Eye of the Beholder

favor here or there. I have to involve too many people if I call the French.”

“No, no. That’s fine.”

“I assume she was probably staying with family over there,” he adds.

“Family? In France?”

“Gwendolyn Lake is a French national,” he says. “You didn’t know that?”

No, actually, I didn’t. Gwendolyn Lake was born in France? I guess that’s not too surprising. These rich people, jetting about the globe, probably have villas on every continent and can afford elite medical care wherever they are.

Storino continues, “Says here, born in-I’m going to mispro nounce this- Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. September 8, 1969. Anyway, that probably explains the length of her visit”

“How’s that?” I ask. “When did she return to the States?”

“Let’s see-August twenty of ‘ninety-two.”

“‘Ninety-two? She was gone for three years?”

“From the States, oui, oui.”

I thank Pete and punch out the cell phone, digesting that information, while waving off a guy at an intersection who wants to sell me a newspaper.

Gwendolyn Lake left the country the same week that Cassie and Ellie were murdered and didn’t return for three years?

Have we been looking at the wrong troubled young heiress?

McDERMOTT CALLS HOME, talks to his mother and to Grace, explaining his situation. When he’s done, he stretches his arms, shakes the cobwebs from his weary head. Members of the County Attorney Technical Unit are photographing the walls in the basement.

“Dammit,” he says to himself, not for the first time this morning. They found their guy, but they didn’t find him. And it’s not like he just happened to be out running an errand. They raided his place in the middle of the night.

He’s in the wind.

The dust in the basement brings out the worst in McDermott’s allergies. He wipes at his nose and scratches the roof of his mouth with his tongue. By now, he has taken at least a cursory look at every document pinned up to the corkboard on Koslenko’s basement walls. The information is neatly divided into certain categories. Much of the documentation is devoted to the Terry Burgos case, or one of the players involved in it. Harland Bentley. His ex-wife Natalia. Their daughter Cassie Bentley. Terry Burgos. Paul Riley. Even a pair of photographs from a gossip column of Riley and his girlfriend Shelly Trotter, the governor’s daughter.

Another section of the wall contains photographs of women on the street, virtually all of whom look like prostitutes in their on-the-job outfits. Below many of the photos, Koslenko has handwritten their names-at least their street names. Roxy. Honey. Candi. Delilah.

“Jesus, there must be a hundred photos,” he mumbles.

“Close. Ninety-eight,” says Stoletti. “This guy has a real hard-on for hookers.”

“Mike.” Powers, one of the other detectives who has arrived, comes bounding down the stairs. His hand, in a latex glove, holds up a piece of paper. “Found this in his bedroom.”

McDermott, also wearing a latex glove, takes the paper. It’s a Xerox copy of a smaller, typewritten note:

I know that you know about my relationship with Ellie. And I know about your relationship with my daughter. If you tell, so will I. But if you keep quiet, I will endow a chair in your name at Mansbury College.

I need your answer right now.

McDermott rereads the note, then takes a breath. He feels a number of scraggly lines in his brain, now forming into circles.

“Bentley did buy off Albany,” Stoletti says. “Bentley was sleeping with Ellie.”

“And Albany was sleeping with Cassie,” he adds. “Christ Almighty.”

“Koslenko was Bentley’s bagman.” Stoletti takes a breath. “He does Bentley’s dirty work.”

McDermott works that over. Something about it doesn’t seem quite right. His cell phone on his hip buzzes. The call is coming from the station house. “McDermott,” he says, but the reception is weak, the voice of one of his fellow detectives mired in static. “Call you back,” he yells. He takes the stairs and heads outside.

HE DIDN’T SPEAK WELL. But he listened well. Gwendolyn and Mrs. Bentley, in the kitchen.

This is my fucking house, Gwendolyn said.

No, it’s my house. All of this is mine until I decide to give it to you. Would you like to take a look at the trust documents?

It’s not fair. Gwendolyn pounded on the kitchen table. I’m not a minor. Give it to me.

Mrs. Bentley said, You’ll have it when you show me you can handle it.

You fucking Bentleys. You think you’re so much better than me. Well, Auntie Nat, do you know where your darling husband is right now? Any idea? And that daughter of yours? Precious little Cassie, the freak show? Gwendolyn broke into hideous laughter.

They came into his view now, Mrs. Bentley grabbing Gwendolyn by the arm. Gwendolyn tried to wrestle away, but Mrs. Bentley took her other arm, too.

Don’t you ever talk about my family. Then she turned and saw him standing there. She broke away from Gwendolyn and approached. She said nothing for a long moment. Leo didn’t know what to do-

Do you like it here, Leo?

He nodded yes.

Do you want to be deported? Do you want to go back to the Soviet Union? Back to that institution?

Back to-was she asking him or telling him? What did she-

Then mind your own business. And get back to your chores.

Leo’s eyes dropped. He’d disappointed Mrs. Bentley. He turned and headed out to the yard, the shame burning in his chest.

Leo jumps at the sound of footsteps in the apartment on the third floor. It’s now half past seven. The timing is about right. He stands up, stretches, still on the landing halfway between the second and third floors.

From inside the apartment come four quick beeps, as the intruder alarm is disarmed. Okay. There’s probably a motion sensor that cuts through the middle of the small apartment, and you can’t walk around for a cup of coffee or juice unless you disarm it. Why leave it on in the morning? You got through the night.

That’s how all of you think. Once the sun comes up, you feel safe.