Eye of the Beholder (32 page)

“This isn’t a copycat, Ricki.” McDermott looks up at the ceiling. “This is a cover-up.”

W
ITH TREMBLING HANDS, Leo tapes the photograph on the bathroom mirror in the hotel room. He calms himself, uses a breathing exercise Dr. Pollard taught him, straightens himself, and tries to smile at the photograph. She needs him to be calm.

It’s a double from a high school yearbook photo. Her head is tilted in a slightly unnatural way, her focus just off center. She is wearing a simple, pink V-neck sweater with a charm necklace. Her hair is freshly cut, above her shoulder, her smile simply angelic.

You look pretty.

In his mind, the conversation is fluid:

Yes, you do. I promise, you look pretty. And I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to take care of everything. They’re going to say things about you, but I will stop them. I won’t let anyone find out.

I know he is, my love, my beautiful, but I have a plan now.

He traces his finger over the outline of her face. Very pretty, so very pretty.

And I love you, Cassandra.

Shhhh ... please don’t worry.

Leo puts his face close to the photo, brushes his lips against her forehead.

I have to go now, but I’ll be back soon.

 

ROUND TWO WITH BRANDON MITCHUM. He looks calmer now,as the sedatives do their work. He chews on his lip as Stoletti and McDermott resume their places.

McDermott realizes that Riley is right. The offender was sloppy this time. He’s off plan now. He must have Evelyn Pendry’s computer, which is why they can’t find it. He’s reading what she had written about her investigation. He found Brandon Mitchum’s name and paid him a visit, but he worked quickly—just one day after killing Evelyn—and didn’t have time to scout out the place. He didn’t know that the security door on Brandon’s building was busted. Didn’t think he had time to break into the apartment and ambush him, like with the others.

And he’s good. He’s skilled at controlling people, and he knows how to pick locks.

Evelyn was on the right track, and now the offender is following the same trail she was, trying to clean it up. Evelyn talked to Ciancio and he’s dead. Evelyn talked to Brandon and he was next. They know Evelyn talked to Professor Albany, too, which is why McDermott just put in a call and sent a patrol car to Albany’s house.

Stoletti begins. “Did Evelyn Pendry tell you what she was up to?”

“Writing about Terry Burgos, I assumed.” Brandon’s voice is scratchy and flat now. He’s wearing down. “Doing some expose or something.”

“An exposé,” McDermott says, joining in again. “Something beyond background.”

Brandon brings a hand to the bandage on his face. “Evelyn—y‘know, she’s a reporter, so—she was pretty coy about the whole thing. Protective, y’know, about her story. But she seemed concerned. I got the feeling that she thought there was more to the Burgos murders than everyone thought. She was all interested in Cassie and Ellie and Gwen, like I said. Seemed like, as much as anything, she was just trying to get down their personalities.”

“So give them to us.”

Brandon’s eyes move to the ceiling. “Mansbury, y‘know, it fancies itself one of the elite liberal arts colleges, right? And it is, I guess. But you get an elite school, you get a lot of money. Lots of trust fund babies, y’know? Me, I came from downstate, but Cassie and Ellie? They had money. Cassie, obviously—but Ellie’s family owned some big steel manufacturer, I think, in South Africa.”

“Anyway?” McDermott prompts.

“Yeah, anyway. Ellie? She was one of these rich girl partiers. Nice enough girl, don’t get me wrong, but she didn’t have a whole lot of—I don’t know, what’s the word?—substance, maybe? Yeah.” He chuckles. “Not a lot of substance. Trendy clothes, expensive hairstyle, all the right connections. Oh, she was okay, I guess. But the only reason she ever gave me the time of day was Cassie.

“Now, Cassie,” he says, realizing that the detectives are listening closely, “was a real sweetheart. I mean, that girl had soul. Know what I mean? She had more money than God, but she was such a generous spirit. She did volunteer work, she studied hard, she was always there if you needed her. But here’s the thing—”

McDermott rocks on his toes.

“Cassie was so fucking messed up. I mean, look, she’s got all this money and everything, so I’m not saying we should play the violins for her. And she wouldn’t have wanted that, either. It’s more like, she just wasn’t really sure who she was.” He sighs. “She could never make herself happy. I had no idea why. She was kind, she was intelligent, she was beautiful, but she was a train wreck inside. And then, after that fight with Gwendolyn—I mean, there was no talking to her. She was a basket case. Here, everyone’s cramming for finals, so we’re all a little off-kilter, right? But Cassie? I mean, she wouldn’t eat. She wouldn’t talk. And as far as anyone could tell, she wasn’t even studying. After finals that year, we’re all heading out for one last hurrah before summer break, and Cassie sat in her dorm room with the door locked. I mean, she even gave Ellie the cold shoulder, and Ellie lived with her.”

McDermott sneaks a peek at Stoletti. He knows what she’s thinking. This sounds a lot like a girl who had just found out she had an unwanted pregnancy.

“And I was thinking to myself,” Brandon adds, “I didn’t know who Cassie was talking to about whatever was bothering her. She hated her father—”

That’s interesting.

“—And her mother? Nat? I mean, I never met her, but—well, that lady was ‘overmedicated.’ That’s the PC way of saying it. She was a pill popper. And that was her family. Well, there was Gwen, the cousin, when she was around, but even when she
was
she was no help. I mean,
that
girl was a freak. She partied harder than Ellie. Those two were peas in a pod. Cassie wasn’t like them.” Brandon comes out of his memories and looks at McDermott.

McDermott watches him a moment, a common tactic—stare at someone and he’ll keep talking. But Brandon seems finished, and, if anything, his eyes are beginning to cloud as exhaustion and sedation do a one-two on him.

“All of this, you told Evelyn,” he gathers.

Brandon nods.

“And what did she say back to you?”

“Well, she asked me the same thing you’re gonna ask me—if Cassie was pregnant, and, if so, who would have been the ‘fucking father’?”

McDermott smiles tightly.

“I don’t know if she was pregnant,” he continues. “I understand the suspicion. Hell, most people thought she was gay. I admit, I was curious about that myself. So now we’re taking a big jump to not being gay, and being pregnant to boot.”

“So,” McDermott says, “let’s jump.”

“Look, I don’t know.”

There’s an obvious name here, but McDermott doesn’t want to be the first to say it. It would make sense, too. It wouldn’t be the first time a college professor slept with a beautiful coed. And said professor would be none too pleased about that coed turning up pregnant. He could see how Professor Albany might play the risks: If Cassie turned around and accused him, he could always deny it. It would be a he-said, she-said. But if she were
pregnant,
it would be an entirely different story. Paternity tests. Tangible proof. End of promising career.

“Cassie didn’t have a lot of friends—certainly not male friends,” Brandon says. “I was pretty much the only guy.”

Another obvious thought, but McDermott has already discounted it. He trusts his gut, and this kid isn’t pulling any chains—especially now, after he stared death in the face and has a strong sedative calming him. Mitchum isn’t lying. He wasn’t the father.

Come on, Brandon.

“Well, okay—here—this was something Evelyn and I talked about, too. There
was
one guy, a C.S. prof. A—a professor in cultural studies. Oh, right, of course.” He snaps his fingers. “The guy who taught the class that Terry Burgos sat in on. Professor Albany was his name. Frank Albany.”

Stoletti says, “Why does his name come up?”

“Oh, he was—” Brandon makes a face. “He was one of those— you know, these professors who socializes with the students? I always thought the guy was kind of creepy, personally, but Cassie really thought he was the shit.”

“The shit.”

“Cool, I mean. She really looked up to him.” He thinks for a moment.

“You discussed that with Evelyn.”

“Yeah, she was all interested in how much time Cassie spent with Albany.”

“Did she say why?”

“Well, I mean, she’s asking about Cassie being pregnant—so, I’m not stupid.”

“No, I know that,” McDermott assures him. “But did she put it in a bigger context?”

He shakes his head. “I asked her, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

They press Brandon more on the details, any names or events or places Evelyn might have mentioned. Seems that it had been a typical conversation with a reporter, where the subject does all the talking. Evelyn Pendry was playing her cards close to the vest.

“What about this Gwendolyn Lake?” Stoletti asks. “Know where we can find her?”

He doesn’t. “At the rate she was going, I’d be surprised if she was still alive.”

“You never saw her again, after the night just before finals—that fight?” McDermott tries. “Never? Like, what about Cassie’s funeral?”

Brandon’s eyes trail up. “No, no. She wasn’t there.”

That’s odd. Gwendolyn skipped out on her cousin’s funeral? He looks at his partner. She shrugs at him.

Stoletti asks, “Did you tell the police about all of this back then? The fight with Gwendolyn? The ‘fucking father’ comment?”

“No,” he answers. “Mostly, because it didn’t matter. They, like, caught Burgos right away, and he confessed. So, I figured, it was nobody’s business. I thought I owed it to Cassie to keep her confidence. But also, they dropped the part of the case about Cassie, right? So they weren’t concerned with her. The only time I testified was after the conviction, during sentencing—and I didn’t testify about Cassie. I testified about Ellie.” He looks at each of the detectives. “Really, I saw no reason to smear the name of such a great person when there was no reason to do so.”

Mitchum sounds a little defensive here. He’s probably worked through this rationalization before. But he makes sense. And McDermott knows a little something about keeping secrets for the greater good. But he’s thinking more about the dropping of Cassie’s murder from the case. Once again, it has proved to be a reason that a lot of hard questions didn’t get asked.

McDermott goes with the wrap-up. “Is there anything else, Brandon? Anything about this intruder, or Evelyn, or what happened back then—anything we haven’t covered?”

Happens all the time, in the heat of Q and A, witnesses get so caught up responding to specific questions that something important gets lost. He’s had countless re-interviews where he learns new information, and the witnesses politely inform him,
You didn’t ask me that before.

Brandon Mitchum makes a small
o
with his mouth, blinking his eyes quickly. Doesn’t feel like he’s reaching into his memory. He’s debating.

“Anything,” McDermott says. “This guy isn’t going to stop until we catch him.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything else,” he says.

“I’m not sure about that baggie of dope we found in your apartment,” McDermott replies. “Here, we were getting along so well, I was just gonna let you off with a lecture.”

Brandon raises a hand. “Okay, okay. I just—didn’t think it was important. And I don’t know if it’s even true.” He shakes his head. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But you didn’t hear this from me.”

W
e WALK into Harland’s office, which looks out over the southern view of the city, and then well beyond, a good shot of the river and the new theater being built. He owns some of the property to the south, off the expressway, and has plans for significant big-box retail down there.

I look down at the red oak flooring and the Persian area rug Harland got while in the Middle East, poking through whatever trade barriers may have existed.

Harland stands at the window, rubbing his eyes carefully, like everything else he does, the index finger and thumb massaging his eyelids. “Do you know why I hired you, Paul?”

I think I do, but I don’t like the question. I don’t say anything.

“It wasn’t a thank-you. It might have been perceived as that. But it wasn’t. If I wanted to thank you for putting away my daughter’s killer, I wouldn’t have rewarded you with money. Because that would be cheapening what you did. That would be putting a price on it.”

“I agree.”

“I hired you because I thought you were the best lawyer in the city. And I wanted a lawyer in this city. Here, close to me.”

I don’t know what he expects me to say. Hell yes, he’s a primo client, but he’s gotten plenty in return. I’ve given him my best.

“Harland, the Sherwood Executive Center. Is that where Cassie’s doctors were?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. I think of my own daughter, Elizabeth, realizing that I wouldn’t be able to recall where her doctors practiced when she was growing up. I never took her to a physician; Georgia, my ex-wife, would have handled that chore. And I wouldn’t exactly expect the Bentleys to be a nuclear family, either. I couldn’t imagine Harland or Natalia packing the kid in the station wagon for a physical. It was more likely a chauffeured limousine.

“I remember the building,” he finally says, to my surprise. “When she was, oh, eight or so. She had to have her teeth cleaned. She was so scared she had a cavity. She”—he takes in a breath—“she begged me to go with her. She was so sensitive—so sensitive to—pain.”

I look away, not wanting to gawk at someone reliving a painful memory.