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

able to open up to somebody even if you had to get drunk to do it. You’ve been wound up so tight lately I thought you were going to explode.”
    She walked over to the bed, turned his face toward hers and gave him a kiss. “You gonna be okay?”
    “Yeah. I’ll be fine. And you’re right. I did need to let it out. And now I need to sleep. So buzz off, bambina.”
    “I probably won’t be here when you wake up. I’m going out tonight. To a party. Remember?”
    McCabe closed his eyes. “I remember everything. You know that. Try and be home by one.”
    “I will.”
    “You need the car?”
    “No. Somebody’s picking me up.”
    “Who?”
    “Just this kid.”
    “Boy kid or girl kid?”
    “Just a kid.”
    “Okay. No drinking.”
    Casey decided not to dignify that with an answer. She just leaned down and gave him a kiss. And then, thinking it wasn’t such a great idea to fall asleep with a loaded Glock 17 riding on his hip, she reached over and undid the buckle to his holster. After she locked the gun in the small safe McCabe kept for the purpose, she came back and kissed him again. “I’ll be back by one,” she said.
    “Make sure that you are,” he said and turned over. In less than a minute he was sound asleep.

 
    Chapter 9
    T H E G U E S T S B E G A N arriving before six. A flotilla of private boats, some motor, more sail, moored in the broad cove on the leeward side. The largest was a ten-­million-­dollar, eighty-­nine-­foot, Bill Tripp–designed, world-­class sailing yacht called the Sea Witch, owned by the movie star. There were half a dozen other good-­sized yachts and scores of smaller boats. From the moorings, a dozen twenty-­something “parking valets,” identically dressed in white sneakers, khaki shorts and blue polo shirts bearing the Whitby E&D logo, ferried guests from their boats to the smaller of the two docks and directed them up the pathway that led to the “cottage,” which stood two hundred feet back and fifty feet above the cove.
    Most of the arrivals were dressed informally, as the invitations had instructed. Of course, informally had been interpreted in a variety of ways, from blazers and ties for the men and elegant slacks and silk blouses for the women down to jeans or shorts and T-­shirts for the graduates.
    F R E S H F R O M H E R shower with a towel wrapped around her, Aimée gazed through the window as clusters of guests arrived on the stone terrace below. One group after another shook hands and air-­kissed Daddy and Deirdre. She was a little pissed her mother hadn’t been invited, even as a gesture. But both she and Daddy knew Tracy wouldn’t have come anyway. Still, the invitation should have been offered.
    Daddy, a warm smile plastered to his face, was listening to a pair of chatty Penfield parents. Periodically he glanced over their shoulders to see if there was anyone more important or more interesting in the area he ought to be talking to. Spotting the approaching figures of Margaux Amory and her husband, John Roach, he excused himself from the Penfield pair. Still exquisite in her mid-­sixties, Amory was once considered one of Hollywood’s best and most versatile stars. In fact, only a ­couple of weeks ago, Aimée and Tracy had enjoyed a “girls’ night in” watching Amory’s Oscar-­winning performance in a twenty-­five-­year-­old movie called Wet Work, in which she played a high-­class call girl who doubled as a paid assassin. Amory’s character had been hired to murder her hot-­looking client, who also happened to be a leading candidate for president. The storyline was bullshit, but Amory’s performance as a whore was amazing. It was a role for which, Aimée thought with a smile, Margaux was a natural.
    Aimée turned from the window and walked back to her dressing table. Using the image in Hidden Masterpieces for reference, she started preparing for her entrance. It took over an hour to get everything exactly right. The hair. The makeup.