Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  “The maid identified Marty, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. She said he had been to the house. For the charity stuff. Like dozens of other people.”

  Paul smiles at Cummings’s clarification. “But she seemed disturbed when she saw his photo, right?”

  “I would say she got all quiet.”

  Paul grabs a sheet of paper off the lectern. “That’s exactly what you did say, Detective. You’ve just quoted your report verbatim. I congratulate you.”

  The judge makes a face but decides not to protest. I imagine this is because there is no jury present, and because Paul is the attorney.

  Paul sets down the paper. “All right. The day after you talked to the maid was the Christmas party for the Reinardts’ charity.”

  “That’s right. At the Winston Hotel.”

  “You sent someone there. An undercover detective.”

  “Yes. Detective Brewer was at the party.”

  “And after the party, Detective Brewer wrote up a report.”

  “Yeah, she did.”

  “And in that report”—Paul flips open to his copy—“she stated that Marty came to the party, walked around for about twenty minutes, then talked to Rachel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he left the party.”

  “I believe that’s right.”

  “Didn’t she also say that Mr. Kalish looked upset when he left the party?”

  “I believe she mentioned that.”

  Paul looks down again, reading his copy of the report. “Didn’t she also say that, during the first half hour that he was at the party, Mr. Kalish repeatedly glanced over in Mrs. Reinardt’s direction?”

  What can Cummings do but admit it? “She said that.”

  “Do you know what Mr. Kalish did after the party?”

  Cummings pauses. “I believe he went home.”

  “You know that for a fact, don’t you, Detective?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Because after the party, you followed Marty.”

  “Not personally.”

  The judge, who has been looking indifferently at Paul, makes a quick turn toward Cummings. “You had him followed?”

  Cummings turns and looks up at the judge. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge ponders this for a moment. I feel a surge of adrenaline. We’re making our case. They were targeting me, and only me.

  Paul lets this last revelation sink in a moment. A very long moment. And then Paul moves to the “interview,” as Cummings calls it, with me at the police station.

  Cummings tells a story that is based in truth, but that omits some of the finer details. Like when I asked for a lawyer. That part, he doesn’t seem to recall. His primary focus, he says, was to find out who was sleeping with Rachel. He wasn’t sure it was me—he is quick to remind Paul that he had no solid evidence that implicated me.

  “In fact,” Cummings adds, “like I’ve been sayin’, I didn’t even know if she was having an affair with anyone.”

  “But if, in fact, she did have a lover, Marty was your prime suspect, isn’t that so?”

  “He coulda been her lover, is all I’m sayin’.” Cummings fiddles with his tie, knotted so uncharacteristically tight. We’ve done some research on the detective. He spent three years as a beat officer in the city, the West Side—the toughest part of town you can find. He took a bullet in the shoulder in an exchange with a gangbanger and left the force, moved up to the south side of Highland Woods. I knew this guy was city, from his speech and mannerisms.

  “You told Marty you thought he was the lover, didn’t you, Detective?” says Paul. “You said you were sure of it.”

  Cummings pauses. “I don’t know if I ever said I was sure. But even if I did, I definitely was not sure. That’s why I was askin’.”

  Paul steps back from the lectern. “So you don’t deny telling Marty that you were sure. Whether you were or not.”

  “Like I say. I don’t recall.”

  Paul starts to move now, walking behind the prosecutors. “But you do recall telling him that Mrs. Reinardt was a suspect, don’t you?”

  “I said that. That’s when he confessed.”

  Paul stops. “That’s when—”

  “That’s when he said, ‘I’m not sorry I killed him.’”

  I let out a noise. Cummings has graduated from small fibs to huge lies. It’s not unexpected, I guess, and it’s a pretty good story. As soon as he mentioned Rachel being involved, Marty, the protective lover, confessed. And jeez, how could Cummings have known that this statement would lead to me confessing? How could the law require Cummings to give Miranda warnings when all he was doing was outlining his case?

  Paul goes to work on him now, trying to corner his testimony, talking about the fact that Cummings never turned on the tape recorder they had. Talking about how Lieutenant Denno didn’t hear all of my confession, even though he was standing just outside the interrogation room. But I can tell now, Paul thinks we’ve lost. So now he’s just working up Cummings’s story for our trial, where Cummings will be forced to repeat today’s testimony: that I wasn’t really a suspect, that they didn’t have much on me.

  Roger Ogren, the prosecutor, just bolsters this story, probably more than he needs to. I was as surprised as anyone, Cummings tells him, when Mr. Kalish just blurted it out. We were just talking about the case, and boom—he confessed.

  The judge says he’ll take it under advisement and issue a written ruling. But I’m not holding my breath. We were swinging for the fences, Paul tells me afterward, acknowledging the obvious, and we’ve still got a whole game to play. I tell him I want to say I did it—especially now that the confession will probably be admitted to the jury. Paul just sticks to his stupid baseball analogy: Let’s see how the game unfolds.

  29

  PAUL RILEY SHIFTS AT THE LECTERN, THEN PULLS on a cuff link before turning on me.

  “Tell us, Mr. Kalish, why did you think that Dr. Reinardt was about to kill his wife?”

  “Because I saw it,” I tell the empty courtroom, a mock job that’s been set up near the lobby in Paul’s law firm, sure to impress the corporate types who want to be reminded how sophisticated their attorneys are. “I watched him beat Rachel up that night. And then I saw him rip her clothes. That’s when I came through the glass door.”

  “And Mrs. Reinardt? She didn’t see you?”

  “I couldn’t say. I don’t think so. She was lying on the carpet. I wasn’t even sure if she was conscious.”

  “I see.”

  “Plus, I was wearing a ski mask, like she told the police.” Rachel stuck me with that one. I’ve never owned a ski mask in my life. I hate skiing.

  “Fine.” Paul considers his next question. “Well, what exactly brought you to the house that night, sir? Why were you there?”

  Because Rachel did a striptease for me every Thursday night, ten o’clock? I’ll bet Paul would fall over if he heard that one.

  “I was worried about Rachel. Her husband had been beating her, pretty badly. It had been getting worse.”

  “Okay, but why did you go there that particular night?”

  “I was worried. See, he had lost a patient that week. He was very upset.”

  “How did you know that? About the patient?”

  “Well—she told me.”

  “When did she tell you?”

  “Oh—that day.”

  “She call you?”

  “Um. Yeah. She called.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t really remember.”

  “Your best estimate.”

  “I guess—the afternoon?”

  “Uh-huh. What time did you go over there?”

  “About nine-thirty.”

  “Okay. So—” Paul moves toward me, in the witness stand. “So you were worried he might be beating her at nine-thirty, but not at six-thirty? Not at eight o’clock? Something just came over you about nine-thirty, and you went there?”

  The man is good. “W
ell, I just finally got worried enough that I went over there.”

  “Wow—just in the nick of time, it turns out. Right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “When you went there, you planned on stopping him.”

  “You’re not gonna hurt her again,” I told the doctor, the gun directed at his face.

  “I didn’t know what I was gonna do.”

  “Then why were you wearing a ski mask?”

  Because it was a cold night? “Well, I didn’t think it was a great idea standing outside someone’s house. I didn’t want to be seen. So I wore it.”

  “You didn’t want to be seen.”

  “No.”

  “And it’s your testimony that Rachel never saw that it was you?”

  “Move out of the way, Rachel,” I said, as she rose to her feet, standing behind her husband.

  “Yes. Yes. She had no idea it was me.”

  “So after shooting the doctor, you didn’t go to her. You didn’t say, ‘It’ll be okay, Rachel.’”

  “It’s over now,” I told her.

  “No.”

  “You didn’t say, ‘Don’t worry, Rachel, you’re safe.’”

  “No.”

  “How do you explain the 911 call?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, you’ve told us that you were fighting to save Rachel. You said you fought with the doctor to save her.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She called 911 to ask the police to come protect her from someone who was protecting her?” Paul picks up an invisible phone. “‘Hello, 911? Please help me. Someone’s trying to save my life.’”

  “I really can’t explain it. You’d have to ask her.”

  “Wasn’t she covering for you, Mr. Kalish? She waited until you left, then she made a fake 911 call to pretend that some unknown assailant had broken into her house?”

  “She wasn’t covering for me.”

  “And then you took Dr. Reinardt’s body and left.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you stay?”

  “I was scared. I just ran.”

  “You were afraid of who? The police?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you knew you had committed a crime, and you wanted to cover it up.”

  “I thought it would look bad. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You were thinking quite well, weren’t you, Mr. Kalish? Well enough to remove the body, hide the gun, and concoct an alibi at work. You did those things, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Was Dr. Reinardt alive when you left the house with him?”

  “He was . . . I’m not sure.”

  “So he might have been alive?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why? You check his pulse? Feel his heart?”

  “No.”

  “So he might have been alive, right? That’s possible?”

  “I suppose.”

  Paul drops his hands and deflates; rehearsal is over. “If he was alive when you left, then you can forget about any affirmative defense. Because then you deprived him of medical help that led to his death, at a time when he was absolutely not a threat to Rachel.”

  “Okay. Then he was definitely dead when I carried him out.”

  “And I haven’t even asked you about the body. Or why you shot him twice instead of once. And they’ll pull her phone records to see if she called you that day.” Paul plants himself in a chair. “We need some work, Marty, before we assert this affirmative defense. We need a lot of work.”

  30

  “MR. KALISH,” GREG QUILLAR SAYS WITH A NOD. HE walks around to the other side of the booth, throws his briefcase on the seat, and sits across from me. “Sorry I’m late.”

  It’s just past six-thirty. The restaurant in my hotel has reached its maximum, which is to say it’s about half full. There’s a fairly trashy-looking lady sitting at the bar who’s been glancing my way. Forty-something, leathery face, too much makeup, and decent legs. Could be promising. Who am I kidding.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” I say, holding up my glass of scotch. “I started without you.”

  “Oh, well, I didn’t plan on staying long,” he says quickly. He casts a wary eye on my drink, which he can gather from my speech pattern is not my first.

  “Mission accomplished?” I ask.

  “Uh, yeah, yeah.” He reaches into the side fold of his briefcase and removes a manila envelope. He places it on the wood table and slides it across.

  “What’s in here?”

  “Name, address, even got a couple photos.”

  “Impressive.” I stare at the envelope, not sure if I’m happy or depressed.

  “Any trouble finding him?”

  “No, no. Just like you said.”

  I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket and pull out a bundle of cash.

  “Mr. Kalish,” Quillar says, “you paid me in advance.”

  “I know.” I slide the money across to him.

  He looks down at the green in front of him. “Then what is this for?”

  “That,” I say, “is for your next job.”

  31

  THE RED BMW PULLS INTO HIS GARAGE A LITTLE after seven-thirty at night. The bottom floor is already lit. A few minutes later, the lights are on upstairs as well. He walks into the bedroom, yanks off his tie, unbuttons his shirt, changes into a turtleneck and sweatpants. Then he disappears.

  He’s in the family room now. He’s holding a bowl in his hands. He takes a seat on an off-white love seat and reaches for the television remote. The glow from the set flickers repeatedly until he finds the channel he is seeking. He shovels spaghetti into his mouth and watches.

  His hair is dark and curly, very short on the sides. The turtleneck doesn’t hide his wide neck and thick shoulders. He has a strong-looking face with a five-o’clock shadow. Classic good looks.

  The walls are filled with colorful, expensive art. Near the fireplace is an antique grandfather clock that doesn’t quite fit the decor. A family relic.

  She is in the kitchen, wiping a yellow tile counter. She wears an oversize red flannel with gray sweats. Her dark hair is up in a ponytail. She walks into the family room and says something to him while she wipes her hands on a rag. He looks over at her briefly, says something, and then returns to the television. She watches him for a second longer, then heads back to the kitchen. A moment later, she’s upstairs.

  The bedroom light goes out at ten. He is still downstairs in the den. The television is still on, but he’s reading something now. About midnight, he places the bookmark in the novel and sets it on the table next to him. He lies flat on the couch, turns over away from my view, and is motionless a few minutes later.

  32

  THE WORDS “PEOPLE V. KALISH,” TYPED IN BOLD ON a piece of white cardboard, fit nicely in the slot by the door that’s normally reserved for an associate’s nameplate. I receive a jolt upon seeing this, my name announced to all the lawyers in this law firm as a criminal. I move into the room to disassociate myself, like it’s a sign with an arrow pointing down at me that I have to escape. The room is already filled with boxes, primarily on two sets of cabinets. The left cabinets are apparently the prosecution’s case; the defense’s are on the right. My trial is still two months away, and the lawyers I am paying have already accumulated cartons full of research and notes. Along with Paul and Mandy, I have two young associates on my case and a private investigator. One of the associates, a stocky, fresh-faced kid named Colgan, shows me to this room while I wait to meet with Mandy. I tabulate that this escort to the file room probably ran me twenty-five bucks.

  Each box lined up on the shelves bears that caption: PEOPLE V. KALISH. This is the same caption, of course, that I see on every legal document in this case, but even now I cringe at the sight. The People. As if the entire state has gathered together, huddled around me, hurling accusations and raising their torches as they march me to the village square and put me in on
e of those wooden contraptions where my head and hands are locked down, where I will be spat on and ridiculed until the next day, when I am hanged at high noon.

  I look through the prosecution’s boxes in a casual manner, like I’m just strolling through them randomly. I finally find the file I want, “Neighborhood Canvass.” The file is a green pressboard, the pieces of paper bound at the top. I flip through page after page until I find the right one. It’s a typewritten summary of some cop’s notes, fills half a page.

  He works in management information systems for an insurance company downtown, name of Redish Mutual. He didn’t hear anything on November 18, because he was out drinking with some friends. He went to bed somewhere between eleven-thirty and twelve. He knows of the Reinardts but has never met them.

  She didn’t hear anything, either, wasn’t even home. She manages an art gallery, has a show every Thursday night that keeps her there until midnight.

  I hear Mandy’s voice in the hallway, laughing with someone. I yank at the piece of paper and rip it unevenly off the pressboard. Then I fold it up and shove it in my pocket.

  She appears in the doorway. “How are you, Marty?” Her eyes fall to the green pressboard in my hand.

  “Better,” I say to her, closing up the folder. I am feeling better.

  I pour a glass of juice and plant myself in the conference room. A couple of young lawyers wander past the room and glance at me. I can imagine their whispers as they walk on. A murder case is probably far more interesting than a shareholder derivative suit or a products liability action. And here is the murderer himself, in the flesh, in their cushy downtown office. That’s the guy. The guy who offed the doctor.

  I think of Jerry Lazarus. At my insistence, we haven’t talked in the law firm since I became a client. Laz is doing well here, a few years from making partner. However he may try to rationalize it, it can’t look too good, him being best buddies with a guy on trial for murder. Being the stand-up guy that he is, he will never let that keep him from showing me his undying friendship. So I made a point of telling him that I didn’t want to see him at the office.