Eye of the Beholder

Evelyn was following up with him. And now they’re both dead. If somebody was unleashed, Mrs. Pendry, I’m not sure it was because of your editorial on a TV show.”

She turns back around. She seems to appreciate McDermott’s theory, which absolves her, but she can’t shake the guilt. “I should have stayed on Fred Ciancio back then,” she says. “He sounded so scared on the phone. And then when I went to his house-when he realized I had traced his call back to his house-he was terrified. I really thought there might be something there. But then he refused to say another word to me. He got cold feet. And then everything started happening with the trial.”

“It was natural for you to drop it,” he tells her. “You looked into him, he was a security guard at a shopping mall who refused to talk to you. There was nothing there.”

She shakes her head. “I always told Ev, don’t be lazy. See it through. Keep trying different avenues. Get your story.”

Which, apparently, is what she was doing with Fred Ciancio.

“Did you mention Ciancio to your daughter?” he asks.

She nods. “Oh, it must have been quite a while ago.” Her eyes drift off. “Years, I mean. Many years. I used to tell her stories about what I did. She’s very good about retaining information. It’s why she’s such a”-her throat catches-“I mean, was-excuse me, I’m sorry.” She brings a fist to her mouth, shuts her eyes.

“No problem, Mrs. Pendry.” He can imagine how Evelyn must have reacted, having heard from her mother a long-ago story about Fred Ciancio, a lead that hadn’t panned out, a gnawing doubt-and then suddenly the same Mr. Ciancio called Evelyn to talk.

McDermott’s cell phone rings.

“Have they found her computer yet?” Carolyn asks.

“No.” Evelyn had a laptop computer but it was not at her house and not at her office. The assumption is, the offender took it after he killed Evelyn.

McDermott checks the caller ID and excuses himself from the desk.

“Kopecky.”

“Mike, that Vicky in the Dumpster. The one in your hood?”

“The Vicky in the-Kopecky, what the hell? You’re supposed to be-”

“We got a call from the lab,” Kopecky says. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

27

We WAIT, Stoletti and I, outside the Green Building, on the campus at Mansbury College. The building is in the quad-the central square of campus, where the students hang out in small groups and toss Frisbees, and probably smoke a little weed when no one’s looking.

“Down the street, through those buildings,” I say, “is Bramhall Auditorium.”

The sun has come out, warming my face and making me uncomfortable in my suit. It’s a beautiful day, though probably not such a great one for summer school students. I did that once, in high school. Took typing class over the summer. They wouldn’t let us wear shorts to school-the same Catholic school dress code applied in the summer-and we baked as the sunlight poured in. I once told one of the nuns that there was nothing in the Bible that prohibited air-conditioning. She didn’t take it in the spirit of whimsy with which it was offered.

“No prints from Ciancio’s house?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“What about Evelyn’s?”

“Nothing.” Stoletti puts a stick of gum in her mouth. “Guy didn’t leave shit for forensics. Either place. Hey, does it bother you, this guy goes to the second set of verses?”

“The first verses, Burgos already did,” I say.

“My point exactly. If he’s a copycat, he’s not copying.”

“Let’s ask him,” I say, motioning to the stairs of the Green Building, where Professor Albany is walking out, a bag over his shoulder, chatting in a friendly manner with a female student. We get close enough to be seen, and wait for him to finish his conversation with the adoring student. He glances at us and begins to stride down the walkway. Then he stops and looks back at me, recognition registering in his eyes.

Stoletti says, “Soft-pedal Burgos, remember?”

I nod to Albany, and Stoletti and I walk up to a man who doesn’t seem very happy to see either of us. Stoletti has kept her shield in her jacket pocket, but she has that recognizable swagger. He could probably make her for a cop.

“Mr. Riley,” he says, like they’re curse words. Up close, I see that time hasn’t changed him much. Fiery eyes, a goatee with more pepper than salt that matches long, disheveled hair. The life of a professor seems a fairly easy one, as stress goes. Which makes me wonder how this guy is still a professor.

He’s stepped it up in the wardrobe department, I notice. His sport coat is caramel, with a light yellow tailored shirt with spread collar, a tie that pulls colors from both the jacket and the shirt. I dig clothes, and I like the good stuff, but you keep it simple. First-rate but simple. This guy looks like a pretty boy. But, wow, nice threads. What are they paying tenured professors these days?

Which makes me wonder, again, how this guy ever got tenure.

I introduce Stoletti, and we walk in silence to his office. We pass a memorial that Harland built for his daughter and for Ellie Danzinger. Where a small park was once located now stands a small monument, a four-columned canopy, past which is a large park with a fountain on a marble base and a manicured garden and concrete walls with quotes from Gandhi and Bob Dylan and Mother Teresa and similar folks, talking about love and peace and forgiveness.

Albany has a decent-sized office that gets good sunlight. In terms of organization, it’s a train wreck. Books everywhere, paper haphazardly placed in piles. There is classical music coming from speakers on a shelving unit behind his desk.

Genius at work, or something like that.

“I read the article this morning,” he says, taking his seat behind a large oak desk. “Please.” He motions to the two leather chairs.

“Which article was that?” Stoletti asks. I stifle the instinct to roll my eyes. That’s a bad start, the dummy routine. You use that when you’re looking to put somebody in something. Feign ignorance and let them dig a hole. This guy knows exactly why we’re here. I have no doubt that Evelyn Pendry paid him a visit, and you only needed to spend a nanosecond on the Watch this morning to learn that one of its reporters was murdered last night.

“You ever talk to Terry after he was convicted?” I ask.

“No.” He makes a face like I asked him if he has lice. “Never.”

“Professor,” Stoletti says, all but throwing an elbow at me. “Do you know a woman named Evelyn Pendry?”

“The murder victim,” he says. “The reporter. Yes, she contacted me.”

“When?”

“She came by last Friday.”

“Tell me about that.”

He digs at his ear. “She mostly covered background. She wanted to know the part I played, that sort of thing.” He nods his head aimlessly, playing with a fancy pen on his desk. I look around the shelving behind him and see no indication of a significant other. No ring on his finger, either.