Eye of the Beholder

McDERMOTT TAKES RILEY up to the CAT lab. When he walks back down, Stoletti is still in the interview room. “Something’s not right here,” she says.

McDermott eases into the chair. “You said Riley was helpful at your interview with the professor.”

She agrees with that. “Albany was holding back on me. I didn’t see it. Riley did. Why?” she asks, trailing his thought. “You think it was a song and dance for me?”

McDermott doesn’t know, but it’s a thought. “Riley asked to go along. Hell, he’s the one who gave us the professor’s name.”

“And if he comes on strong with the professor, he looks like he’s trying to get to the bottom of this.” Stoletti seems to warm to the idea. “He’s a smart guy, no doubt about that. But how does Amalia Calderone fit in?”

McDermott sighs. “Maybe it’s more cover. It’s an attack on him.”

“Well, I’m no CAT techie,” she says. “But that wound to his head didn’t look self-inflicted to me.”

“I’m not saying self-inflicted.” McDermott shakes his head. “I’m not saying Paul Riley is killing these people. But he had a point. This guy wants him involved. He’s going out of his way to make private citizen Paul Riley part of this thing. Why?”

Stoletti thinks on that. Neither of them knows.

“Maybe,” McDermott tries, “he wants Riley’s help.”

Stoletti seems uneasy with that. She moves out of her chair and paces the interview room. McDermott’s eyes move over her body. Her frame, courtesy of a German mother, she’s said, is large but firm. Maybe her two teenage boys keep her hopping. Maybe being single again prompts her to watch her figure. They don’t talk much about their personal lives. It’s been a shield, he realizes, that he has kept raised for three years.

“I’m no fan of Riley,” she says. “But still, Mike. Let’s think about what we’re saying here. We’re thinking that someone else did Cassie Bentley and he knew it. He cut her murder from the case to cover it up. He got a nice big reward for doing so-all of the legal work Harland Bentley could throw at him. And now someone’s opening a door that he wants closed.”

“That case made him.” McDermott gets up, too. “He jumped from Burgos to millions a year as Harland Bentley’s lawyer. It’s not a bad motive.”

“Well, I’ll say this much,” she adds. “If he’s a part of this, hopefully we’ve shut him down now.”

“We keep him on the outside,” McDermott decides. “We watch him, and we use him if we need him. I don’t care what Carolyn Pendry wants.”

The truth is, McDermott is less concerned with what happened during the Burgos case at the moment. The time will come for that. His first priority is stopping the flow of blood. If this does involve Professor Albany, or Riley, maybe they’ve put the fear of God in them. That leaves one person.

“Let’s go see Harland Bentley,” he says. “And get hold of Susan Dobbs at the M.E.’s lab. I want to know what the hell a tarsal phalange is.”

WHEN I‘M DONE BEING inspected by the county attorney technicians, I step out into the humid evening air and call Joel Lightner. Before I can say anything, he tells me, “I found Brandon Mitchum. He lives here in town.”

“Great.”

“Hand him off to the cops,” he suggests.

I actually laugh, though I’m not feeling especially cheery. “They’re off on wild-goose chases,” I say. “I think I’m on my own here. Give me Mitchum’s address.”

McRAE AND RICHMOND. He parks at the corner, uses his binoculars, up to the third floor. Large canvas on an easel near the big window, violent swirls of purple and red splashed across it. Like splatters of blood.

He appears in the window, poising a paintbrush over the canvas, low evening sun spilling through the window, wearing a ratty shirt and gym shorts, long, stringy hair covering his handsome face.

You haven’t changed a bit, Brandon.

32

CHECK THE REARVIEW MIRROR: Woman walking her dog on the sidewalk, another woman jogging, half past six and the sun is just now falling below the buildings. Nobody pays attention to Leo, no one ever does, but that’s okay, it makes him better at what he does.

Okay, the street’s clear now, the woman with the dog turns the corner, no more people, good time to do it. Look in the mirror one last time, get out, forget about the hamstring, check the road and work over the lines. Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police.

This isn’t good, not the way to do it, no choice now.

He takes in the smell of curry from the Indian place down the street. He swallows hard, looks both ways, limps across the street. The short walk helps loosen the hamstring. He reaches the brick building and sees MITCHUM by the buzzer 3B. He hits that button, a shrill noise.

I’m smarter than him, he’ll believe it, he will.

Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry.

A moment passes, then the violent sound of open air. A voice: “Hello?”

Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police, police, police.

All that comes out is Police.

A pause. Open air again: “What is this about?”

“Evelyn Pendry.” He opens and closes his hands, rolls his head.

The intercom cackles again. “What about Evelyn?”

“Need to talk.”

Good. Perfect. Need to talk.

“Okay-all right-I’m on three.”

“Buzz me-”

“The door’s broken. It just opens.”

Leo breathes in deeply. He looks at the door, notices it’s slightly ajar.

He bites his lip. He could have walked right in. He could have snuck in.

No time. Take the first staircase, hit the landing, adjust the sport coat, check the wallet again for the fake badge, adjust the glasses, take a breath, you’re a cop, you’re a cop-

I’m a cop, Brandon.

Police, Mr. Mitchum. Need to talk.

Will you remember me, Brandon?

THEY WOKE HIM. It wasn’t hard. He didn’t sleep well. A dream involving dark water creeping into his lungs, drowning him-

But now he was awake. The voices. Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn