David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

So I always try not to rub him wrong. But I order the martini, anyway, dirty and straight up, with blue cheese olives.

Okay, there’s the mouth and the women. Every time I see him on the society page or at a social function, it’s a different one. Blond, brunet, redhead, buxom, petite, leggy-the man doesn’t pin himself down to a single trait, unless you count young and drop-dead gorgeous as traits.

A woman who looks like she came off a runway, her hair tossed and pearls around her neck, says hello to Harland. Kisses on each cheek, a quick wiggle of the fingers in my direction.

Harland sits back a moment, basking in the glow. This guy’s a rock star. Still with the hint of a smile across his lips, he turns to me.

“Do you know someone named Evelyn Pendry?” he asks.

HE FEELS SAFE in the dark, warm and secure, the great equalizer, you can’t see me, even with the light coming in through the space between the two doors, still dark, dark closet, then the click of the dead bolt-

Leo frees the knife from his sock and gets out of his crouch.

Thump on the floor, by the door. Dead bolt locks again. Footsteps moving quickly on the carpet. The television turns on, the scripted voices fading into the room. The news.

“First in the news, tonight,” says Evelyn Pendry, imitating her mother’s voice and crisp intonation on the newscast playing in the background. She walks into the bedroom, pulling at her earrings, repeating her mother’s words. She unbuttons her blouse, kicks off her heels, wiggles out of her skirt.

The scent of berries wafts into the room. Leo inhales, it’s been so long since he smelled someone like that-

“Senator Almundo,” she says, repeating Mom’s words, “denied the allegations.”

She stands in front of the mirror in her cream satin underwear, cocking her head decisively and punching her lines. “Senator Al mundo … denied the allegations.”

Leo stares through the crack between the doors of the bedroom closet as Evelyn repeats the phrase again, working on her punctuation.

Her figure is firm and shapely, but he’s not thinking that way, no, he wonders how she’ll react, she seems athletic, young and athletic, not Old Man Freddy sleeping in his bed, not like the girl with Riley in the alley. No, this one, this one will put up a fight.

He grips the knife in his hand, swallows hard.

He takes a breath and it happens, the calm sweeping over him.

She is early, unexpected. He will wait until nightfall, when she’s in bed.

He closes his eyes and holds his breath.

When he opens them again, Evelyn Pendry is staring at the closet.

HARLAND LACES his hands together. “So she was talking about a background story.”

“Well, that’s how she framed it,” I explain. “She wanted to do a piece on the Public Trust case and Senator Almundo and me. Then she started asking me questions about my background. And she asked if I kept in touch with Nat and your niece, Gwendolyn.”

“Gwendolyn. Yes, Gwendolyn.” It seems Evelyn Pendry asked Harland about those two women as well. He angles his head. “I haven’t heard from Gwendolyn in years. And if it’s many more before I do, I won’t complain. What a vile girl.”

“You two didn’t hit it off,” I gather.

Harland looks hard at me, wets his lips, and answers evenly. “This was Cassie’s only cousin. The closest thing she had to a sibling. And she didn‘t-” His face changes, a break in the anger, a moment of emotion before hardening again. “She didn’t even come back for Cassie’s funeral. This girl couldn’t take one day away from her gallivanting across the globe to pay her respects to Cassandra. That I will never forgive.”

Harland married Natalia Lake, heiress to the Lake fortune, when she was nineteen, and-coincidentally, I’m sure-had just inherited almost a billion dollars from her father, Conrad Lake. They divorced after about twenty years of marriage, not long after their only daughter Cassie was murdered. Harland took twenty million and went his own way, investing in hotels first-Bentley Suites-and then building a number of businesses that bear his name, including Bentley Manufacturing, Bentley Bearings, Bentley International, and Bentley Financial.

Word was, Harland’s fondness for young women did not begin after his divorce but long before. The marriage had turned into a cold one, held together by the one thing they had in common-their daughter. Once Cassie was gone, as far as I understand, they looked at each other and cried uncle. Rather than fight-there was a prenup, though I don’t know the details-Natalia took a chunk of her fortune and threw it at Harland as a parting gift. A cynic might say Harland’s principal motivation these last fifteen years has been to top his ex-wife’s fortune, and I dare say he’s succeeded. My firm, of course, has profited correspondingly.

“Where’s Gwendolyn now?” I ask him.

He opens his hands. “I heard that she bought some property in Lake Coursey, up north. She still has a place in France, I suspect. But I really don’t know. And I really don’t care.” His eyes fix on me. “Did this reporter, Evelyn, say why she was asking these questions?”

I shake my head. “I stiff-armed her. It never got that far.”

The waiter arrives with the drinks and asks us if we want to hear the specials. Harland doesn‘t, and I don’t, either. I already know he’s going to order something that swims in the water. I usually do, too, but I’m thinking of something that grazes on land.

“You had that karioka last time, Henry,” he says to the waiter. “With the sweet sugar?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bentley.”

“That would be a nice start. Thank you. And tell Homaro to stop by when he’s free.”

I wasn’t here for that meal, with the karioka. I don’t even know what karioka is, but I would be willing to bet that it isn’t a selection on the menu this evening. That’s how a guy like Harland gets off, ordering something off the menu and knowing that they’ll make it, because he asked. And probably knowing that they’ll mark the price up, as well, for the effort.

“So.” Harland clasps his hands together and looks at me. “This reporter called me and I made the mistake of speaking with her. She was very intrusive. Very aggressive. I can take a lot of things, Paul. Someone in my position is going to be a media target.”

“True.”

“But when it comes to Cassandra, the spotlight turns off.”

“Sure.” That, I always believed, was why Harland didn’t want Cassie’s murder prosecuted. Burgos’s insanity defense centered around his belief that he was carrying out God’s will in punishing sinners. That, of course, required a showing in open court that the victims of his crimes were less than model citizens.

“What kind of questions did Evelyn ask, Harland?”

He puts a fingernail between his teeth, lost in thought a moment. “I want to preempt this,” he says. “I want to talk to you about how.”

That’s Harland, never answering the question. I state the obvious. “She’s a reporter.” His reaction tells me that he’s not impressed with the First Amendment. “You’re talking about-what-threat ening suit?”

“Or speaking with Lyman.”

Lyman Kruger is the publisher of the Watch. That option could cut either way. Sometimes, letting a publisher know that you’re very concerned about possibly defamatory articles leads the publisher to clamp down on the reporter, putting pressure on her to either be sure she’s right or drop it. Other times, though, it backfires by piquing the interest of the newspaper.

I tell him all of that. “It could make things worse,” I say.