Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

Terri cannot help herself. The second cry, a deeper moan, draws her back toward the living room.

  At the foot of the stairs, Terri stops.

  Two profiles in the yellow light, her mother and her father.

  Her father wears only a shirt. Her mother is bent over the couch, facefirst, as Terri was. Her dress is raised around her waist; her panties lie ripped on the floor. As Ramon Peralta drives himself into her from behind, again and again, she cries out for him with each thrust.

  Terri cannot look away. Her mother’s face, turned to the light, is an unfeeling mask. Only her lips move, to make the cries.

  And then Rosa sees her.

  Her eyes open wider, looking into her daughter’s face with a depth of pain and anguish that Terri has never seen before. She stops making the sounds. Silently pleading with her daughter, her lips form the word ‘Go.’

  In Rosa’s silence, Ramon Peralta thrusts harder.

  ‘Go,’ her mother’s lips repeat, and then, still looking at Terri, she makes the soft cry of pleasure her husband wants.

  Terri turns and slowly climbs the stairs, footsteps soft so that her father will not hear. Her eyes fill with tears.

  Harris listened, impassive.

  ‘Did you ever talk about this?’ she asked quietly. ‘I mean, with your mother.’

  Terri touched her eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  Terri gazed at her a moment. ‘A few nights later,’ she said simply, ‘my father died. My mother and I never spoke of him again.’

  Chapter 8

  Terri dived for the yellow ball, flailing with her racket, and fell skidding chest-first on the green surface. It took a moment for Paget to notice; he was distracted by the flight of the shot she had hit, a laser forehand that flashed through the noonday sunlight and nicked the baseline, impossible to return. When he turned, he saw Terri sprawled on the court, laughing.

  ‘If you weren’t left-handed,’ Paget said with an air of petulance, ‘you never would have gotten there.’

  Lying in a patch of light and shadow, Terri tried to look aggrieved. ‘I could have abrasions,’ she said. ‘Maybe even contusions.’

  A light wind stirred the pines surrounding the court and the grassy park of which it was part. Paget walked to the net and stood with his hands on his hips, gazing down at her. ‘I’m finding it easy to withhold my sympathy. In fact, I think I’ve been hustled.’

  ‘I would never lie to you,’ Terri protested. ‘At least about tennis. I’ve hardly ever played.’

  That was true, Paget guessed. Which only made his problem worse; Teresa Peralta was a natural athlete, with the reflexes of a cobra and no interest at all in losing. Paget’s future in tennis did not look bright.

  ‘Get up,’ he demanded.

  Terri gave him a look, rolled on her back to inspect her knees for scrapes, and got back up to play. ‘Do you always lose this gracefully?’ she asked.

  ‘Hard to say. I haven’t had much practice.’

  When she settled in near the baseline, alert and ready, Tern’s intent expression had the trace of a smile. Paget served to her backhand, the weak point of the novice.

  Terri’s wrist flicked. The ball dropped over the net, landing two feet on Paget’s side with a little bit of backspin. Paget got there quickly, strained to reach the ball and loop it back. His ball landed in front of Terri with absolutely nothing on it.

  It bounced to the level of her eyes; Terri raised her racket, seeming to study it with a certain interest, and then casually batted it toward the spot Paget had vacated to return the shot before. For all the chance he had to get there, Paget might as well have been in Venice.

  ‘Tie,’ Terri announced innocently. ‘What do they call that in tennis?’

  Paget stared at her.’ “Deuce,” ‘he answered. ‘They call it “deuce.”’

  Terri nodded. ‘Deuce,’ she repeated. ‘Thanks.’

  The last recourse of the bully, Paget decided, was a killer serve.

  It was the hardest thing for a beginner to master and the hardest to return. Preparing to serve, Paget called on the memories of youth, trying to reconstruct the perfect form.

  He tossed the ball above his head, stretched to his toes, and brought the racket down in a savage arc that ended with a snap of the wrist. There was a deep ping; a yellow blur slammed past Terri’s feet and skipped to the fence. She stared at it a moment and then turned back to Paget.

  ‘Lessons,’ he said.

  Preparing for his next serve, Terri’s smile was grim.

  Something had locked in; when Paget tossed the ball again, stretching to hit it, the serve sped toward Terri’s backhand.

  Quickly, smoothly, she turned to the side and swung. A low, clean shot, clearing the net by two inches, zipping past Paget before he could even think to be surprised. Landing on the far side of the baseline, a foot too long.

  Terri stared at the ball in disgust.

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate the winner?’ Paget asked. ‘Jump the net or something, like the graceful loser that you are?’

  Terri turned to him with an inscrutable expression. Then she slowly placed the racket on the court, bent forward, and performed a handstand.

  To Paget’s astonishment, Terri began to walk on her hands. She did that all the way to the net, turned around, and backflipped over to land in front of Paget.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said.

  Paget stared at her, suspended between laughter and amazement. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

  ‘I used to be a gymnast, till I was about fourteen. My mother was my biggest fan; I guess she figured it helped me get out of the house.’ Terri grinned. ‘Elena still loves to watch me do it. So if we ever do have a kid of our own, she can tell all the other kids that her mom can walk on her hands. They’ll think I’m terrific.’

  Paget laughed. ‘I think you’re terrific. In any position.’

  ‘That’s for later.’ Terri took his arm. ‘In the meantime, don’t worry about yourself too much. You’re really not bad at tennis.’

  They picked up Tern’s racket, collected the balls and racket covers, and traded them for the picnic lunch in Paget’s convertible. They had resolved to set their worries aside and spend a day together; the fact that it was easier to do that by skipping work, when Elena was at school, only enhanced his pleasure. ‘It’s not that easy,’ he told her, ‘to be forty-six years old. Let alone to have an erratic backhand and a girlfriend who leaves palm prints on the tennis court.’

  Tern’s mouth flickered. ‘A committed girlfriend,’ she amended, ‘who thinks you’re sexy. At any age.’

  They spent two more hours, picnic spread on the grass, talking about everything and nothing, watching mothers or nannies play with kids too small for school. It was easy to be with him, Terri thought, the sun on their faces, to feel the deep friendship she always felt when they had time together. Perhaps, in months or even weeks, she would know what had happened to Elena and to Richie, and then the pieces would fall into place.

  Suddenly she remembered to glance at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Another mom is picking up Elena, but I can’t be late. The way things are, she’d think something happened to me.’

  Chris smiled. ‘Nothing happened to you. But it was a nice day, anyhow. At least for me.’

  The drive home went easily. Chris had a new Bonnie Raitt disc; they cruised in warm sunlight all the way to Noe Valley. Terri felt so relaxed that when she kissed Chris goodbye, she nearly promised to call him. Not even remembering the police could dampen her mood.

  She was humming a Bonnie Raitt tune as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. But when she arrived, her door was ajar. A two-inch crack.

  Terri felt fear on the back of her neck; it was a moment before she realized that she had thought of Richie, on the night she had found him inside. Another moment until she realized who must be on the other side of the door.

  But when she pushed it open, it was not Monk who looked up from
her desk, but Dennis Lynch. He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We thought we should do this when your daughter wasn’t here.’

  Terri stifled her anger. ‘I guess you have a warrant.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Showed it to the manager already.’ Lynch pulled the warrant out of his coat pocket and gave it to Terri, waving her to a couch. ‘Make yourself at home. We’ll only be ten, fifteen minutes.’

  Terri sat. From Elena’s bedroom came the sounds of drawers opening and closing. ‘Find anything interesting?’ she asked Lynch. ‘Like a drawer full of spare bullets? Or are you dusting Fisher-Price people for fingerprints?’

  ‘Just the usual routine,’ Lynch said. He was watching a crime lab cop in a white jacket, perched on his hands and knees in a far corner of the living room, picking at Terri’s rug with tweezers.

  ‘If you’re looking for fibers from Richie’s rug,’ she said, ‘they’re probably all over. I’ve been in his apartment, and he’s been in mine. In fact, this particular search is a serious waste of taxpayer money.’

  Except, Terri thought, if you want to frighten someone. And then it occurred to her: perhaps they were trying to frighten Chris, to see what he would do. Lynch, she saw, was watching her; he was not Monk’s partner for nothing, Terri thought – his deferential mask was an act.

  Another crime lab cop came from the hallway with Terri’s gray suit. ‘We’ll want to keep that for a while,’ Lynch told her calmly. ‘We’ll give you a receipt, of course.’

  It was that, strangely, which made her angry. ‘I don’t have that many suits, Inspector. And I don’t have any with gunshot residue, blood spatters, or traces of cerebral cortex on the hemline. I’d like you to leave that here.’

  The crime lab guy turned to Lynch. When Lynch gave him a querying look, the man pointed to a round spot on the lapel.

  ‘Ketchup,’ Terri said disgustedly. ‘From McDonald’s. Elena spilled it when she was sitting in my lap.’

  Lynch shrugged. ‘Got to check it out, that’s all.’

  Terri stared at him. ‘I’m sure you’ve been to McDonald’s. Why don’t you just lick it?’

  Lynch shook his head, as if disappointed by how hostile Terri seemed. Ignoring him, she began to read the warrant. It told her, as it was designed to, nothing at all. Nor did Lynch say anything much before he left, taking with him two crime lab cops, three evidence bags of rug fibers, a woman’s gray suit, and the tape from her answering machine. It was the last which reminded Terri that she could not call Chris to warn him.

  Chapter 9

  When Paget arrived home, still dressed in tennis clothes and sunglasses, there were two squad cars in the driveway, and Carlo was waiting for him on the front porch. His face was pale; the door was open behind him, and Paget heard voices coming from inside. Carlo held some papers.

  ‘Monk?’ Paget asked under his breath. When Carlo nodded, Paget took the warrant from his hand. It allowed a broad search; as always, it did not explain the basis on which the police asserted that there was ‘probable cause’ to comb Paget’s home for evidence in the death of Ricardo Arias.

  ‘I tried to keep them out,’ Carlo murmured. ‘One of the cops grabbed my arm and told me to stay in one place and be quiet.’

  His tone was shaken and embarrassed. Paget paused to touch his shoulder.

  ‘There was nothing you could do,’ he said reassuringly, and stalked into his house in search of Monk.

  A red-haired cop was standing in Paget’s library, peering into his fireplace. Carlo’s childhood games had been pulled out of their cabinet and turned upside down: Monopoly money and playing cards were strewn across the Persian rug. To Paget, it was a violation of the life he had shared with his son; his rage was so deep that he found it difficult to think.

  ‘Where’s Monk?’ he demanded.

  The cop turned to him, surprised. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here.’

  ‘I live here,’ Paget snapped. ‘I asked where Monk was.’

  The cop’s youthful face turned cold. ‘You’ll have to sit on the porch, sir. Unless you want me to cuff you.’

  Paget tilted his head. ‘Are you aware that I’m a lawyer?’

  The cop shrugged his contempt: the police, Paget knew, often considered criminal lawyers to be as dirty as their clients, cynical profiteers in a conspiracy to break the law. To tear apart the house of a wealthy defense lawyer was more than a duty; it was a deeply satisfying act of class warfare. When Paget did not move, the cop took the handcuffs off his belt and started toward him.

  ‘Because,’ Paget said coolly, ‘your warrant is fucked up. So before you do something truly stupid, go find someone who’s capable of understanding why.’

  Paget’s voice was tight; maintaining calm seemed to cost him a great deal. But the cop had stopped halfway across the room, the first flicker of hesitation in his eyes. ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ Paget continued. ‘When you find Charles Monk, take him aside and whisper the words “Special Master” in his ear. He’ll be quite impressed with your insight.’

  The cop flushed at Paget’s tone of contempt; the stain on his face emphasized freckles, making him look like a teenager out of his depth. Like Carlo, just moments before.

  ‘You wait right here,’ the cop ordered, and went upstairs. The petty satisfaction Paget felt vanished abruptly: Monk was prowling through his bedroom, he knew, with special attention to his clothes and shoes.

  Suddenly Paget heard the voice of his housekeeper.

  Walking to the living room, he saw the dark-haired Cecilia, a Nicaraguan woman with haunted eyes and a husband who had been murdered by guerrillas. She sat beneath the Matisse print of a dancer, warily answering the questions of a plainclothes detective with a tape machine. The sense of his own impotence hit Paget with a rush: the cops could ask what they wanted of whomever they wanted, take whatever they wanted, and Paget could do nothing but apologize to Cecilia.

  As he walked across the living room, the detective turned to him. ‘I’m sorry,’ Paget said to Cecilia. ‘But this will be over soon.’

  She looked up at him with a look of fear and shame; in the depths of her soul, she knew that authority had no limits. The detective, a brown-haired man with a brush cut and sad eyes, said to Paget, ‘You’ll have to go outside.’

  ‘Oh, I’m waiting here,’ Paget said. ‘For the Special Master.’

  Eyeing Paget with a look of wary thought, the man pulled some glasses out of his pocket, as if about to read the fine print on a contract. Paget looked past him to Cecilia. ‘Tell them whatever they want,’ he said softly. ‘Nothing you say can hurt me.’

  Paget felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Turning, he discovered Monk, with the young cop next to him.

  ‘I told him not to move,’ the cop told Monk.

  Please, the cop’s tone said, bust this asshole. Paget smiled at him. ‘There are more games in the library. Carlo used to like the one called Masterpiece.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, you’d have to know something about art.’

  Monk stepped between them; something in his yellow-brown eyes suggested that he had understood Paget’s anger. ‘Are there any legal files in the library?’ he asked Paget.

  ‘No.’

  He addressed the young cop. ‘Finish the library, then. And check with me before you do anything else.’

  Monk’s voice, calm and professional, suggested that Paget’s sarcasm was beneath the young cop’s notice. The cop’s face relaxed a little, and then he left the room.

  Monk folded his arms. ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ he remarked to Paget.

  It was odd; Monk’s invasion of Paget’s home seemed to bind them in a kind of intimacy, within which Monk could advise Paget on how to accept this new reality. Paget shrugged again. ‘What difference would it make, Charles? You going to go easier on me?’

  ‘Nope.’ Monk peered at him. ‘You keep files here?’

  Paget nodded. ‘So let’s review where we are. To inspect legal files, you need a Special Master to
screen them for privileged materials. You haven’t got one, or the warrant would have said so.’

  ‘True,’ Monk said calmly. ‘But if the lawyer in question is a target of the inquiry, you don’t need one.’

  Paget stared at him. ‘Am I a target? If you could justify that, you’d have enough to arrest me for murder. Which you damn well don’t, or I’d be downtown right now.’ He paused. ‘The D.A. screwed up.’

  Monk appraised him. ‘Even if you were right,’ he said slowly, ‘Just tell me where your files are, and we won’t look at them. ’Cause I don’t give a damn about files.’

  But Paget was determined to eke out this small victory. ‘It won’t work – they’re mixed in with other stuff. Besides, I bring work home at night, and sometimes I forget where I put my papers. So wherever you go, I go. Or you don’t go anywhere.’

  Monk was silent. Paget could follow his calculations: Paget might be playing games with him, but by going through the wrong papers, Monk could risk suppression of the evidence he did obtain. Paget guessed that he was wondering if, in his unsettled state of mind, Paget might betray some piece of evidence that concerned him or make an unguarded remark.

  ‘Where have you been so far?’ Paget asked.

  ‘Just your bedroom.’

  ‘Then let me speak to Carlo, and we can go back upstairs. But the deal is that we take it a room at a time, with me present. Anyone who isn’t with us waits outside the house.’

  Monk gazed past him at Cecilia and at the plainclothesman. ‘You about through?’ he asked the man.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Then you can pack up your stuff and leave. I’ll do the rest.’

  Paget turned and went to the porch. It was perhaps five o’clock; Carlo was on the steps, sitting in the shadow of the incongruous palm tree that, when he was seven, he had loved so much that he begged Paget to buy the house.

  Paget sat down next to him. ‘Sorry,’ he said softly.

  When Carlo turned to him, Paget was startled to see that his eyes were moist. ‘This scares me, Dad.’

  Paget touched his shoulder. ‘It’s hard to realize that they can do this to you. But what they’re looking for is evidence of some crime. There’s nothing to find here.’