by James Hayman
“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.”
“How’d he know that?”
Kraft’s smile disappeared “At the moment, I’m not sure I’m free to tell you that.”
Maggie decided not to
press him. Instead she took out her phone and looked up the Wikipedia page for The Orion Group. It was right there in the first paragraph. The company was founded in 1987 by former Navy Seal Dennis McClure.
“Is Dennis McClure any relation to Deirdre?”
“Her brother.”
Chapter 44
LUCY MCCORKLE SAW the killer before he saw her.
Wanting the cover of darkness, Lucy waited till ten o’clock Friday night before pushing her shopping cart across the parking area of the mini-mart. She left the cart just outside, opened the door, walked into the store and there he was, standing at the counter buying a pack of cigarettes. He was no longer wearing the white jacket. Just a pair of black pants and a blue denim shirt with fancy-looking shoes on his feet. She couldn’t quite see all of his face; still, she had no doubt it was him.
She told herself to turn around and get the hell out of there. To disappear. Get lost. Or at least head down to the back of the store, where it was darker and he might not notice her. But she didn’t. She just stood there, as if rooted to the spot, right in the doorway, staring at him.
She wondered if, when he turned, he would know she was the one who’d seen him kill the girl.
Of course he would. She recognized him, so why wouldn’t he recognize her?
Maybe because while she’d seen not just his face but his whole body, even his ass and his pecker when he was banging away at the girl, he’d only seen her eyes and maybe a little of her face, and even that for only a few seconds in the dark.
When the killer handed the clerk, a kid named Roger, a twenty-dollar bill to pay for the cigarettes, Lucy told herself again to turn around and leave the store. Or disappear into the back. But hard as she tried to make that happen, she couldn’t get her feet to work. It was like they were glued to the floor. So she just stood there and stared as Roger put the twenty to the side of the cash register. Counted out the change and handed it over. The killer tucked the cigarettes, a green pack of Newports, into the breast pocket of his shirt, checked his change and stuffed it into his pocket.
That’s when he saw her. He studied her for a few seconds, brows furrowed, an uncertain expression on his face.
Lucy stared back. Then she changed the stare to a smile. “Hey, mister, can you spare an old lady a couple of bucks so maybe I can buy myself a little something for dinner? And maybe a pack of them butts?”
His expression changed from uncertainty to an easy smile.
Run, a voice in her head was screaming. Run out of here, you stupid old bag.
But she didn’t run. She didn’t move.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a five and handed it to her. “Here. This won’t get you the butts, but maybe it’ll get you something to eat.”
Lucy took the money and looked at it. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Thank you. God will bless you for this. He will reward you in heaven.”
The man must’ve thought that was funny, cause he laughed. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he said. Lucy moved out of his way.
“See you around,” he said, winking at Lucy. Then he pulled the door open and left.
She watched him cross the parking lot and wondered if maybe she was wrong and this wasn’t the guy who killed the girl. Sure looked like him though. Maybe he just hadn’t recognized her. She visibly relaxed as he climbed into a car. Rear lights blinked as he started the engine and pulled out onto Washington Avenue.
Lucy watched the car go. For a minute she wondered if maybe she really had just imagined the whole thing. But all she had to do was put her hand in her pocket and feel the money and the wallet to know it was real. She was surer than ever she’d just taken five bucks from a murderer then watched him drive away.
“Go get what you want, Lucy,” said Roger, “then get out. The boss doesn’t like you hanging around here too long.”
Lucy limped on her sore legs toward the back of the store, past the rack where they kept the liquor and wine. Made sure Roger couldn’t see her. She opened the wallet belonging to Veronica Aimée Whitby, pulled out the green debit card and slid it into the slot. The machine said Remove card quickly. Lucy did. Please enter your personal identification number. Lucy entered 4932. To her amazement, a group of choices appeared on the screen. Lucy pressed the one that said Get Cash. She peered around the corner of the wine shelf to see if Roger might be watching her, wondering what she was doing back there. But he wasn’t. He was ringing up a purchase for another customer and didn’t seem to know she was still in the store. Nobody else was down this end, so Lucy turned her attention back to the ATM. The message on the machine asked her if she wanted the money from checking or savings. Lucy hit Checking. Then it asked her to select the amount of money she wanted. Gave her a bunch of choices. $20. $40. $80. $100. Other. Shit. A lousy hundred dollars. Was that all she could get? She pressed Other. Please enter the amount of cash you would like to withdraw. Lucy thought about that for a minute, not being sure how much money the machine was allowed to give her. She tapped in $1,000 and hit Enter. Another message came up. Sorry. That amount exceeds the daily limit of cash that may be withdrawn from this ATM. Please enter an amount between $20 and $400. Lucy entered $400. Then the damned machine asked another question. Your bank charges a $3.00 fee for this transaction. Do you accept this fee? Please hit yes or no. Lucy peered around the shelf again. Now Roger was sitting behind the counter, reading a copy of the Forecaster and drinking some coffee. Lucy hit the Yes button. She held her breath for what seemed like a long time. Then the machine started spitting out twenty-dollar bills like there was no tomorrow. Lucy watched in amazement as one twenty after another came sliding out of the machine, making a sound like kachung, kachung, kachung every time another twenty joined the pile. When it seemed to be finished, she removed the wad and folded the bills over and stuffed them into her pocket. Do you want another transaction? the machine asked. Lucy pressed No and waited for the receipt. She pulled out the little slip of white paper and looked down at it.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she murmured, her heart beating just as fast as it had when she saw the killer ram the knife into the girl’s gut. She closed her eyes for a minute and breathed slowly in and out, hoping the breathing would slow down the pounding in her chest. Then she opened her eyes and looked one more time at the white slip of paper. Not the whole thing. Just the last line where it said, Remaining Balance: $21,476.89.
Staring at the number, Lucy wondered again if she shouldn’t tell the lady cop on Vesper Street, the one who called herself Maggie, about seeing the killer. Tell her what he looked like. What color car he drove. Even what kind of butts he smoked. Get the bastard off the street before he killed her or anyone else. No reason she had to say anything about the debit card or about the twenty-one grand. If she could just hold on to that, Lucy could get herself cleaned up, rent a small apartment and fill the place with enough bottles of good vodka to last her just about forever.
Chapter 45
From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.
July 16, 1924
Over the course of that spring, Aimée and Garrison made a number of subsequent trips to the house at 22 Walnut Street. On each occasion Aimée used the key to let them in. They usually stayed about two hours before leaving and going their separate ways. When parting, they shook hands formally on the street. Whelan reported seeing no kisses, no hugs, no overt signs whatsoever of physical affection or sexual attraction.
Nevertheless, reading Whelan’s confidential reports were an agony to me. I pictured Aimée and Garrison together in that house, imagining them engaged in acts not only of intimacy but of the utmost depravity. In my mind I could hear them laughing at how thoroughly they had pulled the wool over the eyes of the unsuspecting cuckold. I was seized with the urge to follow Aimée myself on her next trip. To smash down the doors of Delphine’s house and to catch them in flagrante delicto. To take out my revolver and kill both of them then and there. Of course, to follow them would have been impossible. Aimée would have n
oticed me instantly.
Moreover, before confronting Aimée, I told myself I needed absolute proof of her infidelity. I needed Whelan to catch her in the act. All the detective had provided me with thus far was information that Garrison and Aimée had been seen entering a house belonging to Aimée’s friend Delphine Martineau. Perhaps all they had done while there was to have tea in the garden with or without Delphine in attendance.
Whelan suggested that he call on Delphine and ask her about the visits. Discover whether she knew of them. Ask why Aimée had a key to Delphine’s house. I forbade him from doing so. All that would accomplish would be to alert the lovers of my suspicions. Instead, I asked him if he was capable of picking a lock. He said that he was, but that entering a house belonging to someone else without permission violated the law. If seen in the act, he was liable to prosecution. It took only a little monetary persuasion to convince Whelan to change his mind.
The following Wednesday I received a telephone call from Whelan asking me to meet with him in his small office on Exchange Street. I went around, expecting the worst.
“Take a seat, Mr. Whitby.”
With great difficulty I sat.
“Yesterday I followed your wife to Boston, as I have been doing. By the way, she has begun noticing me on the train. Hopefully she thinks of me as someone who commutes regularly for business purposes.”
“As you are.”
“Yes, I suppose. Anyway, before arriving at the house, I put on a false beard and spectacles and changed my jacket to prevent her from recognizing me. I then allowed them a good forty-five minutes alone in the house before I began working the lock. It only took a minute to trip the tumblers and let myself in. Happily, no one saw me on the street, and there was no one on the ground floor inside. It was a very elegant house, I must say. Many fine paintings and objects of art.”
I was growing impatient. “Get to it, man. Did you see them?”
“Yes. In the main bedroom upstairs.”
My stomach tightened, waiting for Whelan to describe the scene.
