Eye of the Beholder

quarter sleeves and white slacks. She takes my hand with both of hers. “After everything, it’s Nat.”

We sit together on a couch. The tips of her spindly fingers touch my arm. “This was a woman you were involved with? Shelly Trotter?”

I nod my head.

“Lang’s daughter. Oh, my.” She focuses on me. “Paul, please tell me that Harland is not responsible for any of this.”

“Harland is not responsible for any of this.”

She takes a breath. A reaction, but I don’t know what kind.

“What has happened this week is a cover-up,” I say. “And Harland has nothing to cover up. True, he did many shameful things. He slept with your daughter’s closest friend. He fathered a child with your sister. But he didn’t kill anyone back then, Nat. Which means he’d have no reason to kill anyone now. There’s nothing for him to protect.”

I let my comments sit, hoping Natalia might fill the silence. The line of her mouth adjusts into a frown. She is disappointed, I think, by my assessment, but I don’t expect her to say so. She occupies herself with her cigarettes, opening the small pearl case, lighting up, and smoking in silence.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for here. I know there’s something. And I’m pretty good at digging.

“You know how to reach Leo Koslenko,” I say.

“I certainly do not.” But her response is too readied, too defensive in its delivery. She was prepared for the accusation.

“You’re the one who brought him over, Nat. It was your family in the Soviet Union that was friendly with his. He was a sick, tortured man who was loyal to you and only you.”

Natalia taps her cigarette into a marble ashtray. She has never, in her life, had to answer to anyone. She is not about to start now.

She will need some prompting.

“Leo Koslenko killed Ellie Danzinger,” I tell her. “At your direction.”

“Oh.” A burst of amusement escapes her lips. She turns to me, holding that expression, a combination of disdain and delight. “And-is that all? Did I direct the murders of all of those girls? Including my own daughter, Paul?”

Her tone is patronizing, but her eyes have caught fire now. She leaves the cigarette burning in the ashtray and moves from the couch, adjusting a piece of art on the wall. It looked straight to me, which tells me she’s getting uncomfortable, maybe stalling for time.

“You didn’t want to kill your daughter,” I say. “But you had no choice. Cassie figured out what you’d done to Ellie. And you knew she wouldn’t keep quiet.”

What I’m saying isn’t true. At least, I don’t think it is. But the best I can do is shake the tree. This feels like a pretty good tree to shake.

Something catches my eye to the left, a momentary alteration in the hallway lighting. Like a faint shadow.

Someone is in the hallway.

“You were the one who wanted the charges dropped on Cassie’s murder,” I say. “You were afraid of anyone taking too close a look at that. Or at her.”

Natalia places her hands behind her back and nods slowly. “What you are saying is not only ridiculous, Paul. It is also something you could never prove.”

“Don’t be so sure.” I open my shoulders toward the hallway without being obvious. I start to pace-again, to move closer to the hallway-and speak in that direction, with my back to Natalia. I want to make sure that both Natalia and the person in the hallway hear this.

“We’ll start by exhuming Cassie’s body,” I say.

“That’s a bluff,” she answers to my back. “You’ve already convicted a man of-”

She stops, and I smile at the irony. Thanks to Natalia, nobody was convicted of Cassie’s murder. Her case has never been prosecuted.

“That’s a bluff,” she repeats.

“It’s no bluff, Nat. Governor Trotter intends to have me appointed as a special prosecutor to investigate Cassie’s murder. My first official act will be to arrest you on suspicion of murder.”

None of that is true, but it’s believable, which is all that matters.

“Technology has come a long way in sixteen years,” I advise her. “I can only imagine what we’ll find on Cassie’s body.”

The truth is, I doubt there would be much to gain. But she doesn’t know that. And in any event, that isn’t the point.

“And you’ll tear down everything you accomplished,” Natalia warns me. “You’ll destroy the banner achievement of your career.”

It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer. I keep my eyes on the hallway.

Gwendolyn Lake makes her first appearance, stepping into the threshold of the parlor in a long T-shirt and gray sweats.

“Sweetheart-” Natalia comes forward, into my peripheral vision.

I nod to Gwendolyn.

“You’re wrong,” she says to me.

NEVER COME BACK, don’t ever return, an order, must obey-

Never come back, never set foot in Highland Woods, take the money, more if you want, don’t ever come back, no one can know-

The neighborhood looks different, some houses remodeled, some brand-new, nice neighborhood, Highland Woods-

Never come back. But there are exceptions. Like when Paul Riley visits Mrs. Bentley-now Mrs. Lake.

Leo passes her house, Mrs. Lake’s house now, used to be her sister‘s, a quick pass, then he parks at the bottom of the hill. The maze of streets is a loop, all roads leading to Browning Street at the bottom. He will wait for Riley here, parked at a meter, with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.

It has been an endless week. But today will be the end.

NATALIA LAKE STEPS BETWEEN Gwendolyn and me. “No, sweetheart, no-”

“Aunt Natalia.” Gwendolyn tries to move around Nat.

“No, honey-”

“Aunt Natalia. Aunt Natalia!” She takes Nat by the shoulders and looks at her squarely. “Aunt Natalia, I’m saying this. I know you want to protect Cassie’s memory, but it’s not worth this.”

After a momentary struggle, Nat finally relents, her posture easing. She walks past me, without a word or glance, toward the window.

I look back at Gwendolyn. In her long T-shirt and sweats, her sleep- flattened hair and tired eyes, there is an air of nakedness, candor, about her. I don’t speak, for fear of stopping the momentum. Gwendolyn has come to me. She is rolling down a hill now. Shelly, I realize, ignoring the ache in my chest, had been right about her: She would tell me eventually. It just took some prompting from me.

“You’re right about me,” Gwendolyn says to me, her voice free of any affect. “Harland is my biological father. My mother told me before she died. She hadn’t wanted to tell me, but she felt like I had a right to know.” She fixes on Natalia, who is now staring out the window, motionless. “She was so horrified by her pregnancy, initially, that she flew to France. To our place at Cap-Ferrat. She was planning, I think,