Read Online Shut Your Eyes Tight by John Verdon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Verdon
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man in a midnight blue suit with a red flower on the lapel emerged from an arched doorway in the back of the house and walked out onto the lawn. “Fiancé, groom, husband, widower—all true on the same day, so call him whatever you want.”
“Scott Ashton?”
“The man himself.”
The man made his way purposefully along the edge of a flower bed toward the right side of the screen, but just before he disappeared, the angle of the scene switched, showing him walking toward what appeared to be a small guest cottage situated at the edge of the lawn where it abutted the woods, perhaps a hundred feet from the main house.
“How many cameras did you say this was shot with?” asked Gurney.
“Four on tripods—plus the one in the helicopter.”
“Who did the editing?”
“Video department at the bureau.”
Gurney watched Scott Ashton knocking on the cottage door—watched and heard, although the sound was not as sharp as the picture. The front of the door and Ashton’s back were about forty-five degrees to the camera. Ashton knocked again, calling out, “Hector.”
Gurney then heard what sounded to him like a Spanish-accented voice, too faint for the words to be recognizable. He glanced questioningly at Hardwick.
“We did an audio enhancement in the lab.
‘Está abierta.’
Translation: ‘It’s open.’ Confirms what Ashton thought he remembered Hector saying.”
Ashton opened the door, went inside, closed it behind him.
Hardwick picked up the remote, pressed the “fast-forward” button, explaining, “He’s in there five or six minutes. Then he opens the door, and you can hear Ashton saying, ‘If you change your mind …’ Then he comes out, closes the door behind him, walks away.” Hardwick let go of the “fast-forward” button as Ashton was emerging from the cottage, looking less happy than when he went in.
“Is that the way they spoke to each other?” asked Gurney. “Ashton speaking English, Flores speaking Spanish?”
“I asked about that myself. Ashton told me it was a recent development, that up till a month or two earlier they’d both been speaking English. Said he believed it was a form of hostile regression, that going back to his native Spanish was Hector’s way of rejecting Ashton—by rejecting the language he’d taught him. Or some kind of psychobabble bullshit like that.”
On the screen, as Ashton was about to exit the frame, the view switched to another camera to reveal him walking toward a Greek-columned garden pavilion—the kind of miniature Parthenon-like structure popularized by Victorian landscape designers—where four tuxedoed men were arranging their music stands and folding chairs. Ashton spoke briefly with the tuxedoed men, but none of the voices were audible.
“String quartet instead of your basic DJ?” asked Gurney.
“This is Tambury—nothing basic about it.” Hardwick fast-forwarded through the rest of Ashton’s conversation with the musicians, through panning shots of the baronial grounds and main house, the catering staff arranging dinner plates and silverware on white linen tablecloths, a pair of willowy female bartenders setting up bottles and glasses, close-ups of red and white petunias cascading from carved stone urns.
“This was exactly four months ago?” asked Gurney.
Hardwick nodded. “Second Sunday in May. Perfect time for a wedding. Glories of spring, balmy breezes, nest-building time, doves cooing.”
The relentlessly sardonic tone was rubbing Gurney’s nerves raw.
When Hardwick stopped fast-forwarding and returned the DVD to “play” mode, the camera was focused on an elaborate ivied trellis that served as an entryway to the main expanse of the lawn. A loose line of wedding guests was strolling through it. There was music in the background, something cheerily baroque.
As each couple passed under the arched bower, Hardwick identified them, referring to a wrinkled list he’d pulled from his pants pocket. “Tambury chief of police
“Scott Ashton?”
“The man himself.”
The man made his way purposefully along the edge of a flower bed toward the right side of the screen, but just before he disappeared, the angle of the scene switched, showing him walking toward what appeared to be a small guest cottage situated at the edge of the lawn where it abutted the woods, perhaps a hundred feet from the main house.
“How many cameras did you say this was shot with?” asked Gurney.
“Four on tripods—plus the one in the helicopter.”
“Who did the editing?”
“Video department at the bureau.”
Gurney watched Scott Ashton knocking on the cottage door—watched and heard, although the sound was not as sharp as the picture. The front of the door and Ashton’s back were about forty-five degrees to the camera. Ashton knocked again, calling out, “Hector.”
Gurney then heard what sounded to him like a Spanish-accented voice, too faint for the words to be recognizable. He glanced questioningly at Hardwick.
“We did an audio enhancement in the lab.
‘Está abierta.’
Translation: ‘It’s open.’ Confirms what Ashton thought he remembered Hector saying.”
Ashton opened the door, went inside, closed it behind him.
Hardwick picked up the remote, pressed the “fast-forward” button, explaining, “He’s in there five or six minutes. Then he opens the door, and you can hear Ashton saying, ‘If you change your mind …’ Then he comes out, closes the door behind him, walks away.” Hardwick let go of the “fast-forward” button as Ashton was emerging from the cottage, looking less happy than when he went in.
“Is that the way they spoke to each other?” asked Gurney. “Ashton speaking English, Flores speaking Spanish?”
“I asked about that myself. Ashton told me it was a recent development, that up till a month or two earlier they’d both been speaking English. Said he believed it was a form of hostile regression, that going back to his native Spanish was Hector’s way of rejecting Ashton—by rejecting the language he’d taught him. Or some kind of psychobabble bullshit like that.”
On the screen, as Ashton was about to exit the frame, the view switched to another camera to reveal him walking toward a Greek-columned garden pavilion—the kind of miniature Parthenon-like structure popularized by Victorian landscape designers—where four tuxedoed men were arranging their music stands and folding chairs. Ashton spoke briefly with the tuxedoed men, but none of the voices were audible.
“String quartet instead of your basic DJ?” asked Gurney.
“This is Tambury—nothing basic about it.” Hardwick fast-forwarded through the rest of Ashton’s conversation with the musicians, through panning shots of the baronial grounds and main house, the catering staff arranging dinner plates and silverware on white linen tablecloths, a pair of willowy female bartenders setting up bottles and glasses, close-ups of red and white petunias cascading from carved stone urns.
“This was exactly four months ago?” asked Gurney.
Hardwick nodded. “Second Sunday in May. Perfect time for a wedding. Glories of spring, balmy breezes, nest-building time, doves cooing.”
The relentlessly sardonic tone was rubbing Gurney’s nerves raw.
When Hardwick stopped fast-forwarding and returned the DVD to “play” mode, the camera was focused on an elaborate ivied trellis that served as an entryway to the main expanse of the lawn. A loose line of wedding guests was strolling through it. There was music in the background, something cheerily baroque.
As each couple passed under the arched bower, Hardwick identified them, referring to a wrinkled list he’d pulled from his pants pocket. “Tambury chief of police
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