Eye of the Beholder

large, handsome black guy done out nicely in a three-piece gray pinstripe. These two look immaculate, crisp, and well coiffed, for a hastily called interview in the middle of the night. No accident there. They are ready for the show.

They perk up as Edgar Trotter enters the room with his lieutenant. They are out of their chairs quickly.

“Harland,” says Trotter. He nods to Bentley’s lawyer. “Mason.”

Mason. Oh, that’s it. Mason Tremont-the man who until recently served as the U.S. attorney for the jurisdiction that includes the city. Not surprising that Bentley has brought in the heavy artillery.

They start in with the condolences. How are you holding up? How’s the governor? How’s your mother? Oh, this must be so tough on Abby.

McDermott looks at the commander with his eyebrows raised. This is quite the start to the interrogation. These guys are old friends. Harland Bentley has poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into Governor Trotter’s campaigns, and Mason Tremont was appointed the top federal prosecutor by the Republican president at the request of the governor, who tapped Tremont, if memory serves, as a thank-you for his impressive ability to raise campaign cash.

And now the governor’s son will question two of the governor’s closest allies.

After they are seated, Mason Tremont asserts himself. “Of course, Edgar, of course we want to do whatever we can to help. But there”-he looks at Harland, almost laughs, as if incredulous-” there is a difference between being asked to help as a friend and being threatened as if Harland were a suspect. The officer-I think his name was McDermott-he left us with the impression that, somehow, there was suspicion directed-”

“McDermott’s off this case,” says Edgar Trotter. “You’re talking to me now.”

McDermott steels himself. He tries to resist the rising urge to see Edgar Trotter fail, to watch him flail about ineffectively until, with no other choice, he reluctantly taps his arm toward the bull pen and brings in McDermott to do this right. He can’t deny the satisfaction it would bring him, but, more than anything, he just wants to know what the hell Bentley knows.

Trotter starts with the basics. He says them as suspicions, not fact: that Harland was sleeping with Ellie Danzinger; that Harland had fathered Gwendolyn Lake, in addition to Cassie; that Cassie had been pregnant and had an abortion near the time of her death. Leo Koslenko, he says, worked at the home belonging to Mia Lake and her daughter, Gwendolyn. “Information we have received,” he calls all of it.

“Do you know where Leo Koslenko is, Harland?”

“I don’t. Edgar, I’m not sure I can even recall who the man is. Certainly, I’ve not spoken to him, at least not any time I can recall.”

Trotter slides the photograph across the table, the one found in Fred Ciancio’s closet in a shoe box: Harland addressing reporters, Koslenko in the background.

“This man in the background, I suppose?” Bentley says. “You say he worked at Mia’s house, not ours?”

Giving himself distance from Koslenko.

Trotter cocks his head. “You didn’t help him get asylum in this country?”

Closing that distance a little. A good response, and well delivered, played just about right-he said it like he was curious, without threat.

“If I did, I don’t recall that. I’d think that would fall more into Natalia’s camp.”

Trotter takes a moment with that. Nods his head slowly but doesn’t speak. A good interrogation technique. Silence is uncomfortable in a conversation. Suspects like to fill the space. They usually elaborate, and often dig a deeper hole.

But Harland Bentley is no ordinary suspect.

“Shelly was a wonderful young woman,” Bentley says. “I’d met her only recently.”

Trotter listens to him, holds his stare, and says, “Were you having an affair with Ellie Danzinger around the time she died?”

Mason Tremont raises his hand from the table. “Edgar, I wonder if that’s really necessary. We are more than happy to help you pursue any meaningful leads, but we’re talking about something a lifetime ago.”

“I appreciate that, Mason, I really do.” He nods his head emphatically without making eye contact. “But Leo Koslenko didn’t kill my sister because the past is irrelevant. So I’d like an answer, please.”

The lawyer, Tremont, puts a hand on Bentley’s forearm. “Edgar-”

“Either he’s willing to answer or he isn’t.” Trotter drops the pen from his hand and sits back in his chair. “I’m waiting.”

The temperature has dropped in the room.

Tremont adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses. “I’ve advised my client to limit his answers to things that are relevant. Personal smears are e not relevant.”

“What about Gwendolyn Lake, Harland? Are you her father?”

Tremont bows his head slightly. Seems to be a signal to his client.

“Yes, that’s true,” Harland says.

McDermott nods. Not surprising. And not surprising he’d admit that, either. Gwendolyn is still alive. A simple paternity test could answer that question. He’s giving them something they could get without him and, in the process, appearing to be forthcoming.

Edgar Trotter removes a document from the folder in front of him. McDermott lifts himself with the balls of his feet to get a better look. It’s the note they found in Leo Koslenko’s bedroom. McDermott has a copy, too:

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.

Bentley leaves the note on the table, so that his attorney can read along. He reads in silence for a moment, then snatches it off the table to get a closer look. Tremont, who can no longer read it, gives his client some space.

McDermott watches Bentley’s eyes move across the page. His mouth parts, his eyebrows tremble. Soon he is mouthing the words as he rereads it, his face contorting in mounting horror.

Something isn’t sitting right. Something in McDermott’s gut.

“My God,” Bentley says.

“This note was delivered to Professor Albany,” Trotter says without affect. “He’s already admitted receiving it. And he’s already admitted answering yes to the request.”

The lawyer, Tremont, puts his hand on his client’s arm.

Bentley pops out of his chair and paces in the corner of the room, a hand on his face.