Eye of the Beholder

by David Ellis

  “Where’d she go?” I ask.

  “Flew into De Gaulle,” he tells me.

  Paris. That makes sense. When I asked Gwendolyn where she might have been around that time, her first guess had been the Riviera. Rich girl like that, she probably has a place there.

  “Do you know how long she was there?” I ask, for no apparent reason.

  “Can’t help you on that, my friend. The domestic stuff, I can ask for a favor here or there. I have to involve too many people if I call the French.”

  “No, no. That’s fine.”

  “I assume she was probably staying with family over there,” he adds.

  “Family? In France?”

  “Gwendolyn Lake is a French national,” he says. “You didn’t know that?”

  No, actually, I didn’t. Gwendolyn Lake was born in France? I guess that’s not too surprising. These rich people, jetting about the globe, probably have villas on every continent and can afford elite medical care wherever they are.

  Storino continues, “Says here, born in—I’m going to mispro nounce this—Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. September 8, 1969. Anyway, that probably explains the length of her visit”

  “How’s that?” I ask. “When did she return to the States?”

  “Let’s see—August twenty of ‘ninety-two.”

  “‘Ninety-two? She was gone for three years?”

  “From the States, oui, oui.”

  I thank Pete and punch out the cell phone, digesting that information, while waving off a guy at an intersection who wants to sell me a newspaper.

  Gwendolyn Lake left the country the same week that Cassie and Ellie were murdered and didn’t return for three years?

  Have we been looking at the wrong troubled young heiress?

  McDERMOTT CALLS HOME, talks to his mother and to Grace, explaining his situation. When he’s done, he stretches his arms, shakes the cobwebs from his weary head. Members of the County Attorney Technical Unit are photographing the walls in the basement.

  “Dammit,” he says to himself, not for the first time this morning. They found their guy, but they didn’t find him. And it’s not like he just happened to be out running an errand. They raided his place in the middle of the night.

  He’s in the wind.

  The dust in the basement brings out the worst in McDermott’s allergies. He wipes at his nose and scratches the roof of his mouth with his tongue. By now, he has taken at least a cursory look at every document pinned up to the corkboard on Koslenko’s basement walls. The information is neatly divided into certain categories. Much of the documentation is devoted to the Terry Burgos case, or one of the players involved in it. Harland Bentley. His ex-wife Natalia. Their daughter Cassie Bentley. Terry Burgos. Paul Riley. Even a pair of photographs from a gossip column of Riley and his girlfriend Shelly Trotter, the governor’s daughter.

  Another section of the wall contains photographs of women on the street, virtually all of whom look like prostitutes in their on-the-job outfits. Below many of the photos, Koslenko has handwritten their names—at least their street names. Roxy. Honey. Candi. Delilah.

  “Jesus, there must be a hundred photos,” he mumbles.

  “Close. Ninety-eight,” says Stoletti. “This guy has a real hard-on for hookers.”

  “Mike.” Powers, one of the other detectives who has arrived, comes bounding down the stairs. His hand, in a latex glove, holds up a piece of paper. “Found this in his bedroom.”

  McDermott, also wearing a latex glove, takes the paper. It’s a Xerox copy of a smaller, typewritten note:

  I know that you know about my relationship with Ellie. And I know about your relationship with my daughter. If you tell, so will I. But if you keep quiet, I will endow a chair in your name at Mansbury College.

  I need your answer right now.

  McDermott rereads the note, then takes a breath. He feels a number of scraggly lines in his brain, now forming into circles.

  “Bentley did buy off Albany,” Stoletti says. “Bentley was sleeping with Ellie.”

  “And Albany was sleeping with Cassie,” he adds. “Christ Almighty.”

  “Koslenko was Bentley’s bagman.” Stoletti takes a breath. “He does Bentley’s dirty work.”

  McDermott works that over. Something about it doesn’t seem quite right. His cell phone on his hip buzzes. The call is coming from the station house. “McDermott,” he says, but the reception is weak, the voice of one of his fellow detectives mired in static. “Call you back,” he yells. He takes the stairs and heads outside.

  HE DIDN’T SPEAK WELL. But he listened well. Gwendolyn and Mrs. Bentley, in the kitchen.

  This is my fucking house, Gwendolyn said.

  No, it’s my house. All of this is mine until I decide to give it to you. Would you like to take a look at the trust documents?

  It’s not fair. Gwendolyn pounded on the kitchen table. I’m not a minor. Give it to me.

  Mrs. Bentley said, You’ll have it when you show me you can handle it.

  You fucking Bentleys. You think you’re so much better than me. Well, Auntie Nat, do you know where your darling husband is right now? Any idea? And that daughter of yours? Precious little Cassie, the freak show? Gwendolyn broke into hideous laughter.

  They came into his view now, Mrs. Bentley grabbing Gwendolyn by the arm. Gwendolyn tried to wrestle away, but Mrs. Bentley took her other arm, too.

  Don’t you ever talk about my family. Then she turned and saw him standing there. She broke away from Gwendolyn and approached. She said nothing for a long moment. Leo didn’t know what to do—

  Do you like it here, Leo?

  He nodded yes.

  Do you want to be deported? Do you want to go back to the Soviet Union? Back to that institution?

  Back to—was she asking him or telling him? What did she—

  Then mind your own business. And get back to your chores.

  Leo’s eyes dropped. He’d disappointed Mrs. Bentley. He turned and headed out to the yard, the shame burning in his chest.

  Leo jumps at the sound of footsteps in the apartment on the third floor. It’s now half past seven. The timing is about right. He stands up, stretches, still on the landing halfway between the second and third floors.

  From inside the apartment come four quick beeps, as the intruder alarm is disarmed. Okay. There’s probably a motion sensor that cuts through the middle of the small apartment, and you can’t walk around for a cup of coffee or juice unless you disarm it. Why leave it on in the morning? You got through the night.

  That’s how all of you think. Once the sun comes up, you feel safe.

  Leo climbs the stairs slowly, still in his socks. He puts his ear against Shelly Trotter’s apartment door and listens. He hears the pressure release, then the gentle cascade of water.

  She is taking a shower.

  First, he puts on his shoes. Then he removes the tension wrench from his bag and gets to work. She has a dead bolt on the door, too, one that uses a cylinder lock. He surprises himself at how efficiently he uses the hooking pick to line up the pins and get the door open.

  The water is still falling. She’s still in the shower. Now is the time, while she’s naked and on wet footing, utterly unable to defend herself. He places the bag, heavy from the chain saw, near the couch but out of view from other parts of the house. Just in case.

  He knows how to do it. Move swiftly toward the bathroom, toward the sound of falling water, get to the door and listen, distinguish the sounds—

  The water is slapping against something that produces a hollow sound, something plastic, a shower liner, a curtain, not a glass door.

  Duck your head for a quick peek, once, confirm it, a red curtain, can’t see through it, you can’t see me, here I come, Shelly, here I come—

  Pivot quickly into the bathroom, go right to the curtain, yank it open, her hands are buried in her soapy hair, she tries to react but loses her footing.

  She never makes a sound.

  40


  I HANG MY COAT on my door and take a quick look at my calendar. Betty puts everything I do on my desktop calendar, which is better for me than a handheld weekly planner because I can’t lose a computer. I don’t have court today and there are two meetings that I will tell Betty to cancel. Most of what I’m doing these days is overseeing a cadre of other lawyers, anyway.

  Gwendolyn Lake left the country the same week as the murders, went to her home in France, and didn’t return to the U.S. for three years. That’s not inconsistent with the impression she gave me of herself—the directionless, globe-trotting party animal. With that kind of money, she could find comfort and fast friends on any continent. But that’s judging from the impression she gave me.

  I start toward my files on the Bentley case, which Betty has allowed to remain on the floor of my office but tucked neatly off to the side. But I stop. There is virtually nothing in those files about Gwendolyn Lake. She wasn’t around back then. We didn’t look at her because we couldn’t. Because we had no reason to. We had no reason to.

  “Dammit” I swipe at some papers on my desk.

  Was Gwendolyn Lake the one who was pregnant? The one who had the abortion? She was an orphan who lived, at least in part, under the watch of Harland and Natalia. She’d have the same health care provider, right? At the same Sherwood Executive Center?

  I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t get the answers I wanted from Gwendolyn Lake. Harland has all but shut me out—or maybe it’s I who shut him out.

  The notes. I still have copies. It’s all I have right now. I spread them out on my desk, focusing on the second one, the one Stoletti commented on.

  I will inevitably lose life. Ultimately, sorrow echoes the heavens. Ever sensing. Ever calling out. Never does vindication ever really surrender easily. The immediate messenger endures the opposition, but understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning.

  What had Stoletti said? The word choices looked forced. The handwriting is immaculate, like she said. He wasn’t rushed. He was deliberate. Yet the words he used—

  Never does vindication ever really surrender easily. No need for the word ever when you already had never. It’s redundant, bad grammar. But understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning. Same problem. He used “new” twice.

  Is it just bad grammar? Am I taking the ramblings of a nut job and inferring too much?

  “Shit.” Something about this is wrong.

  My phone rings, an internal call, but not from anyone in the office—their caller ID would show up. It’s not from Betty because she’s not here. It’s a call from outside, being routed through the directory to me.

  “Paul Riley,” I say.

  “Mr. Riley, this is Gwendolyn Lake.”

  Speak of the devil. I don’t say anything. If she has something to tell me, she has to want to do it.

  The phone line goes quiet. There is background noise, someone shouting an order, people talking. She’s at her diner, presumably.

  “I wasn’t honest with you yesterday,” she says.

  “I—” I decide not to comment.

  “You figured as much.”

  “I had my suspicions.”

  “I said I didn’t want to help. But I do. I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m free now.” I sit back in my chair.

  “Good,” she says. “I’m across the street.”

  McDERMOTT STEPS OUT INTO the fresh air for only the second time in six hours. He savors it, despite the thick humidity. The neighbors and press have gathered around the police tape surrounding the perimeter of the property. An officer, taking statements, walks over.

  “This guy’s a friggin’ ghost, Mike. Neighbors say he stayed in his house practically all the time. He’d leave at night sometimes, at most. Hardly ever saw him. Said he orders pizza or Chinese food every night, and him answering the door was about the only time anyone laid eyes on him. He even paid someone to mow his lawn. Neighbors said they kept their kids away from his property. Looks like he creeped everyone out”

  “Keep talking to ‘em,” McDermott says. He turns to Powers, one of the detectives. “I want Professor Albany at the station,” he says. “I don’t care what he’s doing. Grab the ACA”—the assistant county attorney assigned to the station house—“and start with affidavits for warrants. We’re moving this morning.”

  “Got it, Mike.”

  He grabs his arm. “And do the same thing for Harland Bentley.”

  He uses his cell phone to call Sloan, one of the detectives on the case, the same one who called him earlier.

  “Hang on, Mike:” Sloan takes a minute, giving instructions to someone. “Okay. So here’s what we have so far. The Vicky is one Brenda Stoller. Grad student and part-time model. Found in her SUV, backseat, in the parking lot of E-Z Days Hardware. Her throat was slashed.”

  “And?”

  “And yeah, a guy came in yesterday asking for a Trim-Meter chain saw. We got the store vids and an ID from the salesman. It’s our offender. Why this lady, Mike? She walks in and buys some lightbulbs and this happens?”

  “Hell if I know. She got in the way somehow.” He thinks about that a moment. “Describe her to me, Jimmy.”

  “Young, pretty, dressed to the nines.”

  “Describe her outfit”

  “Oh, hot pink shirt, black pants, heels. Nice body. I mean, this was a very pretty lady”

  “Any chance she could be confused for a pro?”

  “A pro? Well, shit—I guess so. Pretty sexy outfit, but not that—oh, yeah, I suppose. Why you asking?”

  “I’m not sure.” He wipes the sweat off his forehead. The basement turned into a sauna, once everyone was down there working on it. “Something about this guy and prostitutes. Run a sheet, just for the hell of it. Anything from the vids in the parking lot?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it”

  “Get me the car he was driving, Jimmy. His own car is in the garage. He’s using a rental. Get me plates. He’s on the run.”

  “Got it”

  McDermott sighs. They were so close to getting this guy. “Tell me about the other one.”

  “The male vic is one Ray Barnacke, the owner of Varten’s Tools and Construction. His neck was broken. And you were right, Varten’s was one of the distributors of Trim-Meter chain saws. One of the employees says there’s a Trim-Meter missing from the wall.”

  “Shit.” McDermott shakes his head. “He was supposed to call us.”

  “No vids, either. Place had no cameras.”

  “Great. And it was a broken neck? That’s it?”

  “That’s it. No signs of torture. No signs of any of the other weapons from the song. But obviously, now he’s got the saw.”

  “Yeah. Jesus Christ. Listen, Jimmy—have them check the victim’s left foot, between the pinkie toe and the fourth toe, for an incision.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just have them check, Jim.”

  “Okay. Left foot. Okay. So you have a motive for this guy yet? You find anything good?”

  McDermott squints into the sunlight. “I’m beginning to wonder if there is a motive. That assumes we can apply rational thought to this guy.”

  “Okay. I’ll get back to you, soon as I have anything. What are you doing now?”

  “I’m going to brief the commander,” McDermott says. “And then I’m going to see Harland Bentley’s ex-wife.”

  I MEET GWENDOLYN LAKE at the diner across the street from my office. She is sitting in a booth with her hands around a cup of coffee.

  “I don’t like being here,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t want to be here.”

  Like an alcoholic returning to a bar, I suppose she means. This is where she lived when she started self-destructing. She even looks like she doesn’t belong, at least in the commercial district, wearing a soft blue T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. Her hair is hanging, as before, straight past her shoulders. Her bright green eyes peer sadly through her glasses
at me.

  “It took me so long to wipe the grime off. Y‘know?”

  I tell the waitress I’ll have some coffee, because I could use the boost. “I’m not your psychiatrist, Gwendolyn.”

  She smiles, her face blushing. She takes a deep breath and says, “I pretended I didn’t know who Frank Albany was. That wasn’t true. I do.”

  That much, I’d already suspected, when she slipped up and referred to “Frank” during our conversation after claiming not to know him. Okay, so score one for her.

  “What a creep.” Her lips curl inside her mouth. A hand comes off the counter. “Hanging out with college girls. Girls in his class.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  “I can’t say for absolutely certain. But I thought that—I thought that the two of them—”

  I take a sip of the coffee put in front of me, burning my tongue.

  “Professor Albany and Cassie were having an affair. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I thought so.” She looks up at me. “Ellie thought so, too.” She gauges my reaction before continuing. “I’d have thought you, of all people, would know this.”

  “And how in the hell would I have known that?” I ask, de fensively. “Ellie was dead, you were gone, and Professor Albany wasn’t going to publish that information.”

  Gwendolyn moves her hands around the coffee cup, as if she were molding pottery.

  “Okay” I cool down. No point in going backward. “What else, Gwendolyn?”

  She continues with her nervous, fidgety hands. “Ellie told me that Cassie was pregnant”

  I close my eyes. A suspicion confirmed. The lawyer in me is thinking through admissibility problems, the hearsay rule. Cassie told Ellie told Gwendolyn. “When?” I ask.

  She shrugs, still staring at the countertop. “Sometime during the school year, is the best I can tell you. When it was warm. May or June.”