Skin Deep (17 page)

“Is that me?”

“It could be.”

The left half of the monitor showed a digitally enhanced postop image made from the photo Dr. Monks's assistant had taken on Dana's first visit. On the right, the original. By comparison, the tired, strained look had yielded to eyes more open and youthful. She couldn't help feeling elated at the improvement.

“This is you with upper lid plasty.” With his pen, the doctor demonstrated. “What we'd do is make an incision along the lash line and smile creases here and remove excess fat and skin. Fine sutures close the incision, and after four days you come back to have them removed.”

“And that's it?”

“That's it. The actual procedure would take about an hour, recovery in a week or so. If you're good and apply an ice compact and don't do any heavy lifting, the bruising will fade fast. You'll have some discomfort for a couple of days, but we'll give you something for that.”

It was noon on Friday when she arrived at Dr. Monks's office. She was taken into a room where she sat in a reclining chair. An assistant applied numbing cream along her smile lines. After a few minutes, Dr. Monks made the needle injections of Restylane. She felt minimal discomfort, and after the procedure he brought her into his office to consult about other possibilities.

He maneuvered the mouse to show her face with both lids done. “As you can see, there isn't much difference, and I frankly think that the uppers alone will give you the eyes of a woman at least ten years younger. And maybe Botox treatment for the crease line.”

She was pleased that he wasn't trying to sell her procedures she didn't need.

He must have read her mind, because he said, “As a mentor of mine once said, ‘If less is more, least is most.'”

“But my forehead lines stand out.”

“Yes, but the upper bletharoplasty will improve that.”

“What about this crease?” she said, and fingered the crease above her nose. “I'm starting to look like the Allegory of Woe.”

He smiled. He was ready for that and clicked the mouse. On the screen was a shot of her with the crease filled. “This is what Botox will do.”

“Oh, I like that.” The scowl was gone, making her whole appearance more youthful. Monks's hand was still on the mouse. “I have the feeling that you've got more in there.”

“Only because this software is like Mr. Potato Head for plastic surgeons.”

He tapped a few keys and on the screen were new images of her with her chin recontoured. Her lower face looked as if it had been beveled into a graceful
V
. Gone was the subtle squaring of her jaw from gravity. Gone also were the small wrinkles around her cheeks. The effect was startling—like looking at time-lapse photos of herself aging in reverse. “You took twenty years off my face.”

“On the screen we did, though it's a pretty good approximation of the results.”

“It's like modern alchemy.”

“In a way, but wouldn't you say it still looks like you?”

“Yes.” But it was creepy. The final image could pass for her college graduation photo.

“You had asked about possible rhinoplasty.” He clicked the mouse and the screen lit up with a frontal and profile shot of her with a new nose.

“Oh, my,” she muttered. She had tried to create the effect with her hand since she was fourteen, but she could never have approximated the image that filled the monitor. Gone was the offending beak and in its place a perfectly sculpted reduction that fit the architecture of her face. Also gone was the fat sausage that in her mind's eye filled her face.

“What do you think?”

Dana felt positively giddy at the transformation. “I love it.”

“And it's still you, but with a nose that complements your other features.”

“Yes.”

“Good, because our objective is to enhance a person's appearance while preserving their individuality. You're a wife, a teacher, a friend, a neighbor, a daughter, and more—not some abstraction.” He turned to her. “So, do you think this is something you'd be interested in?”

“Absolutely. But can it be done before I go back to school?” She wasn't even sure she was going back, but there was no need to tell him that.

“We'll see what we can do. As with all my patients, I'll want to consult with you again,” he said. “I want to get to know you better, to understand how you see yourself and how you think others see you. The reason is that aesthetic enhancement is bound up with inner identity. Our ultimate objective is to achieve what you will be, not what you are. If there's a new you emerging, we'll want to project that.” He smiled and locked his eyes on hers.

For a moment she thought she felt something pass between them. “A new me? I'm not even sure what that means.”

“Well, maybe in time you will. But I can tell you that people who've undergone cosmetic enhancement are more outgoing, more content with life than they were before. It's not just a beauty fix but the beginning of a personal, if not spiritual, transformation. A rebirth if you will.”

He made cosmetic surgery sound like a pilgrimage. But as she stared at that image, she understood what drew so many famous people to him. It wasn't simply his considerable technical expertise, but the sense of his own investment in his patient's appearance: the theme of all those glowing testimonials on his Web site.

“You took to heart all my needs.”

“You could not have shown more personal commitment to my appearance. You're the best.”

Many had been signed
with love,
which wasn't surprising. In many ways the Aaron Monkses of the world were the embodiment of the archetypal hero that most females yearned for: Prince Charming who could make dreams come true, release Sleeping Beauty with a kiss—in this case with a scalpel. She wondered if he ever became romantically involved with his patients.

“So I think what we're talking about is an upper lid lift, some Botox for the nose crease, and rhinoplasty, correct? The other stuff is for way down the road should you feel the need.”

“Yes, definitely the nose job.”

He smiled, seeming to enjoy her pleasure. “So, what does your husband think about this?”

“He's really not a part of the equation.” She knew she could have stopped there, but she had a compulsion to add, “My husband and I are separated.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.”

He was probably thinking she was a cliché: separated woman seeks postmarriage makeover. It was irrational, but she wanted him to know that she was moving on and open to new possibilities.

“I think we should discuss scheduling.” He opened his appointments book. “That might be a problem if you're going back in September. I'm leaving the country for a month on the second of August. Unfortunately the next opening isn't until September.”

“Any chance of a cancellation?”

“Only slight.” He rocked back in his chair and stared at her for a few moments, thinking.

He wasn't handsome in the ordinary sense, but strangely attractive—almost androgynous. He had a rounded forehead, a sharp brow, full fleshy lips, and prominent eyes. At the moment those eyes were studying her face with a warm speculation.

“If I can put together a surgical team, it's possible we can do this on a weekend.”

“Really? That would be wonderful.”

“But I'll have to know as soon as possible if you're committed.”

“I'm committed,” she said with a snap of resolve.

He chuckled. “Good. Then I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile, you can have a copy of these.” He clicked the mouse and the printer began processing the images.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling the urge to throw her arms around him. Instead she shook his hand. As she started to leave, her eyes fell on the far wall. “Those masks look African.”

“Yes, they're the work of the Masai from Kenya.”

The three masks were carved of dark wood with stylized features. “They're beautiful.”

“Yes, and what attracted me to them was as much aesthetic as professional,” he said. “Cosmetic surgery is an American form of tribal art. We remove facial scars whereas the Masai and other tribes practice scarification. It's a kind of facial art form in reverse.”

Each of the three masks showed embossed patterns of scars. “I guess beauty is relative.”

“To an extent, although there are some universals.”

Then her eye fell on the sepia-and-white abstract above his desk. “That print is hauntingly beautiful. It looks Japanese.”

“Yes”—he checked his watch—“I'll call you in a few days.”

She left the building and headed for her car, feeling a warm buzz at her core. The way he had looked at her was just this side of flirting. But a moment later she chided herself.
How positively ridiculous!
He wasn't making eyes at her, he was studying her face the way a cosmetic surgeon is trained to do, probably calculating how much work lay ahead of him. Besides, a physician becoming involved with a patient was unthinkable, especially one who's world-renowned.
So stop flattering yourself. Besides you're still married, for God's sake.

As she approached Steve's car, she glanced up to his office windows. Dr. Monks was looking down at her. Through the half-open blinds he gave her a wave.

Friendly,
she told herself.
He's just being friendly.
She waved back and proceeded to the car, thinking,
I hope he's not gay.

Maybe I really did do it,
Steve thought as he waited in the car for Dana.

Maybe inside there's a dark twin like in that old horror movie
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
In it, he remembered, Spencer Tracy claims that man is not one creature but two—that the human soul is the battleground between an “angel” and a “fiend,” each struggling for dominance. Hoping to separate and purify each element, he develops a potion in his lab but succeeds in bringing only the dark side into being—Mr. Hyde without an angelic counterpart. As Hyde takes over, Jekyll ceases to exist. And by the end, all that's left is the fiend.

Sitting in the car, Steve wondered if that was what had happened to him. That for one awful moment while lost in a chemical fog, all semblance of his former self had yielded to some id-primitive double.

He peered at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked older, as if his biological clock had fast-forwarded over the last week. More crinkles appeared around his eyes and a few more gray hairs had sprouted in his sideburns. The whites of his eyes seemed dimmer, shocked with tiny red hairlines, maybe from the lack of sleep. Or maybe he was glimpsing signs of madness lurking behind them.

I don't want to be a killer. I don't want to be one of the dirtbags I spend my life chasing. Please, God.

He slipped the receipt for the champagne into his pocket when Dana emerged from the clinic. As she made her way toward him, he tried to dispel the clammy alienness in his mind. To concentrate on the moment.

She was wearing white slacks and a mossy green and yellow top with a white jacket over it. Her honey hair bobbed as she approached the car. He forced a cheery smile.

She got into the car and looked at him. “What do you think?”

There was a purple rim along her smile lines. “I don't see much of a difference.”

“Well, I see a big difference. The lines are practically gone.”

“What about the bruising?”

“That'll fade in a few days. And I can cover it up with makeup.”

“So, what did he do?”

“It was really pretty simple,” she said, inspecting herself in the visor mirror. “He injected something called hyaluronic acid into the smile lines to fill them out.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

He looked at her. “Smile.”

She made the effort against the stiffness. “In a couple of days the swelling will go down and it'll loosen up. But no deep lines.”

“But,” he sang, “I've grown accustomed to your lines, your frowns, your ups, your downs.”

“Well, Mr. Higgins, get unaccustomed because they're gone. And maybe a few other things. I'm thinking of getting my lids and nose done.”

“Okay.” He pulled the car onto Route 9 South to 95 North to take her back to Carleton.

“I'm just wondering if we can afford it.”

The “we” hovered in the air like a hummingbird.

“If I get them done at the same time, it would be only eight thousand. Separately, twelve.”

“You mean a package deal?”

“Because he wouldn't have to arrange two separate surgical teams and anesthesiologists.”

“We have the money.” He didn't know if joint payment meant that they still had a future together or that she was squeezing him before their divorce. The very notion made his stomach roil.

“Good,” she said.

“So, I take it you're pretty happy with him.”

“Yes. He's got a terrific reputation and he's very nice—”

“And very rich, famous, handsome, and, I hope to God, as gay as Elton John.”

“Stephen, I'm not interested in Aaron Monks.”

“Then why aren't you wearing your wedding ring? Or did you take a shower up there?”

She looked at her naked finger and opened her mouth but couldn't think of a reply. For several minutes they rode in silence. Then she turned her head toward him. “Are you all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You've been distracted since you picked me up.”

Distracted? Only because I might have killed a woman because she reminds me of you.
“How do I seem distracted?”

“Look, if it's the expense that's bothering you, I'll pay with my own money.”

“That doesn't bother me.” He waited for an explanation of her naked finger, but decided he didn't want to hear it.

When they pulled onto Hutchinson Road, she said, “I saw an article on the Farina murder. How's the investigation going?”

“Nothing solid yet.”

“That's too bad. It's all over the papers that she was a stripper, and almost no mention that she was dancing to save money for school.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Yes, because the message is that her death was her own fault. She was a stripper so she took self-imposed risks—she asked for it. It's the same old stuff: when it's a woman, blame her, especially if she's sexy.”

He nodded.

“But never would those club guys be blamed if their pickups got stolen,” she said. “Maybe you should lock up all the sexy women to prevent men from risking a murder rap.”

He made a noncommittal grunt and pulled up their driveway. Dana thanked him and got out of the car. “I hope to God you get the bastard.”

He nodded and drove off. Suddenly his mind was a fugue again.

Well, Bunky, looks to me like you got the bastard. Sitting on him in fact. The question is, you gonna turn him in? Or we gonna keep nosing in the sand for truffles?

But there's no hard evidence, just circumstances.

Bullshit, circumstances. The means. The opportunity. The motive.

The means: she had a bureau full of stockings. May have been wearing them. Or maybe you brought them.

The opportunity: you were with her just before she was killed.

The motive: you were juiced and full of rage. And she was there and looked like your wife.

If it's evidence you want: You found her sunglasses and you looked through them and saw a plan. You called to say you found them, can be right over. Picked up the Taittinger. Went up for a little Sylvia action, except this one had glorious spun-copper hair that you love. Maybe she resisted. Most likely you did. And ye ancient guilt trip kept the mojo from cranking. Maybe embarrassment. Shame. Rage and the fact that she reminds you of You-Know-Who. In a moment of fury, the old reptile cracked out of its egg and nixed her, the image of the wife who dumped you, and your guilt for adultery. A threefer!

And all the king's horses and all the doc's meds couldn't put Stevie together again.

He was passing under the BU bridge heading East on Storrow Drive when his PDA jingled. The caller ID said it was Captain Reardon.

You did it. Now do the right thing. Do the right thing: tell them.

“Where are you?”

“On my way in. What's up?”

“We've got Pendergast in custody.”

“What?”

“Crime scene found some latents in Farina's apartment, on a wineglass and a bottle of Pinot Gris in the fridge. According to the girlfriend, Farina drank only red, and the bottle of white had his prints all over it. He also admitted to having been up there.”

“He did?” Steve's brain could barely process the message.

“We brought him in on a few things and he started telling other stuff.”

“You saying he confessed?”

“Stopped just this side, but he might as well have. Arraignment's Monday.”

Jesus!
“Who did the questioning?”

“Neil.”

“I'm on my way.”