The Girl In The Glass (27 page)

Chapter 57

A
T EXACTLY
5:00
A.M.
on Monday morning, McCabe’s cell phone alarm broke into the first few bars of Arthur “Guitar Boogie” Smith’s “Feudin’ Banjos.” He fumbled around on his nightstand for a few seconds before he managed to find the phone and quiet the jangle. It took him a ­couple of seconds to remember exactly why he was getting up before dawn on a June morning. Simple, really. They still didn’t know who killed Aimée, and the number one suspect, Deirdre McClure Whitby, being dead, was unfortunately unavailable for questioning. McCabe figured his next best source on whether or not Deirdre had hired a contract killer was Mr. Orion himself, her brother Dennis.

McCabe pulled himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He showered, shaved and briefly debated whether a white shirt or a blue-­and-­white striped one would work best with the CEO of a company that specialized in safeguarding the lives of State Department and Pentagon bigwigs. He decided on stripes. Added his only red power tie and then put on the one decent suit he owned, purchased with the advice and consent of Kyra two years earlier for her favorite uncle’s funeral.

A cab was waiting downstairs. Fifteen minutes later it deposited him in front of the brand-­new terminal building at the Portland International Jetport. He had time for two cups of coffee and a glazed donut before boarding the six forty-­five US Airways flight to Reagan National. The flight was, as all flights seemed to be these days, totally booked, but at least he had an aisle seat and it took off on time. A little over two hours later, he emerged from a taxi in front of a nondescript modern office building on Crystal Drive in Arlington. No signs on the exterior indicating the names of any of the tenants. He walked through the revolving door and checked in with a blue-­jacketed security guard seated behind a curved desk in the center of the lobby.

“How can I help you?”

“I have a
9:00
a.m. appointment with Dennis McClure of The Orion Group.”

McCabe signed in as instructed and produced photo ID. The fact that he was a cop raised no eyebrows, and the security guy phoned upstairs.

“Please take a seat. Mr. McClure’s assistant will be down in just a few minutes.”

A few minutes turned into fifteen before a stunning black woman in a gray pants suit approached.

“Detective McCabe?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Edwina Starling, Mr. McClure’s assistant. I apologize for the delay, but he had an early meeting.”

Orion occupied the building’s top three floors. Ms. Starling pressed the button for the top floor.

The doors opened on a reception area paneled in rich walnut and decorated with some first-­rate modern art. To McCabe the place looked more like a white shoe Wall Street law firm than a company that specialized in sending heavily armed security guards into the hottest of the world’s hot spots.

Ms. Starling offered McCabe coffee. He declined and was then ushered into a large corner office with floor-­to-­ceiling window walls on both sides.

A trim, athletic-­looking man in his early fifties rose from behind a large glass desk and extended his hand.

“Sergeant McCabe? Dennis McClure.” McClure pointed him to the visitor seat in front of the desk, skipped any prelims and got right to the point. “I assume you’re here to talk about my sister’s death.”

McCabe could detect no obvious signs of grieving in McClure’s face or manner. No signs at all of being upset that his younger sister had had her head bashed in by her husband.

“Were you and Deirdre close?”

“Yes, we were close. I was the big brother she counted on and confided in. We spoke regularly by phone. Our families spent holidays together. Skiing. Sailing. Whatever. Last year we all went to Africa and climbed Kilimanjaro. I feel personally devastated by her death. Even more so because it was Edward who killed her. Now what else do you want to know?”

“You employ and have, over the years, employed a lot of ­people who know a lot about killing ­people.”

“Correction. They know a lot about protecting ­people. That’s what my company does. We protect both government and corporate personnel who are required to work in dangerous and unfriendly environments.”

“Yes. That’s what it said on your website.”

“We also provide our clients with confidential intelligence and intelligence assessments, not available from public sources, about opportunities and potential problem situations in what ­people generally call ‘hot spots.’ ”

“Yup. Saw that on your website too.”

“So now you know all about us. How else can I help you?”

“Ever hear the line ‘Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?’ ”

“Not that I recall.”

“It’s what King Henry II supposedly called out when he was looking for somebody to knock off Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“And the significance of this bit of trivia is?”

“Did Deirdre ever ask you for the name of someone to rid her of her troublesome stepdaughter?”

McClure raised both eyebrows in obvious surprise. “You think Deirdre had something to do with Aimée’s murder?”

“I think it’s possible. I also think Edward may have killed your sister because he suspected that she did.”

“If that’s what you think, then both you and Edward are full of shit.”

“A lot of ­people have told me that. On the other hand, most of them were ­people who had something to hide. Is there something you’re trying to hide?”

“The answer is no, she didn’t ask me for the names of any hit men.”

“Would you tell me if she had?”

“Probably not. But on the other hand, Deirdre worked here for a ­couple of years before she headed north in search of Whitby’s riches. I’d be surprised if she didn’t have a contact or two of her own left over from the old days.”

“That was more than twenty years ago.”

­“People stay in touch.”

“Could you come up with a list of Orion employees who worked here at the same time Deirdre did?”

“My HR ­people could, but I don’t think it will help you.”

“Why not?”

“Deirdre was a rich and resourceful woman. If she wanted to find a contract killer, I think she could have managed it on her own without having to use any of her old Orion contacts. And she’s smart enough to know it would be strategically better to hire someone who couldn’t be linked to her time with the company or to her in any other way.”

“Even smart ­people sometimes make mistakes, so if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate the list anyway.”

“Fine. I’ll get it in the works today, but I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew Deirdre better than anyone, and while my sister could be willful, spiteful and frankly a royal pain in the ass, she wasn’t a killer. It just wasn’t her style.”

“Are you coming to Portland for the funerals?”

“Of course. Also to be with Julia. Naturally, she’s in total shock over everything that’s happened. If Edward ends up going to prison, and maybe even if he doesn’t, I expect Julia will most likely be coming to live with us here in D.C. My wife flew up this morning, and I’ll be joining her tonight. And now, Sergeant, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have another meeting starting in just a few minutes.”

Chapter 58

B
Y THE TIME
McCabe got back to Reagan National, Tom Shockley’s face was peering down at him from every TV screen in the airport, alternating with file footage of Edward Whitby and still shots of Deirdre, Aimée and Byron Knowles. Obviously the Whitby murders had replaced the Syrian civil war as the major story
de jour
. On all three cable news networks it was all Whitby, all the time, most of it broadcast live from Portland.

After a brief search, McCabe managed to find a bar where the lone TV was tuned to a British soccer game. He went in and ordered a beer, taking refuge from the chief’s pontificating for the half hour he had to wait until his flight boarded.

A ­couple of hours later McCabe was back in Portland, pushing his way past a crush of reporters, TV cameras and news vans to gain entrance to 109. He found Maggie seated at the head of the conference room table, surrounded by piles of interview reports.

“How’d it go with McClure?” she asked.

“Says he didn’t give her any names and he doesn’t think she did it.”

“How surprising. Anything else?”

“Yeah. He’s sending us a list of ­people who worked at Orion the same time Deirdre did. That was twenty years ago, so they all should be old enough to have gray whiskers and chest hairs. We’ve just got to find out if any of them also have a leg wound. Anything happen here?”

“Quite a bit actually. Judge Nelson turned down Whitby’s bail request. Not because he thought Edward might fly the coop but because Burt convinced him that Whitby, given half a chance, was a definite suicide risk.” “Burt” was Assistant Attorney General Burt Lund, who’d been assigned to prosecute the murder case against Edward Whitby. “He’ll be arraigned this afternoon on one count of homicide for murdering his wife. Burt expects his lawyers will plead irresistible impulse. Also the board of directors of Whitby E&D met in emergency session this morning and appointed Robert W. Moseley interim CEO to serve until a permanent replacement can be found. And another thing, a white TrailBlazer with a number of bullet holes in it was found this morning in the parking lot at The Maine Mall. Whoever parked it there wiped it down for fingerprints and took his guns and rocket launcher with him. Car belonged to a Palmer Milliken lawyer named Murray Epstein, who we managed to contact in Santa Barbara, where he’s vacationing. He says he parked it in the long-­term lot at the Jetport over a week ago.”

“Anything else?”

“Not much except a long list of ­people we know didn’t do it. Julia seems to be in total shock. Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Barely able to talk. Doctor is keeping her heavily tranquilized.”

“Would Julia have had the money to hire someone to kill Aimée?”

“Yes and no. Both girls came into trust funds of a million bucks each on their eighteenth birthdays. However, Julia’s money is still sitting in an investment account at Moseley and Co. Even if she hired a killer on a buy-­now-­pay-­later basis, I don’t think she would have been capable of pulling this off.”

“Where is she now?”

“At home. Her aunt, Dennis McClure’s wife, got there this morning and is staying with her.”

“Dammit.” McCabe slapped his hand on the table in frustration. “It’s got to have been Deirdre. She had the motive. She had the money. And according to her brother, she had the contacts, with or without his help. She also knew both Byron and Aimée would be on the island Thursday night and that they’d probably be together.”

“But her brother doesn’t think she did it.”

“That means absolutely nothing. Do we have her phone records and e-­mails yet?”

“Came in this morning. The boys are going through them now. So far no calls, texts or other contacts that look even remotely suspicious. If she set this up, she either did it in person or got herself a disposable cell phone.”

“How about money? If she hired your friend with the rocket launcher, she probably had to pay him an up-­front deposit. Probably cash. Let’s get a warrant to search her bank accounts and see if she withdrew any large amounts recently.”

“Somebody with Whitby money could easily have an untraceable account. Cayman Islands. Belize. Wherever.”

“I know. But what else can we do?”

“Beats me. I guess we just wait for the lab to get us preliminary DNA results.”

Chapter 59

B
ETWEEN
M
ONDAY AND
Thursday no new evidence emerged in the case, and the cable news stations turned their primary attention back to the Middle East. At three thirty Thursday afternoon, the fourth-­floor elevator door slid open and Joe Pines, the DNA specialist at the state lab in Augusta, walked out. Pines was a small man, no more than five foot five, who wore large round glasses that gave him an owlish look.

“What are you doing here?” asked McCabe.

“I just got preliminary reads on all the samples you guys sent up. Terri told me to drive down and brief you on this in person.”

“Anything unexpected?”

“Yes.”

McCabe tapped Maggie on the shoulder, and the three of them went to the conference room and shut the door.

“All right, shoot. And please, Joe, try to keep it simple. Don’t go on about alleles and such.”

“Okay. We analyzed all the DNA collected from Aimée Whitby’s body at the autopsy. Aside from a lot of animal DNA coming from the dog, there were some additional significant findings. We analyzed DNA from human semen samples collected from her vagina. We’ve identified it as coming from the drowning victim Byron Knowles. No other semen. A rapist of course might have worn a condom. However, the DNA of the gray hair found on Aimée’s chest and some skin cells found under her nails turned out to be a match with the DNA collected in the blood sample at the end of Maggie’s driveway. In other words, the guy who shot Lucy McCorkle was also in close physical contact with Aimée Whitby.”

“So Aimée managed to scratch him?”

“Yes. Deeply enough to draw blood.”

“How about the samples taken from the apartment?”

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” said Pines.

“Go ahead.”

“As expected, most of the samples Jacoby collected in the apartment matched either Byron or Aimée. There were also a few random samples that may have come from the landlord or a previous tenant. However . . .”

Here Pines stopped for dramatic effect.

“However what?”

“Several of the samples turned out not to be random. We identified them as coming from a woman who is the daughter of the man who killed Lucy McCorkle. We don’t know who she is, but we do know she’s his daughter.”

Maggie and McCabe stared at each other.

“His daughter? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Every daughter gets half of her DNA from her father. The daughter in this case has half the killer’s alleles. Sorry. You didn’t want me to use that word. The unidentified woman in the apartment is definitely the daughter of the killer.”

“Jesus Christ.” McCabe turned to Maggie. “Do y’think Deirdre would have asked her father to kill her stepdaughter?”

Maggie shrugged. “Guess it depends who her father is.”

“Have you had a chance to analyze DNA from Deirdre Whitby?” McCabe asked. “The woman who was killed by her husband on Saturday.”

“No,” said Pines. “Nobody put a rush on that one. Wouldn’t have had results this fast even if you had.”

“Well, let’s put a rush on it now.”

“I hope this is important,” said Pines. “You guys are pushing a lot of other requests further down the line.”

“Joe, please. Trust me. It is important.”

“Who do you suppose Deirdre’s father is?” asked Maggie.

“Let’s see if we can find out.”

McCabe called Dennis McClure’s cell phone. To his surprise, McClure answered.

“What do you want now, McCabe?”

“Did you and Deirdre have the same biological father?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Did you and Deirdre have the same biological father?”

“Yes. She was my sister. We had the same father.”

“Where is he now?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

There was a long sigh on the other end. “What kind of bullshit are you chasing now, McCabe? I mean, hasn’t this family suffered enough?”

“Please. It could be important.”

“Our father is dead. He died three years ago in an automobile accident in Cincinnati. That’s where Deirdre and I were brought up. You have any other personal requests, or can I go now?” McClure hung up anyway.

“Deirdre’s father didn’t do it,” said McCabe. “So whose frigging father did?”

“I just thought of something,” Maggie said.