Eye of the Beholder Page 8

  Now we’re over a hundred attorneys in these beautiful surroundings, paying princely sums to associates out of the finest law schools, churning cases with the best of them. I passed a conference room the other day and realized that I didn’t know the name of a single one of the young lawyers in there.

  I say hello to a couple of young associates, each of them female, young, and attractive. Both of them ask me how I’m doing, and I answer, innocuously enough, “Fighting the good fight.” They both laugh, and I’m on my way. Pop quiz: Attractive young female associates laugh at your jokes because (a) they find you attractive, too, (b) they find you incisive and brilliant, or (c) you sign their paychecks?

  “You missed the personnel meeting. Again.”

  That’s why I like my assistant, Betty, who gives me no quarter, and who doesn’t even look up as I pass her cubicle. She’s learned the sound of my gait, or she has a hidden camera or something; she always knows when I’m approaching.

  “I had an arraignment,” I explain.

  “You have the four o‘clock with Mr. Otis.”

  Right. He’s the chief financial officer of a Fortune 500 company who’s now under investigation by both the SEC and the U.S. attorney for fudging books after the company restated its earnings for the third quarter of 2003. It will be a delicate dance, this meeting, thanks to Sarbanes-Oxley, a federal law that more or less eviscerates the attorney-client privilege for corporate officers. Basically, if a CFO, CEO, or anyone else with an important title with multiple letters, talks to an attorney about funky recordkeeping, that attorney might have to turn him into the feds or risk criminal liability himself. And the Communists—I mean, the American Bar Association—actually endorsed this idea, which is when I canceled my membership.

  I need to look over some information before the meeting. Other work, including a brief that has to be filed tomorrow for one of Harland Bentley’s companies, is piled high on my desk. The message light is blinking on the elaborate contraption known as my phone. But I’ve been meaning to procrastinate for a while now; it’s time I got around to it. So I go to the mail. Most of it is bills or requests for money from one source or another. This one, in a plain white envelope and handwritten, looks like something personal. When I shake it, a single piece of paper, folded twice, falls out, containing these words in printed handwriting:

  If new evil emerges, do heathens ever link past actions? God’s answer is near.

  “Another satisfied customer,” I say to the empty room. I fold the paper back up and slide it into a desk drawer. I was once a former prosecutor, both federal and then local, so it’s not unheard of for me to get some fan mail from inmates who have me to thank for their surroundings. Usually, they threaten to liberate some part of my anatomy. Occasionally-this usually happens with some of the gangbangers I took down as a fed—they have found God and want to know if I have, too. Once I even wrote back, saying I never lost Him to begin with.

  I pull the envelope out of the wastebasket. Local postmark. Mailed from here in the city. Reminds me of some of the mail we used to get when we prosecuted Burgos—freakish, fire-and-brimstone stuff that usually made us laugh but occasionally creeped us out.

  My secretary, Betty, walks into my office. “Are you talking to yourself in here?”

  “Are you the new evil emerging?” I respond.

  She gives me a look, closer to disapproving than curious.

  “God’s answer is near,” I tell her. She picks up my coffee, sniffs it, then rolls her eyes and leaves the office.

  LEO STANDS OUTSIDE the building that houses Paul Riley’s law firm. He uses a moist towelette he got at a fried chicken joint to wipe down the envelope one last time. Then he drops it in the mailbox and walks away.

  12

  Paul RILEY,” I say to the man at the long table in front of the Canary Room. He looks up my name on a list, checks it, then finds my name tag and hands it to me. The premade tags are done well, even if they’re annoying stickers, with my name on top in a fancy font and my law firm’s name beneath. When you’re toasting the governor at no less than five grand a pop, you get fancy name tags. Score one for the little guys.

  Joel Lightner, next to me, gives his name and spells it, because he’s an unannounced guest. He’s my date for the night, before we go grab a steak and a martini or five. Joel is a former cop, the one who worked the Burgos case with me, and who used that case as a launching pad to a very successful private investigation business, of which I am his best customer. Joel didn’t want to come at all, not being dressed in a tuxedo like me and most of the attendees, but I wrangled a little bit of time out of him.

  “Twenty minutes,” he says, holding me to my promise as we walk into the ballroom on the mezzanine level of the Maritime Club. The place is white walls and dark oak, with a thirty-foot ceiling that is slowly accumulating cigar smoke. I wave to someone I know and Joel points to the long bar along the side wall. “Twenty minutes,” he reminds me. “And she isn’t gonna be here.”

  “I’m not looking for her,” I argue, but already he’s mocking me with a wave of the hand. Dare I protest too much, I plow into the herd of penguin suits, the insincere, hearty banter, the mingling of the powerful and hungry. I join some people I know, a couple of the power corporate lawyers in the city and some CEOs. It’s a fine way to press the flesh, get your faces in front of people again, and let them know to call you if they need anything. What I really want to say is Call me if you get indicted, because it’s still the work I prefer—the criminal stuff—but, more and more, my practice is devolving into civil litigation, with loads of paper exchanges and written motions and pretrial depositions that run up the bill very nicely, thank you very little, but are boring as hell.

  I’m just into my first martini, courtesy of a traveling waitress, when I see Harland Bentley in a small circle of people and shaking hands with Governor Langdon Trotter.

  Now, there’s a power couple. A second-term governor being groomed for national office and the richest man in the city, one of the wealthiest in the nation. Harland Bentley’s personal worth is estimated at something just shy of one and a half billion dollars, with holdings in hotels and real estate and industrial equipment and financial services corporations—all of them bearing his name. A client that any lawyer would kill to service.

  On Harland’s arm is his latest piece of eye candy, tall and leggy in an evening gown, with a sculpted face and a mane of blond hair that cascades down her back. I would call her the “flavor of the month,” but that would be giving Harland too much credit for longevity. I think he has a turnstile in his bedroom at this point.

  As I walk up, Harland Bentley puts his hand on the governor’s back and subtly positions him so that he’s facing me. “Governor,” he says, “you know that I have the best lawyer in the country, don’t you?”

  I shake the governor’s hand with a smile. Governor Trotter is a big, strong guy, the photogenic hunter type, with an ever-present tan that offsets silver hair and blue eyes. And a grip that would make a bear wilt. “Great to see you, Paul,” he says warmly. He was always good at that personal thing, like you were the only person in the room. Then to Harland he says in that organ-toned voice, “I may try to steal him away from you yet, Harland.” The small group around the governor laughs appropriately, though they probably aren’t sure they get it.

  Harland Bentley is no less impressive but not in a physical sense. He is of average height, maybe five-ten on a good day, with a trim, unremarkable build and a tight haircut that may be showing the beginnings of male-pattern baldness. But the guy just oozes power—from his ten-thousand-dollar suits to his intense stare to the delicate, precise way he speaks, which isn’t often—that’s why the people in the small group are more concerned with Harland than the governor. Harland introduces me to his date, Jennifer, who offers me a manicured hand and tells me she works in public relations. Yeah, I’ll bet she does.

  As I greet the others in the circle—a couple of politicians and a big fund-ra
iser from downstate—I catch the governor saying something in confidence to Harland. Harland pats one of the pols on the back, and says, “Let’s give these two some privacy.”

  Suddenly, it’s the governor and me, and I wish I had another martini.

  “How are things, Lang?” I ask him.

  “Always a circus, Paul. Always a circus.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “And you, my friend?”

  “Oh, you know me, Governor. I always travel the speed limit.”

  A wide smile spreads across the tanned face. This guy, I’m reasonably sure, will be president someday. “I was sorry to hear,” he says, growing more somber.

  “Probably for the best” I’m trying to convince both of us, and wondering if I answered too quickly. But there’s no sense in denying it. Someone had to say something.

  “Not in my opinion, it’s not. But who listens to me? I’m just the governor:” He makes another grand show, a beaming face. ”I don’t think she’s coming, by the way.”

  “Out saving the world.” I answer instinctively, hopefully with no trace of bitterness. That’s two people now, Lightner and the governor, who think that she’s the reason I’m here.

  “That’s our Shelly,” he agrees.

  No, I want to say. That’s your Shelly. Not mine anymore.

  “You know, I wasn’t kidding.” He bows his head forward slightly, as if in consultation with me. His eyes move about the room stealthily, then return to me. “You just have to say the word. You had an impressive run as a prosecutor, you put away Terry Burgos, you’ve made your money in the private sector—Harland over there doesn’t pass gas without asking you first—it’s time to finish your legacy in a robe.”

  He’s mentioned it to me before, more than once, but in this context it feels like pity. A consolation prize. Sorry my daughter dumped you. Wanna be a federal judge?

  “Not my style,” I say.

  “Think about it, then.” A typical answer from someone with so much power. No means Maybe later. He can’t appoint anyone to the federal bench; only the president can. But the president’s a Republican, and so is Trotter, so the courtesy rule is that he gets to make the call for the federal judges in this state. “I’m tired of putting people on the bench who I owe. It would be nice, for a change, to make someone a judge because they’re the best qualified.”

  I smile at him, like I appreciate the vote of confidence but the answer is still no.

  “Not your style,” he says.

  “I’d have to be fair, Governor.”

  He likes that one, pats my shoulder so hard I actually lose my balance. “Yes, that would be an occupational hazard. You’d have to be fair.” He laughs and takes my hand. “Thanks for coming, Paul. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “Nice to see you, Governor,” I say, as he’s already calling out, in a hearty voice, to the next adoring group.

  I grab another martini from the bar and have to stop myself from draining it. I say hello to a lawyer whom I should recognize but don’t. He starts talking about some class action and I finally place him, just as I see her.

  So she’s here after all.

  Standing in a circle of two men and a woman. The woman runs a consulting firm. The two men are lawyers, ogling Shelly as she talks to them. It’s not really her thing, this schmoozing. I’ve never seen her in a black satin gown, the V neckline highlighting her long neck and tight shoulders.

  I take a deep breath, like a razor cutting through my chest.

  She’s hitting them up for money for her legal clinic. Perfect place to do it, especially when she’s the daughter of the guest of honor. She makes a joke and puts a hand on one of the men’s arm, and it’s like a fist to my throat. She turns her head and her eyes catch mine, and suddenly I realize that I’m standing still, alone, simply staring at her.

  I raise a glass to her and do something with my mouth that I hope resembles a smile. She squints at me, her face working itself into a pleasant expression, as she maintains the conversation with her company. She has the poise to control her reaction but I know what she’s thinking. I’m the fly in the soup.

  Not the right time in my life, she’d said. Like it was nothing personal. Like she was all booked up.

  I turn back to the bartender, feeling mean and angry. I order another drink, even as I feel the weight on my tongue. I better pace myself.

  “Hi, Paul.”

  I turn around and there she is. I stifle the instinct to reach for her. It feels so natural to do so. It was easier when she was twenty yards away.

  “Working the crowd?” I say.

  “Like everyone else.” She has a glass of orange juice, which I assume is not spiked with anything interesting. Shelly is a workout freak, a kickboxer, marathon runner, self-defense instructor. She’s almost a foot shorter than me but she could flatten me in two seconds.

  She looks different with the makeup, hairdo, pearls, and gown, and I find myself offended. She’s not allowed to change.

  “So how’ve you been?” she asks me.

  I start for the easy line—Never better, something like that—but there’s always been something about Shelly that brings out raw sentiment. Plus, I’ve had too much liquor to be diplomatic.

  She nods, like she understands my dilemma. “I see you’re representing Senator Almundo in the Public Trust indictments.”

  “Yeah, and how ‘bout this weather?” I put my drink down by the bar. Small talk. She might as well be sticking pins into a voodoo doll of me.

  She appraises me, and I don’t like what she’s seeing. I can’t decide what reaction I want from her. I don’t want this. Not pity. I want to shake her up, watch her struggle.

  But that’s not Shelly. One of the sweetest, most generous people I know, devotes herself to helping children in legal jams, but she spent most of her life nursing wounds and became an expert in façades. No show, no tell.

  “You’re making this awkward,” she informs me.

  “You’re right. I wish I could say it’s great to see you.” I step closer to her. “I don’t want to talk to you like this. If you want to really talk to me—any time. You have my number.”

  She smiles, just a bit, and I go find Lightner. He’s talking to a guy who works for the state police, but he’s more than ready to head out.

  “Did you find her?” he asks me.

  “I wasn’t looking for her.”

  Lightner hits my arm. “Have it your way, Riley. Can we get that steak now?”

  13

  DETECTIVE MICHAEL McDERMOTT navigates the Chevy onto Carnival Drive, where an entire neighborhood has turned out on this mild evening, mingling in groups outside their homes. A blue truck is parked in the driveway, with COUNTY ATTORNEY TECHNICAL UNIT stenciled on the side.

  The call came in at two minutes to five—two minutes before McDermott and his partner, Stoletti, were off for the night. Carnival Drive is on the near north side, close to the neighboring suburbs, and, more important, only one block within the jurisdiction of his squad.

  Two minutes, one block, and McDermott would be home by now, eating dinner with his daughter, Grace. Life is a game of inches.

  “I’m getting nostalgic over here.” Detective Ricki Stoletti bends a stick of gum in her mouth as they pull up. Stoletti has been his partner over three years now, since her transfer from the Major Crimes Unit, a multijurisdictional squad in the northern suburbs.

  She could have griped at the last-minute call, could have begged off the assignment. Grabbing a homicide costs at least three hours, up front. Mr. Frederick Ciancio has just ruined both of their evenings.

  A uniform, a beefy Irish guy named Brady, breaks away from a neighbor interview and approaches. “Hey, Chief. Hey, Ricki.”

  McDermott stifles his preferred response, raises his eyebrows.

  “Frederick Ciancio,” Brady says, flipping a notepad. “Sixty-two. Retired from a security gig, Bristol Security. Worked as a guard at Ensign Correctional before that.”

  “Ensign. Hu
h.” Stoletti chews her gum with enthusiasm. Ensign Correctional is a max security prison on the west side of the county. “When did that end?”

  Brady holds a look on Stoletti. A lot of men don’t like women who are taller than they are, and Stoletti, five-ten and physically fit, carries quite the profile. Major point in her favor, that she can handle herself physically. She brushes her bangs off her face. Another major score, she doesn’t color her hair, light brown, but with healthy streaks of gray.

  “Neighbors tell me it was late seventies,” says Brady. “Said he worked security like twenty-five years after that.”

  McDermott stores away that information. Prison guards are known to make both enemies and friends with the inmates. But twenty-five years off the job is a long time. “Multiple stab wounds?” he asks.

  “Multiple is an understatement. My guess for a weapon is a Phillips screwdriver.” Brady nods to the crowd. “A neighbor stopped by when Ciancio was late for poker. His car was still in the garage, so he used the spare key he has to go in and look around. Found him in the bedroom.”

  McDermott lets his eyes run over the neighborhood, still bathed in light at nearly six o‘clock on a June evening. There are cops who live up here, people who are required to stay within the municipal boundaries but want something as suburban—read low crime—as possible. The street is humble, mostly bungalows with quarter-acre lots and single-car garages, but it could be plucked out of any number of suburbs. A nice, quiet place.

  “Is the M.E. here?” Stoletti asks.

  Brady shakes his head no. “But it looks like he died last night. Less than twenty-four hours, I’d say.”