Hostile Makeover (39 page)

Lacey tried to imagine Caleb Collingwood’s awkward face above the sweater instead of Penfield’s beautiful one, but it was nearly impossible. “Plastic surgery?”

“Oh, yes, every bit as extensive as Amanda’s. Different surgeons, though. Painful, ridiculous. The funny thing is, I never thought I was so ugly, until that night when I read it in her eyes.”

She stared at him intently. “So I suppose you dye your hair and wear brown lenses to cover your hazel eyes.”

“It’s very Hollywood.” He smiled. “The contacts are not prescription, though.” With his index finger he flipped them out of his eyes, one by one. It was fascinating to watch part of Caleb emerge, although his eyes looked pale and strangely intense.
Could they mesmerize?
she wondered.
What the hell am I doing here, and how am I going to get out of this mess?

“I’d better go, Tate.”

He reached out his hand toward her, but she backed away. “I’m not going to hurt you, Lacey. Honest. I want you to help me. I need your help.”

Icicles were crawling up her back. She knew she couldn’t trust anything he said. She had been in the same room with killers before, and she knew what it felt like.
It feels like this!
She started scanning the shadows and the shelves for something, anything, to use in self-defense. Something that wouldn’t involve blades, she hoped. She thought of her mother, who had suggested she switch to baseball bats. There were baseball bats on the prop shelves. She eyed the nearest one; it wasn’t quite near enough. But at the moment, she decided, she needed to keep him talking.
Still thinking about the damn story, Lacey? Think about your life!

“Why did you come here tonight?” she asked.

“The same reason you came, Lacey. For the story, of course. The documentary on Amanda isn’t finished, and you are playing a major part in it. It’s going to have a big climax.”

You can’t win an argument with a crazy person,
someone once told her. “Why did you kill Amanda? Was it for your film?”

He laughed again. His manner seemed so warm and unthreatening that she was surprised to find he had reached out and put his arm around her shoulder before she could retreat. She flinched and stepped away, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Of course not. The film is just a way to . . . well, tell the story. That’s what filmmaking is for, right? No, Amanda had to die because she was a monster. She turned me into a monster too. Bought and paid for the man you see before you.”

“Amanda paid for your surgery?”

“Maybe you should sit down, Lacey.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“It’s a very simple tale,” Penfield said. “Caleb loved Mandy. People said she was plain, but she had a beautiful spirit, and Caleb found comfort there.” He closed his eyes and remembered a moment. “To me she was always beautiful.”

Funny how they always say that,
Lacey thought. Everyone who sent their wives or girlfriends off to
The Chrysalis Factor
said, “I always thought she was beautiful.”

“Amanda Manville came back to Caleb Collingwood a goddess. And a monster,” Penfield continued. He reached out gently for Lacey’s hand and moved her toward the cameras, indicating that she should take one of the dark-blue director’s chairs that were placed opposite each other. His hands pressed down firmly on her shoulders, directing her down into the seat; then he took the other chair. Lacey must have looked like she was ready to bolt. He sighed. “Look, you can leave if you want, I won’t stop you, but this is where I tell you what happened and why I did it. You do want to know, don’t you? That’s what any reporter would want, right? The rest of the story?”

It was pathetic, because it was true. But she didn’t believe the part about letting her go. Lacey had to swallow and clear her throat before speaking. “Yes, of course I do, Tate. But do I call you Tate or Caleb?”

“You can call me Tate, because I’ve been a monster for so long. I’m used to it. Caleb was a goofy kid, a little gawky, but he was never a monster.”

A little like Ichabod Crane,
Lacey thought. But something dark must have lurked below the surface to make him change, slowly and surely. Did it begin with the first incision, or even before? Perhaps it started when Mandy Manville was first selected for the doomed honor of plastic surgery on national TV.

Lacey tried to control her breathing and remain calm. She angled her chair so she could keep an eye on the office door, behind which her mother and sister were still watching the video. “All right, Tate, tell me your story. And if I feel like leaving, I’m going to leave. Got it?”

“Fair enough.”

He stood up, switched on a bright studio light, and adjusted it to bathe Lacey in a warm glow. He smoothed Lacey’s hair back. She tried not to recoil under his touch. Her stomach was doing flip-flops, as if she were on the top of the high dive and was expected to do a double somersault, something she’d never actually achieved in swimming class. Whatever his game was, Lacey figured he could change the rules at any minute. After all, he had at least two identities and was capable of killing.
At least of killing Amanda; perhaps it’s not such an exclusive club.
She told herself to be aware of every movement he made, every twitch indicating a sudden mood swing. Penfield had maintained his cool so far, but she couldn’t believe this whole scene was meant to end with a cheery wave good-bye.

After switching on music with a remote control, Tate sat down again. The achingly sad and sweet notes of Ravel’s “Pavane for a Dead Princess” filled the air.

“When I saw Amanda for the first time after the surgery, she looked unreal. Did you know that it cost almost a quarter of a million dollars to turn her into that bizarre creature? How many operations for Spaulding’s poor third-world children would that pay for? But I digress. Amanda was a complete work of art and a complete piece of work.” His voice was dispassionate. “Amanda turned and looked at me on national TV as if I had been swallowed up and turned into a frog. We both knew it was over. Although I have to admit she may have known it was over before then. And then she turned and ogled Spaulding, or should I say Dr. Frankenstein, with that indecent leer, which he returned. I realized that she’d already slept with him. And for the ultimate humiliation, of course, it all had to be on national television.”

“It must have been really terrible for you,” Lacey said, and meant it.

“I couldn’t speak. But that insipid announcer filled in with something inane, like, ‘Poor Caleb has been struck dumb by the sight of Amanda’s beauty.’ I felt as if my heart was trying to escape my body, strangling me. The tears you saw on TV were from rage, not happiness.”

Lacey had no response. Under the Ravel, they both heard
The Chrysalis Factor
droning on softly in the closed office. Penfield cocked an eyebrow at her.

“My mother and my sister are watching it in the office.”

“Really? A family affair.” He mused over this fact. “Must be nice to have such a close family. You just take them everywhere with you, don’t you?”

Against my will,
she told herself.
Stay calm; wait for the right moment.
She shifted in her chair and noticed at least three video cameras that appeared to be taping the scene. “These cameras are on?”

“I turned them on when I got here.”

Another photo ambush. Great.

“When did you decide to kill Amanda?”

“It’s funny, that of all the questions I’ve asked myself, I can’t answer that one. I don’t really know when. Maybe it was after I’d allowed myself to be desecrated with plastic surgery. But at some point the idea just took hold.”

“But you must have wanted the plastic surgery?”

“Amanda did. She talked me into it. She thought it would make up for everything, but of course it did not. Her mea culpa, her bank book. ‘Here, be beautiful, be happy, have a nice life, now leave me alone.’ Of course, I was at loose ends. I had no idea what to do with myself without her, so I agreed.”

“Did you think she’d fall for you again?”

“It crossed my mind, but we’d gone too far for that.”

“But look at you; you’re gorgeous, talented, successful. You could have anything you want.”

“That’s what Amanda said.” Penfield’s look darkened. Lacey realized she had better not repeat anything that Amanda had said.

“You don’t like being the handsome Tate Penfield?”

“The fellow in the mirror, you mean? It’s still a bit of a shock to see someone else there. But I’ve gotten used to him.”

She stared at his beautiful face, though it had lost some of its charm for her. “Women throw themselves at you.”

“At him, the mirror man. Not me. It doesn’t count. There was only one woman for me, and she left long ago.”

“What about all the rumors that Caleb disappeared and she killed him?” Lacey wished she had her notebook. “What about all the murder theories on your old buddy Tyler’s Web site?”

“She did kill him. That night in front of the world. I thought the least she could do was put up with a few little rumors. And I planted a lot of them myself with John Henry. Anonymously, of course.” He smiled. “Amanda hated that, but I thought it was fun.”

“What about Tyler? He cares about you. Was he part of your plan?”

“Not knowingly. I liked John Henry. But he’s better off believing Caleb is dead. It’s true, you know.”

How easily Tate seemed to be able to compartmentalize things. Questions jumbled around in Lacey’s mind. There should be a sensible order for them in the event she escaped from this nightmare intact and lived to write a story about it. “Why did you choose me? There are other reporters. With more important papers. Why not some hotshot from
The Washington Post
? ”

“You’re a hotshot. And this will make your career. I read about Lacey Smithsonian’s escapades with killers on DeadFed dot com. I thought you would be up to the challenge.”

“You didn’t read my stories in
The Eye
? ” She felt vaguely insulted.

“Oh, yeah, but they lacked that
je ne sais quoi,
that over-the-top abandon that DeadFed has. I am a country boy, after all. Where I’m from we always like a little sensationalism, a good tabloid story. Giant babies, green aliens, wolfman in my bathtub, that kind of thing. And it’s got that wacky Washington angle we all dig here. Fun stuff.”

Curse that stupid Web site! More proof that DeadFed is just for lunatics.

“DeadFed says there are two things you can’t resist, Lacey Smithsonian: a good story and an invitation to trouble.” His voice was taking on a slower cadence.
So is he Caleb again now? And which one is the dangerous one?

“That sounds like another quote from Damon Newhouse. How flattering.”

Penfield nodded, obviously pleased that she was being such a good audience for his story. But aside from his banter, she was worried about her mother and sister in the other room. No matter what he said about not wanting to hurt her, he was a liar and a killer.
And damn it all to hell,
she just realized,
he’s a car thief too!

“And another thing: Why did you have to steal my car?”

“To get your attention, of course. You tried so hard to dissuade Amanda from believing a killer was after her. And after I had so diligently planted all those clues and letters I couldn’t let that happen. I was the one who told Amanda about you and how I thought you could help her.”

“You set me up from the beginning. You set us both up. And she trusted you completely.” Lacey realized Amanda’s trust had made it so easy for him. Amanda’s letter to her, the one she received after her death, even suggested that Lacey go to Penfield with questions.

“Oh, yes. I’d turned into her pet photographer, her little in-house cameraman. She was always comfortable with me, and she liked being the only one who knew my real identity. Our little secret. And then when you met her that day at Snazzy Jane’s, she had to go and act like a complete psycho bitch. I could tell you thought she was a lunatic. So I had to make it personal. I already knew what kind of car you drove, because I dropped Hansen off at the paper that day and he pointed it out. He was surprised; he said you never drove it to work. Did you know I used to build fast cars for a living? When I realized I could take yours, it was a sign. It seemed that everything was going to work out, in spite of Amanda’s lunacy.”

“You used my car to commit a murder.” She could feel her voice cracking with emotion, and her eyes teared up.

“Cars don’t commit murders, Lacey. People do. Besides, if you’re going to blame the weapon, blame the gun, not your car.” He had the temerity to smirk. “It got your attention, didn’t it? And really, Lacey, take it from a pro, that car needed so much work, you really are better off without it. Fun to drive though. Zoom, zoom.”

“You bastard.” He laughed, but she couldn’t just sit there. She stood up, looking around for something to beat him with. Unfortunately, there was nothing to use as a club within arm’s reach. She faced him. “Wait a minute. If you’re Caleb Collingwood, who the hell is Tate Penfield? He graduated from a high school in West Virginia. He was shy. Said so on the Web. Is he alive? Did you steal his identity like you stole my car?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” He waited for her to resume her seat. “Tate was pathologically shy among strangers. High school was hell for him, even though he was as attractive as all the girls said. To answer your question, yes. I did steal his identity, and he is dead.”

“Did you . . . ?”

“Did I kill him? No. He hanged himself.” Caleb shifted in his seat. “Tate Penfield was my first cousin on my mother’s side. Closest thing to a brother I ever had. My handsome cousin. Ironically, this face looks quite a lot like his. So it is Tate Penfield I see in the mirror. We were the same height and weight. He was reclusive by nature. Had a rough childhood. And like me, no relatives left to speak of by the time we grew up.”