David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

Leo says the brand the other guy mentioned: Husky.

“Sure, yeah, sure.” That makes the man even happier, he taps the counter and comes around it, now much more animated, happy, shiny and happy“ ‘Course, the Husky isn’t gonna be the cheapest.”

Follow him to the wall, good, he’s away from the counter, follow up with him, he said Husky isn’t the cheapest, ask him what is.

“Cheapest? Honestly, whatever’s oldest.” The man nods to the wall. “Got a Burly 380 that’s good for shrubbery or small trees. Think it’s about ten years old.” He slaps another one. “This here’s a Trim-Meter 220. Has a little wear and tear on it. Probably fifteen years old. These two are my oldest. What do you need it for?”

Same thing the other guy asked.

“Sir, what I mean is, what are you sawing? Shrubs, tree branches, that kind of thing?”

Nod your head yes.

“Give you either one for fifty,” the man says.

Shrug your shoulders, ask him something, say something, say something-

What do you recommend? What do you recommend?

But he doesn’t speak so well.

The man puts a hand on Leo’s arm, like he’s trying to help out someone stupid.

Leo recoils, a sharp pivot to the right.

The man withdraws his hand. His lips part and he breaks eye contact with Leo. He begins to slowly backpedal. “Okay, sir, well-well, I’ll tell you what, I-I might have something in the back that’s cheaper.”

Leo shakes his head.

The man freezes, looks into Leo’s eyes, then over toward the counter-

“Take whatever you want, sir,” he says. “Please.”

He feels a chill. He opens and closes his hands. Looks at the elderly man.

“I wish,” Leo tries. “I wish it-wasn’t me.”

Do it fast, use your hands, no blood, snap-snap.

Scan the place for cameras. Anyone watching? No time. Drag him through a door that says EMPLOYEES ONLY and arrange some boxes in front of his body, in the corner. Go to the front door and reverse the OPEN sign to CLOSED, go back to the employees’ room and finish up with the man.

Grab the Trim-Meter chain saw from the wall, open the door, the chime bids Good-bye. He makes it to the car before the pain in his stomach doubles him over.

McDERMOTT LIFTS HIS HEAD off his hand after Paul Riley finishes his story. Stoletti, next to him, is writing down an occasional note, but McDermott likes to observe. When you’re writing, you’re not watching.

Stoletti is taking the lead among the two of them, though if anyone is in the lead here, it’s probably Riley. Stoletti wanted to do the questioning. She has a real thing with Riley.

Way she explained it to McDermott earlier today, a few years back, Riley defended a guy accused of murder, up in the northern suburbs, which fell into the multijurisdictional Major Crimes Unit, where Stoletti worked at the time. Seems Riley took a pretty good piece out of the arresting officer, a guy named Cummings, during the trial. Took him apart like a cheap model airplane, was how Stoletti put it. Cummings took a Level One-a single-grade demotion-when Riley’s client was acquitted and someone had to be blamed. Seems Cummings was a mentor to Stoletti, and Stoletti is none too friendly nowadays toward Mr. Paul Riley, Esquire.

McDermott thought Stoletti’s hostility to Riley was amusing before, but now it could be a problem. Because now Paul Riley’s fingerprints were found on the tire iron used to bash in the side of Amalia Calderone’s head.

Riley, who is done with his story, looks at the two cops. Stoletti is writing a note. McDermott just wants to think this through a minute.

“You guys should take this show on the road,” Riley says. “Raise your hand-anyone-if you think for one-tenth of one second that I killed this girl.”

Say this for the guy, he doesn’t back down. But McDermott’s seen the bluster before. He’s seen the look of defiance dissolve into a mask of terror in the blink of an eye.

“So Joel Lightner leaves,” McDermott says. “He thinks you’re about to get lucky and he wants to give you some room. You walk out of the bar with this woman. You think you’re walking her home. You turn down an alley and you get one fresh on the back of the skull. You wake up, no ‘Molly,’ no cash.”

Riley nods.

“You don’t report it. You don’t even tell your buddy Lightner because you’re embarrassed about the whole thing.”

“I felt like an asshole.”

“And you’re saying, this guy must have wrapped your hand around the murder weapon to frame you.”

The police found the tire iron-an L-shaped metal rod with a very bloody lug wrench on the bent end, a prying tip on the other-in the trash, along with Amalia Calderone.

“Either that,” Riley says, “or I’m a killer. What do you think?”

Putting the ball in their court. Riley’s good.

“You admit being intoxicated,” says Stoletti.

A fair point. People do dumb things when they’re drunk.

“I could hardly stand,” Riley answers. “And even if I could, I’m not a violent person. Your true personality comes out when you’re drunk. Like you, Ricki. I’ll bet you’re even more of a raging bitch after a couple pops.”

“Oh, keep that attitude up, Riley,” she says.

McDermott suppresses a smile. He’ll have a technician look over the bruise on Riley’s head-the magnitude, the angle-to rule out self-infliction. “What about the hand?” he asks Riley, seeing the bandage near the knuckle.

Riley sighs. “I had to break into my house afterward. He took my keys. I cut my hand on the glass: ”

“You used your hand?”

“I would’ve used the tire iron,” he answers, “but I left it at the crime scene.”

Stoletti doesn’t like the attitude, but McDermott is focusing more on what’s ahead here. This doesn’t work. They have the security tape from Sax’s. Riley was almost stumbling drunk. He was wearing a tuxedo. He had nothing with him. He sure as hell wasn’t walking around with a tire iron. Could be, it was a weapon of opportunity-it was lying in the alley maybe-but it’s hard to imagine anyone in so intoxicated a state pulling it off. And this woman came up to him, not the other way around. Seemed clear from the tape that they were meeting for the first time.

“This woman was a pro, right?” Riley asks them.

Stoletti cocks her head. “Why do you ask?”

Amalia Calderone was a prostitute, the high-class, escort variety. She wouldn’t be the first to be trolling the bar at Sax‘s, late night, which is how she bumped into Riley.

“She seemed like it, in hindsight,” he explains.

“Where’s your tux?” Stoletti asks.

“Dry cleaner’s.” Riley looks at them. “I was lying in a pile of trash, for Christ’s sake. Ask my dry cleaner if there was any blood on it. Other than my own, at least.”

“We will.”

“Good, Ricki. Do that.” Riley stands up. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you take the tire iron and shove it up your ass? I’d be happy to put a fresh pair of fingerprints on there and help you out.”

McDermott raises a hand. “Sit down, Riley. You’re talking pretty good smack for a guy with prints on a murder weapon who was the last person seen with the victim. You know damn well we could arrest you on suspicion right now. Sit,” he repeats, pointing his finger down.

Riley takes a moment, then puts his hands on the table, leaning over toward the detectives. “Same guy,” he says. “Had to be. This isn’t a coincidence. That’s the lead you should be following. Every second you waste trying to make me for this poor woman’s killer is another second he walks around with a straight razor, or a chain saw, or wherever he is in that song.”