Skin Deep (18 page)

WINTER
1974

Lila loved Jesus almost as much as she loved men. But it was the men who got her in trouble. Like that night.

It must have been midnight when she and his father returned from a Christmas party at a Portsmouth restaurant. Lila had landed a small part in a horror movie called
Rough Beast,
shot in part in New Hampshire. But she had had too much to drink and had gotten too chummy with the director who was lining up actors for his next production.

He could hear them as they entered the house. Their voices cut the silence like gunfire.

“Don't give me that crap.”

“For God's sakes, Kirk, we were just talking. I wanted him to call Harry. It could be my break.”

“You're supposed to do that through auditions, not fawn all over him at a Christmas party. Where's your sense of dignity.”

“Sense of dignity?”

“Yeah, dignity.”

“Stop yelling or you're going to wake him up.”

But he was already awake and had slipped out of his room and squatted at the dark top of the stairs with his knees to his chest. They were in the family room so he couldn't see them, but their voices carried. They assumed he'd sleep through their fight, but a headache woke him up.

“You weren't just talking. I saw you. Every time he'd say something, you'd put your hand on his arm and lean over 'til you were practically in his lap. He'd make some dumb joke and you'd squeal, ‘I love it!' like he was Johnny Carson. It was embarrassing.”

She slammed something down. “Even if it was, so what?”

“So what? How the hell does that make me look? Gee, there's Kirk sipping his wine while his wife makes a move on Vance Loring. Nice performance, Lila.”

“Well, maybe if you paid a little more attention to me—” Her voice cracked.

“I did pay attention to you, and you made a thundering ass out of yourself.”

“You know what the hell I mean. If you took some damn notice of me. Of me!”

“The hell you talking about? I take notice of you. I tell you when you look good.”

“I mean if maybe you'd just say something nice, put your arms around me, say how you want to make love. Just act normal like other men.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You used to be loving. You used to say I was pretty, that you loved me.”

“You know, Lila, your neediness is pathetic.”

“Pathetic? Is it so pathetic to want to hear some nice words? You're so damned self-absorbed that you haven't even noticed that I'm dying inside.”

“Sounds like you're reading a bad script.”

“Kirk, I just want to be loved, to be touched like any other woman.”

“No, you just want to be screwed because you can't get enough. And it makes no difference who it is. Your father was right: you're an easy date.”

“Don't bring him into this.”

“‘Don't bring him into this,'” Kirk mocked. “That's where it started.”

She let out a cry of anguish. “Goddamn you. He raped me. He raped me. And I told you because I wanted you to know. Because you're my husband. It's something I shared from the bottom of my soul and you're throwing it in my face, you bastard.” She threw something at him.

“You're crazy, you know that, Lila? Crazy.”

He heard his father clomp down the cellar stairs. He had an office down there with a sofa bed. It was where he retreated when they fought, when he wanted to punish her. The hideaway was as far away from the master bedroom as he could get without leaving the house.

“You bastard! I hate you!” she screamed down the stairs, and slammed the door.

She began to head upstairs, so he scrambled to his room and into bed. His chest hammered as he lay in the dark, half-expecting her to enter his room the way she sometimes did. She stopped at his door to listen, the shadows of her feet moving in the light strip. Then she went to her own bedroom and closed the door. Through the walls he heard the toilet flush. Then all was quiet except for muffled sobbing. He had heard that before. He had heard so many things through the walls. Sounds of anger. Sounds of her begging forgiveness. Sounds of her pleading with him to tell her what she had done wrong. Sounds of sex—mostly Lila, who made noisy love.

He stepped into the hall. The place was dark. His father was in the cellar for the night. He padded to the master bedroom but didn't bother to tap the door. She never did when she dropped in on him. The notion of personal privacy did not exist in the house. The interior was dark but for a night-light. In the dull glow he could see Lila on her side in bed, clutching a pillow.

“Kirk?”

“No, it's me.”

She sat up. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I heard you crying.” He moved to the side of the bed.

She reached her hand to him. “You came in to give me comfort. How sweet.” She shifted so he could sit and she put her hand on his shoulder.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry we woke you up.”

“That's okay.”

She shifted over. “Come on, lie down.”

He lay next to her as he had for years to chat or to hear bedtime stories. Sometimes she told him about growing up in Georgia or the plays and movies she was in and her dreams of going to Hollywood. He stretched out beside her, face-to-face. “Did he hit you?”

“No, he wouldn't do that.”

“He'd get mad if he knew I was here.”

“He won't know. He's in the cellar and won't be up, I guarantee that. If I were screaming bloody murder he wouldn't come up.”

He knew what she meant. His dad didn't have time for him either. And when he did, it was like he was only half there. When he turned ten, his dad took him to a Red Sox game only because she had insisted. But throughout the game Kirk kept checking his watch as if he couldn't wait for it to end. He didn't know the players' names and couldn't follow the game. It was like going to Fenway Park with a Martian. During Little League and soccer season, his father came to only a few games. The same with his school plays. His mom didn't miss a one.

“You're so considerate,” she said, and gave him a hug.

They lay still for a few moments, and then he felt her hand rub his shoulder and move down his arm. He could hear her voice begin to break up. “I'm so tired of all the stress and fighting. I'm so tired of waiting for a break. Nothing ever seems to change.”

He fingered the crucifix around her neck. She always wore it, no matter what her outfit—evening dress or blue jeans. “Do you pray a lot?”

“Yes.”

“What do you pray for?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, mostly that Jesus will show me the right way to live. That he'll hold me back from…you know, making mistakes.”

“What kind of mistakes?”

“Weaknesses. The stuff that makes us human.” She didn't elaborate, and he felt only vaguely satisfied. “What do you pray for?”

“I don't know.”

“You must know if you pray. What do you ask for?”

He thought for a moment. “Do I have to?”

“No. It's your own private business,. But it's just you and me here and you know I can keep a secret.”

“I prayed for the bike I got.” They had gotten him a Schwinn in candy-apple red.

“And you deserved it. What else?”

“I pray for you and Dad to get along.”

“Yeah. I wish we did.”

She held up the crucifix in the scant light. “I guess I pray for the same thing.”

“You believe in Jesus?”

“Of course, and so do you.”

“So how come you both still fight all the time?”

She was silent a moment. “Well, sometimes Jesus decides we have to work out our own problems. But he listens. And he cares, because he loves you. You can bet your life on that.”

“What else do you pray for?”

“That my ship will come in someday, but I don't think that's going to happen.”

He didn't get the ship part, but he comprehended the message.

“But I've got you, my Beauty Boy.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because you're beautiful.”

“Not beautiful like you.”

“What? You're so beautiful I feel invisible next to you.”

They were quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I pray that I weren't me.”

“You do? What do you mean?”

“Sometimes I wish I were somebody else.”

“Who would you want to be?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. What's it like to be you?”

She made a muffled chuckle. “You wouldn't want to know.”

They were silent for a while. Then her hand began to move gently up and down his arm. Then to his back and down, urging him to press closer to her. He did. He could smell the wine on her breath and cigarette smoke in her hair. And through that sugary wisps of Shalimar.

“You're such a sweetie,” she whispered, and shifted until her thighs were against his.

He felt himself become tense, as if he were entering forbidden territory. Her breathing became shorter, more rapid as she rubbed circles on his back. “Up,” she whispered suddenly.

He jumped off the bed. “What?” His first thought was his father.

But she held up the covers for him to get under. “Come on, it's freezing.”

Because she slept with the window open, the room was cold. She closed the covers over them, her body radiating a comforting warmth as she pressed against him, separated only by the material of his pajamas and her nightgown. She put her arms around him and slipped a leg over his, pulling him flat against her front. He froze because he could feel the contours of her body and because he had an erection. He pulled away, terrified that she felt it, terrified that it would pop out of his fly. He made a move to get up, but Lila tightened her grip on him.

“Shhh. It's okay. It's okay,” she said dreamily, and reached down and took hold of him with a gasp of delight. “Oh, baby. My sweet Beauty Boy.” And gently she began to stroke him.

“No, Mom, don't.” He tried to stop her but she persisted.

“It's okay. It's okay.” Her voice sounded as if she were in a trance of some kind. And he knew that if the lights were on, she'd have the scary out-of-focus look in her eyes.

“Don't move. Everything's just fine.” Her voice was soft and syrupy—a voice she had used in one of her movies. “Don't move.”

And he didn't, frozen in a swirl of pleasure and fright.

While his heart thudded wildly, she made him lie flat on his back while she positioned herself against his thigh. Then, in maddening rhythm, she continued stroking him and rubbing herself against him, all the while making soft purring sounds in his ear. Sensations he had never before experienced pulsed through him—deeply satisfying sensations that built to some darkly primitive pleasure point.

In the back of his mind, he suspected that what they were doing was wrong, but she was his stepmother, so just how wrong could it be? So he lay back, scared but excited in anticipation that something big was going to happen. Meanwhile, she was lost in a spell, moving hard against his thigh, which she had leg-locked against her. Her head was back, her eyes pressed shut, her mouth open and panting groans out of some deep place.

And then it happened. At the moment that fluid spurted from him, Lila let out a sharp cry.

“Look what you made me do. Look what you made me do,” she screamed, and in the dim light he could see her wiping her hand on her nightgown.

He scrambled out of bed, terrified. The change in her was so sudden, so volcanic that he thought her mind had snapped.

“You little bitch.” Her voice was full of gravel. Not even hers. “You made me dirty.” She held her hand out in front of her as if it were some foul creature. “You made me do this. You made me dirty. You made me dirty. Now I'll burn in hell and never see Jesus.
Never.
”

“I'm sorry,” he whimpered. “Sorry.”

“I'll show you
sorry.
” She backhanded him in the face. “Get out of here, you little slut. Get out.” And she shoved him out the door.

He stumbled back into his room, crying and terrified and feeling scalding shame in his chest.

He crawled into his bed and prayed that he would die.

By the time Steve pulled into headquarters Neil had gone home. Spent by the interrogation, he had taken the rest of the day off.

But Reardon was in his office. “Pendergast's in central lockup,” he said. “Monday he'll be in court, and all's right with the world.”

“Did you see the video?”

“The important parts. We got him. He's going down.”

Reardon's face was waxed with joy. He had something for the D.A. Steve latched onto his grin like a drowning man to a life vest. “Guess I should take a look if we're going to court.”

“Be my guest.” From a pile of stuff on his desk Reardon handed him a CD.

Steve went to his office where he could watch it without interruption, his brain still on tilt.

The interrogation, which took place in the interrogation room on the second floor, had begun around nine that Friday morning and ended at one thirty with two brief breaks for Pendergast and Neil to use the toilet and have some takeout lunch.

Early on Neil sat across a small table from Pendergast. But he soon took to his feet, at times pacing and gesticulating with his hands, other times standing directly in front of Pendergast, his face pressed inches away. The tightness of the space created a forced intimacy as well as point-blank menace designed to create emotional confusion for a suspect.

From the onset Pendergast looked tired and distraught, even spacey. At times he didn't seem to understand the questions and asked for repeats. He also muttered responses. At one point when Neil wasn't looking he fingered a pill from his breast pocket and slipped it into his mouth.

Neil got them each a bottle of water. Then without any effort to put him at ease, he went right for the blood spot. “You're on record saying you knew Terry Farina from the Mermaid Lounge. You also said you dated her. I want you to tell me about how many times that was.”

“Just once.”

“And when was that?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“And what did you do?”

“What did we do? W-we went to dinner then to the Regatta Bar in Harvard Square.”

“Did you pick her up at her place?”

“Yes. She met me at the door downstairs.”

“So you didn't go up to her apartment.”

“No. I rang the bell and she came down.”

“Was the door locked—the outside downstairs door?”

“I guess. I didn't try it.”

“And after the Regatta Bar then what?”

“I drove her home and that was it.”

“Did you go up to her apartment?”

“No, I just walked her to the door.”

“And said, ‘Good night,' but didn't go up.”

Pendergast nodded. “Yes.”

“And you still maintain that position?”

Pendergast nodded again.

Neil nodded back. “Uh-huh. The reason I ask is that our crime scene technicians found your fingerprints in Terry Farina's apartment, including on a bottle of Oregon Pinot Gris and a wineglass. You want to tell me how they got there?”

Pendergast's eyes fluttered for a moment, then he said, “Okay, I'm sorry, I went up for a glass of wine, but it was no big deal I swear, and it was just that once.”

“Well, Earl, I appreciate your being truthful. Thank you.” Neil had switched to Sergeant Good Guy. “Now we're being honest with each other, and that's good. Frankly, Earl, I can understand why you held back. I mean, you're a popular professor and noted scholar, and given your situation, you wouldn't want to be seen in the wrong company. If that were me, I'd feel the same way. I wouldn't want it to get out.”

Pendergast looked at him with apprehension. “There's no chance of that, is there?”

“If you're innocent you can trust me it won't leave this station.”

“I'm innocent.”

“Then you're golden. So how many other dates did you have with her?”

“That was it.”

“Other visits to her apartment?”

“That was it. She was interested in going to grad school, and I was trying to encourage her.”

Neil stared at him hard. “Let me get this straight. You wanted to see her quit the pole, but you're a strip-club junkie and one of her groupies. Isn't that something of a contradiction, Earl?”

Steve could hear the furnace firing up.

“I suppose, but I think she liked stripping but wanted to become a psychologist.”

“Why do you think that was? Why dance naked for a bunch of strangers?”

“The money.”

“Yeah, the money.” Neil rubbed his face as if removing a mask. “Let me ask you this. When you were up there in her apartment, did you ever go into her bedroom?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Yes, never.”

“So, you confined your visit to what, the living room?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you wander into the kitchen or other rooms, or maybe she showed you around?”

“Maybe the bathroom, but that was it.”

“Good.” Pendergast took a swig of water and in a sympathetic ploy Neil did also. “The problem is your fingerprints were found on the headboard of her bed where she was murdered.”

Pendergast flinched. “That's impossible. I was never in her bedroom.”

“Bullshit. You were in there the night she died.”

“No, I wasn't. I swear.”

Neil bore down on him. “You fucked her, didn't you?”

Pendergast looked more confused than frightened. The news accounts of her death made clear that she had not been sexually molested. “No. I never…had sex with her.”

He began to push himself away when Neil slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “Tell me the truth, you little creep, you had sex with her.”

Pendergast froze. “N-no, never. I swear.”

“How many times?”

“N-never.”

Neil hung over him like a boulder. “Look me in the eye and tell me you never had sex with her.”

“N-never, and I swear on my life.”

“But you were in her bedroom because that's where you killed her.”

“No. I was never in her bedroom. And I didn't kill her. I swear.”

“You also swore you'd never been to her place. So how am I supposed to believe you now, huh?”

“I-I mean it. But that was weeks ago and nothing happened. We sat on the couch and had wine and talked. That was it. I was there for maybe an hour. If I admitted it, you'd be more suspicious. But I never stepped foot in her bedroom.”

“Then you did it on the couch.”

“No, we only talked.”

“You mean to say you watched her spread her legs a hundred times on the bar and you didn't want to dive in?”

“I was attracted to her, but she said she didn't want to get involved with anyone, that she had broken up with a guy and just wanted to hang loose.”

“Hang loose, right. She go down on you on the couch?”

“No, we only talked about her going back to school.”

The video went on like this for another half hour, but Pendergast would not yield in spite of Neil's dogged attempts to get him to admit to having had sex with Terry. Neil then shifted tactics. “You come clean with me and I promise to make this easy for you, okay? You're not here by accident. This is serious shit, because we've got more matched-up evidence.” He glared at him to let it sink in. “We found both your prints and your DNA on her bed.”

“What DNA?”

“Your hair.”

“That can't be. I was never in her bedroom. It must have gotten in there some other way—on her clothes or the laundry. Or…”

“Or what? Somebody planted it? Is that what you were going to say?”

Pendergast looked too terrified to respond.

“You think the police broke into your apartment, removed hairs from your brush then headed off to the lab to stuff the evidence bags. That what you're hinting?”

“I don't know.”

“Listen to me, buddy, nobody planted a fucking thing. Okay? Your hair was on the sheets they brought to the state crime lab.
Your
hair.
Your
genetic marker. Period.”

Pendergast started to get up again. “I've had enough.”

“You leave, and you're not going to want to see the evening news.”

“You're threatening me.”

“I'm asking you to tell me the truth.”

“I told you the truth.”

“Bullshit.”

“If you're going to continue interrogating me, I want a lawyer. That's my constitutional right.”

Neil looked at him blankly, knowing full well that he was obligated by law to provide Pendergast the opportunity for counsel, but he said nothing. Instead, he left the room for more than fifteen minutes, during which time Pendergast squirmed in his seat, got up, went to the door and listened, then opened it, closed it again, and returned to the table, where he rested his head on his arms. Clearly he was too intimidated by Neil's threats of exposure to walk. He also seemed determined to convince Neil that he was neither a lover of Farina nor her murderer.

Steve paused the DVD and went out for another coffee.