Eye of the Beholder

him.”

“Riley says the offender was ‘the guy from the photo,”’ says the other cop, Wilson. “He said he had a scar. That mean anything to you?”

“Yeah.” McDermott feels a chill course through him. The guy in the photograph, behind Harland Bentley and the bank of reporters.

“We’ve got the CATs there,” Esteban says. “This guy Riley kept telling us to look for prints.”

That makes sense. If the offender was posing as a cop, he couldn’t very well be wearing gloves. And he wouldn’t have had time to clean up. This might be a break.

Stoletti says, “That’s very helpful of Riley.”

Wilson and Esteban don’t get it, of course. McDermott does. He makes his way over to Riley, who gets up.

“You okay?” he asks Riley.

“I’ll live.”

Yes, you will, he thinks to himself. That’s twice now. “What were you doing there?”

“Brandon Mitchum was Cassie’s and Ellie’s friend at Mansbury. The three of them were tight. I thought if anyone might know something about Cassie being pregnant, he would.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” Stoletti says. “You’re playing cop now?”

“I thought someone should.”

“All right, pal.” McDermott steps closer to Riley. He’s no fan of lawyers but he doesn’t have a real problem with Riley, not on a personal level. Still, things are starting to get real coincidental. “Tell me what you can about this. Leave out the damn commentary.”

Riley gives them a story that sounds a lot like what they just heard from the responding uniforms. It gets interesting when he reaches the part about confronting the offender.

“You,” McDermott repeats. “Like he knows you. He’s surprised to see you.”

“Or, like he couldn’t understand why you were stopping him,” Stoletti adds. “Why would he do that? Why would he think of you as an ally?”

Riley doesn’t know. “I’ll say this much. I had some height on this guy, but he handled me like I was nothing.”

“He was strong.”

“Yeah, I suppose he was strong, but that’s not what I mean. He knew what he was doing. I tried to get this guy in a headlock from behind, and, in about two seconds, he’d slipped out, spun around, and pushed me against the wall. Seemed like he had some training.”

McDermott deflates.

“He had an accent,” Riley adds. “Eastern European, seemed like. Let’s talk to Brandon, he might know more when he’s sedated.”

McDermott puts out a hand.

“Oh,” Riley says. “I’m not invited?”

“You’re not invited. You’re lucky I don’t take you into custody.”

Riley eyes them a long moment, then puts out his hands for the handcuffs.

“Oh, cut the fucking drama.”

Riley drops his hands. “By the way, you’re welcome. I’m leaving.”

Riley brushes past him. McDermott looks at Stoletti. Neither of them is entirely sure what to do with Riley. Under certain circumstances, the play might be to lock him up. Clearly, they could claim his prints on the tire iron for justification. But Paul Riley’s not someone you lock up unless you have a good reason.

“He was sloppy tonight.”

They turn to Riley, who hasn’t gone far.

“His first two kills,” Riley explains. “Perfect planning. In and out without a trace. Clean kills. He messed this one up.”

“How so?” Stoletti asks.

“The front door to the building,” he says. “Security door. It’s busted. I walked right in. But this guy didn’t. Brandon buzzed him up.”

McDermott thinks about that. “If this were well planned, he would have known the security door was busted.”

“And he would have ambushed Brandon. Like he did with Ciancio, and probably with Evelyn, too.”

“So why is this different?” Stoletti asks.

“I don’t know. You’re the cops. Figure it the hell out.” Now he walks away.

McDermott calls out to him. “Stick around town, in case we need you.”

“Yeah, right.”

This guy. The problem with lawyers, they know their rights. McDermott can’t stop Riley from doing anything, not unless he arrests him, and Riley knows that better than anyone.

But he made a good point, about the attack on Mitchum. Why was it different this time? The well-planned, cold-blooded executioner is suddenly improvising.

“Let’s talk to Mitchum,” he says.

34

THE SIXTY-THIRD FLOOR of BentleyCo Tower is reserved exclusively for its CEO, Harland Bentley. Taking up the entire south side of the floor is Harland’s personal office, a palatial job with an interior conference room and a private bathroom and spa. There are large and small conference rooms on the north, east, and west sides, and then the gratuitous luxuries that Harland affords himself, including an entertainment room with embedded stereo and speakers, a sixty-inch plasma television and leather chairs; an exercise room with a stair-climber, treadmill, stationary bike, and assorted weight-lifting equipment; and sleeping quarters on the north side, too, though I haven’t seen them, and I doubt there is much “sleeping” going on in there.

But tonight, I am led into what Harland calls the “Green Room,” where my client stands over a golf ball and knocks it wide of the hole on the putting green. Instead of cussing, he simply uses his putter to tap another orange ball in front of him, and says, “You’re late.”

That’s Harland. We’re meeting, as agreed, after I left the police at the hospital, but still he’s putting me on the defensive up front. The assistant who escorted me into the room-a private security guard with an earpiece and wraparound mike who speaks in a deep British accent-leaves us alone in the room.

Harland taps the next one wide left, too, banging the orange ball off the wooden backdrop, and this time he spits out a cuss. “Hate making the same mistake twice, Paul. Know what I mean?”

No, I don‘t, and I’m in no mood for games. I almost got killed for the second time this week by a guy who tried to frame me for murder, and I have cops breathing down my neck for my trouble.

“You had something to tell me,” I say.