Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  Even now, Terri found that the label startled her.

  Chris took her face in his hands. ‘Your mother’s wrong,’ he said. ‘Not about Richie – I think she gets him well enough. It’s just that Rosa can see Richie far more clearly than she can imagine anything better.’ His gaze was intense. ‘Don’t let her life become yours, Terri. It’s enough that your mother lived it.’

  Terri met his eyes. ‘But if I’m to be with you,’ she said after a time, ‘I need to be able to love you with a whole heart. Even if I lose Elena.’

  For once, Chris had no answer.

  Terri turned from the look on his face. ‘Please. I just need to think awhile.’

  They ate together, quiet. But an hour later, when they had cruised back to Portofino, Terri asked to be alone.

  She walked in the garden, thinking of Elena and Carlo and Rosa, Judge Scatena and Alec Keene, and how they would react should she decide to be with Chris. Then of the man she had married and the man whom she now loved and the way that, by also loving a child, Terri had set one upon the other.

  A little after four, she found Chris on the patio.

  As she approached, he tried to keep his face impassive, concealing his apprehension. But Terri knew him now; it no longer quite worked. It was the knowledge, she thought to her surprise, that a wife might have of a husband she knew too well, and loved too deeply, ever to share with him.

  She sat across from him at a small round table. ‘Hi,’ he said casually. As if the moment were nothing special.

  Terri touched his hand. ‘You’re precious to me, Chris. I’m still learning, I’m afraid, how much a part of me you’ve become.’

  Chris started to reach for her, then stopped himself: he did not know where she was going. She gathered her thoughts, began again.

  ‘I don’t know, really, what this trip was supposed to tell us. If it was that we can escape our problems because we love each other so much, it didn’t work. It’s been too hard for both of us.’ She looked down. ‘What it taught me is something different. That as bad as things are, and as much as we thrash around, you and I keep trying. And that in the end, life is better than before.’ She took his hands now, gazing directly at him. ‘I believe in you, Chris. We have to solve this terrible thing with Carlo and Elena. But if we can, I’ll live with you, and have our child. Because that baby, and our life, will be something no one can ever take from us. Not even Richie.’

  Chris’s eyes shut; it was only then that Terri saw, beyond anything he could say or do, how deeply Christopher Paget loved her. And then he raised his head, and gave her a smile that seemed to stop her heart: this was the man Terri would spend her life with, she was suddenly certain, and what that meant to him was what it meant to her. ‘We have so much,’ he said. ‘And there’s so much more we can do.’

  Terri grinned. ‘You mean like sleeping through the night?’

  Chris laughed at that; it seemed to Terri that he might laugh at anything. And then his smile vanished.

  The elderly concierge was approaching their table, grave and tentative, sensing his interruption. ‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘But I have a message for Ms Peralta.’ Turning to Terri, he added, ‘We’ve been looking for you since this morning.’

  It startled her. Terri thanked him and read the slip of paper.

  ‘What is it?’ Chris asked.

  She looked up at him. ‘My mother.’ Her voice felt thin. ‘The message says it’s urgent.’

  All at once, Chris seemed edgy. ‘Maybe Richie’s popped up,’ he said at last. ‘You asked her to call.’

  But Terri was hurrying to find a telephone before she knew she had not answered him. ‘It’s all right,’ she remembered Rosa saying. ‘I’ll make sure Elena’s safe.’

  Slowly, Terri put down the phone.

  It was a while before she stood. The miniworld of the hotel lobby went on around her, unnoticed; walking past the lush Italian gardens, to Chris, she saw nothing but his face.

  He watched her with a look of unease. Terri thought this strange, and then remembered hurrying from their table, fearful, in the moments before everything would change for them.

  Terri found that she could not sit.

  ‘What is it?’ Chris asked.

  She brushed the hair back from her face. ‘Richie’s dead.’

  His eyes did not change. Perhaps widened slightly, that was all.

  Terri watched him, taut. ‘Say something, Chris. Please.’

  He stood wordlessly, walking slowly to the iron railing at the edge of the patio. He seemed to watch the bay.

  Terri clutched his arm. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Would you care for me to put it into words? All right. I’m glad he’s dead, and I hope that it was slow and painful.’ He turned at last, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild curiosity. ‘How did he die, by the way?’

  Terri kept her voice steady. ‘He shot himself. Apparently. My mother called the police last night, and they found him.’ Pausing, Terri realized that she had not let go of his arm. ‘That’s not like him, Chris.’

  He gazed down at the bay. ‘Is killing oneself “like” anyone? I’m just surprised he had the discernment to do it.’ He expelled a deep breath, the first hint of suppressed emotion. Then he turned again, his face newly gentle. ‘You’re in shock, Terri. But Richie can’t hurt you anymore, or Carlo. Most important, you have Elena now.’

  Terri tried to focus on that. ‘I need to be with her,’ she said. ‘Oh, Chris, it will be so hard to tell her.’

  In silent answer, Chris’s arms came tight around her.

  They stayed like that for a time, quiet and close, heedless of anything else. And then Chris murmured, ‘At least no one can blame us for this. Not even Elena.’

  Terri leaned back, looking into his face again. ‘Only because it’s suicide,’ she answered slowly. ‘From what the police told my mother, Richie may have died the night before we left.’

  In his eyes, Terri saw the flicker of some new emotion. But she could not identify what it was, perhaps only imagined it. ‘We’d better pack,’ Chris said at last. ‘We can catch a plane in Milan.’

  The Inquiry

  OCTOBER 27 – NOVEMBER 30

  Chapter 1

  Christopher Paget was not surprised when, three nights after Ricardo Arias was found, two homicide inspectors came to his home. The technique was familiar: they appeared unannounced, armed with a tape machine to record whatever ‘Paget might say. In itself, this was not too worrisome – it was competent police work to check into an apparent suicide. But one of the inspectors was Charles Monk: the odds against coincidence were high, and Monk would not have forgotten the Carelli trial, where it had been Paget’s role to ask the questions. Within an instant of opening the door, Paget found that he was thinking like a lawyer, alert beneath the surface.

  ‘Come on in,’ he told Monk easily. ‘We’re through with dinner.’

  Monk said nothing. Ushering in Monk and his partner, a graying and taciturn Irishman named Dennis Lynch, Paget sensed Monk taking in the surroundings with the silent impassivity that suspects found unnerving: it was Monk’s gift that he could reduce the normal range of human response to a stare and a voice that never changed. Monk’s appearance was striking – a six-foot-four-inch black man with the grooved planes-and-angles face of an African mask and the goldrimmed glasses of a scholar – and off the job he had a certain laconic charm. But Paget thought of him as a monotone with eyes and a brain that forgot nothing; an hour with Monk and his machine had ensnared Mary Carelli – a frighteningly clever woman – in a trial for first-degree murder.

  ‘Why don’t we sit in the library,’ Paget said, and led them into a high-ceilinged room with a fireplace and two sofas.

  Terri sat on one of them, drinking coffee. ‘You remember Terri Peralta,’ Paget said to Monk.

  Monk neither spoke nor shook hands, but his brief wary look gave Paget a moment’s satisfaction: Terri was also a potential witness, and Monk would not want his w
itnesses to hear what each other said.

  ‘You can talk to us both,’ Paget said pleasantly. ‘I’m sure that Terri is on your list.’

  Monk paused. Paget could follow his calculations: neither Paget nor Terri was under arrest, and to insist that someone leave was beyond his power. ‘We were trying to find you,’ Monk said to Terri.

  She looked at him over her coffee cup. ‘I was out all day,’ she said. ‘Trying to distract my daughter any way I could. It’s been hard.’

  Monk nodded. He did not ask how Elena was. But the child Terri had described to Paget had moved from tears to numbness, burrowing deep within herself. It was as if, Terri told him, Elena blamed herself for Richie’s death. Paget hoped that Monk would let the child be.

  ‘Where is she now?’ Monk asked.

  ‘With my mother.’ Terri glanced at Paget but did not explain her presence here. To Paget, the fatigue etched in her face said enough; she looked like a woman who should be with a friend. Monk set the tape machine in front of her.

  ‘Can you answer a few questions?’ he asked.

  Terri nodded. Monk glanced at Paget: he wanted him to leave, Paget knew, as surely as Paget intended to stay. Smiling at Monk, he took a chair to the side of them.

  Belatedly, Dennis Lynch introduced himself to Terri. A pose of diffidence came easily to Lynch, Paget sensed, which cast him as the good cop in any partnership with Monk. Lynch eased his slender frame onto the couch next to Monk, facing Terry with a half smile of sympathy, ignoring the tape machine on the coffee table between them. Paget found their presence invasive; he had dealt with the police for years, but never in his home.

  Monk pushed a button. The tape seemed to have a mesmeric effect, Paget noticed; all four of them watched it spin. Then Monk began speaking.

  ‘This is an initial investigation into the death of Ricardo Paul Arias.’ Monk’s voice was methodical; each word stood alone. ‘It is October twenty-seventh at seven-thirty-five p.m. I am Inspector Charles Monk; with me is Inspector Dennis Lynch. The witness is Teresa Peralta, and we are at the home of Christopher Paget, who is also present.’ Monk turned to Paget with a bland expression. ‘Are you representing Ms Peralta?’

  It was a game, Paget knew. ‘No,’ he said evenly. ‘I was just here with Ms Peralta when you happened to show up. This is, as you point out, where I live.’

  Monk looked at him, then turned to Terri as if Paget were not there. He skipped the Miranda warnings; Terri was not in custody, and he could ask whatever he wanted. Within moments, Monk had Tern’s age, her work and home addresses and telephone numbers, and enough background information for him to find her at will, subpoena her bank records, and interview her neighbors for the last five years. Then he turned to the subject of Richie.

  ‘Were you related to Ricardo Arias?’

  The question seemed to surprise her. ‘I was his wife,’ she answered simply. ‘For over six years.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘A daughter. Elena Rosa.’

  ‘And she is how old?’

  ‘Six.’ Tern’s voice was flat. ‘Also.’

  Monk watched her. ‘At the time of Mr Arias’s death, were you still living with him?’

  ‘No.’ Quite deliberately, it seemed, Terri did not look at Paget. ‘We were separated.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Terri still gazed at Monk. ‘Since the end of the Carelli trial. However long that’s been.’

  Paget suppressed a smile; he was certain that Monk remembered the date precisely. Calmly, Monk asked, ‘And where did Elena live? Before your husband died, that is.’

  ‘Richie had preponderant custody.’ Terri’s voice had the first tinge of wariness. ‘You’ve already interviewed my mother. So you know all this.’

  Monk did not respond. ‘Was there some question about custody?’ he asked.

  ‘I had some questions.’ Terri flicked her bangs. ‘I didn’t think that Richie should raise her.’

  Monk leaned back, hands folded in his lap. The room seemed quieter now. ‘Why not?’

  Terri breathed audibly, as if thinking about Richie made her weary. ‘He had emotional problems,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t think he was stable.’

  ‘Did you ever go to a counselor? Seek help of some kind?’

  Terri hesitated. ‘No.’

  Monk glanced at Paget. ‘Why not?’

  Terri seemed to draw inward; her gaze became self-questioning. ‘For years,’ she said at last, ‘I told myself that Richie was just unusual. At the end, when I saw him more clearly, I thought that nothing would help.’

  Monk caught Lynch’s eye. In a sympathetic voice, Lynch asked, ‘What did you think was wrong with him, Terri?’

  ‘People weren’t real to him.’ As if hearing Paget’s silent warning, she caught herself, and the vehemence left her voice. ‘However he needed someone to be or feel, that’s what he imagined they were.’

  Lynch nodded his encouragement. ‘Did he go to a psychiatrist, anyone like that?’

  ‘No.’ Terri gazed down. ‘Richie thought he was fine.’

  Lynch paused, blue eyes narrowing slightly, as if sorting something out. ‘Was he going to a psychiatrist?’ Paget asked.

  Monk turned to Lynch; Lynch saw this, faced Paget, and shrugged. No one answered.

  ‘Did you ever consult a mental health professional?’ Monk asked Terri.

  Terri glanced at Paget. ‘Only to talk about Elena.’

  ‘Concerning what?’

  Terri hesitated; Paget watched the thought of Carlo cross her face, and then she answered simply, ‘Emotional problems.’

  ‘Of what kind?’

  Terri folded her hands. ‘Since the separation,’ she said slowly, ‘Elena has seemed troubled. I thought it was getting worse.’

  Monk leaned forward. ‘Did Mr Arias agree?’

  For an instant, Terri looked cornered: as if thinking along with her, Paget imagined the police interviewing Alec Keene and combing through the files of Terri’s divorce case. He was glad that Carlo was at a friend’s tonight.

  ‘I don’t know whether he agreed or not,’ Terri said coolly.

  ‘There wasn’t much about Elena we did agree on.’ It was a calculated answer, Paget thought: by conceding the depth of their disagreement, Terri avoided the particulars and thus kept the focus off Paget and Carlo. Yet Monk, he suddenly realized, must have impounded Richie’s papers. He watched the same thought come to Terri; she composed herself, waiting for the next question.

  But Monk dropped the subject abruptly. ‘Did your husband own a gun?’ he asked.

  Terri looked down. She shook her head.

  ‘Is that a “no”?’ Monk said. ‘The tape doesn’t pick up shakes of the head.’

  Terri raised her eyes. ‘It was a “no.”’

  ‘Did he have any interest in guns?’ Here Monk paused. ‘Because the gun we found with him was quite unusual.’

  ‘How so?’ Paget asked.

  Monk kept looking at Terri. ‘It was a thirty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson safety model. Five cylinders.’ His voice grew more deliberate. ‘The last one was made in 1909, Ms Peralta. It’s practically a collector’s item.’

  Terri looked puzzled. ‘Richie wasn’t a collector,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know what he knew about guns. If anything.’

  Monk regarded her. ‘Do you own a gun?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was emphatic. ‘And if I’d known Richie had one, I’d have asked him to get rid of it.’

  ‘Because you thought he was unstable?’

  ‘Because guns kill people. Including children.’

  Monk sat back. Softly, he asked, ‘Do you think Richie killed himself?’

  Terri rested her head on the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Her face looked drawn. ‘I can’t imagine anyone killing himself,’ she said at last. ‘But people do. So I don’t know how to answer that.’

  ‘What about Richie?’

  Terri still watched the ceiling.
‘I’m not sure I understood him. Now I’m less sure than ever. But there was something wrong with him.’ She paused. ‘Toward the end, he seemed angry and more desperate. His mood swings were wider.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Terri lowered her eyes to him. ‘He had lost me,’ she said simply. ‘And he had very little money.’

  ‘Was he employed?’

  ‘No.’ Tern’s voice was cool again. ‘Richie didn’t like working for people. He liked it better when I worked for him.’

  ‘Did he ever ask you for money?’

  Terri hesitated. Paget saw her flash on the fifty thousand dollars Richie had wanted her to extort from him, to protect Carlo and Paget himself.

  ‘I gave him money,’ Terri answered. ‘Nearly twenty-three hundred a month. Much of that was child support.’

  Monk adjusted his glass. ‘Are you sorry he’s dead?’

  His tone was one of mild inquiry. But Lynch had started to fidget; the gestures had the suppressed nervousness of a thwarted smoker. Terri gave them a look that combined tolerance with exhaustion.

  ‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘But for Elena, yes.’

  ‘How is she?’

  Terri gave a shrug of helplessness, as if Elena’s reaction defied easy description. ‘You’d have to know her,’ she said tiredly. ‘During the separation, Elena imagined she was responsible for him. So if Richie’s dead now, in Elena’s mind it must be her fault. As if she could have stopped this.’

  The words lingered in the room. The lights from the lamp looked pallid now; the large window behind Terri was a black rectangle. It felt too quiet.

  Monk leaned forward. ‘Elena was expecting to see him, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. On Sunday evening.’

  ‘And when did you first know that he hadn’t come for her?’

  ‘When I called my mother from Venice.’ Terri glanced at Paget. ‘It was Tuesday, I think. At night.’

  ‘Did you consider having the police check on him?’

  Terri was silent for a moment. ‘Elena was safe at my mother’s.’ She glanced at Paget. ‘That was all I cared about, really.’