by David Ellis
“You guys should take this show on the road,” Riley says. “Raise your hand—anyone—if you think for one-tenth of one second that I killed this girl.”
Say this for the guy, he doesn’t back down. But McDermott’s seen the bluster before. He’s seen the look of defiance dissolve into a mask of terror in the blink of an eye.
“So Joel Lightner leaves,” McDermott says. “He thinks you’re about to get lucky and he wants to give you some room. You walk out of the bar with this woman. You think you’re walking her home. You turn down an alley and you get one fresh on the back of the skull. You wake up, no ‘Molly,’ no cash.”
Riley nods.
“You don’t report it. You don’t even tell your buddy Lightner because you’re embarrassed about the whole thing.”
“I felt like an asshole.”
“And you’re saying, this guy must have wrapped your hand around the murder weapon to frame you.”
The police found the tire iron—an L-shaped metal rod with a very bloody lug wrench on the bent end, a prying tip on the other—in the trash, along with Amalia Calderone.
“Either that,” Riley says, “or I’m a killer. What do you think?”
Putting the ball in their court. Riley’s good.
“You admit being intoxicated,” says Stoletti.
A fair point. People do dumb things when they’re drunk.
“I could hardly stand,” Riley answers. “And even if I could, I’m not a violent person. Your true personality comes out when you’re drunk. Like you, Ricki. I’ll bet you’re even more of a raging bitch after a couple pops.”
“Oh, keep that attitude up, Riley,” she says.
McDermott suppresses a smile. He’ll have a technician look over the bruise on Riley’s head—the magnitude, the angle—to rule out self-infliction. “What about the hand?” he asks Riley, seeing the bandage near the knuckle.
Riley sighs. “I had to break into my house afterward. He took my keys. I cut my hand on the glass: ”
“You used your hand?”
“I would’ve used the tire iron,” he answers, “but I left it at the crime scene.”
Stoletti doesn’t like the attitude, but McDermott is focusing more on what’s ahead here. This doesn’t work. They have the security tape from Sax’s. Riley was almost stumbling drunk. He was wearing a tuxedo. He had nothing with him. He sure as hell wasn’t walking around with a tire iron. Could be, it was a weapon of opportunity—it was lying in the alley maybe—but it’s hard to imagine anyone in so intoxicated a state pulling it off. And this woman came up to him, not the other way around. Seemed clear from the tape that they were meeting for the first time.
“This woman was a pro, right?” Riley asks them.
Stoletti cocks her head. “Why do you ask?”
Amalia Calderone was a prostitute, the high-class, escort variety. She wouldn’t be the first to be trolling the bar at Sax‘s, late night, which is how she bumped into Riley.
“She seemed like it, in hindsight,” he explains.
“Where’s your tux?” Stoletti asks.
“Dry cleaner’s.” Riley looks at them. “I was lying in a pile of trash, for Christ’s sake. Ask my dry cleaner if there was any blood on it. Other than my own, at least.”
“We will.”
“Good, Ricki. Do that.” Riley stands up. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you take the tire iron and shove it up your ass? I’d be happy to put a fresh pair of fingerprints on there and help you out.”
McDermott raises a hand. “Sit down, Riley. You’re talking pretty good smack for a guy with prints on a murder weapon who was the last person seen with the victim. You know damn well we could arrest you on suspicion right now. Sit,” he repeats, pointing his finger down.
Riley takes a moment, then puts his hands on the table, leaning over toward the detectives. “Same guy,” he says. “Had to be. This isn’t a coincidence. That’s the lead you should be following. Every second you waste trying to make me for this poor woman’s killer is another second he walks around with a straight razor, or a chain saw, or wherever he is in that song.”
McDermott exchanges a look with Stoletti. “Let’s say you’re right,” he says to Riley. “You said it yourself. No razor. No chain saw. No machete. No kitchen knife.” He shrugs. “If this is our offender, why does he deviate from the song?”
Riley shakes his head. He surely doesn’t know, either. “All I can think,” he says, “is this is payback. This guy is taking a personal interest in me. I mean, I’m the damn poster boy for the Terry Burgos prosecution.”
“Yeah,” says McDermott, “but you’re alive.”
Riley doesn’t have an answer for that. But that’s the key problem here. If it’s the same offender, why did he bypass the poster boy, Riley, and kill the woman with him? And then go to the trouble of wrapping his prints all over the murder weapon?
He thinks of Carolyn Pendry and her explanation of why the offender would go after her daughter: There’s no worse way to hurt me. It made sense to McDermott. Hell, the worst way to hurt him would be to hurt Grace, his daughter. Maybe the offender took Amalia Calderone for Riley’s girlfriend, tried to hurt Riley the same way he hurt Carolyn, by going after a loved one.
“He wants me involved,” Riley says. “He’s sending me notes. He kills someone walking next to me. He puts my prints on the weapon. He wants me to be a part of this.”
But why? Why does the offender want Riley in on this?
McDermott nods at Riley. “Let a techie check out the wound on your head,” he says. “The hand, too. We’ve got a CAT unit upstairs.”
Riley straightens, smooths out his suit. “You wanna rule out self-infliction.” He laughs. “Okay, sure. And then when the fun and games are over, maybe you guys could solve a crime or two.”
McDERMOTT TAKES RILEY up to the CAT lab. When he walks back down, Stoletti is still in the interview room. “Something’s not right here,” she says.
McDermott eases into the chair. “You said Riley was helpful at your interview with the professor.”
She agrees with that. “Albany was holding back on me. I didn’t see it. Riley did. Why?” she asks, trailing his thought. “You think it was a song and dance for me?”
McDermott doesn’t know, but it’s a thought. “Riley asked to go along. Hell, he’s the one who gave us the professor’s name.”
“And if he comes on strong with the professor, he looks like he’s trying to get to the bottom of this.” Stoletti seems to warm to the idea. “He’s a smart guy, no doubt about that. But how does Amalia Calderone fit in?”
McDermott sighs. “Maybe it’s more cover. It’s an attack on him.”
“Well, I’m no CAT techie,” she says. “But that wound to his head didn’t look self-inflicted to me.”
“I’m not saying self-inflicted.” McDermott shakes his head. “I’m not saying Paul Riley is killing these people. But he had a point. This guy wants him involved. He’s going out of his way to make private citizen Paul Riley part of this thing. Why?”
Stoletti thinks on that. Neither of them knows.
“Maybe,” McDermott tries, “he wants Riley’s help.”
Stoletti seems uneasy with that. She moves out of her chair and paces the interview room. McDermott’s eyes move over her body. Her frame, courtesy of a German mother, she’s said, is large but firm. Maybe her two teenage boys keep her hopping. Maybe being single again prompts her to watch her figure. They don’t talk much about their personal lives. It’s been a shield, he realizes, that he has kept raised for three years.
“I’m no fan of Riley,” she says. “But still, Mike. Let’s think about what we’re saying here. We’re thinking that someone else did Cassie Bentley and he knew it. He cut her murder from the case to cover it up. He got a nice big reward for doing so—all of the legal work Harland Bentley could throw at him. And now someone’s opening a door that he wants closed.”
“That case made him.” McDermott gets up, too
. “He jumped from Burgos to millions a year as Harland Bentley’s lawyer. It’s not a bad motive.”
“Well, I’ll say this much,” she adds. “If he’s a part of this, hopefully we’ve shut him down now.”
“We keep him on the outside,” McDermott decides. “We watch him, and we use him if we need him. I don’t care what Carolyn Pendry wants.”
The truth is, McDermott is less concerned with what happened during the Burgos case at the moment. The time will come for that. His first priority is stopping the flow of blood. If this does involve Professor Albany, or Riley, maybe they’ve put the fear of God in them. That leaves one person.
“Let’s go see Harland Bentley,” he says. “And get hold of Susan Dobbs at the M.E.’s lab. I want to know what the hell a tarsal phalange is.”
WHEN I‘M DONE BEING inspected by the county attorney technicians, I step out into the humid evening air and call Joel Lightner. Before I can say anything, he tells me, “I found Brandon Mitchum. He lives here in town.”
“Great.”
“Hand him off to the cops,” he suggests.
I actually laugh, though I’m not feeling especially cheery. “They’re off on wild-goose chases,” I say. “I think I’m on my own here. Give me Mitchum’s address.”
McRAE AND RICHMOND. He parks at the corner, uses his binoculars, up to the third floor. Large canvas on an easel near the big window, violent swirls of purple and red splashed across it. Like splatters of blood.
He appears in the window, poising a paintbrush over the canvas, low evening sun spilling through the window, wearing a ratty shirt and gym shorts, long, stringy hair covering his handsome face.
You haven’t changed a bit, Brandon.
32
CHECK THE REARVIEW MIRROR: Woman walking her dog on the sidewalk, another woman jogging, half past six and the sun is just now falling below the buildings. Nobody pays attention to Leo, no one ever does, but that’s okay, it makes him better at what he does.
Okay, the street’s clear now, the woman with the dog turns the corner, no more people, good time to do it. Look in the mirror one last time, get out, forget about the hamstring, check the road and work over the lines. Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police.
This isn’t good, not the way to do it, no choice now.
He takes in the smell of curry from the Indian place down the street. He swallows hard, looks both ways, limps across the street. The short walk helps loosen the hamstring. He reaches the brick building and sees MITCHUM by the buzzer 3B. He hits that button, a shrill noise.
I’m smarter than him, he’ll believe it, he will.
Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry.
A moment passes, then the violent sound of open air. A voice: “Hello?”
Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police, police, police.
All that comes out is Police.
A pause. Open air again: “What is this about?”
“Evelyn Pendry.” He opens and closes his hands, rolls his head.
The intercom cackles again. “What about Evelyn?”
“Need to talk.”
Good. Perfect. Need to talk.
“Okay—all right—I’m on three.”
“Buzz me—”
“The door’s broken. It just opens.”
Leo breathes in deeply. He looks at the door, notices it’s slightly ajar.
He bites his lip. He could have walked right in. He could have snuck in.
No time. Take the first staircase, hit the landing, adjust the sport coat, check the wallet again for the fake badge, adjust the glasses, take a breath, you’re a cop, you’re a cop—
I’m a cop, Brandon.
Police, Mr. Mitchum. Need to talk.
Will you remember me, Brandon?
THEY WOKE HIM. It wasn’t hard. He didn’t sleep well. A dream involving dark water creeping into his lungs, drowning him—
But now he was awake. The voices. Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn Lake, was back home again, the second time since Leo had come to America to live here.
His room was behind the main house. He walked up to a window to check. He saw them, playing the stereo, drinking and smoking, Cassie and her friend, Ellie, and Gwendolyn and a boy. The window was open, and he could hear them laughing, the music blaring.
Oh, hey. Cassie waved to him. Did we wake you?
He shook his head and smiled.
This is my friend Brandon. She pointed at the boy. Leo waved and walked away.
But he heard them. Ellie’s voice, he knew it well by now.
That’s Leo, my boyfriend, she said. They all laughed. Even Cassie.
He went back to bed. But he didn’t sleep. He opened his window and listened.
No, BRANDON, you won’t remember me. No one remembers me. Bend at the waist to stretch the hamstring, then keep going, hit the landing on the third floor.
The door to the right is ajar. A face is peeking through.
“What is this about, Officer?”
Officer. Good.
“What happened to Evelyn?”
Dead. A word he can say well.
Hold out the wallet, focus on the wallet—
Mitchum glances at the badge but looks longer at Leo.
Do you remember me, Brandon?
I remember you.
Mitchum opens the door but keeps the entrance blocked. “What happened?”
He can’t turn back now. This isn’t how he does this but here he is, he won’t get another chance—
Murdered. Another word he knows well.
Mitchum looks over Leo hard, then down at his wallet, which is closed again. “What did you say your name was?”
I didn‘t, Brandon.
Leo hands him the wallet, just like with the woman in the parking lot, simple misdirection, Brandon, while you’re opening the wallet to check the badge—remove the straight razor, flip it open while I step on your foot, so you can’t move, then the blade under your chin, and if you move, if you move, Brandon—
Mitchum’s eyes are frozen with terror. He gets it.
Grab his hair with the free hand for leverage, force him back, an awkward dance, until you’re in, close the door, push it closed behind you, the smell, that smell, marijuana, yeah, like in Lefortovo, smuggled in, supposed to help the time pass but it always seemed to slow things down, slow, slow, like this last hour of your life, Brandon, so very slow.
I REMEMBER STOLETTI’S WORDS, about liking witnesses fresh, unprepared, unrehearsed. I decide to skip the buzzer to announce my presence, given that the security door is off its lock. As I take the final staircase, I hear voices in Brandon Mitchum’s apartment. I knock on the door and hear a harsh whisper, then utter silence.
My breathing halts. My chest fills with heat.
“Brandon Mitchum?” I call out. I move to the side of the door, reach over and knock again, as I hear more noise above the pounding of my fist. A crashing sound, then violent footsteps across a hardwood floor.
I take a deep breath and brace my voice to keep it free from a mounting fear.
“Police!” I yell.
I turn the knob. The door’s unlocked. I look into a loft, a twelve-foot ceiling, a couch, and a large window overlooking the street. A man lying on a rug near the couch, blood spraying from his face.
Someone is running toward the back door, his sport coat flapping. I give chase, without thinking. The man is shorter than me, a little wider, but he isn’t moving well, a bad leg, and the adrenaline pours through me as I realize, in the space of a second or two, that I will catch him.
In the time he takes to open the back door, I lunge into him from behind with a bear hug, hoping to freeze him in place and keep his arms at his side. His body gyrates to the right, trying to shake me off. I try to hang on tight, but his right arm frees up and he jerks an elbow back into my face, an overwhelming force to my forehead. Stars flash through my eyelids, but my left arm comes up around his neck. He tries again with the right elbow, but I’m too far to hi
s left now. I throw a punch into the base of his skull. I rear back again, but he spins before I know it, facing me now, putting a hand on my throat and throwing me backward—
I think of Shelly. I remember the first time I met her, in court, as opposing counsel, that crusading stride, that force of conviction. I loved her before I even knew her.
—My head slams against the wall. I fall into a heap on the floor. Through bleary eyes, I look up at the man, the same man in that photograph, behind Harland Bentley and the group of reporters. His eyes are lifeless, dead, but then he cocks his head and blinks his eyes.
“You,” he says.
I try to gather myself into a defense, but he rushes out the door and down the fire escape. I struggle to stay conscious, try to focus, thinking of the phone, searching for it, from the kitchen floor, as I hear the man’s footsteps barreling down the fire escape. I hear the screams from the other room, from Brandon Mitchum.
I don’t try to stand, not sure that I could handle it. I crawl across the kitchen floor and reach up to the kitchen counter, sweeping my hand as I lose balance. I knock to the floor a pen, paper, and portable phone. The back of the phone breaks off, exposing the battery pack, which, luckily, is still intact. I lift the phone as I fall on my back. I dial the three numbers, and struggle for just those few seconds I need. The words come out, in no particular order—intruder, attacker, someone’s hurt, ambulance, police—and then I go black.
LEO TURNS THE CORNER of the alley and stops, clutching his hamstring. He heads back toward McRae Street, running in front of Mitchum’s building. They could be anywhere, he knows it, but he doesn’t have a choice.
Traitor. Fucking traitor.
He keeps close to the building so anyone looking out, from Brandon’s place, won’t see him. But they already saw him, they already saw him.
I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
He starts up the car and drives off, keeping the speed under the limit.
