Eye of the Beholder

McDERMOTT MAKES IT TO the apartment building by nine, pulling up behind a squad car, one of six parked along the curbside, lights flashing. There are news trucks and camera crews and reporters in makeup positioning themselves and scribbling notes and checking the artificial lighting. One of them is angling herself by the apartment building, asking her cameraman to evaluate the position.

The building is on the near north side, four stories high, with a courtyard in the middle. Looks like a series of condos, pricey, given the neighborhood, but presumably very small. Evelyn Pendry probably didn’t earn much as a staff reporter for the Watch.

He takes a wide, inner staircase of concrete steps. There are CAT officers on the stairs, dusting the handrails for prints, though it’s a community staircase full of hundreds of useless finger- and shoe prints. The killer wouldn’t need to touch the handrail, and probably wouldn’t be stupid enough.

On the third floor, the CAT unit is again at work, brushing for prints and searching outside the apartment in the hallway with paper evidence bags, but they seem to be doing it as an afterthought, as if their work is nearly done. McDermott looks down in the courtyard, where a number of the residents are huddled, looking upward and gossiping about the woman who was murdered. Some of them probably knew Evelyn Pendry.

Ricki Stoletti, in a dark jacket and jeans, emerges from the apartment. She gives some instructions to the uniforms and then looks down the hallway. She nods at McDermott as another woman walks out, someone he recognizes. Perfectly tossed blond hair, expensive suit.

Oh, of course. The victim’s mother, Carolyn Pendry. The news anchor.

Stoletti does an intro. “Detective Mike McDermott, Carolyn Pendry.”

“Mrs. Pendry, I’m so sorry.”

Carolyn Pendry is the reason McDermott is here. The call came from the commander himself. She is probably the most prominent newsperson in town, and when her child is murdered she gets the top-ranking detective in Area Four.

He does the preliminary talk quickly, because he wants to go in.

“I’m coming with you,” she tells him.

“Well, Mrs. Pendry-”

Kid gloves, the commander said. She gets what she wants.

“It would be better if you-”

“I’ve already seen her. I want to know what you think.”

McDermott looks at Stoletti, who gives him a You’re the boss, don’t look at me.

“Okay,” he relents. “Let’s go.”

AFTER DINNER WITH HARLAND, I should be in a foul mood. Harland wants me to figure out a “diplomatic” way to shut off Evelyn Pendry’s inquisition, which leaves me with an impossible task. But I’m not in such a bad mood. Correction: I’m flying since my rendezvous with Shelly today. I hate like hell that I’ve surrendered that much of myself, but, what the hell, I’m a tall drink of water, there’s a lot of me to go around.

I pick up Shelly on my way home. Our conversation is civil-How was your day? Fine, how was yours?-though I’m bursting at the seams.

I strip off her clothes before she’s taken two steps into the foyer. I think of the staircase, but there’s no carpet, so I carry her into the adjoining room and get busy. I’m still the scrappy basketball player at heart. What I lacked in talent I made up for in hustle, dove for the loose ball, took the charge. I apply the same can-do spirit in the bedroom, or, in this case, the living room, or parlor, or whatever this room is. I may not score a triple-double, but she’ll know I gave her the full Riley effort.

And it’s different this time, compared to this afternoon. She doesn’t hold back, pressing her tongue into my mouth violently and gripping my neck and wrapping her legs around my waist.

We need to break up more often.

“Now, that,” I manage, “was nice.”

I collapse on her, feeling her heart pounding, her breath on my neck. I inhale the wonderfully fruity smell of her hair, which is not difficult because my nose is buried in it. Calling this moment nice is like calling skydiving interesting.

“I was afraid,” she whispers. “I needed time.”

I move my face over hers and get my arms underneath her back and press her tightly to me.

“I love you,” she says.

I take a couple of breaths and remind myself of everything I’ve learned about playing it cool. Cue the fireworks. She has never said those words to me before.

McDERMOTT WALKS OUT OF Evelyn Pendry’s apartment and takes in the fresh air. There are nothing but questions now.

“She didn’t meet me for dinner,” Carolyn Pendry explains, leaning against the railing, looking down onto the courtyard. “I called her at work, home, her cell. She always answers her cell.”

“Any sense, Mrs. Pendry, of who might do something like this?”

Evelyn Pendry was tortured. Her body was peppered with knife wounds before the fatal wound to the left temple. The weapon of choice, your basic switchblade, was found in the trash can in the small kitchen.

Same brutality as last night, at Fred Ciancio’s. Different weapon.

“She covers the crime beat.” Carolyn touches her eyes.

“I know,” McDermott says. “I saw her yesterday.”

Carolyn looks at him, tries to read his face.

“By any chance,” he tries, “does the name Fred Ciancio mean anything to you?”

She freezes a moment, like it rings a bell, then she lets out a gasp. She backs into Stoletti, his partner, and covers her mouth.

“You know him,” he gathers.

“Call Paul Riley,” she says.

“Paul-”

“Paul Riley.” She moves to him, takes his arm. “The man who prosecuted Terry Burgos.”

23

I MAKE IT THROUGH the reporters and up to the third floor of the apartment complex, courtesy of some uniformed officers who are expecting me. They were vague on the phone, first a cop named McDermott, then Carolyn Pendry, who grabbed the phone away and gave me a little detail.

I see Carolyn first, talking with a heavyset guy who looks familiar to me. He is moving his hands and, it seems, trying to reassure her. She is nodding along. She paints the contrast, the