Eye of the Beholder

Half of each team breaks to the rear of the house. The other half gets within feet of the front door on each side, staying below the view from the windows.

McDermott hears the voice cackle through his radio, from the built-in mikes in their Tac vests.

“Team A in position.”

“Team B in position.”

McDermott takes a breath, then says into the radio, “The code is Green. That’s Green.”

The teams meet at the front door, where they use a battering ram to enter the house. Tactical vans race down the street from each side, squealing to a halt in front of Koslenko‘s, turning toward the house and shining bright lights over the entire property. Police officers pour out of the vans and circle the perimeter of the property.

McDermott hops out of the brush and draws his weapon. The interior lights in the house pop on one after the other. McDermott stops at the sidewalk, his handgun in one hand, the radio in the other. He puts out a hand to block Stoletti, who stands next to him, weapon drawn as well.

“First bedroom-clear.”

“First bathroom-clear.”

“Kitchen is clear.”

“Living room-clear.”

McDermott holds his breath, steeling himself for the sound of gunfire.

“Second bedroom-clear.”

“Second bathroom-clear.”

“Third bedroom-clear.”

It feels like he holds his breath forever, his pulse pounding.

“Basement is clear.”

“That’s all clear. We are all clear.”

McDermott jogs up the driveway and into the house. A foul smell fills the ground floor, like a combination of body odor and dirty socks. The place is in deteriorating condition. The paint is peeling on the walls. The kitchen looks like it was last upgraded in the seventies. There is little furniture in the living room, unless you count pizza cartons and oil-stained food bags thrown about, plates with crusted ketchup and remnants of food, now being feasted on by flies and other bugs.

“Well, shit,” he says, as Stoletti walks up to him. “He’s gone, and he’s been gone.”

His radio cackles. “Detective McDermott, the basement.”

McDermott takes the stairs down. The space is unfinished and unfurnished, save for a workout bench, some weights, and some taped-up boxes.

The walls are a different story. Corkboard has been attached from floor to ceiling, all the way around three of the four walls. Various documents and photographs are tacked up everywhere.

When Stoletti hits the bottom step, she says, “What the hell is this?”

McDermott walks up and gets a closer look at the items on the wall. A newspaper article from the Watch, a story about the divorce of Harland and Natalia Bentley. A notice from the IRS for under-payment of tax. A newspaper story on Paul Riley leaving the county attorney’s office to start a new law firm. A page downloaded from a Web site called “Russian Serial Killers,” detailing the exploits of Nikolai Kruschenko, who murdered over two dozen prostitutes before being captured in 1988 in Leningrad. A magazine article on Paul Riley’s purchase earlier this year of the home formerly owned by Senator Roche. Page after page, downloaded from Web sites, about Terry Burgos, detailing the murders and his victims. A black-and-white photograph of a young girl standing by a tree.

It goes on and on. There are hundreds of documents.

“This,” McDermott says, “is his office.”

39

TRY THE DOOR.

A lesson learned from the Brandon Mitchum debacle. But the front security door is locked, as expected, so he pulls out the tension wrench and short hook and picks the lock. He opens the door and closes it delicately behind him. Now inside the main security door, he removes his shoes and walks up the stairs.

One apartment per floor, as he walks up slowly in his stocking feet, gets to the top floor and looks over the door-standard lock, maybe, probably a dead bolt, too-then heads back down the stairwell to the landing, halfway between the second and third floors, so that he’d be out of view if Shelly Trotter were inclined to look through her peephole, Peekaboo, you don’t see me.

He checks his watch, just past four in the morning, she’s sleeping, she’ll be sleeping another two, three hours, probably, so he sits on the landing and waits.

He can wait. He’s good at waiting. He’s been waiting for sixteen years.

I PUSH MYSELF OUT of bed at six, not having slept at all. By seven, I’m in my car. Traffic is already thick. I’m thinking up a creative cussword to describe how I feel about the woman driving in front of me when my cell phone rings. My caller ID says it’s Pete Storino, from Immigration and Customs Enforcement, getting back to me about that favor.

“Pete, you’re up early for a G-man.”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you, Riley.”

“I would never say that, Pete. Never.”

He snickers. “And you didn’t hear this from me.”

“Right. Never heard it.”

“Okay. Gwendolyn Lake, right? You want to know when she left the States?”

“Right.”

“Gwendolyn Lake flew out of the country on Wednesday, June 21, 1989.”

June twenty-first. That was the week of the murders. Wednesday. Three dead by that time. Cassie was killed the following Sunday.

Could have been three months, could have been three days, Gwendolyn had told me, when I asked her how long she’d been gone before Cassie was murdered.

“Where’d she go?” I ask.

“Flew into De Gaulle,” he tells me.

Paris. That makes sense. When I asked Gwendolyn where she might have been around that time, her first guess had been the Riviera. Rich girl like that, she probably has a place there.

“Do you know how long she was there?” I ask, for no apparent reason.

“Can’t help you on that, my friend. The domestic stuff, I can ask for a