Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  Carlo clasped his hands. He looked like a young boy holding on tight; for his son’s sake, it was all Paget could do not to hug him.

  ‘Didn’t you and Katie have plans?’ Paget asked. ‘I remember something about a movie.’

  Carlo gave a listless shrug. Suddenly, desperately, Paget did not wish for him to be here when the cops tore apart their home. He took some money from his wallet. ‘Here,’ he told Carlo. ‘Take Katie to dinner. Don’t let Monk ruin her night too.’

  Carlo shook his head. ‘I just want to stick around.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do. I’ve got to deal with the cops, and they won’t even let you back inside.’ He squeezed his son’s shoulder. ‘After dinner, go see a movie. By the time it’s over, we’ll have our house back.’

  Carlo turned to him, hesitant. ‘Please, son,’ Paget said quietly.

  Carlo scanned his face more closely; in that moment, Paget saw him understand how much this pained his father. He stood, still looking at Paget, unsure of what to say. ‘Call me,’ Paget told him, ‘if you’re going to be past ten or so.’

  It made Carlo smile a little. ‘Ten-thirty,’ he said, and walked down the steps to his car.

  Turning, Paget encountered Cecilia in the doorway. With mingled embarrassment and fear for him, she looked into Paget’s face. ‘They ask me to leave,’ she explained. ‘But I can come back later, Chris. To help clean up.’

  To hear his name pronounced ‘crease,’ as Cecilia spoke it, sometimes made Paget smile inside. It did not make him smile now: in Cecilia’s mind, the America where Paget lived had been a safer place than the Nicaragua where her husband had died, and no amount of explaining would change her first instinctive reaction to what the police would leave behind.

  Paget shook his head. ‘Go home, CiCi. Read to the children. Tomorrow, if I need it, you can help me.’

  He squeezed her hand and went inside.

  They were already in his bedroom. Monk had permitted the young cop to stay; when Paget entered, he had taken a pair of Terri’s panties from the nightstand on her side of the bed and was holding them to the light. He waited until Paget saw him and then, as Monk started in on Paget’s closet, turned the drawer of the nightstand upside down and spilled Terri’s perfume bottles and diaphragm onto Paget’s bed.

  An hour after sunset, Paget sat in the dining room amid the ruins of his home, drinking Courvoisier from a snifter Monk had left out on the table. At his feet were broken pieces of his grandmother Kenyon’s china serving platter, a gift at her wedding eighty years before: the young cop had knocked it off the china cabinet and, when Paget turned at the sound, blandly apologized for his clumsiness.

  It was the last room they had reached. By then the house was a wreck: Paget’s and Carlo’s drawers overturned; clothes strewn on the carpet; books tossed about like refuse, and silverware scattered on the kitchen floor. Paget had expected this: from his own clients’ experience, he knew that the police never picked up what they did not take.

  They had taken very little, mostly from Paget’s bedroom. Three gray suits, to check for bloodstains or tracesof Ricardo Arias’s hair or bone or brain matter. Several pairs of shoes, to inspect for fibers from Richie’s rug. A checkbook register that might reflect the purchase of a Smith & Wesson older than his grandmother’s broken china. All that Paget had expected; only when Monk demanded the keys to Paget’s Jaguar convertible, explaining that the crime lab people would return it in a week or so, did Paget notice that the last item on the warrant called for the impoundment of his car.

  The crime lab, the warrant stated, would need to check the car under ultraviolet light. Paget watched the young cop drive it away; it seemed to Paget that he had stopped at the head of the driveway, despite the absence of any traffic, and gazed at Paget in the rearview mirror.

  When the police had left at last, Paget went to close his empty garage. The block that had formerly hidden the leather-bound journal was tossed to one side; carefully, Paget replaced it.

  They had found nothing, he knew, in the library.

  Now he sat alone in the dining room.

  A few moments before, Terri had called for the second time: she had said just enough to tell him that she, too, had been searched. But she could not come to him, nor he to her. Rosa was unable to watch Elena that evening, and Paget had a house to make less ravaged before his son returned.

  Looking around him at the mess, he took the last warm swallow of brandy.

  His run for the Senate was in serious trouble. Tomorrow he would think about that; it seemed a small thing now.

  Why, he wondered, had Monk chosen suits that were gray?

  He went to the kitchen, threaded his way through the pots and pans on the floor, and picked up the telephone.

  Outside, through his windows, the city dropped toward the bay, a smooth oval of blackness, and the lights of Marin County twinkled in the hills beyond. The telephone he had dialed rasped in his ear.

  ‘Hello?’ the woman answered.

  ‘Caroline? This is Chris Paget.’

  ‘Christopher.’ The woman’s well-bred voice, nasal and faintly New England, conveyed a certain ironic pleasure. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Not for me, I’m afraid. It seems I’m in need of a lawyer.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Briefly, Paget heard the silence of her surprise. ‘Well,’ Caroline Masters replied, ‘at least you can afford me.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘If I were you,’ Caroline Masters said the next morning, ‘I might have considered torturing Richie first. But I gather you killed him straightaway.’

  Paget nodded. ‘More time-efficient. Getting the gun in his mouth was hard enough.’

  Caroline smiled over her cup of black coffee. ‘It’s good to see you again, Christopher. I’m just sorry it’s because the police made themselves so at home.’

  But Caroline was merely surprised. Paget was disoriented. Part of it was the lingering disbelief that he needed a lawyer; the other was seeing Caroline Masters again. Caroline had been the judge in the Carelli hearing, the star of a televised morality play watched by millions of viewers. Offers had poured in, Paget knew – law, politics, even the media: in the end, Caroline had accepted a partnership in San Francisco’s largest firm, Kenyon and Walker, because it best served her ambitions.

  It made sense for both sides. Caroline not only was a draw for clients but had been an exceptionally skilled defense lawyer; with her combination of criminal-law toughness and Eastern pedigree, Caroline could make the most arrogant board chairman feel well represented. For Caroline, it meant four hundred thousand dollars a year; a panoramic view of the city; and a new base of supporters for her ultimate ambition – a high federal judgeship. All of this confirmed Paget’s sense that life had a certain ironic symmetry: his great-grandfather Kenyon had founded the firm in the 1870s, to service his own father’s railroad, and Paget had never set foot in its offices.

  Caroline herself seemed quite at home. She had greeted him with the brisk assurance of someone who graced the firm by being there. At five feet eight, Caroline had long since learned that height required a certain bearing: she carried herself so perfectly that the first impression she gave was of some electric combination of aristocrat and stage actress. She was an extraordinarily handsome woman, a year or two younger than Paget – aquiline features; glossy black hair; deep-set brown eyes beneath a high forehead and widow’s peak – and Paget was certain that she knew how striking she was. But the public Caroline Masters seemed designed in part to divert attention from the private one, about whom people knew almost nothing. Even her office was decorated like a résumé – her law school diploma; her judicial appointment; a seascape of Martha’s Vineyard – which added nothing to the known facts of her life. But for Paget, one fact was enough: Caroline Masters was a superb lawyer.

  ‘Well,’ she said after a time, ‘there’s no doubt you have motive enough for three murders. It also ap
pears that, depending on when the lamentable Mr Arias died, you were either in Italy, on an airplane or – on the night before you left – without an alibi worth mentioning.’

  ‘All true.’

  Caroline tented her hands. ‘What do the police know,’ she asked carefully, ‘about where you were that night?’

  ‘What I told them is that I was home all night.’

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed. ‘And the police have that on tape?’

  Paget turned to the window: the day was sunless, and the tops of buildings vanished in the morning fog. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And now they’ve taken three gray suits.’ Letting the statement linger, Caroline seemed to watch him more closely. ‘I don’t need to tell you what that may mean, Christopher.’

  Paget felt an eerie helplessness, as if at the discovery of an unknown enemy. ‘A potential eyewitness.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘At least one. Perhaps someone who believes that he or she saw a man in a gray suit, somewhere near Richie’s apartment, on the night before you left for Italy.’

  Paget fell silent. He was already certain that Caroline would not ask if he had murdered Ricardo Arias. For a defense lawyer, this restraint was common sense – the answer, if it was yes, would prevent her from preparing the best defense. What Caroline would want to know was far more practical: what had Paget told the police, and what else might they think they knew. Only the system, Paget knew, presumes a defendant’s innocence; his lawyer cannot. That this reality now applied to him felt alien and depressing.

  ‘A word of advice,’ Caroline said. ‘No more chats with Monk. As it is, we’re going to have to live with what you’ve said already.’

  In retrospect, Caroline was right, and she was only saying what Paget would have said in her place. But to receive the advice felt different than to give it. ‘Do you know why I talked to them?’ he asked.

  Caroline raised an eyebrow; she did not look convinced that she wished to hear this. Paget leaned forward. ‘Because I didn’t kill him.’

  Caroline picked up her coffee cup, still watching him; she sipped briefly and put it down again, as if the contents had grown cold. ‘No?’

  ‘No. In fact, I assumed that the little scumbag shot himself.’

  ‘And what do you think now?’

  ‘That the cops think someone killed him. But it wasn’t me. If it had been, I’d have come to you before I said a word to Monk.’

  Caroline shrugged. ‘Which, in Monk’s eyes, would have drawn suspicion like a magnet. You’ll get no credit from him for talking.’ She toyed with her reading glasses. ‘Unless, of course, he thinks you answered his questions truthfully.’

  It was as subtle as Kabuki theater, Paget knew: Caroline had already guessed that he would not respond to this. When he did not, she said, ‘So let’s continue with the possible reasons for our friend’s skepticism. If you don’t mind.’

  Her tone was so arid that Paget almost smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘For example, Christopher, what do you think they meant to accomplish by turning your house upside down?’

  ‘Scare me into doing something funny, I suppose. Perhaps trying to destroy evidence.’

  ‘Possibly. But what evidence could they hope to find?’

  Paget shrugged. ‘The obvious. Bullets. A receipt for the purchase of a gun. Some small memento of the late Ricardo – blood or hair or tissue. Perhaps some fibers ffrom his rug. Which may be why they wanted the car.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Fibers might help them. But only if you’d never been to Richie’s at any other time. What did you tell them about that?’

  ‘That I never had. At any time.’

  Caroline paused for a moment. ‘So what do you think they’ll find?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Paget said softly. ‘Except maybe fibers from Richie’s rug.’

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed. ‘That,’ she said, ‘would not be helpful.’

  ‘You forget Terri. She went to Richie’s regularly, to pick up or drop off Elena. And, of course, she’s often at my place. So it depends on where the fibers were found – on my shoes, for example, or just on the rug.’

  Caroline’s mouth formed a smile. ‘It seems that your relationship with Terri has complicated a number of things, Christopher. Including the evidence.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Are you sure it’s not Terri that Monk’s after? They searched her apartment, after all.’

  Paget shook his head. ‘Maybe, in the middle of the night, Monk imagines that we plotted Richie’s death together. But I’m pretty sure it’s me they want.’

  How, she saw Caroline wonder, can you be certain? But of course she did not ask. ‘Still, this makes me sad for her,’ she said finally. ‘When she worked for me, at the P.D.’s office, Teresa was among the best of my young lawyers. But I thought her clearly the best person – fair, nonjudgmental, and compassionate. Some people become as hard as their life. It never seemed that Terri was.’

  Paget tilted his head. ‘Did you ever meet Richie?’

  Caroline looked surprised, and then guarded. ‘You never did?’ She asked.

  Paget met her eyes. ‘Monk asked me that, of course. I told him no.’

  Looking down, Caroline touched an earring; the gesture seemed designed to cover an awkward conversational transition. ‘I met Richie once or twice,’ she said. ‘At Christmas parties, that kind of thing.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  Caroline was thoughtful. ‘That he was very engaging,’ she said at last, ‘to whoever was put in front of him. And that whoever it was didn’t matter to Richie at all.’

  ‘A performer?’

  The phrase seemed to connect with her. ‘My least favorite people, Christopher, are cocktail party joke-tellers. Because what matters to them is not who’s laughing but only the sound of laughter. Richie was something like that.’ She looked more closely at Paget. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Her repeated use of ‘Christopher’ – formal, familiar, and ironic all at once – made Paget smile momentarily. ‘Because if there’s ever a trial, Richie’s state of mind may be an issue. Including the likelihood of suicide.’

  Caroline considered him. ‘We’re a little ahead of ourselves,’ she said at last. ‘At least about a trial. Unless there’s something the police know, or think they know, that you haven’t told me.’

  The elliptical formula drew a second smile from Paget, smaller and briefer. ‘Only,’ he said with irony, ‘if the police know, or think they know, something that I don’t know they know.’

  A fleeting smile from Caroline. ‘What about Teresa?’ she asked. ‘Is she looking for counsel?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Whoever, Christopher, it can’t be me. You understand why.’

  Paget nodded. ‘In theory, one of us may have killed him. Which would create a small conflict between clients.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Thank you for being so professional about it. Also, both of you may be witnesses. Which means not only that the three of us can’t meet but that you can’t talk to Terri about anything we say.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You look a bit unhappy with that.’

  Paget hesitated. ‘The rules for targets,’ he said finally, ‘are the opposite of the rules for lovers.’

  Paget watched Caroline consider this thought and then saw it lead to another. ‘Isn’t there something curious about all of this?’

  ‘You mean how nasty they’ve been?’

  Caroline nodded. ‘It’s not like Charles Monk and, normally, it’s not like the district attorney. Even if McKinley Brooks is still pissed off about the Carelli case.’

  ‘If it’s the Carelli case Mac’s mad about,’ Paget responded, ‘I should get any other lawyer except you. But I don’t think it’s the Carelli case, at least not directly. Try the magic words “James Colt”?’

  Caroline’s lips parted; the expression was somewhere between the dawn of comprehension and the beginning of a startled laugh. �
�Junior,’ she said. ‘Of course. McKinley Brooks’s new best friend, ever since Mac conceived ambitions to be something more than district attorney.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Junior not only wants to be governor; he wants to control the party in this state should his ambitions become even loftier. He does not, he’s made quite plain, wish for me to be a senator, and I’m equally sure Brooks knows that. I think I’ve just been warned.’

  Caroline folded her hands. ‘Knowing that could be useful to us. If it’s true.’

  ‘Now? Or at trial? When we suggest that they’re on a witchhunt?’

  Caroline did not smile. ‘You don’t want a trial. But what I will do, soon, is go see Brooks and whatever assistant D.A. is monitoring Monk’s adventures. To see whether I can talk them out of this, or at least hear what’s on their minds.’

  Paget sat back. ‘As we talk, Caroline, a question occurs to me. Is this case very good for you?’

  Her eyes narrowed a bit; the expression this left was the cousin of a smile but much keener. ‘Are we referring to the rumors that I harbor certain ambitions?’

  ‘I’m referring to the fact that if he becomes governor, James junior is the one who passes out state judgeships.’

  Only the ghost of a smile now. ‘True. But state court bores me. And it’s United States senators, as you well know, who recommend on federal judgeships.’

  Paget laughed aloud. ‘I’m yours, Caroline. For whatever that’s worth after all this is over.’

  Caroline shrugged. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s my job, isn’t it.’

  Turning, Paget gazed out the window, pensive again. It was a typical San Francisco morning: the fog was thinning, and shafts of sunlight had begun to bring color to the high-rises, a sheen to the glass. Coming here was the best thing he could have done: much more than sympathy, he found a certain astringent comfort in Caroline’s sheer intelligence and lack of sentiment. ‘Anyhow,’ he told her, ‘I’m glad you’re doing this. For my sake, at least.’

  Caroline gave him an ironic look. ‘For your sake,’ she said dryly, ‘so am I.’