Line of Vision Read online

  “GET READY TO DANGLE FROM THE PRECIPICE.”

  —Barbara Parker

  “LINE OF VISION IS A WICKED DELIGHT . . .

  DAVID ELLIS’S HERO BEGUILES like Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley at his most devious. The story grabs, shakes, twists up, and won’t let go, all the way through to it’s deeply satisfying resolution.”

  —Perri O’Shaughnessy

  “A TERRIFIC DEBUT. Every time you think you’ve figured it out, the story veers off in a different, jaw-dropping direction.”

  —J. F. Freedman

  “NIFTY SURPRISES . . . A FRESH TAKE ON THE LEGAL THRILLER . . . It’s like Patricia Highsmith with an extra shot of adrenaline. Ellis knows the legal system well enough to know where the loopholes and escape hatches hide.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “ALMOST CONTINUOUS TENSION and a surprisingly sympathetic narrator. [Marty’s] struggle is compelling and the verdict a stunning surprise. Expertly written, intricately plotted, and, of course, highly entertaining.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “A SPELLBINDING LEGAL DRAMA—sexy, seductive, and full of surprises—which features a fascinating if unreliable protagonist. This is the best first novel I’ve read in a good long time.”

  —William Bernhardt, author of the Justice series and Murder One

  “[Line of Vision] succeeds as a wicked courtroom thriller featuring a devious main character who finds ways to manipulate the legal system to suit his needs. Ellis’s fine use of the first-person narrative brings out the full flavor of Kalish’s personality and helps drive the plot into areas of character where courtroom thrillers rarely venture. A twisty, spellbinding story . . . [An] exciting payoff.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The novel gives readers both a unique perspective and insight into Marty, who, despite the fact that he very well may be guilty of murder, is both likable and sympathetic beneath his caustic exterior.”

  —Booklist

  “Ellis’s stylish debut comes up with a couple of neat moves that Sue Grafton’s father never so much as thought of.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Wonderful . . . This book is filled with twists. This is not just another courtroom drama written by a lawyer turned novelist. Line of Vision is a great debut with a fascinating . . . original ending.”

  —The Sunday Oklahoman

  LINE

  OF

  VISION

  DAVID

  ELLIS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LINE OF VISION

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition / February 2001

  Berkley mass-market edition / February 2002

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2001 by David Ellis.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66577-0

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Version_1

  This book is dedicated to my father, Wayne Ellis.

  Contents

  Praise for Line of Vision

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe so much to so many for their support and advice in writing this novel.

  To those who read earlier drafts and offered their insight: Missy Thompson, Margi Wilson, Jimmy Timble, Dan and Kristin Collins, and Leslie Breed. The book wouldn’t be the same without your help. Special thanks to Krista and Jim Hanson for thoughts that significantly affected the final draft. To Jim Jann, who read several versions from the beginning on, and offered wonderful improvements to each one. To Jim Minton, for all of your encouragement and some exceptional criticism (now it’s your turn to write one).

  To Anny, for all of your support and ideas all the way through this process, and for everything else you have meant to me.

  To Scott Turow, for early advice and encouragement I will never forget.

  To my friends at Cahill, Christian & Kunkle, for everything they taught me, and for the warmth they showed me during trying times. To Steve Nieslawski in particular, a great “boss” and an even better friend.

  To my agent, Jeff Gerecke, for taking a chance on an unknown writer and showing me the way. To David Highfill, my editor, for endless enthusiasm and outstanding critical analysis.

  To my mother, Judy Ellis, the sweetest and most loving person on this planet, for some great feedback in the final stages. (Always listen to your mother.) To my sister, Jennifer, for all the love and support that a brother could ever hope for.

  And to Susan, for all your work and insights on the final drafts, and for warming my heart and inspiring me in ways I couldn’t translate into words.

  FIVE MINUT
ES TO TEN. I WONDER WHAT SHE’S doing right now. Someday I’ll ask her what happens before we start, but in a way it’s more fun to imagine. Maybe she’s sipping Merlot, closing her eyes as the bitter flavor sinks into her tongue, pondering what’s to come. Maybe she already turned on the jazz, the blaring saxophone, the tinny echo of the drummer’s high hat. Maybe she’s putting on perfume in her cute little way, spraying it in front of her and walking into the mist. That would be interesting, because she will be the only one who smells it.

  Does she practice? Maybe she’s in the bathroom upstairs, her hands running along the silky outline of her negligee, watching herself in the mirror, moving to the music.

  Three minutes to ten. I focus on the silk curtain that covers the glass door. Soon the light will come on in the den. A prelude to our moment.

  Maybe she’s thinking about me. I admit it, I’d love to think so. I’d love to believe that she doesn’t need the wine or the music, that it takes nothing more than the thought of me to unleash her.

  The light summer wind glides through my hair, under the short sleeves of my cotton shirt. I cross my arms and lean against the ragged bark of the tree. The darkness is consuming, utter blackness from every side. I can barely make out the back porch, the grand architecture of her house.

  Thirty seconds till ten. The light in the den goes on, coloring the silk curtain egg-yellow, one spot of light interrupting the night. Her shapely silhouette appears through the curtain; she reaches for the button by the end table. And now the curtain slides open.

  She is the love of my life.

  BOOK ONE

  1

  SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE.

  The winds on November 18 are unusually strong for this time of year, even by Midwestern standards, carrying mist and some stray leaves in the night air. It doesn’t make my journey up the three acres of the Reinardts’ backyard any easier. The ground is hard, but still damp from today’s rain. My feet keep slipping on the blanket of wet leaves. I silently curse the Midwestern weather, the Indian summer that provides us these leaves that should have disappeared weeks ago, the abrupt plummet of the temperature this week. I feel the near-freezing mist on my cheeks, which are about the only parts of my body exposed to the elements. But even as I trudge up the hill, focused on the ground—both to avoid the wind and to watch my step—I sense that something is out of place. The typical leap of my heart when I make it into the clearing, the dreamy sensation as I approach the house—none of this fills me now. Something is different.

  I readjust the wool scarf, wrapped tightly around my face and irritating my skin to no end. Back before I crossed the stream, I was forced to tie it in a knot behind my head, or else it would fly off. Every few steps now, I stop to pull it back over my nose.

  I press on, with my head down and eyes open in slants; no angle is safe from the relentless, swirling wind. My hands have curled into fists to keep warm, leaving the finger holes of my gloves empty.

  I make it up the hill to within about thirty yards of the old Victorian house. It’s been, what, sixteen years since high school, and it feels more like thirty to my legs. I catch my breath next to my favorite oak tree, whose naked branches wave mercilessly from side to side in this wind.

  The estate of Dr. Derrick Reinardt and his wife, Rachel, rests triumphantly on top of a small hill in the suburb of Highland Woods. Your basic spread in this north-shore bedroom community: sprawling acreage in the back with no front yard to speak of, a fairly unassuming exterior masking the ornate decor within. This is the upper-class side of the suburb—not mega-rich family money but working-class wealth, CEOs, doctors, personal-injury lawyers, a former governor—and the houses in this neighborhood remind me of tiny fiefdoms, wide plots bordered by trees and shrubbery that serve more to ensure privacy than to impress. This is not a bad thing, mind you; there is no way that a neighbor could see me back here.

  The Reinardts have a long, wooden back patio with a surprisingly simple array of wood furniture and a gas barbecue grill that is covered this time of the year with a thick gray tarp. The den is in the back of the house by the patio, separated by a large sliding glass door with a silk curtain that—

  The curtain is open.

  Wait. Today’s Thursday, right? Yeah, of course it is. Am I late? Could she be done already?

  I furiously pull back my coat sleeve to look at my watch, which is no small chore wearing these gloves. No. No. I can’t be late.

  No. The fluorescent numbers read 9:34. As usual, I’m way early. Maybe she hasn’t set up yet. But—that doesn’t make sense, either. She usually has everything ready well before she starts. She knows I get here early, likes the fact that I’m waiting with anticipation. No, the curtain should definitely be closed.

  I stand around for a couple of minutes, looking over the house, seeing nothing, no sign of Rachel. Tonight the sky offers no light; the warm-weather insects do not provide their creaks and calls. The fury of the wind mutes all sound, leaving me to a silent film with not much for video, either.

  Maybe she just got a late start, is all. Maybe she’ll come down soon. I yank my scarf down just in time to sneeze into my gloves. Then I sneeze again. I wipe my hands on the tree.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say to no one, though this is really not the most appropriate word to describe me at this moment, a grown man sneaking around outside a married woman’s house. Pathetic. Depraved. Perverted. All of the above?

  I consider leaving. It can’t be more than twenty degrees out here, well below zero with the windchill. God, the wind is whipping up something awful.

  “Story of my life,” I mumble, again to an audience of no one. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

  My mind drifts from my aborted fantasy show to work tomorrow. I have to get in early anyway, get ready for the presentation. It’s probably just as well. Time to turn back, no more jollies, adult responsibility time. But still, my feet remain planted. I think of Rachel’s words, almost two weeks ago to the day. I had mentioned her husband in an offhanded way, an innocuous comment, I don’t even recall what. Her outburst of tears, the contortion of her face, her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Tell me, Rachel,” I said.

  She shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  I sat up on an elbow on the bed, moved the wisps of bangs from her forehead. “Tell me, sweetie. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Her sobbing subsided momentarily. She swallowed hard. “If he ever knew I told someone . . .”

  “Oh, honey. He’ll never know. You think I’m gonna tell him?” I actually laughed as I said that. Then I took her hand in mine. “Told someone about what?”

  The lights are on upstairs. I look up at the windows. No silhouettes. No sign of life.

  “Sometimes,” she started. “Sometimes he—” Her eyes closed, her mouth turned in a frown.

  “Rach, sweetie, it’s me. Tell me about it.”

  She let out a sigh. She had settled on it now. She would tell me. Her eyes opened into mine.

  I look back down into the den, the only room I can see into. Nothing. Nada. The staircase that leads to the bottom floor winds around at the last two stairs and ends at the cream tiled hallway, which leads past the living room into the den. From my view, I can see those last two stairs, the hallway, and the den. On the right side of the den is a white, deliciously soft couch. At the back end of the den, opposite the sliding glass door, is the bar, lined with bottles of liquor, oak cabinets underneath.

  I do another once-over around the house. Not a creature is stirring.

  “It’s only sometimes,” she said, apologizing for her husband. “Only when he drinks.”

  “Okay,” I said quietly, “it’s only sometimes.” I brought a hand to her face, then thought the gesture inappropriate. She needed space, time.

  She sighed again, her body letting out a tremble.

  “He hits me, Marty,” she whispered. “My husband beats me.”

  Still nothing upstairs. It’s 9:37. My anxieties
getting the better of me, images running wild in my mind, but the truth is, no one’s home. She’s probably at dinner with him or something. Regardless, the regularly scheduled programming will not be seen tonight, and all I’m gonna have to show for it is hypothermia and a bruised ego. Time to cut my losses. I look back down the hill at the woods that form the name of our town, Highland Woods. The entire suburb has built up around this miniforest, which has made my path to and from the Reinardts’ house these many days a conveniently clandestine one. Over the stream and through the woods. To grandmother’s house we go. I swear, that stupid song comes into my head every time I make this trip.

  I looked over my beautiful Rachel, her neck, her shoulders, her face.

  She sensed what I was doing. “No,” she said flatly. Her face pale, void of any expression, she lifted herself from the bed and turned, adjusting herself so she sat with her back to me.

  Before she had settled I saw them. I brought a trembling hand to her back but didn’t make contact. Three, four, five lacerations, long spindly scars forming a gruesome road map down the center of her back. I remembered then her wincing while we had made love earlier, as I sank my fingers into her back.

  Guilt was the first thing that I felt. How had I not noticed these before? How long had this gone on, and I hadn’t noticed?

  I brought my arms around her, pulling her backward against my chest, my face buried in her neck.

  “He uses his belt,” she said with no inflection. “But never my face. He’s too smart for that. He even keeps it below the neckline. Scars you can never see.”

  I look back at the den again. I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets and stomp my feet in a feeble attempt to keep warm. I fix on the staircase in the hallway, my eyes tearing from the wind.

  I jump at the sight of her, my one and only, my beautiful Rachel, the jet-black hair to her shoulders, the shapely outline, even from a distance the shiny amber eyes. My hand leaves my pocket just in time to grab the tree to keep my balance. She must have been in the living room, not upstairs. Or did I miss her coming down the stairs?

  I can’t make out her features very well; I’m too far away to see the expression on her face. She’s wearing a whitish blouse and blue slacks, not her ordinary attire for the occasion—she usually opts for a negligee, sometimes surprises me with an outfit like a schoolgirl skirt and knee-high socks. But tonight, as she walks along the tiled hallway in a semicrouch, almost tiptoeing yet moving with some urgency, Rachel is anything but provocative, her whole body wearing an obvious pain, maybe fear.