David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

HE DIDN’T SPEAK WELL. But he listened well. Gwendolyn and Mrs. Bentley, in the kitchen.

This is my fucking house, Gwendolyn said.

No, it’s my house. All of this is mine until I decide to give it to you. Would you like to take a look at the trust documents?

It’s not fair. Gwendolyn pounded on the kitchen table. I’m not a minor. Give it to me.

Mrs. Bentley said, You’ll have it when you show me you can handle it.

You fucking Bentleys. You think you’re so much better than me. Well, Auntie Nat, do you know where your darling husband is right now? Any idea? And that daughter of yours? Precious little Cassie, the freak show? Gwendolyn broke into hideous laughter.

They came into his view now, Mrs. Bentley grabbing Gwendolyn by the arm. Gwendolyn tried to wrestle away, but Mrs. Bentley took her other arm, too.

Don’t you ever talk about my family. Then she turned and saw him standing there. She broke away from Gwendolyn and approached. She said nothing for a long moment. Leo didn’t know what to do -

Do you like it here, Leo?

He nodded yes.

Do you want to be deported? Do you want to go back to the Soviet Union? Back to that institution?

Back to-was she asking him or telling him? What did she-

Then mind your own business. And get back to your chores.

Leo’s eyes dropped. He’d disappointed Mrs. Bentley. He turned and headed out to the yard, the shame burning in his chest.

Leo jumps at the sound of footsteps in the apartment on the third floor. It’s now half past seven. The timing is about right. He stands up, stretches, still on the landing halfway between the second and third floors.

From inside the apartment come four quick beeps, as the intruder alarm is disarmed. Okay. There’s probably a motion sensor that cuts through the middle of the small apartment, and you can’t walk around for a cup of coffee or juice unless you disarm it. Why leave it on in the morning? You got through the night.

That’s how all of you think. Once the sun comes up, you feel safe.

Leo climbs the stairs slowly, still in his socks. He puts his ear against Shelly Trotter’s apartment door and listens. He hears the pressure release, then the gentle cascade of water.

She is taking a shower.

First, he puts on his shoes. Then he removes the tension wrench from his bag and gets to work. She has a dead bolt on the door, too, one that uses a cylinder lock. He surprises himself at how efficiently he uses the hooking pick to line up the pins and get the door open.

The water is still falling. She’s still in the shower. Now is the time, while she’s naked and on wet footing, utterly unable to defend herself. He places the bag, heavy from the chain saw, near the couch but out of view from other parts of the house. Just in case.

He knows how to do it. Move swiftly toward the bathroom, toward the sound of falling water, get to the door and listen, distinguish the sounds-

The water is slapping against something that produces a hollow sound, something plastic, a shower liner, a curtain, not a glass door.

Duck your head for a quick peek, once, confirm it, a red curtain, can’t see through it, you can’t see me, here I come, Shelly, here I come-

Pivot quickly into the bathroom, go right to the curtain, yank it open, her hands are buried in her soapy hair, she tries to react but loses her footing.

She never makes a sound.

I HANG MY COAT on my door and take a quick look at my calendar. Betty puts everything I do on my desktop calendar, which is better for me than a handheld weekly planner because I can’t lose a computer. I don’t have court today and there are two meetings that I will tell Betty to cancel. Most of what I’m doing these days is overseeing a cadre of other lawyers, anyway.

Gwendolyn Lake left the country the same week as the murders, went to her home in France, and didn’t return to the U.S. for three years. That’s not inconsistent with the impression she gave me of herself-the directionless, globe-trotting party animal. With that kind of money, she could find comfort and fast friends on any continent. But that’s judging from the impression she gave me.

I start toward my files on the Bentley case, which Betty has allowed to remain on the floor of my office but tucked neatly off to the side. But I stop. There is virtually nothing in those files about Gwendolyn Lake. She wasn’t around back then. We didn’t look at her because we couldn’t. Because we had no reason to. We had no reason to.

“Dammit” I swipe at some papers on my desk.

Was Gwendolyn Lake the one who was pregnant? The one who had the abortion? She was an orphan who lived, at least in part, under the watch of Harland and Natalia. She’d have the same health care provider, right? At the same Sherwood Executive Center?

I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t get the answers I wanted from Gwendolyn Lake. Harland has all but shut me out-or maybe it’s I who shut him out.

The notes. I still have copies. It’s all I have right now. I spread them out on my desk, focusing on the second one, the one Stoletti commented on.

I will inevitably lose life. Ultimately, sorrow echoes the heavens. Ever sensing. Ever calling out. Never does vindication ever really surrender easily. The immediate messenger endures the opposition, but understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning.

What had Stoletti said? The word choices looked forced. The handwriting is immaculate, like she said. He wasn’t rushed. He was deliberate. Yet the words he used-

Never does vindication ever really surrender easily. No need for the word ever when you already had never. It’s redundant, bad grammar. But understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning. Same problem. He used “new” twice.

Is it just bad grammar? Am I taking the ramblings of a nut job and inferring too much?

“Shit.” Something about this is wrong.

My phone rings, an internal call, but not from anyone in the office-their caller ID would show up. It’s not from Betty because she’s not here. It’s a call from outside, being routed through the directory to me.

“Paul Riley,” I say.

“Mr. Riley, this is Gwendolyn Lake.”

Speak of the devil. I don’t say anything. If she has something to tell me, she has to want to do it.

The phone line goes quiet. There is background noise, someone shouting an order, people talking. She’s at her diner, presumably.

“I wasn’t honest with you yesterday,” she says.

“I-” I decide not to comment.

“You figured as much.”

“I had my suspicions.”

“I said I didn’t want to help. But I do. I want to talk to you.”

“I’m free now.” I sit back in my chair.

“Good,” she says. “I’m across the street.”

McDERMOTT STEPS OUT INTO the fresh air for only the second time in six hours. He savors it, despite the thick humidity. The neighbors and press have gathered around the police tape surrounding the perimeter of the property. An officer, taking statements, walks over.

“This guy’s a friggin’ ghost, Mike. Neighbors say he stayed in his house practically all the time. He’d leave at night sometimes, at most. Hardly ever saw him. Said he orders pizza or Chinese food every night, and him answering the door was about the only time anyone laid eyes on him. He even paid someone to mow his lawn. Neighbors said they kept their kids away from his property. Looks like he creeped everyone out”

“Keep talking to ‘em,” McDermott says. He turns to Powers, one of the detectives. “I want Professor Albany at the station,” he says. “I don’t care what he’s doing. Grab the ACA”-the assistant county attorney assigned to the station house-“and start with affidavits for warrants. We’re moving this morning.”