Eye of the Beholder

  The two of them turned away from the intimate moment to sip their coffee, gaze out at the brightening day, and compose themselves. As they watched, Army came out of the salon and went to his bike. He moved to one of the saddlebags, not the one Vince had fooled with, and took out what seemed to be some kind of tool. Leah was aware of Terry’s body stiffening, much like a leopard sensing a movement in the underbrush.

  “Do you know that guy?” Leah asked, curious to know whether Army was involved with Vince and the drug business. Though, based on the altercation she had seen at the bank, it didn’t feel quite right.

  “No, not really. But he kind of spoke up for me when Vince was being a dick at a restaurant. Vince was high and had too much to drink and started talking shit to me. That guy almost got into a fight with Vince over it. It was pretty cool, actually, but I was afraid Vince would hurt him, so I left with Vince and . . .” She looked away. “Well, it wasn’t a good night.”

  Leah watched the rough and handsome young man, a man who bore the obvious marks of a convicted felon, a man without credibility, close up the saddlebag and disappear from her field of view.

  And one word came to her mind.

  Guilty.

  Chapter 47

  Greer was watching out the window for Whitney when she saw her come out of her house wrapped in a corduroy coat. As she held the door open she saw how haggard Whitney’s normally vibrant face looked, and the smile she gave Greer was a shallow reflection of her usual. Even Whitney’s thick, lustrous hair was dull and lifeless.

  Greer didn’t need to ask her friend if there had been any news; she knew that there wasn’t. Without words the two sat down at the kitchen table and drank the tea that Greer had made. Occasionally Greer would reach across and pat Whitney’s arm or rub her shoulder. Every so often a single tear would caress the roundness of Whitney’s cheek and then slide silently down to her chin before she brushed it away stoically.

  At one point Greer turned her head to the door, and the motion was followed by a light knock. She rose to let Luke in. He was holding something blue and plastic. It was a walkie-talkie.

  Joshua came down the stairs into the kitchen and greeted Whitney and Luke.

  “What’s that?” Joshua asked him.

  “It’s a short-range walkie-talkie. I found it in Joy’s room in a bottom drawer. But I only found one.”

  Feeling a wave of stupidity and guilt, Joshua nodded, but couldn’t make eye contact with Luke or Whitney. How could he say he’d been watching her in her bedroom? Inside his head an angry voice snapped at him, How could you not? He spoke through the agonizing discomfort as though it were a chain-link fence around his own personal prison.

  “I saw her using it,” he blurted, and though he’d spoken softly, the words seemed to penetrate the room as though shouted through a bullhorn. All three adults looked at him in symphonic unison, on each of their faces a different note of interest and disbelief. “I can see into her bedroom window from mine. And I saw her talking into it twice.”

  Luke’s astonishment had turned to hardened intensity. “And?” he asked.

  “And the first time I though it was a cell phone or maybe a mini-tape recorder, but then I realized it must be something else. That was the night she snuck out.” Joshua paused and felt his face redden. “I saw that too,” he confessed. “She fell out of the tree on her way down, but she made me promise not to tell. I thought about it later and figured she must be talking to whoever picked her up on the highway. Those things don’t have a very long range. But it would work that far.”

  “When was the second time?” Luke asked forcefully.

  “The second time she didn’t seem to get an answer. Anyway, she looked mad, disgusted with it; she threw it across the room.”

  “When was it?” Luke demanded, and Joshua recoiled at the anger in his voice, remonstrating himself for not telling anyone this before. But he hadn’t thought about it; it hadn’t seemed relevant. “It was, uh, a couple of days before she disappeared, I guess.”

  Luke’s eyes flashed and his knuckles whitened on the blue plastic object in his hand. He moved toward Joshua and no one spoke. The air in the room crackled like old paint. Joshua flinched slightly as Luke raised his hand, but it was only to lay it firmly on Joshua’s shoulder.

  Whitney’s face had come to life again; a small amount of the shine it normally held had rekindled. “That means someone has the mate,” she observed.

  “Yes,” Luke agreed. “I’ll call Detective Sheridan. He said to let him know if there was anything at all . . .” His voice broke slightly, and he turned abruptly away to look out the window. Joshua and Greer exchanged a look.

  “I’m sorry,” Joshua said desperately. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

  Luke turned slowly back to face him. His gray eyes were rimmed in red; his handsome face was etched with deep lines. “It’s all right,” he said in a fractured voice.

  Joshua felt the falsehood of this so strongly that it actually hit him in the stomach with a force like a fist, and he doubled forward, exhaling hard.

  Greer was beside him instantly. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he gasped. “I think I’ll go upstairs.” He made his way to the base of the staircase, then turned back, feeling hopeless and frustrated. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Luke smiled very softly. In his eyes was a wisdom that was far more knowing than Joshua could fathom. And then, with great clarity and purpose, as though making a simple suggestion that might save not only Joy’s life but his own as well, he spoke two words.

  “Find her.”

  Chapter 48

  It was both a burden and a relief to walk into the salon. Greer entered the busy morning buzz and reveled in the normalcy of life, while at the same time she felt as though she were struggling to breathe in an alien, underwater atmosphere; she strained to give the appearance of being a happy part of it.

  Dario excused himself from his client and crossed to her, but she shook her head. “Nothing,” she told him when he reached her.

  He sighed thickly, his whole chest taking the impact of the word. Nothing. “How are you?”

  Greer shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Whitney made me come in. And I need to talk to Jenny about something.”

  “Is it Leah?” he asked. When she nodded, he told her, “I saw her this morning. She was in the coffee shop.”

  “Really?” Greer asked, surprised and feeling a tiny release of pressure. Maybe Jenny would already have some kind of idea of what was going on, and her request wouldn’t sound so out-of-the-blue.

  Dario smiled at her wryly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know that,” he teased, and headed back to his client.

  Greer went over the day’s appointments with Celia, asked her to return a few phone calls, and then headed over to the coffee shop.

  Jenny was sitting at a table with her feet up on the chair across from her. She had a piece of quiche and was eating it leisurely, as the only customer in the store sat near the window reading a paper.

  “Hi!” Jenny greeted Greer. “I’m glad you came in; I want to talk to you.”

  “Ditto,” Greer said. “No, no, don’t get up. I’ll get a cup for myself.” She walked around the counter and picked up one of the comfortingly overlarge mugs, which made her feel as though she were a child drinking from a grown-up’s glass. She filled it with cinnamon coffee from a thermal holder, all the while feeling deeply grateful for Jenny’s potent support.

  As the spicy aroma filled her senses, she was thinking how sometimes you had strength to spare for friends and sometimes you had to lean on them. Right now, Whitney and Leah needed all the support that she could muster, and Jenny was the only one who had strength in reserve.

  Greer found that she didn’t even need to broach the subject. “Listen,” Jenny said the moment Greer sat down with her. “Leah was in here this morning with her ex-husband’s new girlfriend, and something is not right. I think she might be getting invo
lved where she shouldn’t.”

  Greer smiled, pleased that her instinct about Jenny had been on the money. “She’s already involved, albeit unwittingly. I sensed it when I worked on her. I’m sure that sounds strange to you, but the important thing now is that I’m afraid she’s in danger.”

  “Me too.” Jenny nodded and took a drink of water before she went on. “Okay, maybe I should let her tell you this—and it’s only supposition anyway—but we had a little talk the other day at the bank. She didn’t come out and say it, but I’m pretty sure that her ex-husband abused her—I think probably he beat the crap out of her—and she’s never really dealt with it. Now she’s watching it happen to someone else and it’s eating her up inside.”

  “How could it not?” Greer said sadly. “But listen to me: I know this is hard to believe, but I get these . . . premonitions.”

  “I know; I heard,” said Jenny casually. “Whitney told me you’re pretty scary—in a good way, of course.” She took a huge forkful of quiche and then patted her mouth with her napkin. There was a noticeable absence of cynicism and dubious apprehension on her face. When she could speak again she asked, “So, what’s up for Leah?”

  Greer was so taken aback by this absolute acceptance of her visions that she actually stuttered. “She, uh . . . well, she’s . . . You mean you believe me? Just like that?”

  “Sure,” Jenny said. “Well, I went over and quizzed Dario for about forty-five minutes, and he’s pretty eloquent on the subject. And I have a woman I’ve called for over ten years who’s told me some pretty un-fucking-believable stuff about my life. My theory is, it’s all connected, and some people see more of the dotted lines than everybody else. So, yeah, I believe you. Plus, you’re too smart and honest to make this stuff up. What would be the point of that?”

  Greer had to concede that there would be no point. Why would anyone say things that would quickly be discovered to be wrong? Unless it was for money—and she didn’t take money.

  “Something violent is going to happen to her soon if she doesn’t protect herself. I haven’t told Leah this, because she’s . . . well, she’s not like you.”

  “You mean she’s a banker,” Jenny said, defining Greer’s implication succinctly.

  “Right,” Greer agreed, feeling she couldn’t have summed up the mentality of a linear thinker any better. “And I knew she would have to doubt me. But the truth is, I’ve been so preoccupied with Joy”—Greer watched Jenny’s eyes crease into sadness and concern at the sound of the name—“that I haven’t been able to even think about helping Leah.”

  It was Jenny’s turn to pat someone’s arm reassuringly. “I got your back,” she said. “I already told her this morning that if she needs a place to stay, or anything at all, she was to call me. I gave her my number, my address, wrote it all down on the back of a coffee shop card so she wouldn’t forget who gave it to her.”

  A warm sense of relief, the first in days, flooded over Greer. “Thank you. But I should tell you that last night I had a sense that it would be soon.”

  “I’ll invite her to dinner!” Jenny said. “Wanna come?”

  Greer smiled at her sadly. “No,” she told her. “I want to be nearby for Whitney.”

  “Mm, I’ll have to think of another reason.” Outside the window they watched as Army put his tools back in his saddlebags and then straddled the bike and prepared to start it. “I know!” Jenny said. “I’ll hire that guy to go up and shut off her water main; then she’ll have to come stay with me until he finds the problem.”

  Greer watched Army push the bike back out of the parking space and then start away. “No,” she said. “He might not be the best choice of someone to involve in trying to prevent violence, if you know what I mean.”

  Jenny’s eyes followed after him before she sighed and turned back to Greer. “Yeah, maybe we should ask someone who’s not on parole for aggravated assault. In fact, let’s just eliminate anyone who’s been convicted of a federal offense.”

  “You think?” Greer asked, feigning a levity she didn’t feel.

  A strange smile played on Jenny’s lips. “Yeah, let’s go with someone who was, at least, never convicted.” She put a sardonic spin on the last word and then turned one thumb up and pointed it in at herself.

  Greer didn’t ask.

  Chapter 49

  Detective Sheridan shifted in his seat. The vinyl caught at the back of his pant legs, and, using the steering wheel as a prop, he lifted his weight enough to pull the wrinkles in the fabric out from under his thighs. He’d been sitting in this position watching the high school yard and entrance for almost an hour and half. The tea in his thermos was cold and his ass was numb.

  He was parked on the residential side of the street across from the dropoff zone. Twice now a woman had appeared at the door of her home and looked pointedly at him, so he wasn’t surprised when the black-and-white pulled up behind him. “Great,” he mumbled, and reached for his badge.

  The enthusiastic youngster—a conspicuous rookie, from the buzz cut of his hair—rapped on his window. Sheridan lowered it and handed the man his badge. “I’m Chatsworth PD,” he told the man, who was studying the badge as though he might have bought it from a specialty shop. “I’m working on the Whitehorse case.”

  The rookie’s name tag said, WILLOUGHBY. He leaned down and said, “What case would that be?”

  “High school kid, disappeared a couple of days ago; she’s the second one in a week. The first one showed up in a motel in my precinct and looks to end up in the morgue. Please don’t tell me you work this neighborhood and you don’t know about it.” Sheridan drew the words out, stringing them together sarcastically.

  “I know about it. I put up the flyers.” The young man sighed. “Just checking to see what you knew. So you’re the assigned detective?”

  “Lucky me,” Sheridan said dryly.

  “Seen anything?” Willoughby asked.

  “Just you guys, and you’re not exactly making me inconspicuous.”

  The officer straightened up and apologized. “Sorry.” He scanned the school field, which was surrounded by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped off with a liberal dusting of barbed wire. “Not that it would be easy to tell much; these kids know everybody from the guy who sells oranges on the corner to the councilwoman. It’s a tight community.”

  “Yeah,” Sheridan agreed, thinking that it was pretty clear that the barbed wire hadn’t stopped whoever had taken Joy Whitehorse and Zoe Caldwell. Whoever it was had far more likely been known and trusted by both girls.

  “Good luck,” said Officer Willoughby.

  Sheridan fished out a card and passed it over. “Call me if you see or hear anything?”

  “You bet I will. Do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Catch this sick fucker.” Willoughby’s young face stretched into a tight-lipped smile as he turned to survey the teenagers gathered around in groups outside the school, and then he walked back to his car.

  Sheridan sighed and decided it was time to move. He started the car and drove it around the block until he was parked at the far end of the school property, putting the football field between himself and the buildings; then he got out, leaned against his car, and lit a cigarette.

  “Hey!” somebody called out to him. “You got another smoke?”

  Detective Sheridan turned and was about to tell the underage kid to go ask his mommy when he noticed it was the kid he had talked to before, a pale-faced boy dressed all in black who he’d been told was a friend of Joy Whitehorse’s. The kid—Joey, he remembered—recognized him at the same moment, and, if possible with skin already so white, blanched and turned away.

  “Hold on,” Detective Sheridan said. “Here.” He walked forward and held out the pack so that it was up against the fence. The kid reached two long fingers through and extracted one of the Kools. “It’s menthol,” warned the detective.

  “As long as it’s got nicotine,” the kid said.

  She
ridan passed over a lighter and watched the teenager commit a misdemeanor, aided and abetted by him. “So, how’s it going?” he asked as conversationally as possible. His sister had kids, but he wasn’t much good at talking to them.

  “It sucks,” Joey answered, glancing over his shoulder back across the field to check for school personnel. In the chilly air the smoke made a stream of gray as they exhaled that disappeared quickly in the light wind.

  “Haven’t heard anything, have you?” Sheridan asked.

  Joey tried to keep his face impassive, but the experienced detective could see the doubt and the fear cross it as though it were written in neon. The kid shrugged. “Nothing.” He studied the burning end of his smoke for a minute, and then his eyes, painfully childlike, cut hopefully up to Sheridan’s. “You?”

  Sheridan shook his head, feeling an odd compassion for this now and future lawbreaker. It was tough being a teenager, trying to act like you were never afraid, like you knew it all and didn’t need anything or anybody, when, more than ever before, what you desperately needed was someone to tell you what to do, even if you would die before you’d admit it. All he said was, “Nope, not yet. I’m working on it, though.”

  As Sheridan and Joey stood there with nothing else to say, they watched the mail truck make its abbreviated trip up the street, stopping at every house on the far side momentarily before moving on. Sheridan didn’t see Joey’s eyes cut to him surreptitiously and then back to the truck. When it was almost directly across from them, a group of three other kids who were standing a few yards away spoke to the postman.

  “Hey!” one of them called out. “Where’s Pistol?”

  The postal worker, who had gotten out to walk a large envelope up to the front door, was a woman, dressed in the bland gray of her office with a harried expression on her face. She looked surprised that they were speaking to her, and her response was slow in coming. “Called in sick today,” she finally said in a voice loud enough to carry across the street.