Eye of the Beholder (29 page)

McDermott sighs. “Maybe it’s more cover. It’s an attack on him.”

“Well, I’m no CAT techie,” she says. “But that wound to his head didn’t look self-inflicted to me.”

“I’m not saying self-inflicted.” McDermott shakes his head. “I’m not saying Paul Riley is killing these people. But he had a point. This guy wants him involved. He’s going out of his way to make private citizen Paul Riley part of this thing. Why?”

Stoletti thinks on that. Neither of them knows.

“Maybe,” McDermott tries, “he wants Riley’s
help.”

Stoletti seems uneasy with that. She moves out of her chair and paces the interview room. McDermott’s eyes move over her body. Her frame, courtesy of a German mother, she’s said, is large but firm. Maybe her two teenage boys keep her hopping. Maybe being single again prompts her to watch her figure. They don’t talk much about their personal lives. It’s been a shield, he realizes, that he has kept raised for three years.

“I’m no fan of Riley,” she says. “But still, Mike. Let’s think about what we’re saying here. We’re thinking that someone else did Cassie Bentley and he
knew
it. He cut her murder from the case to cover it up. He got a nice big reward for doing so—all of the legal work Harland Bentley could throw at him. And now someone’s opening a door that he wants closed.”

“That case made him.” McDermott gets up, too. “He jumped from Burgos to millions a year as Harland Bentley’s lawyer. It’s not a bad motive.”

“Well, I’ll say this much,” she adds. “If he’s a part of this, hopefully we’ve shut him down now.”

“We keep him on the outside,” McDermott decides. “We watch him, and we use him if we need him. I don’t care what Carolyn Pendry wants.”

The truth is, McDermott is less concerned with what happened during the Burgos case at the moment. The time will come for that. His first priority is stopping the flow of blood. If this does involve Professor Albany, or Riley, maybe they’ve put the fear of God in them. That leaves one person.

“Let’s go see Harland Bentley,” he says. “And get hold of Susan Dobbs at the M.E.’s lab. I want to know what the hell a tarsal phalange is.”

 

 

WHEN I‘M DONE BEING inspected by the county attorney technicians, I step out into the humid evening air and call Joel Lightner. Before I can say anything, he tells me, “I found Brandon Mitchum. He lives here in town.”

“Great.”

“Hand him off to the cops,” he suggests.

I actually laugh, though I’m not feeling especially cheery. “They’re off on wild-goose chases,” I say. “I think I’m on my own here. Give me Mitchum’s address.”

 

 

McRAE AND RICHMOND. He parks at the corner, uses his binoculars, up to the third floor. Large canvas on an easel near the big window, violent swirls of purple and red splashed across it. Like splatters of blood.

He appears in the window, poising a paintbrush over the canvas, low evening sun spilling through the window, wearing a ratty shirt and gym shorts, long, stringy hair covering his handsome face.

You haven’t changed a bit, Brandon.

C
HECK THE REARVIEW MIRROR: Woman walking her dog on the sidewalk, another woman jogging, half past six and the sun is just now falling below the buildings. Nobody pays attention to Leo, no one ever does, but that’s okay, it makes him better at what he does.

Okay, the street’s clear now, the woman with the dog turns the corner, no more people, good time to do it. Look in the mirror one last time, get out, forget about the hamstring, check the road and work over the lines. Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police.

This isn’t good, not the way to do it, no choice now.

He takes in the smell of curry from the Indian place down the street. He swallows hard, looks both ways, limps across the street. The short walk helps loosen the hamstring. He reaches the brick building and sees MITCHUM by the buzzer 3B. He hits that button, a shrill noise.

I’m smarter than him, he’ll believe it, he will.

Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry.

A moment passes, then the violent sound of open air. A voice: “Hello?”

Evelyn Pendry. Police. Evelyn Pendry. Police, police, police.

All that comes out is
Police.

A pause. Open air again: “What is this about?”

“Evelyn Pendry.” He opens and closes his hands, rolls his head.

The intercom cackles again. “What about Evelyn?”

“Need to talk.”

Good. Perfect. Need to talk.

“Okay—all right—I’m on three.”

“Buzz me—”

“The door’s broken. It just opens.”

Leo breathes in deeply. He looks at the door, notices it’s slightly ajar.

He bites his lip. He could have walked right in. He could have snuck in.

No time. Take the first staircase, hit the landing, adjust the sport coat, check the wallet again for the fake badge, adjust the glasses, take a breath, you’re a cop, you’re a cop—

I’m a cop, Brandon.

Police, Mr. Mitchum. Need to talk.

Will you remember me, Brandon?

 

THEY WOKE HIM.
It wasn’t hard. He didn’t sleep well. A dream involving dark water creeping into his lungs, drowning him—

Oh, hey.
Cassie waved to him.
Did we wake you?

This is my friend Brandon.
She pointed at the boy. Leo waved and walked away.

That’s Leo, my boyfriend,
she said. They all
laughed.
Even
Cassie.

 

No, BRANDON, you won’t remember me. No one remembers me. Bend at the waist to stretch the hamstring, then keep going, hit the landing on the third floor.

The door to the right is ajar. A face is peeking through.

“What is this about, Officer?”

Officer. Good.

“What happened to Evelyn?”

Dead.
A word he can say well.

Hold out the wallet, focus on the wallet—

Mitchum glances at the badge but looks longer at Leo.

Do you remember me, Brandon?

I remember you.

Mitchum opens the door but keeps the entrance blocked. “What happened?”

He can’t turn back now. This isn’t how he does this but here he is, he won’t get another chance—

Murdered.
Another word he knows well.

Mitchum looks over Leo hard, then down at his wallet, which is closed again. “What did you say your name was?”

I didn‘t, Brandon.

Leo hands him the wallet, just like with the woman in the parking lot, simple misdirection, Brandon, while you’re opening the wallet to check the badge—remove the straight razor, flip it open while I step on your foot, so you can’t move, then the blade under your chin, and if you move, if you move, Brandon—

Mitchum’s eyes are frozen with terror. He gets it.

Grab his hair with the free hand for leverage, force him back, an awkward dance, until you’re in, close the door, push it closed behind you, the smell, that smell, marijuana, yeah, like in Lefortovo, smuggled in, supposed to help the time pass but it always seemed to slow things down, slow, slow, like this last hour of your life, Brandon, so very slow.

 

I REMEMBER STOLETTI’S WORDS, about liking witnesses fresh, unprepared, unrehearsed. I decide to skip the buzzer to announce my presence, given that the security door is off its lock. As I take the final staircase, I hear voices in Brandon Mitchum’s apartment. I knock on the door and hear a harsh whisper, then utter silence.

My breathing halts. My chest fills with heat.

“Brandon Mitchum?” I call out. I move to the side of the door, reach over and knock again, as I hear more noise above the pounding of my fist. A crashing sound, then violent footsteps across a hardwood floor.

I take a deep breath and brace my voice to keep it free from a mounting fear.

“Police!” I yell.

I turn the knob. The door’s unlocked. I look into a loft, a twelve-foot ceiling, a couch, and a large window overlooking the street. A man lying on a rug near the couch, blood spraying from his face.

Someone is running toward the back door, his sport coat flapping. I give chase, without thinking. The man is shorter than me, a little wider, but he isn’t moving well, a bad leg, and the adrenaline pours through me as I realize, in the space of a second or two, that I will catch him.

In the time he takes to open the back door, I lunge into him from behind with a bear hug, hoping to freeze him in place and keep his arms at his side. His body gyrates to the right, trying to shake me off. I try to hang on tight, but his right arm frees up and he jerks an elbow back into my face, an overwhelming force to my forehead. Stars flash through my eyelids, but my left arm comes up around his neck. He tries again with the right elbow, but I’m too far to his left now. I throw a punch into the base of his skull. I rear back again, but he spins before I know it, facing me now, putting a hand on my throat and throwing me backward—

I think of Shelly. I remember the first time I met her, in court, as opposing counsel, that crusading stride, that force of conviction. I loved her before I even knew her.

—My head slams against the wall. I fall into a heap on the floor. Through bleary eyes, I look up at the man, the same man in that photograph, behind Harland Bentley and the group of reporters. His eyes are lifeless, dead, but then he cocks his head and blinks his eyes.

“You,” he says.

I try to gather myself into a defense, but he rushes out the door and down the fire escape. I struggle to stay conscious, try to focus, thinking of the phone, searching for it, from the kitchen floor, as I hear the man’s footsteps barreling down the fire escape. I hear the screams from the other room, from Brandon Mitchum.

I don’t try to stand, not sure that I could handle it. I crawl across the kitchen floor and reach up to the kitchen counter, sweeping my hand as I lose balance. I knock to the floor a pen, paper, and portable phone. The back of the phone breaks off, exposing the battery pack, which, luckily, is still intact. I lift the phone as I fall on my back. I dial the three numbers, and struggle for just those few seconds I need. The words come out, in no particular order—
intruder, attacker, someone’s hurt, ambulance, police
—and then I go black.

 

LEO TURNS THE CORNER of the alley and stops, clutching his hamstring. He heads back toward McRae Street, running in front of Mitchum’s building. They could be anywhere, he knows it, but he doesn’t have a choice.

Traitor. Fucking traitor.

He keeps close to the building so anyone looking out, from Brandon’s place, won’t see him. But they already saw him, they already saw him.

I don’t understand. I don’t
understand.

He starts up the car and drives off, keeping the speed under the limit.

Hands. Hands. He knows it. Prints. No time to clean up. He left his prints. Prints on the door. They’ll know now. They’ll know it’s me.

All right, Paul Riley. You’ve made your choice.

I know how to hurt you.

 

“BRANDON,” I say, fighting to wipe the darkness from my eyes. I struggle to my feet, staggering toward the cries in the front room of the condo. I find him in the fetal position, blood squirting between his fingers, which are covering his face.

“Tell me where he cut you,” I say.

“My cheek,” he shouts, his voice muffled with his hand. “Help me!”

“Ambulance is coming. Hang on, Brandon, you’ll be okay.” I manage my way back to the kitchen and find a damp rag, resting in the sink. I bring it to Brandon and press it against his face. He tries to sit up, pressing the rag against the wound, blood all over his shirt and the rug. I squat over him, examining him. Looks like it’s just the cheek. Shouldn’t be fatal, but the face has a lot of blood vessels and you bleed like hell. “Keep the pressure on it.”

“Oh, my God,” Brandon mumbles, gripping my sleeve with his free hand. “Oh, my God, thank—thank you.”

“Do you know him?” I sit on the couch near him.

“A—cop,” he manages, spitting the words out, unable to control his breathing.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone now, Brandon, okay? You’re safe. This guy was a cop? Or he said he was?”

Brandon nods, his body shivering, both hands now on the rag against his cheek. This guy must have pretended to be a cop. I look back at the door, then around the place.

“He wasn’t wearing gloves,” I say.

“He knew about—he knew about the fa—the—”

From outside the opened front door, I hear footsteps pounding up the staircase.

“He knew about what, Brandon?” I ask, my face close to his. This doesn’t look fatal, but this may be the last chance I get to talk to him. “Brandon, this is important. He knew about—”

“The father,” he says, as two uniformed police officers burst through the door.

Y
ou DON’T BARGE into the offices of Harland Bentley unannounced,” the commander says. ”Not based on your gut, Detective.”

McDermott grips the phone, looking at Stoletti and shaking his head. It was her call—a good one—to get clearance before bursting in on one of the wealthiest men in the world. If something went south, the governor would hear about it, the mayor would hear about, the commander would hear about it, and McDermott would hear about it.