David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

The medical examiner has given a preliminary on cause of death. As expected, it was the full-throttle wound to the neck, not the flesh wounds, that ended Fred Ciancio’s life. The offender just wanted a little fun before he popped him. As he walks toward his vehicle with Stoletti, one of the reporters, someone he’s seen before, shadows him until he gets to the car. She doesn’t have a microphone, let alone a camera.

“Detective McDermott? Evelyn Pendry from the Watch.”

The Watch. Right. She’s a crime-beat reporter. Print, not television, though she looks like she belongs in the latter. She is well sculpted in every way, with shiny blond hair pulled back, and a perfect, powder blue suit.

“No comment,” he says.

“Was Mr. Ciancio killed with a Phillips screwdriver?”

McDermott shoots a look at Stoletti, who pauses a beat while rounding the car to the passenger’s side. Damn that uniform, Brady. What did Evelyn Pendry promise him? A mention in the article as the responding officer? Dinner and dancing?

“He said no comment,” Stoletti says. “But if you want to be accurate, Evelyn, you won’t print that.”

“I need you to talk to me,” says the reporter, an uncharacteristically informal tone to her plea.

McDermott, half in the car, leans back out. “Do you have something to tell me ?”

She blinks. She becomes aware of three other reporters who have caught up with her, training a camera on the cops.

Evelyn Pendry gives a curt shake of the head no. McDermott watches her for a moment, but she looks away in defeat. He closes the door and drives away.

THE PROBLEM with a perfect martini,” I explain to Lightner, ”is that it’s perfect” I hold up an empty glass. Three hours ago, Lightner and I moved past the dining room and into the bar at Sax’s. I’ve had a few now, maybe half a dozen or so, so I wave for the check with the universal sign, scribbling in the air, except that my scribbling would be ineligible at this point. Or illegible. One of those. ”I better stop drinking before I become an asshole.”

“Too late.” Lightner has a toothpick in his mouth. He leans back against the booth, one arm over the top, looking around the place, at the end of a long night. The air is heavy with perfume and smoke and alcohol. The chatter is still animated, but some people have left. Winding down now. I have a full stomach and far too much vodka in me. Lightner, as always, can hold more than me, but his eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks a rosier shade of his normal cherubic pink. He still thinks he’s got my number because he tagged along to the governor’s fund-raiser, and I’m getting tired of telling him that I didn’t drag him there to see my ex.

He nods toward the bar, removes the pick from his mouth, and is starting to say something when the waitress brings the check. Lightner stares at the bill like it’s radioactive. I’ve seen more movement from a mannequin.

“No, no,” I say, grabbing the bill. “I already picked up dinner. Let me get this, too.”

“This is, like, client development:”

“Yeah, but I’m the client. You’re supposed to treat me.”

“So I got next one.” Lightner points his toothpick toward the bar. “You’re not gonna believe this, Riley, but I think this lady is actually looking at you.”

The thing I like about Lightner is, he hasn’t changed since I met him, sixteen years ago. His wallet is thicker, his clothes much nicer, and his hair a little grayer, but he’s still got that youthful enthusiasm about him.

“She’s got an ass you could eat lunch off of,” he says.

That’s what I mean about the youthful enthusiasm. I drop down my credit card. “Great. Pass her a note. Ask her if she likes me.”

“Try not to fuck this up,” he says out of the side of his mouth as the woman walks up to our table. “Hello there, young lady. My name’s Joel.”

“Hi there,” the lady says with more enthusiasm than I have ever been able to muster in my entire life, not even when I got accepted to Harvard or when I hit the winning jumper against Saint Mary’s High my junior year. Clock ticking down, I beat this guy off the dribble with a head fake, then a fadeaway jumper. I wouldn’t say nothing but net, but it went down. It’s not like I remember every detail. For example, I don’t remember the name of the guy guarding me.

“May I ask your name?” Lightner asks.

Oh-Ricky Haden. Tall, gangly kid. Didn’t move his feet on defense.

“I’m Molly.”

Molly is wearing low-riding jeans and high heels, a loose white top that falls off one shoulder. No way she’s interested in me. Must be a pro. They come around these places sometimes, looking for the guys with money who’ve had a few drinks in them and want a little companionship.

Wait. That’s me.

“Well, Molly, sitting across from me here is the great Paul Riley. You may have heard of him. But right now, Molly”-and, with this, Joel scoots over and offers her a seat, which she takes-“Molly, right about now Paul is feeling a little blue.”

“Why is Paul blue, Joel?”

I wasn’t supposed to get the ball, but they crashed down on Joey Schramek, our center, so I kicked out and had the open look. Haden wasn’t planted, so he bought my fake, and, next thing I knew, the ball was sailing through the air and the buzzer was sounding.

“Paul is blue, Molly, because he had his heart broken.”

Swish. I prefer to remember it as a swish.

“Nothing but net,” I say.

“I know who Paul Riley is,” says this woman-Molly, I think it was. “I saw a special on television a couple of weeks ago about Terry Burgos.”

“You hear that, Paul? Molly saw you on TV.”

Okay, so she’s not a pro. Molly, from what I can see at this point, is in her mid to late thirties and wears a decent amount of makeup and her hair is tossed nicely. The outline of her face is oval, and I think the rest of the pieces would measure up pretty nicely if I could see straight. I think if I could see straight, I would also figure her for out of my league. But that’s the thing. Men are all about looks. They seek out the best-looking female in the room and lust after her. I leave open the possibility that women do the same, which is why I hang out with homely people. Still, most women look for more substantive things-

“He seemed very-self-assured,” she tells Lightner.

Exactly. Women go for things like brains and a sense of humor and success and confidence. Guys like me count on it. I’m not much to look at, but I’ve got some smarts and I can crack wise, and I’m a prince of a guy once you get to know me.

“Do you win all your cases?” she asks me.

Joel sits back. He likes that question.

“Yes,” I say.

“Oh, the modesty.” Molly smiles at me and holds her stare on me.

I hold up two fingers. “The second rule in litigation is, settle the ones you can’t win and try the ones you can.”

She opens her hands, still looking at me. When I don’t elaborate, she says, “If everyone followed that rule, you’d never have a trial.”

“First rule is, know the difference.” I wave to the waitress. “Buy you a drink, Molly?”

“I was going to buy you one.”

“Even better.”

Joel Lightner seems happy enough with the developments. It annoys me a little that he looks out for me. “I got that thing I gotta do,” he says. “Molly. My apologies. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Molly doesn’t resist, gets right out of the seat to allow Joel out. I’m waking up a bit now.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks when she sits back down.

I don’t. I consider lying, but lying always digs a hole. And I’m too drunk to be creative.