Eye of the Beholder

McDermott hangs up the phone with Paul Riley, a silent prayer drifting to his lips. “Tell me you found prints on the note, Tony.”

“No, no-we had to examine it first. The ninhydrin screws up-”

“Impressions, then,” he tries.

“Right. Well, indentations.” Rezko is excited. This technical stuff is his life. “On the second note, he’d been writing something on top of it. He left indentations.”

Rezko places the note on the desk.

I will inevitably lose life. Ultimately, sorrow echoes the heavens. Ever sensing. Ever calling out. Never does vindication ever really surrender easily. The immediate messenger endures the opposition, but understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning.

“Right,” McDermott says, prodding him.

“We didn’t have time to go to the state lab for electrostatic imaging, so we photographed it in oblique light: You flatten it on glass, and use a light source positioned parallel to the document-”

These techies, they savor this stuff, it’s like a tutorial every time you talk to them. McDermott has half a mind to grab Rezko by his skinny neck, but, hey, it’s his profession, it’s what he lives for, and he’s good at it. He can give the kid thirty seconds.

“-a graphite powder to highlight the indentations, because they were vague-”

McDermott can’t resist. “This is, like, when you turn over the paper and use the side of a pencil to shade a background, right? So you can read what’s on the other side? Like what we did in second grade?”

Rezko draws back, smiling coolly. He’s known Mike for years, he knows it’s in good fun. From behind his back, he produces a photograph, showing a series of words written haphazardly, the indentations clear as day in white against the graphite background:

McDermott looks up at the technician. “So these words were written on another piece of paper, on top of the note.”

“Right. Exactly. He has a real thing with words beginning with V and E.”

Looking over the note, McDermott finds one sentence that contains both. “Never does vindication ever really surrender easily.”

Stoletti had commented on that sentence, too. He didn’t need to say “ever,” he’d already said “never.” The word choice, though deliberate, was odd.

But, like she said: deliberate.

“Thanks, Tony,” he says. “Great work.”

But what the hell does it mean?

THE MAN WITH the long orange apron puts his hand on Leo and signals to another guy. “Guy needs your help,” he says.

Don’t touch. Leo slips his shoulder from the man’s hand. Don’t touch me.

“Sorry,” the man says.

You touch me again, I’ll shove my thumb through your brain.

Leo squats down, pretends to tie his shoe, does a one-eighty in the process, works on the shoelace while he scans-muscular guy in a tank top, pushing an orange shopping cart filled with small pieces of plywood, no, no, he was already here, check the entrance-

A woman walks in, pretty, dirty-blond hair, thin, pink satin shirt, tight black pants, heels, professional but stylish, she looks in his direction-not directly at him, but he knows it now, she’s looking for him, he’s not stupid, but he can’t leave, can’t run, not yet-

She turns away from Leo, down an aisle with lightbulbs and extension cords, where she stops.

I see you.

The hardware store is humongous. Most of the aisles are long, enorth- south aisles, like where Leo is standing, but the woman is down a shorter, east-west aisle.

With a perfect view of the checkout counter. That’s her plan. Wait until Leo checks out and follow him.

“What do you need, sir?”

Leo looks up. Old guy, maybe fifty, balding, overweight, near-sighted, sagging flesh on the upper torso that used to be muscle, long orange apron.

He gets the words out: Chain saw.

“Sure thing. Right down here. Aisle Eleven.”

Leo finishes with the shoe and scans his eyes around the store. Who else? Just one?

A pause. Leo looks up at the man again.

“Get me started,” he says. “What do you need it for?”

Leo gets to his feet, pulling down on his baseball cap. The woman is still in that aisle. She glances to her left, toward Leo.

“To cut,” he says.

The man gives him a look. A lot of people look at him like that. Like they feel sorry for him. Like they think he’s not very smart. “You-you want I should meet you down there, mister?”

Leo nods. The man heads back down toward Aisle Eleven. Leo is standing near Aisle Four.

White woman, pink top, black pants, covering the exit. She reminds him of Cassie’s cousin Gwendolyn.

GWENDOLYN. GWENDOLYN LAKE. He’d heard of her, yes. It was her house, but he’d never seen her. She was never there, but she was coming. She’s nice, Cassie said, but she can be hard to get to know. Just-don’t take it personally if she’s a little-short with you. Okay?

Okay, he said. The way Cassie spoke to him, the kindness in her eyes, the warmth of her hand on his shoulder-and he didn’t care about her cousin, Gwendolyn. He’d been through worse.

Cassie and Mrs. Bentley were there. He didn’t think they were happy about it. Mrs. Bentley kept smoking and pacing outside the house. How long is she staying? Mrs. Bentley asked. How long?

Mother, for the last time, I don’t know. It’ll be fine.

The limousine pulled up within a few minutes. When the driver opened the door for Gwendolyn, she didn’t seem happy, either. She was dressed like she was ready for a party. Tight pants with a bright red top. A cigarette in her mouth and a drink in her hand. Cassie ran to the car and hugged her. Mrs. Bentley stood at the doorway and embraced her, too, but with less enthusiasm.

Then Gwendolyn looked at Leo.

So this is the immigrant.

This is Leo, Cassie said. Be nice, Gwen.

Oh, right, right. Gwendolyn twirled her index finger beside her head. Well, hi there, Leo.