The Girl In The Glass (24 page)

Chapter 49

M
AGGIE HAD NO
idea where she was or why. She could hear an odd buzzing inside her ears and seemed to be surrounded by an obnoxious mixture of burning oil and rubber. The pounding inside her head was as bad as any headache she could ever remember having. Worst of all, her eyes seemed glued together.

She felt someone pick up her hand and begin stroking it. She didn’t know who was doing the stroking, but since it felt really good, maybe it didn’t matter. She just hoped whoever it was would keep on doing what they were doing.

After another minute or two, Maggie made a greater effort to open her eyes. When she finally managed it, she saw a pair of McCabes sitting in identical chairs next to her bed. Not exactly two whole McCabes. More like one McCabe overlapping with another, giving her the impression that he now had three eyes, one and a half noses and a really long mouth.

“How do you feel?” one of the McCabes asked. Or maybe it was both of them.

It seemed like a stupid question, so she didn’t bother answering.

“Do you know where you are?”

She looked around. “Hospital?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Of course I know who you are. I’m just not sure why there happen to be two of you.”

Both McCabes must have thought that was funny, because both their extra long mouths chuckled when she said it. Maggie didn’t chuckle back. Having more than one McCabe didn’t seem funny at all. Nor was a throbbing that felt like a mule had kicked her in the head any laughing matter.

As she kept looking at him, the two McCabes slowly melded into one.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Eight thirty in the morning.”

“Saturday morning?”

“Yup. Saturday.”

“What time’s the graduation?”

“Starts at ten.”

“Can somebody give me something for the pain?”

McCabe went out into the hall. A minute later he came back with a nurse, who asked her a few questions, then gave her a Percocet.

“Now that you’re awake, maybe you can give me your version of what happened.”

Amazingly, she remembered it all in detail. The shoot-­out in front of her house. Lucy McCorkle lying dead, half on and half off her porch steps. She recounted it all, right down to the point where the sonofabitch picked up the RPG and she dove into a ditch to avoid the explosion. “Poor old Lucy,” Maggie sighed. “Never even got to spend the four hundred bucks she pulled from the ATM. Had to be her biggest payday in years. Please don’t tell me the bad guy got away.”

“Yup. He got away, all right.”

“Shit.”

“Guess he thought you’d been killed by the explosion, or maybe he just heard the sirens coming. Either way, he raced out of that cul-­de-­sac like a bat out of hell and disappeared without checking to see whether or not you were dead. Couldn’t have been more than a minute or so before the cavalry arrived. A ­couple of units reported hearing the explosion, so they may even have passed him going the other way.”

“How’s the car I was driving?”

“What car would that be?”

“That bad, huh?”

“A burned-­out wreck. You jumped just in time to avoid being turned into a crispy critter. According to the doc, you suffered what he called a blast-­related concussion. Pretty common in war zones. Not so much in Maine. They gave you a CAT scan, which didn’t show any brain damage, so the neurologist thinks you’ll be fine.”

“Thinks?”

“Just covering his ass. Concussions are tricky.”

Maggie didn’t like thinking about that. At least the Percocet was taking effect and the pain in her head was fading out. “So when can I get out of here?”

“Pretty much whenever you want.”

“Right now sounds like a good time to me,” Maggie snorted. She kicked McCabe out of the room and changed back into her clothes.

Ten minutes later, she had checked out and was following McCabe out to the Bird. “Where to?” he asked.

“Home to shower and change. These clothes are filthy.”

They headed toward Vesper Street. “I want to get that bastard,” Maggie muttered, staring out the window at the empty Saturday-­morning streets.

“No more than me. At least we now know for sure that it was a third man and not Byron Knowles.”

“I shot him, you know.”

“No. I didn’t know. Where and how bad?”

“His calf, I think. If it missed the bone, it probably went straight through and out the other side. Jacoby should be able to find both the bullet and blood spatters in the road by the front of my house. Could give us the DNA we need to nail the guy.”

McCabe called Bill Jacoby and told him there might be blood from two ­people at the Vesper Street crime scene.

“Lucy McCorkle’s on the porch steps. The killer’s by the curb. Get somebody over there and make sure you’ve got both. Then put the highest priority on getting the reads.”

Ending the call, McCabe said to Maggie, “Okay, now all we need to do is find a match.”

“We will if the guy is ex-­military, which I think he is. If he served in Iraq, which he might have, they’ll have his DNA on record. Harlan told me they recorded DNA for everybody they sent over there.”

“Really? Why?”

“To identify the dead when there wasn’t enough left of them to tell who they were any other way.”

“Is it the RPG that makes you think he’s ex-­military?”

“There’s that. But did I tell you I spoke with Kraft last night?”

“Yeah.”

“While we were talking . . .”

“And you were flirting?”

“Yeah, and I was flirting, I asked him how he got his job with Whitby. Turns out he was recommended by the founder of Orion. It also turns out the founder of Orion is a man named Dennis McClure, who just happens to have done a substantial amount of work for Whitby Engineering & Development.”

“And who just happens to have a sister named Deirdre?”

“You got it. Mrs. Deirdre McClure Whitby, the woman too upset by the killing, too
emotionally fragile
to even talk to us on the island yesterday. Her big brother runs a company crawling with contractors, both current and former employees, all of whom are certified experts in killing ­people. ‘Gee, Dennis,’ Maggie vamped, ‘your little sister needs a little help.’ ”

“Those guys are probably certified experts in taking out vehicles with rocket-­propelled grenades as well,” said McCabe. “And Mrs. Whitby also has access to all the money she needs to pay the bill.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Weird, isn’t it? The idea of Edward Whitby’s wife using Edward Whitby’s money to kill Edward Whitby’s daughter.”

“Makes perfect sense though. Deirdre takes Aimée out of the picture and, bingo, just like that Julia moves up in the rankings to become Edward Whitby’s new dearest, favorite little girl.”

McCabe thought about that for a minute. “I wonder if there was more to it than Deirdre and Julia being jealous of Aimée.”

“Like what?”

“Like money. With Aimée gone, Julia now stands to inherit twice as much of the Whitby fortune than she did two days ago. And Deirdre probably does better as well.”

“I don’t know. Whitby’s only in his forties. Isn’t he a little young for his wife to be thinking inheritance?”

“He would be. Unless Lady Macbeth and the RPG man are planning, I don’t know, let’s say an unfortunate helicopter accident that would tragically make her a widow. I think maybe I better have a chat with both Mr. and Mrs. Whitby.”

“Not until after Casey’s graduation, you don’t. It starts in less than an hour.”

Chapter 50

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Graduation was scheduled for ten o’clock, and it was well after nine when he got back to the apartment and nearly ran into Casey going the other way. She was wearing a white dress and carrying her blue robe over her arm. Her mortarboard was sitting at a silly angle on top of her head.

“There you are,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

McCabe smiled at his daughter. Dressed up and made up as she was, it staggered him how much she looked like Sandy the day he’d first met her in a casting session at NYU Film School. Same features. Same long, dark hair. Same gorgeous blue eyes. Sandy then was the same age Casey was now. McCabe remembered falling instantly in love the minute she’d walked through the door.

“Is this where they’re auditioning actresses for the student film?” she’d asked, “the one being directed by somebody named McCabe?”

McCabe forced his mind back to the present. “Sorry I’m late,” he told Casey. “I’ll just run up and take a shower, shave and change. You take the car. I’ll grab a cab and see you at Merrill.”

“You take it. I’ve got a ride.”

“Good,” he said and headed into the building.

“There’s something I better tell you.”

“Later,” he called out and darted up the stairs.

“It’s important,” she called out. But he was already gone.

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School graduation ceremonies were taking place in Merrill Auditorium, an elegant, white-­and-­gold, nineteen-­hundred-­seat concert hall that had been built into the side of the new city hall in 1911 and totally renovated in 1997. McCabe circled the block three times looking for a parking space, finally said the hell with it and pulled into a lot on Pearl Street, where a guy was waving a flag and collecting five bucks for parking. McCabe hated giving it to him, since the police garage was only a ­couple of blocks away and was free, but he had less than five minutes to get to his seat before the kids started marching in. He rushed to the entrance and threaded his way through the two hundred or so graduating seniors who filled the entry hall. Spotted Casey and waved. She waved back.

The seats at the front were reserved for the graduates, and the rest of the orchestra section was packed. McCabe stood there, scanning the place for even a single vacant seat. That’s when he spotted Kyra waving to him on the far aisle about midway up. His heart skipped a beat.

He went up and slipped into the seat she’d been saving for him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I figured somebody ought to be here for Casey. You know, in loco parentis?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? In loco parentis?” McCabe’s whisper was louder than he intended. Several ­people turned and looked at him. “I’m parentis and I’m here.”

“I saw the news about the Whitby murder yesterday, and knowing you like I do . . . well, at the last minute, I hopped the red-­eye to Boston, rented a car and drove up here to play surrogate mother in case Casey needed one. I hope you’re glad to see me.”

“Of course I’m glad to see you, but if you were thinking there was any way I was going to miss my daughter’s graduation, I’m afraid you were wrong. Does Casey know you’re here?”

“Yes. I drove straight to the apartment. Since you were out hunting your killer, I told her I’d drive her to the ceremony.”

“Nevertheless saving me a seat?”

“Hope springs eternal.”

“You should have called me from the airport.” He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and kissed her on the lips. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m really glad to see you.”

“Me too.”

“How long are you here for?”

Just as Kyra whispered, “I’m not sure,” music filled the hall and the two hundred plus members of Portland High School’s graduating class of 2012 marched in and filled the front six rows of seats. Principal Roseanne Hatcher climbed up on the stage and welcomed parents, family members and friends of the graduates. “Before we proceed to awards,” she said, “I’d like to introduce the top ten graduates of the class of 2012 and ask them each to please rise.”

Casey was number five. “Cassandra McCabe,” said Principal Hatcher, “is the daughter of Sergeant Michael McCabe of the Portland Police Department and Cassandra Ingram of New York City. Casey, as we call her, is a member of the class executive board and participated in the Anatomy of Leadership program. She was on the women’s swimming, tennis and soccer teams and was a member of the drama club, art club and Shakespeare club. She also earned membership in the National Honor Society and was the recipient of the Brown University Book Award. Casey plans to attend Brown in the fall.”

Casey stood and acknowledged the applause before returning to her seat.

The ceremony continued for another hour and a half before the graduates filed out. Kyra and McCabe caught up with Casey on Congress Street. They all spent twenty minutes chatting with Casey’s friends and their parents.

“Shall we all go somewhere for brunch?” asked McCabe.

Casey scrunched her face up and said in an apologetic voice, “Sorry, Dad, I can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“A bunch of kids are going out to Higgins Beach for a barbecue. Since I wasn’t sure you were going to be here, I promised I’d go.”

“What made you think I wasn’t going to be here?”

“Well . . . you know? What with the murder and all, I thought you’d be too busy. I’d cancel, but I’m in charge of hamburgers and hot dogs.”

Kyra put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s all right. You go with your friends. Your father and I have some catching up to do anyway.”

McCabe gave Kyra a
maybe you ought to butt out
look, but he managed to hold his tongue.

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the two of them were sitting in the back booth at Tallulah’s.

Max came around to take their orders. “Hey, back again,” she said.

“I told you I hang here a lot. This is Kyra. Kyra, Max.”

“You feeling okay?” asked Max, sounding more than a little concerned.

McCabe smiled, nodded and thanked her for asking. Kyra ordered a mushroom omelet and coffee, McCabe a burger and a beer.

“Why did she want to know if you were feeling all right?”

McCabe shrugged. “No clue. Just takes an interest in my well-­being, I guess. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Then when I got to the apartment, you weren’t there.”

“I was at the hospital.”

Kyra waited for the explanation.

“Maggie nearly got blown up last night.”

“Oh, my God. What happened?”

“She found the bad guy and was chasing him. A real old-­fashioned car chase, like in
The French Connection
. Unfortunately, it turned out he was more heavily armed than she thought. A whole lot more. Since her car was faster than his, he lured her into a small side road and fired a rocket-­propelled grenade. Totally destroyed the car she was in.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, thank God,” McCabe sighed. “She just managed to jump out of the way. She seems fine, and the doctor says he thinks she’ll be fine. Still, she suffered a blast concussion, and you never can be sure of the long-­term effects when the brain gets bounced around like that.”

“Did you catch the killer?”

McCabe shook his head. “Not yet. But we will.”

Max brought his beer and Kyra’s coffee. Said the food would be out in a second.

McCabe reached across the table and took her hand. “How long are you staying?”

“I don’t know. A few days at least. I want to see my parents while I’m here. They just opened up the house in Tenants Harbor and . . .”

“Stay a little longer,” said McCabe. “Come stay at the apartment.”

Kyra shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.”

“Please. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Nothing we haven’t talked about a dozen times before.”

“I think we should give it one more try.”

“Don’t do this, McCabe. You’re going to make me cry. And I’d feel really silly bawling like a baby in the back booth at Lou’s.”

“Just promise you won’t go back to the coast till we’ve had a little time together.”

“How can we have time together when you’re in the middle of a murder? That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?”

“I’ll make time.”

“What’s wrong with this weekend?”

McCabe sighed. “Like you said, I’m in the middle of a murder.”