David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

The man grows serious. He thinks about it a moment.

They settle on eight thousand.

I WANDER AROUND THE hospital, holding an ice pack to the back of my head. They say it’s going to be some time while they work on Brandon Mitchum. A plastic surgeon is being called in to sew up the side of his face. Turns out he had a number of other superficial wounds, too, on his torso, but nothing life-threatening.

The cops told me to stick around. I gave them McDermott’s name, and he’s presumably on the way. But they’re letting me wander. Mitchum couldn’t say much by the time the cavalry arrived-he may have been going into shock-but he managed to describe me as the hero, not the villain, in the story.

So I walk outside, enjoying some fresh air and the chance to use my cell phone. First call is to Shelly. We were going to see each other tonight. I assure her I’m no worse for the wear, and, no, there’s no point in her coming to the hospital, I’m just going to be tied up with a bunch of cops who-this part I leave out-aren’t viewing me in the most favorable light right now.

“Lock your doors, baby,” I tell her. “No kidding.”

“What about you?” she says to me.

A natural response, but it gets me to thinking. This guy had his way with me. No doubt, he could have taken me out. But he let me go. Throw in Amalia Calderone in the alley on Monday night, and that’s twice he’s let me live.

You, he said to me, like of all the people in the world, he never expected to see me.

Those letters he’s sent me. I need to see those letters again.

“I love you, Shelly,” I tell her. My heart does a flip, circumstances notwithstanding.

Second call is to Harland Bentley’s cell. He’s out at some restaurant, probably with a new cover girl. I impress upon him the importance of the call, and he says he’ll call me right back.

He does, and I can tell from the traffic sounds that he’s outside now. I give it to him quickly, everything that’s happened. He lets me finish, and then says, “The police want to interview me tomorrow.”

“Harland, did you hear everything I just said?”

Silence. Someone is laying on a horn in a big way in the background. The sound effect feels aOppropriate.

“I heard,” he says.

“Brandon mentioned ‘the father.’ The guy from the photograph almost just killed me. Again. You want to help me out with any of this?” A near-death experience brings out a lot of things, but one of them is not diplomacy, not even for your multimillion-dollar client. Plus, I’m beginning to feel like I was left out on a story back then on one of the murder victims.

“Not over the phone,” he says. “Call me when you’re done there.”

“It could be a while.”

“When you’re done,” he says firmly, “call me.”

McDERMOTT AND STOLETTI show up about five minutes later. The responding officers are there, a man named Wilson and a woman named Esteban. Riley is sitting in a chair down the hallway, holding an ice pack against his head.

Esteban gives them the rundown, the call from dispatch, the response to the building, Riley holding Brandon Mitchum in his arms when they burst in, the things they learned afterward.

“Looks like Riley saved Mitchum’s life,” says Esteban, nodding in his direction.

McDermott looks over at Riley, who sees them but stays where he is. “You believe that?”

“Yeah, I do. The vic, Mr. Mitchum, he was clutching Riley, thanking him.”

“Riley says the offender was ‘the guy from the photo,”’ says the other cop, Wilson. “He said he had a scar. That mean anything to you?”

“Yeah.” McDermott feels a chill course through him. The guy in the photograph, behind Harland Bentley and the bank of reporters.

“We’ve got the CATs there,” Esteban says. “This guy Riley kept telling us to look for prints.”

That makes sense. If the offender was posing as a cop, he couldn’t very well be wearing gloves. And he wouldn’t have had time to clean up. This might be a break.

Stoletti says, “That’s very helpful of Riley.”

Wilson and Esteban don’t get it, of course. McDermott does. He makes his way over to Riley, who gets up.

“You okay?” he asks Riley.

“I’ll live.”

Yes, you will, he thinks to himself. That’s twice now. “What were you doing there?”

“Brandon Mitchum was Cassie’s and Ellie’s friend at Mansbury. The three of them were tight. I thought if anyone might know something about Cassie being pregnant, he would.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” Stoletti says. “You’re playing cop now?”

“I thought someone should.”

“All right, pal.” McDermott steps closer to Riley. He’s no fan of lawyers but he doesn’t have a real problem with Riley, not on a personal level. Still, things are starting to get real coincidental. “Tell me what you can about this. Leave out the damn commentary.”

Riley gives them a story that sounds a lot like what they just heard from the responding uniforms. It gets interesting when he reaches the part about confronting the offender.

“You,” McDermott repeats. “Like he knows you. He’s surprised to see you.”

“Or, like he couldn’t understand why you were stopping him,” Stoletti adds. “Why would he do that? Why would he think of you as an ally?”

Riley doesn’t know. “I’ll say this much. I had some height on this guy, but he handled me like I was nothing.”

“He was strong.”

“Yeah, I suppose he was strong, but that’s not what I mean. He knew what he was doing. I tried to get this guy in a headlock from behind, and, in about two seconds, he’d slipped out, spun around, and pushed me against the wall. Seemed like he had some training.”

McDermott deflates.

“He had an accent,” Riley adds. “Eastern European, seemed like. Let’s talk to Brandon, he might know more when he’s sedated.”

McDermott puts out a hand.

“Oh,” Riley says. “I’m not invited?”

“You’re not invited. You’re lucky I don’t take you into custody.”

Riley eyes them a long moment, then puts out his hands for the handcuffs.

“Oh, cut the fucking drama.”

Riley drops his hands. “By the way, you’re welcome. I’m leaving.”

Riley brushes past him. McDermott looks at Stoletti. Neither of them is entirely sure what to do with Riley. Under certain circumstances, the play might be to lock him up. Clearly, they could claim his prints on the tire iron for justification. But Paul Riley’s not someone you lock up unless you have a good reason.

“He was sloppy tonight.”

They turn to Riley, who hasn’t gone far.

“His first two kills,” Riley explains. “Perfect planning. In and out without a trace. Clean kills. He messed this one up.”

“How so?” Stoletti asks.

“The front door to the building,” he says. “Security door. It’s busted. I walked right in. But this guy didn’t. Brandon buzzed him up.”

McDermott thinks about that. “If this were well planned, he would have known the security door was busted.”

“And he would have ambushed Brandon. Like he did with Ciancio, and probably with Evelyn, too.”

“So why is this different?” Stoletti asks.

“I don’t know. You’re the cops. Figure it the hell out.” Now he walks away.

McDermott calls out to him. “Stick around town, in case we need you.”

“Yeah, right.”

This guy. The problem with lawyers, they know their rights. McDermott can’t stop Riley from doing anything, not unless he arrests him, and Riley knows that better than anyone.

But he made a good point, about the attack on Mitchum. Why was it different this time? The well-planned, cold-blooded executioner is suddenly improvising.