Eye of the Beholder (27 page)

Leo nods. The man heads back down toward Aisle Eleven. Leo is standing near Aisle Four.

White woman, pink top, black pants, covering the exit. She reminds him of Cassie’s cousin Gwendolyn.

 

 

GWENDOLYN. GWENDOLYN LAKE. He’d heard of her, yes. It was her house, but he’d never seen her. She was never there, but she was coming. She’s nice, Cassie said,
but she can be hard to get to know. Just—don’t take it personally if she’s a little—short with you. Okay?

Okay,
he said. The way Cassie spoke to him, the kindness in her eyes, the warmth of her hand on his shoulder
—
and he didn’t care about her cousin, Gwendolyn. He’d been through worse.

Cassie and Mrs. Bentley were there. He didn’t think they were happy about it. Mrs. Bentley kept smoking and pacing outside the house.
How long is she staying?
Mrs. Bentley asked.
How long?

Mother, for the last time, I don’t know. It’ll be fine.

The limousine pulled up within a few minutes. When the driver opened the door for Gwendolyn, she didn’t seem happy,
either. She
was dressed like she was ready for a party. Tight pants with a bright red top. A cigarette in her mouth and a drink in her hand. Cassie ran to the car and hugged her. Mrs. Bentley stood at the doorway and embraced her, too, but with less enthusiasm.

So this is the immigrant.

This is Leo, Cassie said. Be nice, Gwen.

Oh, right, right.
Gwendolyn twirled her index finger beside her head.
Well, hi there, Leo.

Well, I can see why you and Cassie get along so well,
she said.

 

 

THE WOMAN, pink top and black pants, turns to her left, toward Leo, but she’s still far away, several aisles away, she looks up and acts surprised to see a man, a black guy, she greets him, gives him a quick hug.

Black guy with her now, they’re good, like they’re surprised to see each other, whatever they’re saying to each other, he knows what they’re really saying,
We’ve marked him, let’s see what he does, you take the rear, I’ll take the front.

You don’t fool me.

Leo starts toward them, but they separate, she touches him on the arm and says good-bye—looks like good-bye, anyway—and he walks out of Leo’s view.

They separated, getting an angle on him. How many are there?

“Help you, sir?”

Leo jumps. Another man in a long orange apron. He shakes his head while keeping his eyes on the woman.

One thing at a time, no choice here, this is going to have to be fast, he has to do it now, he keeps his head down, walks to Aisle Eleven slowly, his head on a swivel, but he makes it look natural, you’ve marked me but you don’t know that
I’ve
marked you, too, they’re not going to make their move inside, they’re just looking for information, they just have to report back on what I’m doing here—

He finds the old guy in Aisle Eleven, shelves and containers full of various chain saws.

“I was asking, professional or home use?” the man says. “What are you cutting?”

He needs a Trim-Meter chain saw. He doesn’t see one.

“Trim-Meter?”
The man shakes his head. “Sir, Trim-Meter hasn’t made a chain saw for years.”

Leo rocks on his toes, biting down into his lip.

The man taps Leo on the arm. “I know how you feel. You get loyal to a brand. That’s the kind you’ve always used, am I right?”

Leo looks at him, sizes him up.

“Always had a Husky myself. That’s what I’d recommend. Something lightweight, like a 137 here, will do you fine.” He grabs a saw off a tackboard, a long security cord attached to the model.

Leo stares at the man, his hands at his side.

The man sighs. “Okay, well—place called Varten’s? Over on Pickamee? Guy over there has lots of old, used saws. I mean, if you’re dead set on Trim-Meter, he might have one.”

The man gives Leo directions to Varten‘s, like he’s dumb. Like he’s a five-year-old.

I’m smarter than I look.

Leo walks back across the store. He lost the black guy. He lost them both.

Wait.

The woman’s in line. Okay, different now, she’s not just a watcher, she’s trying to get out of the store ahead of him, she’s going to be waiting for him, or she’s going to tell others—

They make eye contact, but her eyes dart away, she’s in an express line, she’s next up, she swipes her credit card and picks up two bags, lightbulbs, yeah, sure, lightbulbs, like he’s an idiot.

Follow her out, see where she goes, keep close but not too close, not until it’s time, sweep the eyes over the parking lot, lots of cars, but hardly any people, can’t tell where the rest of her team is, or how many of them, how many members of her team, watch for an ambush, they could pop out from between any of these cars, head on a swivel—left-right, left-right—quick check behind, they could be anywhere but she was the one who followed, she was the one who stayed back—

She’s the one who will report back, who will tell them about the Trim-Meter—

A receipt, carried into the wind, he picks it up, yes, a diversion, a diversion will work, slip out the knife, keep it in the right hand, against his side, close the gap with the woman—

She stops and turns, next to an SUV, nobody around her but hard to tell, other trucks parked on each side of her, smart of her, good cover, hard to see, hard to—

Hard to see her with trucks on each side.

He takes a breath and goes cold.

He steps left, gets an angle, and moves in. She has the back door open, throwing the bags of lightbulbs in the backseat.

Ten feet away. Five feet. Leo holds out the receipt. Shows it to her.

“Oh.” Like she doesn’t know him. She’s well trained. She reaches out and takes the receipt. It happens in a snap. She begins a
Thank you,
looks up at him as his left hand grips her arm, shoving her into the backseat while he sweeps the knife across her throat with his right hand. Hardly has to move the knife, her neck moving across it, doing the work for him.

Not a sound. Her lifeless body falls to the floorboard, which immediately fills with her blood. He pushes her legs in the car and closes the door.

He looks around. All clear. He opens the door again, reaches in, gives the woman his signature touch.

Look around. All clear.

Pick up the keys on the ground, use them to open the back hatch, a blanket and a towel, good enough, take them and cover her. No one will notice unless they’re looking hard.

When he’s done, he wants a drink of water.

Punch the LOCK button on the remote, clenching sounds of the automatic locks responding, do it again, the car beeps twice, do it again, he likes the sound,
beep-beep,
no time, walk, casual walk, to the rental car.

Get in and wait. Nobody coming. They will soon. He will have to hurry.

Drive in a square, look for tails, look for them, any direction.

Then find that store that sells the chain saw.

 

I MAKE IT TO the police station before five. I give my name to the desk sergeant, who sends me up. The smells of burned coffee and cheap cologne over body odor, the sure signs of any cop house, greet me before Ricki Stoletti does. Behind her, the station house is buzzing. One cop is typing up a report on a computer, with a distressed woman giving him details. Another, in his office, a captain or lieutenant, is having a heated phone conversation. Other people are moving about, handing each other documents and poring over information. Faces I recognize from this morning. The task force at work.

Detective Stoletti greets me with her usual warmth and enthusiasm. I give her the paper bag that holds the letter I just received from the offender. She hands it off to a uniform and opens her arm to an interview room off the squad room. I follow her in and take a seat. She leaves me in there alone, which feels weird. Before my imagination has the chance to get too far down this road, McDermott walks in with Stoletti. They both make a point of sitting across from me. Stoletti plays with a folder resting in front of her.

“I confess,” I say, trying to lighten the moment, but I get no takers.

McDermott stares at me with the poker face.

“You’ll need to follow up on those messenger services with that last letter,” I add. “See how he got the envelope into my building.”

“We will,” he says. He rubs his face. “Riley, I’m fucking tired. And I’m in a hurry, because our offender seems to be, too. So help me get my arms around a few things.”

“Shoot.”

“You don’t have to—it’s up to you to answer or not.”

I stare at him, then at Stoletti. “You sound like a guy who’s trying to read me my
Miranda
rights without reading them to me.”

As I finish the sentence, I lose my smile. That matches the expression on the faces of the two cops across from me.

“You’re here voluntarily,” Stoletti says.

That’s what you tell people to
avoid
a
Miranda
warning.

I adjust in my seat. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Why’s this guy picking you?” he asks me.

“Because I’m the poster boy. I’m the guy who put away Terry Burgos.”

“So he sends you cryptic notes?”

I can’t read this asshole’s mind. I point that out to them.

“Ever heard of the Sherwood Executive Center?” he asks.

I shake my head. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Fred Ciancio,” he says. “He’s working that shopping mall as a security guard, right?”

“Right,” I say.

“Well, in June of 1989—about a week before the murders—he puts in for a temporary reassignment. He asks for a transfer.”

“To the Sherwood Executive Center?” I gather.

“Give the man a prize.” A joke without a smile.

“What’s significant about that?”

McDermott makes a face but doesn’t answer. He wants me to answer.

“I have no idea,” I say.

“Cassie Bentley’s doctors were at the Sherwood Executive Center,” he tells me. “Sherwood Heights is right by Highland Woods, where she lived.”

“Okay?” I don’t know what conclusion I’m supposed to draw from that.

“Think it’s a coincidence?” he asks me.

I don’t answer. I wouldn’t know how.

“Reason Fred Ciancio gave for the transfer,” he continues. “He said that his mother was undergoing chemotherapy at the building. He wanted to be close to her. He asked for a three-week reassignment to that building, to cover the course of her treatment.”

I think about that. Fred Ciancio got himself transferred by Bristol Security to one of their other buildings—a building that housed Cassie Bentley’s doctors. I’m not a big fan of coincidences, but life can be strange, and, when it comes to coincidences, this is not exactly earth-shattering.

“The problem,” McDermott adds, “is that Ciancio’s mother had been dead for ten years. So I don’t see where chemo was going to help her much.” Now, that’s a little closer to shaking the earth. I feel a flutter in my stomach.

“Ciancio used an excuse to work at that building, where Cassie’s doctors were, right around when the murders occurred.” This time it’s Stoletti. A one-two punch. She would be the bad cop, but neither of them is showing me much collegiality. “And then, Ciancio calls Carolyn Pendry and says he wants to talk about the Burgos case. But he gets cold feet.”

Why would a security guard make up a reason to be assigned to a building? I can only think of one reason.

“He helped someone break in,” I assume. “Someone paid him off to get into one of the offices in that building.”

McDermott’s eyebrows rise. The notion, of course, has already occurred to him.

“And you think this is related to Cassie being pregnant,” I add. “And/or having an abortion.”

“What do
you
think?” she asks me.

I shrug. I find myself lacking a lot of answers right now. But it makes sense.

“You’d never heard about Cassie being pregnant, or having an abortion, back then?”

She already knows my answer. I gave it to her right after we talked to Professor Albany.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Now she’s provoking me, enjoying it.

“Do I need a lawyer?” I ask.

Stoletti looks at her partner. “He doesn’t want to answer, Detective. That’s his right.”

“I had never heard anything about Cassie having an abortion or even being pregnant,” I say, not hiding the anger. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

McDermott speaks again. “Usually, when you’re on a case, you work up the victim’s background. How is it you didn’t know Cassie was pregnant right before she was murdered?”

An icy smile creeps across my face. “First of all,” I say, “we don’t
know
she was pregnant or had an abortion. We just have a suspicion. You may have learned in cop school about the difference between facts and hunches. And second of all, the reason we didn’t delve deeply into Cassie’s background is—”

I freeze on that. From the faces of the cops across from me, this is the next topic.

“Because you dropped the charges on Cassie’s murder,” Stoletti says. “At the request of Harland Bentley, I assume?” She slides the photograph across from me, the one of Harland and the reporters, with the ghoulish guy with the scar in the background. “The same Harland Bentley in this photo, which we found in Fred Ciancio’s closet, hidden in a shoe box?”

“The same Harland Bentley,” McDermott joins in, “who hired you and gave you all of his legal business, less than a year later?”