Skin Deep (16 page)

“No, you're not under arrest,” Steve said. “We impounded your computers and want to ask you a few questions before you leave the country.”

“Okay.” Pendergast's lips were white and his eyes were fighting smoke again.

“And, remember, you're free to go whenever you'd like. So just relax.”

On Neil's request, Pendergast had arrived at the station for more questioning. He was dressed in chinos, a white shirt open at the neck, and a linen navy blazer, looking as if he were heading for class. Once again Steve tried to imagine this mild-mannered Keats scholar premeditatedly strangling a woman with a stocking. While he had to work at the image, he reminded himself how two years ago he had arrested a seventy-four-year-old grandmother for bludgeoning her granddaughter to death with a meat tenderizer because she refused to take out the trash. All things were possible.

They moved to a small interrogation room—an eight-by-ten white cubicle with a table, three chairs, and a video camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. Neil put his hand on Pendergast's shoulder. “May I call you Earl?”

“Sure.” He tried to project ease, but he was a wad of raw nerve endings, twitching and blinking and fidgeting with his hair.

Steve and Neil had done team interrogations for months and had the good cop–bad cop routine down. Yes, it was cheesy—a cliché in movies and TV shows—but it was standard practice in law enforcement because it worked. Under arrest or not, nearly everyone brought into a police station felt vulnerable and worried about all that could go wrong. And here was a middle-aged English professor still licking his wounds over the public exposure of sexual improprieties, now under question in the murder of a stripper. Unless, as Neil had decided, he was an erotomaniac posing as a poetry scholar, his main concern was returning to teaching with his name free of scandal. That was their hedge against his putting the kibosh on the interview by demanding legal counsel.

Steve worked at relaxing him by citing the high ratings from his students. Then he asked, “You understand why we got a warrant to impound your computers?”

Pendergast's hand went to his face, pretending to rub his forehead but blocking his eyes. “I guess to see if I had any correspondence with Ms. Farina.”

“Right, and it turns out that the hard drive was erased clean. Just wondering why you did that.”

“I think I explained that I purchased a new system. It hasn't arrived yet, but I'm donating the old one to the Cambridge Middle School and I didn't want to send it over to them with all my stuff on it—you know, tax and financial records, student recommendations, et cetera.” From his shirt pocket he produced a flyer asking residents of Cambridge for computer donations.

“Important files like those I assume you backed up,” Steve said.

“Some of them, yes.”

“Were there any e-mails or other files, text or visual, relating to Ms. Farina?”

“No.”

“Earl, we found some stuff on your office computer that makes us wonder about your relationship with her.”

“I told you that I went out with her only once, and that was it.”

Steve nodded. “We're curious about some blogs on the site pale-princerules dot com.”

Pendergast's face turned to granite. No place on the blog had he revealed his identity. That connection came from his computer wallpaper illustration.

Neil cleared his throat so loudly that it startled Pendergast. It was his announcement that Bad Cop had pulled into town. “Look, Earl, you say on your blog that you had found your ideal woman in Xena Lee—a.k.a. Terry Farina. You said: ‘What she does with a pair of stockings will make your eyeballs smoke.' Those were your words, right?”

Pendergast's face looked as if it were crawling with bugs. “I suppose they are.”

“Is that yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“The person who killed her seemed to be driven by a sexual obsession.”

“I wasn't obsessed with her. And I didn't have anything to do with her death. I swear on my life.”

“Usually it's their mother's.”

Before Neil pit-bulled Pendergast out of the room, Steve cut in. “Look, Earl, what we're saying is that you had a thing for her, and I can understand that. I'm pretty partial to redheads myself. So, when was the last time you saw her?”

“I told you, the last time I visited the lounge, which I guess was last Thursday night.”

“Right, which means you were one of the last persons to see her alive.”

“So were a hundred other people. And anyone she saw over the next two days.”

“True, but as far as we know you're the only one of those hundred guys who dated her.”

“But that doesn't mean that I killed her.”

“True. So, where were you last Saturday, June the second?”

“I went into the office for a few hours.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Yeah. I'm leaving next week for a month, so I was finishing some preps for the fall.”

“How long were you in the office?”

“I don't know, until around four.”

“Then where did you go?”

“Home. I had a splitting headache. So I stayed in all night and went to bed around nine.”

“And you didn't leave your place at all?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you were at her apartment?” Neil asked.

Pendergast flinched. “I told you, I've never been there.”

“Never?”

“You just want me to say yes to confirm your suspicions.”

“No, we just want you to tell us the truth,” Steve said.

“I'm telling you the truth.”

Neil cut in. “Look, Earl, you admitted that you dated her, right? You've also got a hard drive full of porn sites, including several specializing in redheads. You've contacted at least four escort services asking for ‘hot foxy redheads.' You've got a reputation for being sexually aggressive with women. Plus you've got a lewd and lascivious conviction with a girl of seventeen.”

“Those charges were dismissed because she'd lied about her age.”

“A mere technicality,” Neil said. “Frankly, Professor, you fit the profile of someone who could have done this to her, okay? So let's cut the bullshit and get real. You've got a track record of someone who's a sexual predator.”

Pendergast looked from Neil to Steve. “I don't need to take this.” He started to get up.

But Neil stopped him. “You walk out of here, and you give us probable cause to arrest you, which means everything goes public, so you might as well make it easy for yourself.”

That was a bullshit bluff, and Steve cut in again before Pendergast left. He turned to Neil. “Maybe you can get me a bottle of water, okay?” His look said,
Leave this to me.

Neil glared at him for a bristling moment then got up and left the room, his face ablaze because he didn't want to break the momentum. Steve put his hand on Pendergast's shoulder. “He's coming down pretty hard because he was a personal friend of Terry's.”

Pendergast nodded and choked back the tears. “It's unfair. He's bringing up stuff that I want to put behind me. I made mistakes and paid for them, believe me. But I'm not a sexual predator.” He began to sob.

Shit!
“Okay. Okay.” What hope Steve had held out was beginning to dissipate.

“She also wasn't a real redhead.”

“Pardon me?”

“You could see the dark roots. She began to color it about a month ago.”

“Did you have something to do with that?”

“No.” He was having a hard time controlling himself.

“Okay. Take it easy. I'll go out and talk to him to ease up on you.”

Steve left the room and found Neil in the kitchenette. “We don't have him.”

“Bullshit. He's fucking lying.”

“I don't think he is.”
But, God in heaven, do I wish he was.

“Then he's got you conned. The guy's a sexual pervert.”

“She was not raped but murdered,” Steve shot back. “He doesn't fit the profile.”

“Then let's get a poly on him.”

“We can try.”

Neil followed Steve back into the room. “We have no more questions. You're free to go. But we're wondering if you'd consent to a polygraph before you leave the country.”

“A polygraph?”

Steve saw instant panic in Pendergast's eyes, but it had lost its appeal. Polygraphs spooked most people. “It might be the one way to clear you.”

“I've heard they aren't very reliable.”

“They can never be wrong,” Neil said, “because it's only a recording of what it reads from you.”

Pendergast got up to leave. “I'll think about it.”

With a predatory glare Neil tracked him as he left the room. As soon as the door closed he slapped the file on the table. “And think about how we're going to get you, you little worm.”

Before Steve could say anything, Neil's PDA rang. “Yeah, come on up.” He clicked off. “Lily.”

They headed back to the homicide office where, a few minutes later, Lily and a girlfriend arrived. Neil met them at the door and led them inside. They were shopping nearby and stopped by to ask Neil for money.

Steve had only seen Lily a few times. She was about five seven, gaunt-limbed, and wearing a loose short-sleeved pullover that made her look even less substantial. Her complexion was pale and her hair had the dead-black flatness of a Goth dye job. A small silver stud winked from her left nostril. The girlfriend was a sullen-looking kid with magenta-streaked hair and a tight little mouth that looked as if it was tasting vinegar.

“Catch any bad guys today?” Lily asked.

“We're working on it. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good.”

“Get you kids something cold to drink?” Neil said.

“Diet Pepsi,” Lily said. Courtney, the girlfriend, nodded, and Neil left to get the drinks.

“Doing some shopping?” Steve asked.

“Yeah.” She flopped the Gap bag she was holding against her leg but didn't elaborate.

“You and your dad saw a pretty good game the other night.” Neil had gotten box seats.

“What game?”

“The only game in town—Sox and Yankees.”

“Oh, that. Yeah.”

“You were lucky. You saw history in the making—that unassisted triple play. I don't think there's been more than a handful in major league history, and probably never at Fenway.” It was the sixth inning with no outs and two men on base and moving when Rodriquez hit a line drive to the shortstop, Alex Cora, who stepped on second to retire Jeter and tagged Giambi before he could return to first.

“I guess.” She looked at Courtney and shrugged.

“You did see it, right?”

“We left early.”

“You did?”

“I don't like baseball that much.”

“We can't all be perfect.”

Lily made an awkward smile.

“But it was fun seeing the crowd and all,” Courtney said.

Neil returned with the drinks. The girls said goodbye, and Neil walked them to the door, where he pulled something out of his wallet for Lily then kissed her on the cheek before they left.

Steve gathered his stuff. “How's she doing?”

“Better.” Neil began to leave.

“Hey, I thought you saw the game the other night.”

“I did.”

“That's funny. Talking to the girls I got the impression they went together.”

“Yeah, well, I thought she might enjoy it better if she went with a friend.”

“Sure.”

Neil's eyes had shrunk to ball bearings. “Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

And Neil walked away.

Steve drove up Ruggles and took a right onto Huntington. At the stoplight at Gainsborough he made a U-turn and pulled beside a hydrant in front of Conor Larkins.

“Did you go to my place?

“Did you come upstairs?

“Did you? Did you?”

Conor Larkins was an underground bar with blue awnings and a staircase separating two storefront windows with Guinness signs, Northeastern banners, and stuffed NU huskies behind the glass. His eyes rested on the entrance while waiting for images to solidify out of the fog.

So why not go inside, me boy? Afraid of what you'll find? Afraid someone will recognize you?

“Hey, didn't I see you the other night with that woman who got murdered? That stripper from NU? Jeez, it was the same night.”

He took out her photograph.
Christ!
The more he stared at it, the more she looked like Dana.

“Did you kill me?

“Did you come up to my place for a little action but because you were so scrambled on meds and booze you looked at me, saw Dana, and all that resentment building up since she dumped you suddenly spewed up? Killed me as surrogate?”

Bullshit!

He put the car in gear and moved down Huntington. At its end he cut down to Jamaica Way, where he drove in the slower right-hand lane, his mind wide-open and poised for the sudden zap.

But nothing came back.

He pulled down Payson and parked across the street from 123. Mrs. Sabo's light was on, but the second-floor apartment looked dead. He tried to recall walking up those steps and ringing the second-floor doorbell and Terry coming down, dressed in her black sheath. He couldn't get it. Couldn't even recall what she wore in the restaurant.
Nothing but a pocket of night fog.

After maybe twenty minutes he left and drove down Center Street still expecting the brutal epiphany. He stopped at a deserted parking lot with a large Dumpster in back. Nothing. He continued for another couple of miles, stopping to see if the psychic trail would warm.

Nothing.
Thank you! Thank you!

But you can't prove a negative, Bunky. So how did the sunglasses end up at her place? You tell me that.

She came down, I gave them to her, she went up without me. Headed home, slept off the poisons. Meanwhile, somebody else went up there and did her in. Maybe Pendergast.

Good. Your chips and a prayer on him.

The sun had dropped behind the wall of buildings on St. Botolph when he pulled into a spot near his apartment. With his key, he let himself into the front door. On the floor was a large manila envelope with his name on it. Dana's handwriting. Inside was some mail that had been sent to his Carleton address. And a handwritten note:

No “Love” or “XOXO.” Just “Dana.” Just plain ole “Dana” as if it were a note to the lawn service guy. “Might want to give them your new address.”

Bitch!

Inside were some bills and magazines. He climbed the stairs to his apartment. All he wanted to do was monkey work—dull mechanical brain stem stuff. So he decided to pay some bills and send notes to the senders informing them of his change of address. He went online and paid the bills. Electric. Telephone. Magazines. He filled out online forms with the change of address. He logged onto his Visa account. He scrolled down his recent purchases. His Conor Larkins bill was listed—$36.18 for the sandwich and drinks. Then his eyes fixed on the entry below that, and for a moment his brain had no reaction.

 

CENTER STREET LIQUORS, JAMAICA PLAIN MA.
06/02, 6:22
P.M.
Champagne $41.99

 

The bottle of Taittinger.

For special occasions he always bought Veuve Clicquot, which was his and Dana's champagne of choice. But maybe they were out and he purchased the Taittinger instead. He could not recall buying champagne. He could not recall stopping at a liquor store.

But Terry Farina had left Conor Larkins to drop off her exam and probably arrived at her place around five thirty. Sometime after that he had called to say she had left her sunglasses behind. Would drop them off.

Stopped to buy champagne…

A soupy horror filled his head. He had gone over there full of meds and booze and smoldering anger.

Oh, sweet Jesus!