Eye of the Beholder by David Ellis Page A

the reporters as they shout questions at him. It’s like taking a punch to the groin. There’s no easy way to do it.
    We stop short of the revolving doors. The reporters close in and push their microphones in front of the senator’s face, until they realize that it will be me doing the talking. I say the usual, about the charges being false and how much we look forward to the opportunity to vindicate ourselves at trial. I leave out the part about Senator Almundo sobbing in my office an hour earlier, asking me how many people he’d have to flip on to avoid jail time.
    After this needless exercise, we head outside, where I put Hector in a waiting car. As he drives off with his wife and brother, I wave off a handful of reporters. Dutch Reynolds and Andy Karras want to talk on background, but I’m not in the mood. “Thanks, everyone, that’s all,” I say with finality.
    One reporter catches my attention because I don’t recognize her, and because she’s a damn sight easier on the eyes than most of the print media. She looks like someone who belongs in front of a camera, tall and fair complected, television skinny, with an oval, pink face, a perfect nose, and expressive blue eyes. And a damn nice sky blue suit, too. I take her hand graciously, but my tongue instantly swells, that problem I have with the cute ones. If there is such a thing as the battle of the sexes, it’s the most lopsided battle I’ve ever fought.
    “Paul Riley? Evelyn Pendry from the Watch.”
    That’s what I thought, print media. The newspaper. The name rings a bell.
    “No comment, Evelyn.”
    “I wanted to wish you a happy anniversary,” she says, waiting for a reaction. “Sixteen years.”
    “Sixteen—oh, is it? Right.” I’d forgotten. This is the week, sixteen years ago, when we found the bodies. I’m still shaking her hand and I have to remind myself to let go. I cast aside my carnal instincts for the moment—a few seconds, at least—because she’s a reporter, and you’re always careful with them. “I’m running late for something,” I say.
    “Getting Hector’s defense ready?” she asks, playing with me. “He’ll be singing within three months.”
    If she were less attractive, or wrong, I might be more annoyed. I point to my watch.
    “I was wondering if you might have some time for me,” she says.
    I like that, the suggestive wording of the question. Or maybe it’s just my hormones. I would probably find something provocative in the way she asked for hemorrhoid medicine.
    “On or off the record?” I ask.
    A quaint smile appears on her face. She keeps her eye contact. “That would be up to you.”
    Oh, I do believe this breathtaking woman is flirting with me. A cynic might substitute the word manipulating, but why go through life cynical?
    “Do you mind?” She holds a small tape recorder near my chest. Without waiting for an answer—they never do—she flips it on and starts with the basics, names and dates.
    “You’ve been in private practice for fifteen years,” she says to me. “Shortly after convicting Terry Burgos, you opened your own law firm?”
    I say nothing, though I flash that Riley smile that has won women over across the globe.
    “And when did Harland Bentley hire you as the lawyer for all of his holdings?” She cocks her head, still holding the recorder near my chin. When I don’t answer, she says, “I just want some basic background here, Paul. We’re running a story on the Almundo indict ment. This is free publicity.”
    I nod my head politely and stare at the recorder. “You’re Carolyn Pendry’s daughter, aren’t you?” I ask, making the connection.
    She frowns at the non sequitur, especially that one. Apparently, this woman wants to make it on her own, without her anchorwoman mother’s bootstraps. Seems that transcendent beauty runs in the family, but the last time I was within breathing distance of a Pendry I was wiping her dinner off my shoe.
    “Running late,” I say. I hand