Eye of the Beholder

by Shari Shattuck

  “So tell me why”—she folded one arm under her hanging breasts and raised the one holding the cigarette up in front of her face—“are the detectives talking to the neighbors?”

  Luke and Whitney exchanged a look. Whitney decided to field the question. “Because she’s friends with them. She goes to school with the boy, and I’m sure they want to find out if they saw or heard anything.”

  Pam snorted, a thick, phlegmy sound, and said, “She fucking the boy?”

  Whitney grabbed hold of Luke’s shoulder as he started to rise, but she might have been a sweater draped casually across it for all the effect it had. “Luke, no!” she pleaded urgently.

  But Luke had stopped himself, standing just over Pam, whose face, still half smirking, was frozen with fear.

  “Listen to me,” he said, his voice rumbling and dangerous. “If I find out you and your drugs had anything to do with this, if you’ve involved her with people who will hurt her . . .”

  Pam’s shaking fingers moved slowly toward her mouth, and she took a deliberate drag of nicotine as she looked up at her ex-husband. “You’ll what? Take her away? Have me arrested?” A smile played at the edges of her nervous mouth.

  “No,” Luke said. He leaned forward, took the cigarette out of her hand, and crushed it, burning end and all, in his bare hand. “I’ll kill you.”

  Chapter 38

  The truck with the faded PAUL’S PLUMBING painted on both front doors pulled up noisily and parked in front of the shop. Dario watched it in his mirror and winced slightly. He wished that they would park that monster somewhere other than right in front, but he didn’t think it would be very PC to mention it.

  Only one of the brothers got out, the younger one. He pulled a large toolbox and a few pieces of miscellaneous chrome pipe connectors out of the back and headed for the door with his hands full.

  Celia spotted him coming and rushed to open the door for him, her face flushing slightly. She’d noticed him when he was there before working with his brother; he was handsome enough to make her feel excited in a swirling, scary, roller-coaster way. There was also something about his quiet-outlaw reticence that made her curious and interested, challenged to break through the toughness and make him notice her. She smiled shyly, and he nodded his thanks as he passed her.

  As he made his way down the salon floor, he kept his eyes focused on the back, where he was headed to work on the new sinks. Dario spoke to him as he grew level. “Hello, Army.” There was no reply, only a slight shift in his eyes and head. “Where’s Paul?”

  Army stopped and stood awkwardly with his weight on one leg in an unsuccessful attempt at a cocky stance. He looked as though he had arrived late for class and while trying to sneak in unnoticed had been called out by the teacher.

  “He’s on another job. I’m going to finish this up so you don’t have to wait anymore.”

  “Thank you. Do you need anything?”

  Army shook his head, but glanced up to where Celia was watching him.

  “You want a cup of coffee or tea? How about a sandwich?”

  “No.” Army looked embarrassed to be asked. “Nothing. I just had lunch.”

  “If you do, help yourself from the kitchen, or just ask Celia.” Dario went back to his work and made a mental note to try to have a conversation with that boy. If ever someone needed socialization, he thought to himself, it was Army Newman.

  Army strode to the back, his heavy work boots squeaking slightly as the rubber soles gripped the highly polished hardwood floor.

  Jonathan was putting color on one of Dario’s other clients in the next chair. Dario watched him check out the plumber as he headed to the back.

  “Now, now,” Dario scolded. “I don’t think our young Mr. Newman plays with boys.”

  Jonathan sighed. “Oh, I know, but there’s something about men with tight bodies who have been in prison that I find very distracting. And that work belt!”

  Any other day Dario would have laughed and scolded him, but today his preoccupation and worry caused him to give only a scant recriminating look and turn back to his cut. “Do you want layers? Or just straight across the back?” he asked the young woman in his chair.

  Outside, another truck pulled up and parked next to Army’s. Pistol got out of the official postal vehicle and walked into the store. Dario watched warily as he handed over the mail to Celia and then seemed to settle himself in for a cozy chat. Excusing himself from his client, Dario strode purposefully to the front.

  Pistol was in full swing. “Yeah, I always go home for lunch. It’s on my route, so I can stop in and make myself something good. Real private too; you should see it,” Pistol told her. To Dario his tone sounded far too suggestive.

  “Is this all the mail today?” Dario asked, picking up the small stack and thumbing through it, making his presence felt.

  “Yeah, light day.” Pistol let his eyes sweep the salon. “Not for you, though—looks busy.”

  Dario leaned against the counter and crossed his arms pointedly. “We’re all really very busy.”

  But Pistol was not one to take a hint, subtle or not. He seemed almost as happy to converse with Dario as with Celia. “Did you hear another girl’s missing?” His eyes held a strange light, as though he were personally proud of having the information to impart.

  “Yes, and I don’t think it’s an appropriate conversation,” Dario said, deliberately glancing at Celia.

  But Pistol rolled on. “I don’t have her on my route, but she’s the neighbor of a buddy of mine. He’s all broken up about it, known her since she was a little girl. But if you ask me”—Pistol’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone—“she was headed for trouble.”

  Dario bristled. He straightened up and was about to speak his mind when he heard Army behind him. “Excuse me; I’m going to have to shut the water off for about five minutes so I can hook up the sinks.”

  Dario’s impressive bulk had blocked Pistol’s view of Army’s approach. As Dario opened up to include Army in the small circle, Pistol and Army got a look at each other. Pistol’s icy smile and Army’s cold stare of recognition were both so blatant that they smacked together and frosted the reception area, chilling both Celia and Dario.

  “Well, well, well. Look who’s here.” Pistol’s voice was an immature taunt.

  Dario had no idea what was going on, but he wasn’t going to put up with it—or subject Celia to it. “If you don’t mind, Pistol, we all need to get back to work, and that means you, Celia,” he told her pointedly. “Can you go to the back and show Army where the water shutoff is, please?” He waited until the two of them had walked away and then turned to the postal worker.

  “Okay, listen. I like to be polite, but the time has come for me to be direct. From now on I would like you to drop off the mail, take the outgoing, and don’t hang around. I’m sorry, but I don’t want a lot of bad news dropped off with my bills. Do you understand?”

  Pistol was not a small man, but he looked up at the six-four Dario with a look of surprise. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You haven’t offended me,” Dario lied. “I would just prefer it if you would do your job, and let us—and my receptionist—do hers.”

  Looking completely thrown and offended, Pistol gathered the mail and continued to mutter. “Sorry. I don’t know what the problem is if a guy can’t just be friendly.”

  “I don’t mind ‘friendly,’ ” Dario told him. “But I’m very protective of my employees, and I think that Celia is a little young for some of the things you say to her.”

  Pistol looked legitimately affronted, and it immediately turned to the defensive. “I was just making conversation.” His eyes flickered to the back, where Army and Celia were walking away. “And if you’re worried about her, I’d keep an eye on that guy. I’ve seen him picking up a girl younger than her from the high school on the back of that piece-of-crap bike he rides.”

  “Thank you for the information.” Dario filed the alarming revelation wari
ly even as he acknowledged it. “But I need to point out that that is another example of your not being particularly discreet. And believe me”—Dario tried to soothe the wounded mailman with an attempt at humor—“being a hairdresser who hears things women won’t tell their psychiatrists, discretion is something I know a little bit about.”

  The sentiment seemed lost on Pistol, who, Dario realized, probably didn’t know the meaning of the word discretion, much less how to behave with it. Obviously offended, Pistol left the salon muttering under his breath something about people who thought they were better than everyone else.

  Concerned, his chest churning with the aftereffects of the necessary confrontation, Dario returned to his client, who was treating Jonathan to a lengthy monologue about her loser boyfriend, who was cheating and drinking and living off of her income. Jonathan finally cut in ruthlessly, “Why don’t you dump him?”

  Dario watched the look of surprised shock on the client’s face and gave Jonathan a tiny, resigned shake of the head. He, of course, had been thinking the same thing, but he found that people wanted to talk, not hear advice.

  “You have your reasons to do what you do,” Dario interjected smoothly to the shell-shocked young woman. “You know what’s right in your heart.” He paused and watched his client in the mirror. The look of dawn’s awakening on her face told him that she was having an embarrassed epiphany. Dario swept her out of the chair and gave her a faux push.

  “Remember”—he reached out and ruffled her new cut with his fingers, giving it a sexy, tousled look, then softened his voice and said sincerely—“you are the prize.”

  She looked up at the handsome, masterful Dario and her face lit up with an impish grin. If he thought so, it must be true.

  Dario didn’t bother to reprimand Jonathan. Sometimes, in fact, he was grateful that Jonathan possessed that sharp tongue of truth. Worried about Greer, he looked up to the front. Celia wasn’t there.

  “Get Ms. Lender shampooed, if we have water. Otherwise, let’s go ahead and start mixing the color for Susan’s streaks,” he told Jonathan, and walked around the partition into the shampoo area.

  Celia stood watching Army. With a glance, Dario took in her enamored body language and Army’s seeming indifference.

  “Celia, see if you can get Greer on the phone at home for me, please.”

  The girl looked startled and caught, but she hurried away. Dario went to stand where he could see what Army was doing with a huge wrench, which was attaching a U-bend to the pipe jutting from the wall.

  “How long do you think it’ll be before the water’s back on?”

  “Five minutes. I just have to put the faucets on, and then you’ll be set.” He reached into his toolbox and picked up a smaller-size wrench. Dario glanced down. It was the cleanest tool kit he’d ever seen. Everything was in its proper place; not a smudge of grease or a spot of rust showed on anything.

  “Wow, that’s impressive.” Dario gestured to the box when Army glanced questioningly up at him.

  “It’s easier to find what you need if you keep it neat.”

  “You could use those tools for surgery. Hell, I’ve known gay men who would call that anal.”

  Army was either embarrassed or unaffected by the observation; he did not comment.

  Dario decided that a direct approach would be the only one likely to produce results. “So, our Celia seems to be slightly enamored of you.”

  Army grunted slightly with the effort of tightening the connector piece. “She’s too young for me.”

  “Really?” Dario said. “What about the girl at the high school?”

  Army didn’t respond or turn, but there was a slight delay in his movement, as though he were in a film that had stuck on one frame for a fraction of a second longer than it should. Then he continued to work as he asked, “Who told you that?”

  “Our friendly postal worker. He seems to think that part of his job is delivering unwanted telegrams, along with the mail.”

  “Yeah,” Army said, still not looking at Dario. “I noticed that.”

  “And I noticed that he doesn’t seem to like you much.”

  Army replaced the wrench precisely into its holder between one slightly larger and one slightly smaller on either side. “Well, I don’t like him either.”

  Dario leaned forward. “Why not?”

  Army pulled the faucet and handles out of a box on the floor and began to connect them. “Let’s just say he’s not exactly Shadow Hills’ leading citizen.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Dario asked.

  Finally Army looked up at Dario and a thinly veiled exasperated sigh escaped him. “Listen,” he said, “it’s no secret that I did time. I met some real interesting people in there. One thing about prison is, it’ll change your point of view. Things you thought were right, they aren’t anymore. I don’t talk about other people now, because it doesn’t matter anyway, and the only thing worse than the people who do bad shit is the people who snitch on them.”

  Dario was watching him intently. “So, if you knew someone was up to something, you wouldn’t say anything about it?”

  Army’s eyes flickered. A memory of another time, of believing in something better than what he had experienced in life, poked at the back of his consciousness like a sharp stick in his spine. But the inclination passed and he looked away.

  “What’s the point?” He shrugged. “If somebody’s saying shit about me, it doesn’t matter if I’m guilty or not; everybody just assumes I am. Fine. And who’s going to care if I rat on somebody else? I’m not exactly your star character witness.” He smiled, sadly at first, and then the smile and his eyes flattened out like vital statistics dying away on an ER monitor.

  Dario gave Army a hard look in return, not sure how to interpret what Army had told him. Then finally, half in support and half as a fair warning, he said, “People do care, Army. I care.”

  Noting that Army did not look away or speak, Dario added, “And I think maybe you do too.” He narrowed his eyes and regarded the younger man for a long moment, weighing the moral fiber of this man who’d been taught by experience to disregard what was right. Who, most likely, had learned that to survive he had to hurt people and feel nothing. Then, with his voice steeled with intent, Dario said, “But then again, maybe you don’t.”

  From a distant, forgotten place in Army’s soul, a voice, old and honest, told him that somewhere along the way he’d gone very wrong.

  Chapter 39

  The Rattler’s obnoxious, taxi-yellow Hummer pulled into the manager’s parking space outside the bank, overlapping the spaces on both sides enough to make it difficult if not impossible for anyone to get in or out of their cars. Leah watched as Vince stepped down out of the vehicle he now reserved for rainy or cold days, and thought for the ten thousandth time what an asshole he was. She glanced at her watch. He’d taken a long lunch. Remembering Steve Kenner’s warning that Vince should spend more time working and less time off, she toyed with the idea of reporting him, but Vince would just find a way to use it to make her look bad.

  So she sat seething with frustration as he sauntered in, a toothpick in his teeth, the ostrich leather of his cowboy boots peeking out from under his expensive suit. She knew now, of course, where he was getting all his luxury money from, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  Not yet. But she noticed, as she watched him from the corner of her eye, that he looked tired, slightly used up. She guessed that the drinking and now probably the drugs were taking their toll. Good—that meant that sooner or later he’d make a mistake.

  The phone on her desk rang. Distracted, she picked it up. “Leah Falconer,” she intoned.

  There was a long enough moment of hesitation to make Leah wonder if anyone was there, and then, “Hi, this is . . . uh, Terry. I met you the other day.”

  Leah’s spine straightened up as though she were a marionette yanked suddenly into use by capable hands. “Yes, hello.”

  “Do you remember me?
”

  Leah thought of the sunglasses hiding the Technicolor skin around her eye, the bruised wrists. “Yes. I do.” She glanced around; no one seemed to be taking any notice of her. Why should they? Nonetheless, she tried to keep her voice businesslike. “What can I do for you?”

  “You said I could call.” The tremulous voice dropped off.

  “And I meant it.” Leah hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

  “Do you think maybe we could meet sometime?”

  “Of course. Um, how about tomorrow, on the High Street, there’s a coffee shop next to the new salon.”

  “I know it. What time?”

  “It’ll have to be early, say, seven thirty?”

  “Okay, I’ll try to be there.”

  The line went dead and Leah placed the receiver carefully back in its cradle while her mind and her emotions were both screaming at her not to do this, to stay out of it. Don’t get involved! Let her screw up her own life!

  But she knew she couldn’t do that. Even as she sat at her desk, trembling slightly with trepidation and doubt, an indignant rage surged up in her and filled her with blind, reckless intent. Her fury, fueled by the gross indignities and powerlessness she felt, grabbed hold of her controls and took off into a night sky with no maps or instruments. She might be too afraid to challenge Vince for herself; she might have been stupid not to see the kind of person he was when she got involved with him in the first place; but she’d be damned if she’d let someone else walk right into the same ugly, twisted trap.

  Not if there was anything she could do about it.

  Chapter 40

  Fifteen bags of crystal methamphetamine had been found in a plastic CD case in Joshua Sands’s room. Detective Sheridan noted uncomfortably that the boy’s surprise was either very well acted or legitimate. When Sheridan questioned where he’d gotten the drugs, the boy had stammered out his ignorance, and then an odd look had come over him and he had refused to speak any more.

  It all struck him as incongruous because both Greer and Joshua had invited the detective to search the boy’s room and the house, saying that they had nothing to hide. Sheridan had opted to stick to procedure. Based on the mother’s knowledge of the brand on Zoe Caldwell and the fact that the boy had been the last person to see Joy Whitehorse, it had taken him only an hour to get a search warrant.