The Girl In The Glass by James Hayman Read Free Book Online

work together. That you’re my boss. That we work with other detectives, none of whom are stupid.”
    “Well, there is Will.”
    “He’s no dummy either. If our relationship changed, ­people would know, and a lot of things about our jobs would have to change as well.”
    McCabe sighed. She was probably right about that too. “Okay, so what do we do now?”
    “Now? Now I’m going to call a cab to take you home. No way you should go staggering back to the office in the shape you’re in. And do me a favor? When you get there, don’t have another drink. Okay? Just go to bed. You look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

 
    Chapter 7
    I T ONLY TOOK a few minutes of flying time for Whitby Engineering & Development’s AgustaWestland 139 helicopter to go from the company helipad on the Portland waterfront to Whitby Island. Aimée always loved the ride. Especially on brilliant days like this. She leaned as far forward on her soft white leather seat as the seat belt would allow and pressed her face against the window.
    As the island came into view, it seemed to Aimée that the green of the trees bathed in summer sunshine made the place seem like a glittering emerald floating in the middle of a sea of sparkling diamonds. She glanced quickly at her fellow passengers. None was looking. Julia was too absorbed in Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl to notice emeralds, diamonds or anything else . Julia was smart. Quite pretty. A very good actress. Amazing how she could transform herself into someone like Blanche DuBois on the stage. Aimée sometimes wished she and Julia could overcome the twin thing. The two had been competing for both accolades and their father’s love since they were in the cradle. It was something Aimée wanted to resolve. She wanted them to be friends as well as sisters.
    In the middle seat, her stepmother, Deirdre, sat staring straight ahead. Deirdre hated the helicopter. Flying in it frightened her, and she avoided it whenever possible. Up front, next to the pilot, Daddy was talking loudly into his cell. Something about some Pentagon procurement officer fucking up some specs on some job or other. Charles, of course, was snoozing. It always amazed Aimée how Kraft could fall asleep instantly, even if only for a ­couple of minutes, then wake up alert and ready to go.
    As the chopper descended toward the helipad, Aimée watched dozens of white-­jacketed caterers stop their frantic scurrying to stare as it gently touched down.
    When they had safely landed, the worker bees returned to their activity, setting up dozens of tables, three bars and a large outdoor dance floor. Other workers went back to stringing lights from the trees. The main summer cottage, an eight-­thousand-­square-­foot mansion, was surrounded by patios and manicured gardens. Tonight all would be bathed in lights as soon as the sun went down and darkness fell. Everything would look stunning.
    Once on the ground, the misnamed Mr. Jolley rushed out to greet them and grab bags. The dour, skinny, sixty-­year-­old Scot was a retired cop from up in Houlton and the male half of the ­couple who took care of the place. He was also someone Aimée generally avoided when she could. Three years back, she’d caught the old fart peeping at her through a corner of the studio window as she was getting dressed after giving Will Moseley what he claimed was one of the best blow jobs in history. Will had reciprocated by providing Aimée with equally good treatment with his own tongue. She didn’t know how much Jolley had seen, but most likely the entire performance. He’d scurried away the instant Aimée spotted him. When she’d asked him what was he was doing there, he apologized profusely. Claimed it had been a total accident. Said it was part of his job to check on the cottages and he hadn’t seen all that much anyway. Aimée hadn’t pushed it. She sure as hell didn’t want Mr. Jolley, in his own