlocked the gun safe, pulled out his holster and service weapon, checked the load and strapped it on. Pulled the
sweatshirt down over it. Not that he thought he’d need the gun, but he never left it unattended in the apartment.

  He poured a large travel mug of black coffee. Crept into Casey’s room. Watched her sleep for a few seconds, her face softly lit by moonlight streaming through the window. A face so like Sandy’s. A personality so different. He kissed her softly on the forehead. Sleep well, my love.

  “G’night, Dad,” she murmured.

  He double-locked the apartment door and headed down and out into the pleasantly cool night air. He walked over to the only good thing—not counting Casey—that had come out of his eight-year marriage. A cherry-red ’57 T-Bird convertible he and Sandy bought the first year they were together and had spent innumerable weekends restoring. Even more weekends driving out to the Hamptons with the top down.

  He turned the key and listened with pleasure as the big Ford V8 came to life with a throaty roar. He took a minute to connect his smartphone to the newly installed Bluetooth player and tapped Bird: The Complete Charlie Parker on Verve. Hadn’t listened to much else since he’d downloaded the life’s work of the musician he considered the greatest and most innovative jazz man of all time. As the sounds of Bird’s sax tumbled out of the speakers, McCabe pulled his own Bird out onto the Eastern Prom and roared off to the left, heading for the interstate. He lowered both windows and sucked in cool, fresh air. He didn’t know where he was going, but there were plenty of empty places in Maine, and he just wanted to lose himself.

  As he drove, McCabe’s mind went back to the final scene with Kyra. She’d threatened to leave him before. Had actually done it a couple of times when he’d been so absorbed in a case he barely said hello. He knew that pissed her off. He’d be pissed if she did the same to him. He couldn’t count the times he told her he was sorry. Mostly she forgave him. Said it was just the way he was made. An obsessive personality obsessing about catching and punishing one slime ball or another who thought he could get away with rape, murder, assault, whatever.