Eye of the Beholder

by David Ellis

  I get in the car and take a deep breath. It’s time to go see Natalia Lake. It’s time to learn how well I play poker.

  50

  WHEN I GET OUT of my car at seven o‘clock, a woman dressed in all white awaits me, hands clasped behind her back.

  “Good morning, Mr. Riley.”

  “Morning.”

  She opens her body to the door. “Mrs. Lake is expecting you.”

  I follow the woman through one of the front doors into an elaborate foyer. She leads me into a parlor with a baby grand piano and antique furniture. It is a clean, elaborately designed room that screams of wealth and sadness.

  “Thank you, Marta.”

  I turn to see Natalia Lake, my mind instantly flashing to long ago, when she’d just identified her daughter’s body. She has aged well, by my estimation with some significant cosmetic surgery on the face and neck. The artificial tightness of her skin lends an unusually severe tinge to her expression.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mrs. Lake.”

  “Oh, please, it’s Nat.” Nat is wearing a lavender blouse with three-quarter sleeves and white slacks. She takes my hand with both of hers. “After everything, it’s Nat.”

  We sit together on a couch. The tips of her spindly fingers touch my arm. “This was a woman you were involved with? Shelly Trotter?”

  I nod my head.

  “Lang’s daughter. Oh, my.” She focuses on me. “Paul, please tell me that Harland is not responsible for any of this.”

  “Harland is not responsible for any of this.”

  She takes a breath. A reaction, but I don’t know what kind.

  “What has happened this week is a cover-up,” I say. “And Harland has nothing to cover up. True, he did many shameful things. He slept with your daughter’s closest friend. He fathered a child with your sister. But he didn’t kill anyone back then, Nat. Which means he’d have no reason to kill anyone now. There’s nothing for him to protect.”

  I let my comments sit, hoping Natalia might fill the silence. The line of her mouth adjusts into a frown. She is disappointed, I think, by my assessment, but I don’t expect her to say so. She occupies herself with her cigarettes, opening the small pearl case, lighting up, and smoking in silence.

  I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for here. I know there’s something. And I’m pretty good at digging.

  “You know how to reach Leo Koslenko,” I say.

  “I certainly do not.” But her response is too readied, too defensive in its delivery. She was prepared for the accusation.

  “You’re the one who brought him over, Nat. It was your family in the Soviet Union that was friendly with his. He was a sick, tortured man who was loyal to you and only you.”

  Natalia taps her cigarette into a marble ashtray. She has never, in her life, had to answer to anyone. She is not about to start now.

  She will need some prompting.

  “Leo Koslenko killed Ellie Danzinger,” I tell her. “At your direction.”

  “Oh.” A burst of amusement escapes her lips. She turns to me, holding that expression, a combination of disdain and delight. “And—is that all? Did I direct the murders of all of those girls? Including my own daughter, Paul?”

  Her tone is patronizing, but her eyes have caught fire now. She leaves the cigarette burning in the ashtray and moves from the couch, adjusting a piece of art on the wall. It looked straight to me, which tells me she’s getting uncomfortable, maybe stalling for time.

  “You didn’t want to kill your daughter,” I say. “But you had no choice. Cassie figured out what you’d done to Ellie. And you knew she wouldn’t keep quiet.”

  What I’m saying isn’t true. At least, I don’t think it is. But the best I can do is shake the tree. This feels like a pretty good tree to shake.

  Something catches my eye to the left, a momentary alteration in the hallway lighting. Like a faint shadow.

  Someone is in the hallway.

  “You were the one who wanted the charges dropped on Cassie’s murder,” I say. “You were afraid of anyone taking too close a look at that. Or at her.”

  Natalia places her hands behind her back and nods slowly. “What you are saying is not only ridiculous, Paul. It is also something you could never prove.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” I open my shoulders toward the hallway without being obvious. I start to pace—again, to move closer to the hallway—and speak in that direction, with my back to Natalia. I want to make sure that both Natalia and the person in the hallway hear this.

  “We’ll start by exhuming Cassie’s body,” I say.

  “That’s a bluff,” she answers to my back. “You’ve already convicted a man of—”

  She stops, and I smile at the irony. Thanks to Natalia, nobody was convicted of Cassie’s murder. Her case has never been prosecuted.

  “That’s a bluff,” she repeats.

  “It’s no bluff, Nat. Governor Trotter intends to have me appointed as a special prosecutor to investigate Cassie’s murder. My first official act will be to arrest you on suspicion of murder.”

  None of that is true, but it’s believable, which is all that matters.

  “Technology has come a long way in sixteen years,” I advise her. “I can only imagine what we’ll find on Cassie’s body.”

  The truth is, I doubt there would be much to gain. But she doesn’t know that. And in any event, that isn’t the point.

  “And you’ll tear down everything you accomplished,” Natalia warns me. “You’ll destroy the banner achievement of your career.”

  It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer. I keep my eyes on the hallway.

  Gwendolyn Lake makes her first appearance, stepping into the threshold of the parlor in a long T-shirt and gray sweats.

  “Sweetheart—” Natalia comes forward, into my peripheral vision.

  I nod to Gwendolyn.

  “You’re wrong,” she says to me.

  NEVER COME BACK, don’t ever return, an order, must obey—

  Never come back, never set foot in Highland Woods, take the money, more if you want, don’t ever come back, no one can know—

  The neighborhood looks different, some houses remodeled, some brand-new, nice neighborhood, Highland Woods—

  Never come back. But there are exceptions. Like when Paul Riley visits Mrs. Bentley—now Mrs. Lake.

  Leo passes her house, Mrs. Lake’s house now, used to be her sister‘s, a quick pass, then he parks at the bottom of the hill. The maze of streets is a loop, all roads leading to Browning Street at the bottom. He will wait for Riley here, parked at a meter, with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.

  It has been an endless week. But today will be the end.

  NATALIA LAKE STEPS BETWEEN Gwendolyn and me. “No, sweetheart, no—”

  “Aunt Natalia.” Gwendolyn tries to move around Nat.

  “No, honey—”

  “Aunt Natalia. Aunt Natalia!” She takes Nat by the shoulders and looks at her squarely. “Aunt Natalia, I’m saying this. I know you want to protect Cassie’s memory, but it’s not worth this.”

  After a momentary struggle, Nat finally relents, her posture easing. She walks past me, without a word or glance, toward the window.

  I look back at Gwendolyn. In her long T-shirt and sweats, her sleep-flattened hair and tired eyes, there is an air of nakedness, candor, about her. I don’t speak, for fear of stopping the momentum. Gwendolyn has come to me. She is rolling down a hill now. Shelly, I realize, ignoring the ache in my chest, had been right about her: She would tell me eventually. It just took some prompting from me.

  “You’re right about me,” Gwendolyn says to me, her voice free of any affect. “Harland is my biological father. My mother told me before she died. She hadn’t wanted to tell me, but she felt like I had a right to know.” She fixes on Natalia, who is now staring out the window, motionless. “She was so horrified by her pregnancy, initially, that she flew to France. To our place at Cap-Ferrat. She was planning, I think, to have�
��well, to end the pregnancy.”

  I nod. Mia Lake changed her mind, obviously, decided against the abortion and gave birth to Gwendolyn on the French Riviera.

  “I told Cassie about it,” she concedes. “When I was in town that summer. In hindsight, it wasn’t a nice thing—I shouldn’t have. I didn’t know what Cassie was dealing with at the time. I didn’t know any of that until it was too late.”

  Until it was too late.

  “You’re telling me that Cassie killed Ellie Danzinger,” I confirm.

  It was how I figured it. After everything I heard last night, I couldn’t see any other way. But there are a few things I don’t know yet.

  “We found out later,” Gwendolyn continues. “Cassie told us afterward. And, no, we didn’t say anything. We didn’t do anything. We just—well, I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You left town,” I say. “The Wednesday of the murder spree.”

  She nods. “I wasn’t the type—back then especially—I didn’t think I’d hold up under police questioning.” She takes a moment, her breathing escalated. “You understand, we knew when they found Ellie, they’d come find Cassie. They were best friends. And I didn’t want to have to answer any questions. I was just popping into town for a visit, anyway, so it would be perfectly natural for me to leave.”

  I look back at Natalia, standing immobile by the window, then back to Gwendolyn. Tears threatening her eyes, her skin now a ghostly shade, she nevertheless seems to be relieved.

  “And then what?” I say to Gwendolyn—really, to either of them.

  Gwendolyn shakes her head, blinks away the moisture in her eyes. “Then, nothing. I left. Aunt Natalia and Cassie just held their breath and waited for the police to come. But they never did. So they went on with their lives, and then Cassie was murdered.”

  I shake my head, like I’m still a few pieces short of the puzzle.

  Gwendolyn shrugs. “Terry Burgos must have seen it happen. He was stalking Ellie, wasn’t he? He must have seen it happen. And then he killed Cassie because of it. I mean, you tell me, Mr. Riley. It’s anyone’s guess.”

  Anyone’s guess? I think not. Not to the two women in this room, at least. But I’d like to hear the rest of this, anyway.

  “What about Leo Koslenko?” I ask.

  “He knew, too. Cassie told the three of us.”

  I open my hands. “And?”

  “And nothing.” She shrugs. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “We don’t know why Leo’s doing what he’s doing now.” This from Natalia, who turns from the window. “In some way, we think he’s trying to protect Cassie.”

  It’s an unsatisfactory explanation, but it’s not surprising. They know more than they’re saying, but I wasn’t expecting help from them on this point.

  And I didn’t come here for this story. I came here to accomplish two things. One of those things, I achieved just by showing up. And the other, I might be close to acquiring.

  “So my first act as special prosecutor,” I say, “is to formally acquit Terry Burgos of Ellie’s murder and identify Cassie as the killer.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Nat approaches me. “Under the circumstances—”

  “Under what circumstances?” I ask. “She planned a cold-blooded murder. It doesn‘t—”

  “She didn’t plan anything!” Gwendolyn’s face becomes a glowing crimson. “She wasn’t some calculated killer. She saw her father come out of her best friend’s apartment, Mr. Riley. You can’t imagine anything so revolting, so disgusting—”

  She breaks it off, covering her eyes with a hand. Natalia’s stoic façade begins to crumble.

  I call on all my experience as a trial lawyer, trained to feign calm in the midst of surprise, taught to stifle emotion and maintain a cool front. My limbs begin to tremble. Sweat breaks out all over. I have to go. I have to get out of here. I don’t think I can even speak, over the surge of adrenaline coursing through me.

  I walk away from them, toward the door. Natalia calls to me, “Please think about this, Paul,” or something like that. I can’t hear her anymore. I am overcome now by hope, by a promise so consuming I have to remind myself to put one foot in front of the other.

  They’ve told me a lot, much of it lies or misdirection. But between the lines they have told me something much more important than what happened sixteen years ago.

  Shelly might still be alive.

  51

  HERE HE COMES. Here he comes. He’s with us now. Back with us. He’s talked to Mrs. Lake now. She fixed it. Now he’ll fix it. Just like he did before.

  Leo raises the newspaper as Riley’s car passes, turning onto Browning Street.

  What did she tell him? Does he know everything?

  What’s he going to do now?

  Follow him now. But not too close. Wait and see.

  WHAT DO I DO NOW? I move my car down Browning Street, unsure of my next step. The idea was that Koslenko might be following me. If my hunch about Natalia Lake was right—that she pulled the strings, with Koslenko as the puppet—and he saw me visiting her, he might think I am on his side now. That, plus the statements I made to the press last night at the police station—insisting that Terry Burgos killed the six Mansbury women—would have to be enough to convince him that I am his ally again, his comrade, in the cover-up.

  Where is Shelly? Just asking the question, considering the possibility that I might be right about her, turns my stomach into a full-scale revolt.

  So what do I do now? Wait for Koslenko to come to me? How do I make that happen? I’ve done everything I can, between my public comments and my visit to Natalia Lake, to reel him in. Is there something else I can do?

  Shelly could be anywhere. Koslenko would have a million places to hide her. I’m going to have to see Koslenko face-to-face. I have to find some way to get him to tell me—

  A football bounces into the street in front of my car, followed almost immediately by a boy, a young teen, scrambling after it. I slam on my brakes and stop about five feet short of him. He looks up at me like the whole thing is my fault.

  Jesus, kid, I think to myself, adrenaline decelerating. Don’t you have school or something?

  But then I snap to attention, as the kid in the street gives me the finger, and I answer my own question.

  God. Of course.

  He doesn’t have school. School’s out for the summer.

  RILEY’S CAR SCREECHES TO a halt. Leo slows his Camry, three vehicles back. But after a moment, after the kid in the street returns to the sidewalk, Riley’s car guns forward like a rocket, passing one car and blowing a red light, multiple car horns sounding their objection.

  No. No. No. Leo maneuvers his car and gets lucky with a green light. He wants to stay back but not too far back. And the way Riley’s driving now, it won’t be long before Leo loses him. No, no, can’t lose him—

  He’s turning. Up ahead, two blocks ahead, his car maneuvers into the right-turn lane. Leo tries to make out the street, flooring the accelerator. Then he sees it.

  Riley is getting on the highway, heading south.

  YOU CAN’T IMAGINE anything so revolting, so disgusting ...

  I speed through the Mansbury College campus, the images surreal to me now, everything the same but everything so very different. The campus is largely deserted, as it was this time sixteen years ago. Next week will be the beginning of summer school. The question is, will they find another body?

  Bramhall Auditorium takes up half the block, a dome-topped structure arising from a large concrete staircase, a threshold supported by granite pillars, with a manicured lawn to each side. I pull up to the curb and kill the engine. I reach under the car seat, pull up the carpet, and remove the ordinary kitchen knife, with the five-inch blade, that Terry Burgos used to remove the heart of Ellie Danzinger and to slice Angie Mornakowski’s throat.

  At least, that’s what I thought. When I removed the knife from its encasing on the Wall of Burgos in my basement this morning, I had to
admit that I was no longer sure about that.

  Sixteen years ago, I emerged from a car very close to this precise spot. And my life changed.

  Last time, the place was surrounded with police officers and technicians, residents of the town pressed against the police tape, and six dead women lay inside. This time, if I’m right, there is only a victim inside, and she’s still alive. And there are no police. It’s what Koslenko would want. I couldn’t risk bringing in McDermott or anyone else.

  If you behave, she will live, too.

  I put the knife into the inner pocket of my sport coat. I don’t own a handgun and couldn’t get one on short notice. I could have brought any number of kitchen knives, but maybe, just maybe, this particular one will come in handy.

  I say a quiet prayer to a God I have neglected and get out of the car. The building looks undisturbed, vacant. This week—the sixteenth anniversary of the murders—is one of the few weeks of the entire year that the entire Mansbury campus is shut down.

  I turn, as if to look back at my car, and do the best I can to look around me. Is Koslenko here? Is he watching me? I will only have one chance to do this. I have to play this right.

  Which means, ignoring the internal turmoil, I take the stairs slowly, with confident authority.

  There are three entrances. Front door, a maintenance entrance on the east, and a service door for deliveries in the back—north—side. I try the massive front door. Disappointed, but not surprised, that it’s locked.

  I walk around to the east side of the building.

  LEO PULLS UP TO the north side of the auditorium—the rear side—leaving his car in the adjacent parking lot. He runs up a ramp and goes to work on the service door with his tension wrench and short hook. The dead bolt slides open and he pulls the handle, entering the darkness.