Eye of the Beholder

by David Ellis

  McDermott glances at Brady but lets it go. The uniforms are always looking to impress.

  “Good job, Brady,” he says. He ducks under the crime-scene tape, Stoletti following, and enters the home.

  There is a burglar alarm pad on the ground floor, which makes sense for a former security guard. “Need to see if the alarm company got called,” he says to Stoletti. Occasionally, intruders will come in on an alarmed house and force the homeowner to give up the password. If that were the case, at least they could pinpoint a time of death.

  Another uniform in the kitchen, guy named Abrams who is standing with a County Attorney Technical Unit member, tells McDermott that the back door lock was picked. “And the alarm company hasn’t gotten a call from this house for over a year,” he tells McDermott.

  “Good job, Ronnie.” Saved him a phone call. Three possibilities. One is that Ciancio didn’t use his alarm—not likely for someone who worked security, in one form or another, for most of his life. Second, the offender knew the alarm’s password. Third, the offender broke in when the alarm was turned off—middle of the day, for example, while Ciancio was in the house but unsuspecting—then the offender surprised him later, probably in the middle of the night; the alarm wouldn’t matter because he was already in the house. But that would mean the offender got the alarm password out of Ciancio before he killed him, because he must have deactivated it before leaving.

  The CAT unit is dusting for prints on the staircase as McDermott and Stoletti climb. McDermottreminds the technician to check the alarm pads. The stairs are carpeted in thick, white industrial. Splotches of the carpet have been removed on several steps.

  McDermott feels it, like always, the flutter of his heartbeat as he approaches the scene, even as he reminds himself: The victim is an elderly male, dead from multiple stab wounds and a broken neck. Not his thirty-four-year-old wife, his high school sweetheart. Not Joyce, splayed about the floor, dead from a single gunshot wound.

  The bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. The scene looks contained to the bed. Fred Ciancio is lying on his back, mouth and eyes open. He is wearing a pajama top, a solid white that has now been peppered with dark stains from where the incisions were made around his body. The deepest, most obvious is right in the Adam’s apple. His head rests on the pillow. The bedspread is still gathered around his ankles. The smell of bodily fluids, including urine and feces, is made worse by the thick air coming through the open windows. Someone probably thought it would help to air it out, but when there’s humidity it makes it worse.

  “I counted twenty-two,” says a CAT technician named Soporro, emerging from the bathroom. “Twenty-two wounds. Fatal one in the neck.”

  But the other stabbings came first, before he died. Too much blood spilled out of too many holes. If the wounds had been postmortem, his heart would not have pumped blood and little would have escaped from the body, even due to gravity. McDermott gets up close to the body, looks at some of the wounds that aren’t covered by the pajama top, in the upper chest and shoulder. Small, circular punctures.

  A Phillips screwdriver, the uniform had thought.

  The wounds are shallow, enough to penetrate the skin but not by much.

  “He was tortured,” McDermott mumbles.

  “Mike.” A uniform calls to him from the hallway. “We found the weapon.”

  THE STOMACHACHES ARE BACK. The acid penetrates the stomach walls, sets fire to the lining. Like sandpaper on a raw wound.

  No more. No more. He bites his lip and counts it out, one, two, one-two, one-two. It’s temporary. A flash of lightning. The question is how long before it returns.

  Leo looks at himself in the rearview mirror of his car. He runs his finger over the scar beneath his eye, the half-moon, the only menacing feature on an otherwise long, soft, pockmarked face.

  Soft. That’s what they think of me. Soft like a feather. Soft like a kitten.

  He jumps as a man in uniform brushes the driver‘s-side window. Leo tucks his chin into his chest, pretends to look in the glove compartment—an excuse to turn to his right to see if they have someone on the other side of the car, too. His left foot taps softly along the carpet in the footwell, touching the handgun, edging it closer so he can reach it more easily if necessary.

  But, so far, the right flank is clean. He holds his breath and counts backward from twenty.

  Nineteen ... eighteen ...

  The man-in-uniform is putting a ticket on a windshield, two cars ahead. Did he look back at Leo? Did he look past Leo, at someone behind him?

  Leo turns in his seat, cranes his neck to look behind him. A blur of pedestrians and traffic.

  No one there.

  Leo turns back just as Paul Riley emerges from the building in a tuxedo, only twenty-five minutes after he arrived. Riley is walking with another man. Is that—is that—? Could that—is that—?

  The cop? Lightner?

  Right. Joel Lightner.

  Riley looks annoyed, arguing with Lightner, as he raises his hand for a cab.

  Joel Lightner. Lightner, Joel.

  Leo looks back at the rearview mirror. Watch for the diversion, that’s when they’d do it, they’d wait until he sees Riley, when he’s looking forward, and then come for him, look right, look left, nobody, no one, they haven’t found him yet, not yet.

  Riley and Lightner.

  Leo starts his car. He tries on a smile for size, but it doesn’t work, it doesn’t fit. He puts the car into gear as Riley and Lightner jump in a cab.

  McDERMOTT EMERGES from the house an hour later. He sucks in the warm, clean air and avoids eye contact with a couple of reporters huddling near the police tape.

  The medical examiner has given a preliminary on cause of death. As expected, it was the full-throttle wound to the neck, not the flesh wounds, that ended Fred Ciancio’s life. The offender just wanted a little fun before he popped him. As he walks toward his vehicle with Stoletti, one of the reporters, someone he’s seen before, shadows him until he gets to the car. She doesn’t have a microphone, let alone a camera.

  “Detective McDermott? Evelyn Pendry from the Watch.”

  The Watch. Right. She’s a crime-beat reporter. Print, not television, though she looks like she belongs in the latter. She is well sculpted in every way, with shiny blond hair pulled back, and a perfect, powder blue suit.

  “No comment,” he says.

  “Was Mr. Ciancio killed with a Phillips screwdriver?”

  McDermott shoots a look at Stoletti, who pauses a beat while rounding the car to the passenger’s side. Damn that uniform, Brady. What did Evelyn Pendry promise him? A mention in the article as the responding officer? Dinner and dancing?

  “He said no comment,” Stoletti says. “But if you want to be accurate, Evelyn, you won’t print that.”

  “I need you to talk to me,” says the reporter, an uncharacteristically informal tone to her plea.

  McDermott, half in the car, leans back out. “Do you have something to tell me ?”

  She blinks. She becomes aware of three other reporters who have caught up with her, training a camera on the cops.

  Evelyn Pendry gives a curt shake of the head no. McDermott watches her for a moment, but she looks away in defeat. He closes the door and drives away.

  14

  THE PROBLEM with a perfect martini,” I explain to Lightner, ”is that it’s perfect” I hold up an empty glass. Three hours ago, Lightner and I moved past the dining room and into the bar at Sax’s. I’ve had a few now, maybe half a dozen or so, so I wave for the check with the universal sign, scribbling in the air, except that my scribbling would be ineligible at this point. Or illegible. One of those. ”I better stop drinking before I become an asshole.”

  “Too late.” Lightner has a toothpick in his mouth. He leans back against the booth, one arm over the top, looking around the place, at the end of a long night. The air is heavy with perfume and smoke and alcohol. The chatter is still animated, but some people have left. Winding down n
ow. I have a full stomach and far too much vodka in me. Lightner, as always, can hold more than me, but his eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks a rosier shade of his normal cherubic pink. He still thinks he’s got my number because he tagged along to the governor’s fund-raiser, and I’m getting tired of telling him that I didn’t drag him there to see my ex.

  He nods toward the bar, removes the pick from his mouth, and is starting to say something when the waitress brings the check. Lightner stares at the bill like it’s radioactive. I’ve seen more movement from a mannequin.

  “No, no,” I say, grabbing the bill. “I already picked up dinner. Let me get this, too.”

  “This is, like, client development:”

  “Yeah, but I’m the client. You’re supposed to treat me.”

  “So I got next one.” Lightner points his toothpick toward the bar. “You’re not gonna believe this, Riley, but I think this lady is actually looking at you.”

  The thing I like about Lightner is, he hasn’t changed since I met him, sixteen years ago. His wallet is thicker, his clothes much nicer, and his hair a little grayer, but he’s still got that youthful enthusiasm about him.

  “She’s got an ass you could eat lunch off of,” he says.

  That’s what I mean about the youthful enthusiasm. I drop down my credit card. “Great. Pass her a note. Ask her if she likes me.”

  “Try not to fuck this up,” he says out of the side of his mouth as the woman walks up to our table. “Hello there, young lady. My name’s Joel.”

  “Hi there,” the lady says with more enthusiasm than I have ever been able to muster in my entire life, not even when I got accepted to Harvard or when I hit the winning jumper against Saint Mary’s High my junior year. Clock ticking down, I beat this guy off the dribble with a head fake, then a fadeaway jumper. I wouldn’t say nothing but net, but it went down. It’s not like I remember every detail. For example, I don’t remember the name of the guy guarding me.

  “May I ask your name?” Lightner asks.

  Oh—Ricky Haden. Tall, gangly kid. Didn’t move his feet on defense.

  “I’m Molly.”

  Molly is wearing low-riding jeans and high heels, a loose white top that falls off one shoulder. No way she’s interested in me. Must be a pro. They come around these places sometimes, looking for the guys with money who’ve had a few drinks in them and want a little companionship.

  Wait. That’s me.

  “Well, Molly, sitting across from me here is the great Paul Riley. You may have heard of him. But right now, Molly”—and, with this, Joel scoots over and offers her a seat, which she takes—“Molly, right about now Paul is feeling a little blue.”

  “Why is Paul blue, Joel?”

  I wasn’t supposed to get the ball, but they crashed down on Joey Schramek, our center, so I kicked out and had the open look. Haden wasn’t planted, so he bought my fake, and, next thing I knew, the ball was sailing through the air and the buzzer was sounding.

  “Paul is blue, Molly, because he had his heart broken.”

  Swish. I prefer to remember it as a swish.

  “Nothing but net,” I say.

  “I know who Paul Riley is,” says this woman—Molly, I think it was. “I saw a special on television a couple of weeks ago about Terry Burgos.”

  “You hear that, Paul? Molly saw you on TV.”

  Okay, so she’s not a pro. Molly, from what I can see at this point, is in her mid to late thirties and wears a decent amount of makeup and her hair is tossed nicely. The outline of her face is oval, and I think the rest of the pieces would measure up pretty nicely if I could see straight. I think if I could see straight, I would also figure her for out of my league. But that’s the thing. Men are all about looks. They seek out the best-looking female in the room and lust after her. I leave open the possibility that women do the same, which is why I hang out with homely people. Still, most women look for more substantive things—

  “He seemed very—self-assured,” she tells Lightner.

  Exactly. Women go for things like brains and a sense of humor and success and confidence. Guys like me count on it. I’m not much to look at, but I’ve got some smarts and I can crack wise, and I’m a prince of a guy once you get to know me.

  “Do you win all your cases?” she asks me.

  Joel sits back. He likes that question.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Oh, the modesty.” Molly smiles at me and holds her stare on me.

  I hold up two fingers. “The second rule in litigation is, settle the ones you can’t win and try the ones you can.”

  She opens her hands, still looking at me. When I don’t elaborate, she says, “If everyone followed that rule, you’d never have a trial.”

  “First rule is, know the difference.” I wave to the waitress. “Buy you a drink, Molly?”

  “I was going to buy you one.”

  “Even better.”

  Joel Lightner seems happy enough with the developments. It annoys me a little that he looks out for me. “I got that thing I gotta do,” he says. “Molly. My apologies. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  Molly doesn’t resist, gets right out of the seat to allow Joel out. I’m waking up a bit now.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks when she sits back down.

  I don’t. I consider lying, but lying always digs a hole. And I’m too drunk to be creative.

  “That’s okay. I was here last week, when you were—not with your friend here but a client, it looked like. You ordered a drink at the bar and made a joke. You made me laugh. You were very nice.”

  “And sober,” I add.

  “You were sober, I’ll give you that. Maybe you could use some coffee.”

  “That’s a better idea.” I push myself out of my seat. “I normally make an excellent first impression. Believe me.”

  “You made a good first impression with me.”

  Oh, that’s right. I’m actually feeling better than expected, which is probably due to the adrenaline kicking in, fighting through the intoxication. But this really isn’t my thing. I was as celibate as a priest for a good eight, ten years before I met Shelly. Never did the pickup scene. Not ready to start now.

  “I think the best course of action here, Molly, is that I put you in a cab.”

  She smiles at me like she’s suspicious. “You’re either a gentleman or you’re not interested.”

  “I’m neither. But I’m much closer to a gentleman when I’m sober.”

  But the truth is, she’s half right. I’m not interested. I’m carrying a torch for someone who has moved onward and upward.

  She motions down the way. “I live about three blocks down. Walk me home?”

  Three blocks down puts her near Lilly. Sax’s is on the west side, so she must live in one of the lofts that have cropped up out here. She’s probably an artist. Dancer or musician. Dancer would be good.

  I like this side of town, in part because it has largely avoided gentrification so far. The near west side is still industrial, with only a handful of excellent bars and restaurants standing out among the construction companies and factories. Even the little modernization that has taken place has been met with resistance from community groups. They put a Starbucks down the road a few months ago and half the neighborhood protested. The other half ordered mocha lattes. The area is getting whiter and trendier. The stampede of progress is running roughshod over the cluster of protesters who wring their hands.

  It rained earlier, leaving the damp smell that I love. Small pockets of rainwater fill the potholes that cover the roads out here, where there’s no money, and the aldermen don’t have the mayor’s ear.

  “Do you still do criminal cases?” she asks me.

  “When I can.” The heater criminal cases are few and far between for a guy like me, because my billable rate is ridiculous, and the only criminal defendants who can afford me are of the white-collar variety, where the injuries are calculated by accountants, not coroners.

  �
��Let’s talk about you,” I suggest.

  We turn a corner, down a street of tall buildings that make it feel more like an alley. We walk over long-abandoned railroad tracks embedded in the asphalt, and I’m wondering where she lives. Some of these old warehouses have been converted, but they don’t display any signage. The deal is, these lofts are gorgeous and cheap, but you can’t walk to much, and you’re lucky if you have a view of anything other than the side of a building.

  “So?” I ask.

  Molly stops, looks up at me, and blushes. At least, I think she blushes. Her face seems to change in the shadows. The street is relatively dark, some illumination from a streetlight to our south, casting a light on her face that highlights the smooth skin, those wonderful eyes looking up at me.

  “Let me give you my card,” she says.

  “Oh. Great,” I manage, but as she’s reaching into her purse, the shoulder strap on her bag slides off, landing hard on her elbow, and the momentum topples the purse from her hand onto the sidewalk. The purse’s contents spill onto the pavement.

  I bend down to help, so we are both in a crouch. This is the part where we look into each other’s eyes and submit to the sexual tension. But I have neither the physical nor mental capacity for that right now, and my heart, alas, belongs to another. So I concentrate on the credit cards and lipstick and money clip and compact on the sidewalk when I probably should be concentrating on the sound of footsteps behind me.

  Then it hits me, a tickle in the back of my brain, as I watch her eyes move over my shoulder, her lips part in expectation. I guess she’s a pro after all. Just not the kind I expected.

  A split second later, it hits me for real, something hard and metal, on the back of my skull.

  15

  YOUR BODY IS WARM, Paul. Your body is moving, rising and falling. You’re still alive, unconscious but alive.

  She’s running away, trying to escape, but she’s in heels, she can’t move like Leo, he darts down the alley, faster than her, she’s running but he’s catching her, closing ground quickly, here I come, she’s trying to scream but the fear stops her, stops her cries, closes her throat, the only sounds her tortured breathing and her heels going clack-clack-clack on the pavement, clack-clack-clack, but not for long.