David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

Now I laugh, with more gusto than she. “But it was a fake alibi. Stoletti, if you admit you killed those girls-which he did-and you then claim you were insane-which he did-then the alibi goes from proving you innocent to proving you guilty.”

She raises her hand in surrender.

“Anyway, that’s why we needed the professor. Burgos didn’t testify, so we had no way to pin him to the time sheets without Albany’s testimony.”

Stoletti gets us on the ramp and we’re on our way down south. It turns out that she drives faster than I do, which is probably easier when you carry a badge. We avoid near-certain death maneuvering around a truck and finding ourselves up close and personal with one of those tiny Saabs. I could learn to like this lady.

“So Albany was your star witness,” she gathers.

“One of them, sure. The alibi put a serious dent in their case. They had a decent argument on mental defect, but on appreciation of criminality, they had no chance. Not after that. I was hoping to get down there alive,” I add, after she pulls another stunt, slicing our car between a Camry and a Porsche.

“Don’t be such a wuss. You, either,” she says into the rearview mirror as the Porsche driver works his horn behind her. I’ll be really impressed if she flips him the bird.

“We’re not partners,” she says. “You know Albany, and you can probably put some ice in his pants, so you’re tagging along.”

“Fine by me. Unless I need something. You’re supposed to be cooperative.”

Stoletti knows the rules. I get full access. But all rules are meant to be twisted and tortured. And she doesn’t seem to like the way I framed them.

“I do the talking when we get down there,” she informs me.

“Ask him whatever you want to ask him,” I say. “I’ll do the same.”

“I take the lead. Understood?”

“No,” I say. “Not understood. Get off here. I know a shortcut.”

She veers off onto a ramp and points to her bag, which is between my feet.

“There’s a manila file in there,” she says. “Your copy.”

I open it, however much I hate reading in a car. Gives me a headache. But I don’t have to read so much as look, because the file is full of photographs from the Ciancio crime scene. Pictures of the man himself, spread across the bedroom carpet, peppered with knife wounds, primarily in the legs and torso, the fatal one going through his eye.

There are several photos of the ice pick itself, a steel rod with sharpened point and wooden handle, with plenty of Ciancio’s blood on it. Flipping the page, there is a Xerox copy of what appears to be a dated newspaper photo with jagged edges, having been ripped from the paper. The newspaper photo must have been a black and white and the Xerox isn’t the greatest, but I make out a familiar face.

Harland Bentley.

It’s back at the time of the murders, I imagine. It looks like him back then, his hair a little fuller, his face a little tighter. He’s wearing an overcoat. His eyes are cast downward as he fights through a cadre of reporters holding microphones. I can’t place where. Near the courthouse, maybe. Another man is standing in profile a bit apart from the reporters, wearing a fedora, his head turned and his eyes on Harland. Looking at Harland intently, it seems, though photographs tend to have that effect; everyone looks like they’re staring in a still photo. The man looks young, though his eyes are deep-set, something that resembles a scar beneath the right one. Don’t recognize him, but I’m sure I wouldn’t want someone menacing like that looking at me.

I look up. “Take this to the next light, turn right. This is the ‘goon in the background’? This is the photo McDermott was handing out?”

She glances over at the photo. “Yeah. We know Harland Bentley, and we know those are reporters. But who’s the creepy guy?”

“Well, I’ve never seen him before. Where’d you find this?”

“We just got it early this morning. It was in a shoe box in Ciancio’s bedroom closet.”

“It was in with a bunch of other photos?”

“No, it was shoved into a box with a pair of shoes,” she says. “He was hiding it:”

I watch us fly past other cars, opting to withhold comment on the subject for the time being. I’m thinking to myself, What was Fred Ciancio doing with a hidden photo of Harland Bentley?, when Stoletti asks me that very question. I tell her I have no idea.

“Another stop I’ll need to make,” she says.

“What-Harland Bentley?”

“Yeah.” She looks over at me. “Why, you got a problem with that?”

“Well-no, I-have you called him?”

“I had someone check to see if he was in town. He’s at the office today. I’ll swing by.”

“Without calling him?”

She angles her head. “I like these guys better when they’re not expecting me. Before they lawyer-up and make things tougher. Our offender’s gonna move again fast, I think. We need to nip this thing right now. I don’t have time for fancy attorneys.” She nods. “Same thing with the professor. He’s not expecting us. His class ends at eleven and we’ll be waiting for him. Believe me, they’re better fresh.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say weakly.

“Am I supposed to care about what you know?”

“In this case, yes.” I look at her. “Because I’m Harland Bentley’s fancy lawyer.”

“Oh, you’ve gotta-” She puts a palm out, as in stop. “When did this happen?”

“About fifteen years ago. I represent all of his companies. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Well, it’s news to me. Have you talked about this thing with him? This investigation?”

“You don’t expect me to answer that.”

She pulls the car sharply to the curb and stops abruptly. I half expect the air bag to deploy. She shifts in her seat and gets in my face. “Wait just a second. You’re advising Harland Bentley on this case?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes or no?”

“Harland Bentley has nothing to hide. Relax, Ricki. Don’t get hysterical.”

She works her jaw as she glares at me. I happen to know for a fact that women hate it when you accuse them of being hysterical.

“I don’t like you, Riley,” she says. “You get that?”

“I was beginning to get that impression.”

“You were, were you? You’ll be getting the impression of my handcuffs on your wrists if you think you can play both sides here.”

“Detective Stoletti,” I say calmly. “Put the car in gear and drive to the campus. It’s almost eleven. I’m going to help you find whoever did this, because I think I owe that much to Evelyn Pendry, and because this idiot is sending me letters. And because if you’re like any of the other cops who come from Major Crimes up there in the nice, safe suburbs, you couldn’t find a Catholic at the Vatican.”

She holds her tongue, the color pouring into her face, then shifts the Taurus back into gear. “If I find out you’re sabotaging this investigation, you’ll need a fancy lawyer of your own.” She guns the car and blows a red light. I grip the armrest and hang on.

McDERMOTT LOSES almost an hour in the lieutenant’s office with Commander Briggs, some of the top brass from the county attorney’s office, and the media relations guy for the department. A bunch of politicians readying for the downside and hoping for the upside. He spends less time giving them an update and more time helping them find the right way to say it in a press release that will have to be issued, at some point. These guys have invented hundreds of ways of saying absolutely nothing.

He finds Carolyn Pendry standing by his desk, pacing, on a cell phone. Her grief has morphed into steely resolve, which makes her somewhat easier to deal with. McDermott doesn’t like the soft stuff, dealing with the victims, but the only sign of her tears now is the smeared mascara. He doesn’t know to whom she’s talking, but he knows she’s not enjoying the conversation.