Skin Deep (12 page)

Steve arrived home at ten that night with his head throbbing, his eyes burning, and a low-grade sense of unease, as it part of him were out of sync.

His apartment was on the fourth floor of a tenement on St. Botolph Street a few blocks from Copley Square. The place had two bedrooms and a recently renovated kitchen. But it looked monastic because he had moved in very little furniture—a chest of drawers, a hideaway sofa bed, two chairs, and a table. He kept it sparse so it would feel temporary.

After leaving the Mermaid Lounge, he and Neil had headed back to headquarters, where Steve wrote up his report. Because he was the lead on the case, he was conduit for all the data that came from the other officers on the case, pulling it together, organizing it, looking for threads.

(He uttered another prayer of thanks that nothing on file connected him to Terry Farina on the night of her death.)

Every interview had to be written up to ensure continuity and to determine leads and directions to pursue. They had a list of witnesses to interview but so far nothing hard. Nobody had seen anyone enter or leave the victim's apartment. No useful latent prints. No physical evidence of an intruder. It was as if Terry Farina had been murdered by a ghost.

Or someone who knew what he was doing.

Except for the lights.

And the champagne.

Major screwup.

“It was an emotionally charged moment…. He's scrambling to get away and also forgets stuff.”

“You can walk, you can talk, but you can't think.”

He took a long shower to flush the rabble from his head. And the nightmare images of Terry Farina. They haunted him all day long, lurking in the shadows, popping up at the slightest reminder as if trip-wired. He could barely attain an objective distance on the case without feeling that he was pursuing himself. It was like being stuck in a tale by Edgar Allan Poe.

He put on a T-shirt and shorts and went into the living room.

A cold silence filled the space. He thought about making a fire except that fires were for wine and intimacy. He opened a bottle of Sam Adams and sat in the armchair and stared at the dead hearth, listing to the numbing silence. One of their hundred rituals was sitting by the fireplace with a bottle of wine to recap the day. On the mantel sat a photo of Dana and him at a pool bar in Jamaica from their honeymoon. For a long moment he stared at their beaming faces, thinking how the pain of her absence was what amputation must be like—phantom sensations where parts had been lopped off.

He closed his eyes. Maybe it was the beer or the stress or toxic blood sloshing through his brain, but he felt as if he were in the center of a bottomless vortex sucking him down. All he could think was how he just wanted to let go—an urge that made sense given his family heritage of contention, betrayal, divorce, and defeat. He could still hear the screaming matches, his father's fireball accusations, his mother's denial and spells of withering self-pity. He could still feel the tearing in his soul as he tried to defend his mother—a woman of Celtic beauty but an unstable constitution—against his father's attacks. And while he tried to blot those years from his memory, he knew deep down that he had been imprinted with his temper and her urge to withdraw. No wonder he couldn't commit to having kids. No wonder the booze and dumb dick-first impulse to violate everything that was important to him. And now Dana was making makeover plans that didn't include him. Abandoned him as his parents had done. Left him flat when he needed her the most.

And the more he thought about that, the more resentment bubbled up like acid.

It was her fault, when you got right down to it. He couldn't commit, so she decides to shut him off, leaving him even more depressed.
“I don't feel like it.” “I'm tired.” “Not in the mood.”

For a spell he hated her for that. He had even acted out, smashing a lamp the night she told him she wanted to separate. But unlike other husbands, he had never let loose his demons on his wife. Not at Dana. To some that would seem a lame victory to celebrate.

And yet, he carried resentment like a low-grade fever. He had read someplace that rejection actually registers in the area of the brain that responds to physical pain. That in the extreme, the reaction is the production of stress hormones that can give rise to blind and dangerous impulses.

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

The question shot up out of nowhere.

“Shit,” he said, and guzzled down the rest of the beer and returned to the kitchen.

His pistol sat in its holster on the counter. In his seventeen years on the force he had fired it on duty only three times, wounding two felons in critically dangerous incidents. The third he killed in self-defense. The rest of its use was at the range.

He picked it up.

The standard Boston P.D. issue, a Glock 23. He snapped it out of the holster and held it by the grip. For a moment he understood how people committed suicide: when nothing holds any appeal, when even onetime simple pleasures go flat. When you look forward to nothing. When you feel guilty for being alive.

So quick.

He tested the heft. The gun boasted an ergonomic design with a satisfying weight distribution to ensure a controlled shot even under the most adverse conditions. A grip angle that complemented the instinctive abilities of the shooter and a satisfying twenty-five ounces with full magazine, the gun was constructed out of a high-tech synthetic that was reportedly stronger than steel yet a lot lighter. It was the weapon of choice of law enforcement.

The grip was cool and comfortable in his hands, as if they'd grown up together.

So easy.

He raised the gun so that the end of the barrel rested squarely on the middle of his forehead. His finger curled around the trigger. Just five and a half pounds of finger pressure separated him from oblivion, from joining the grim statistics of police suicides.

And they'd say he did it because of the high stress of the job; because of the constant danger; because of the Kodak gallery of death scenes in a cop's head; because a cop is a take-charge figure who's supposed to fix problems whether in or out of uniform. Because a cop is a different species from the rest of society, an isolated being who is rendered “other” by the uniform, the badge, and the gun. Because cops are part of a quasi-military institution where emotions are to be kept hidden so as not to let others sense doubt or to burden family members. Because cops are tempered by cynicism and mistrust of outsiders. Because the hopelessness, despair, and disillusionment with the human animal create conditions that destroy. Because the only people outside the uniforms that cops trust are family, and when one of those relationships ends, the cop's emotional support base is lost. And all that's left is the abyss.

So easy.

The ultimate cleansing ritual.

He shook open his eyes and returned the weapon to the holster and put it in the closet of his bedroom where he stored it each night, thinking how for one brief moment his death made all the sense in the world.

Dana opened the paper to a photograph of the woman on an inside page. Her age was listed as thirty-eight, but she looked younger in the undated shot. She had shoulder-length dark hair and a heart-shaped face with large eyes, a broad brow, a thin nose, and a short chin. It was eerie: except for the nose and brow, the woman could have passed for a younger version of herself.

According to Steve, someone had wrapped a stocking around her neck and snuffed out her life. Being married to a homicide cop for so many years did not mitigate the horror that someone could do that to another person. The woman had gotten up that morning, fixed her hair, dressed, made plans for the day, totally unaware that hours later she would die a hideous death. And here Dana was anguishing over her eyelids.

She folded the paper.

It was a little after ten when she finished doing her grades, wondering if it was the last time—a thought that made her a little sad. She would miss the kids. She still had another few weeks to give notice, but word had gotten out that she was considering resigning, because two students had left notes at the end of their exams, wishing her good luck but hoping she'd change her mind. One girl said that she was not only the best teacher she had had at Carleton but was her role model and wished she could take another course with her next year when she was a senior. The note was sweet but only added to Dana's anxiety.

As she got ready for bed, she suddenly felt vulnerable. Maybe it was the Farina story and being alone in the house, but as she went through the rooms turning off the lights she felt an irrational fear rise up. When she and Steve were living together, the place felt safe, even with the constant reminders of the violence of life. Maybe it was Steve's status as a cop that made it seem as if a protective field surrounded their home, especially out here in the proudly boring suburb of Carleton. But with Steve gone, the place felt cavernous and menacing, especially at night.

She was not interested in television and she was too distracted to read, so she put a Sinatra album into the CD player and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. She turned the lights back on and settled in the family room. In a few minutes, she began to wonder what Steve was doing. Probably poring over crime scene reports. The more she wondered, the more she began to miss him.

He had supported her in nearly all of her major decisions—taking the teaching job at Carleton, sending job applications to pharmaceutical companies when she thought she had had enough. Even her decision to consider cosmetic surgery, in spite of his claim that he didn't think she needed it. If it was something that would make her happy, he supported her. It was his guiding code. And he was steadfast in all but the inability to commit himself to having a family. Like a mental blockage, he simply could not get himself to make the move to parenting. Nor would he talk about it. As she stared at the phone, it struck her that no matter how much you think you know your partner—even after twelve years of marriage and five of courtship—there are small pockets of unknowns, little black holes in the soul where you cannot go. Where even he cannot go.

But the good news was that she had called Dr. Monks earlier in the day to say that she had made up her mind and wanted to get a lid lift, a nose job, and Restylane treatment for her smile lines. Her definitiveness apparently impressed him, because he said he could see her this Friday. That was an incredible break, thanks to pressure from Lanie.

The thought of ridding herself of her nose made her tingle.

She took her wine to her computer and went on Dr. Monks's Web site. There was a photograph of him smiling, also shots of his office facilities. Below those was a list of all the professional organizations he belonged to and his medical training. Also a summary of awards for innovations in surgical procedures and his pioneering work in transplant surgery as well as commendations from cosmetic institutes all over the world—Sweden, France, Korea, the West Indies, and elsewhere.

A welcoming note explained how Dr. Monks and his staff were committed to excellence in surgical results and patient care. He offered advice on choosing a plastic surgeon, the necessity of getting second opinions and references, and the importance of finding someone with whom you felt comfortable. The site also asked if you were a candidate for cosmetic surgery—if you had the proper motivation to make the changes, stressing that cosmetic surgery could deeply impact a person's confidence and self-esteem. There were links to television interviews as well as many impressive before-and-after photos.

Patient testimonials raved about the personal care and commitment shown by Dr. Monks and his staff. One woman said, “I am beautiful and you are brilliant.” Another thanked him for the great care he had taken. “You took to heart all my needs.” Another said, “You could not have shown more personal commitment to my appearance. You're the best.”

Perhaps it was her cynical nature or catechism-class guilt, but she told herself that in spite of the mighty expertise and glowing tributes, she'd be his one failure and end up on awfulplasticsurgery.com, right under the split-screen photos of Courtney Love.

At around eleven o'clock, she climbed the stairs and got into bed.

“I am beautiful and you are brilliant.”

Let's hope,
she thought, and snapped out the lights.

At one thirty Steve lay in the dark, still trying to compose his mind to sleep. The pills had done nothing, yet part of him was grateful. At least he didn't have to risk another Terry Farina nightmare fest.

He got up and went into the kitchen to do some work. His first impulse was to pour himself a double scotch. Instead he had a glass of warm milk and went to his laptop at the kitchen table. If and when he felt sleepy he'd give the bed another try.

He opened the Farina file and flipped through her photographs from the Mermaid. In some earlier shots she was a cropped brunette, in others a full and flaming redhead. In all she was naked or nearly so, sometimes gaping big-eyed like a schoolgirl startled by the cameraman, sometimes panting in false heat. He wondered if she'd gotten any pleasure from making canned love to fifty guys sucking Bud Lights. He had heard that strippers just zoned out, clicked into autopilot, and ran through the mechanics—the self-fondling, the groans, the humpy-bumpies—as if a programmed toy. He didn't think any real harm was being done. But it seemed a cheesy way to earn tuition.

“Did you ever kill anyone?

“What was it like?”

Terry Farina had performed for guys who paid to watch her nurse fantasies—some dark, some dangerous, some even deadly. The working theory was that she had befriended a Mermaid customer—

(Not you, never been there. Uh-uh, just ask Mickey DeLuca.)

—some sexual psycho that girls made fun of in high school, who stayed home on prom night. They got close, maybe went out a few times. Then last Saturday night he showed up, and because of whatever lunatic logic that fired his synapses, he killed her.

After having accepted her death as murder, Neil speculated that she might have been turning tricks, using the Mermaid as a place to recruit johns. If that were the case, she must have made house calls, because Mrs. Sabo said she had never heard anyone coming over to visit her. Her bank statements gave no indication that she was making deposits out of line with her earnings as a trainer and dancer. Thus far, the investigation produced no evidence that Terry Farina was turning tricks. But for Neil French, stripping was just a gutter away from prostitution.

As for Steve, he had no working theory. Only a pea under the mattress, now the size of a baseball.

But he wasn't going to deal with that because he couldn't reach it, only squirm. Meanwhile, he would dutifully pursue the working theory.

 

More than one hundred names made up the list of subscribers that DeLuca had given him. Another two hundred and seventy had paid by credit card over the last month.

He scanned both lists into his computer and reduced the overlap to seven: Tyler Mosley; Luis Castillo; Richard Maldonado; Walter Priest; Earl Pendergast; Thomas O'Sullivan; and Angus Q. Schmentzel. Seven regulars who had paid by credit cards over the last month. Of course, cash-paying customers would have slipped through, but this was a start.

He did a Google check on each, restricting the search to Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island. Two of the names yielded no hits. The others yielded several, especially Walter Priest at ninety-four because the name was not uncommon. For two hours he scanned the sites for any clue that cross-checked with strip clubs, sexual fetishes, sex offenses, or anything that directly or indirectly connected to Terry Farina.

At about two fifteen, he began to grow sleepy in the middle of his scan of Earl Pendergast. The guy was an English professor at Hawthorne State College in Hawthorne, Massachusetts, and an active scholar who had written articles on English Romantic poetry. Steve's eyes were crossing as he went down the list of publications, including a book on John Keats and several articles with long tortured titles. One that caught his eye was called “Femme Fatales Disrobed: Coleridge's ‘Christabel' v. Keats's ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci.'” His home page listed in Google had expired. The online syllabus for his Romantic lit course was two years old. But what set off a small charge in Steve's veins was an entry from the
Hawthorne Student News
from last year:
PROFESSOR SUSPENDED FOR SEXUAL HARASSMENT CHARGE
. “Professor Earl Pendergast…”

Steve was instantly awake. But when he clicked on the article, that posting had also expired. With his password, he got into the NCIC database, but Pendergast had no criminal record. The same with ViCAP. Apparently the harassment charge stayed with the college.

It was nearly three
A.M.
when he finally logged off and headed for bed, buoyed by his discovery, and making a mental note that most college newspapers have archives.

“Femme Fatales Disrobed.”

The phrase lulled him into a deep dreamless sleep. His first in days.