Skin Deep (24 page)

Steve had briefed the captain on the phone as they headed back to headquarters. When they arrived, Reardon's face was a terracotta mask. He looked at Neil across the desk from him. “Were you lovers?”

“Is this a formal interrogation, Captain?”

“No more than Pendergast's was.”

Neil made a face to say he didn't like the comment. “We were close.”

“And you never told anybody.”

In Neil's defense Steve said, “At the crime scene he said that he knew her from the health club.”

“There's a fucking mile between casual acquaintance and an intimate relationship with a homicide victim. What the hell were you thinking? You kept us in the dark on a critical piece of information.”

“I didn't want to go public,” Neil said. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“Maybe? This suppression of information is sufficient to disqualify you from the case.”

“Give me a break,” Neil said.

“I'm giving you a break. You could be fired from the force.”

Neil's face hardened. He looked to Steve, but said nothing.

“You're suspended from the case permanently and from your current load for the next two weeks, but we'll call it a leave of absence. When you return you'll still have your other cases.”

“With or without pay?”

“Because it's an infraction, with. And let me suggest that you work on your interrogation tactics. You were out of control with Pendergast.”

“Okay.”

A long moment passed. Then Neil asked, “Am I a suspect?”

“At the moment, you're a person of interest and we'll want a full statement from you. I'll see you in your office in fifteen.”

Neil got up, and in silence Steve watched him walk to the door. As soon as the door closed Reardon shot a look at Steve. “Do you think he did it?”

Crosscurrents ripped through Steve.

“And how do I know you didn't kill her, huh?”

“I don't know.”

Reardon nodded. “What was his relationship with her?”

“It started off as trainer and client then became more.” Steve measured his words. “I think he got serious about her. But I think he's still conflicted, still unresolved in his feelings. He never approved of her stripping, but he feels bad that he made her feel sleazy about it.”

“So maybe he was narrating how he killed her himself—all the sexual taunting, feeding him motives, attacking him with the stocking. Like he was reenacting his own crime.”

Steve's next words could set in motion the investigation of his own partner—

“In fact, where exactly were you that night?”

—or himself.

What Reardon had speculated was the unthinkable: a veteran homicide cop implicated in a high-buzz murder case. Exactly what he did not need on top of all the shrill press about the murder rate and police incompetence.

At the same time Steve was speculating on hideous Monty Hall options:

Facing three doors, Bunky, and behind one is the killer, behind the others, scapegoats. The host tells you it's door number one, which is Earl Pendergast. Door number two is Neil. Door number three is good ole Stevie McHyde. For too many reasons Pendergast doesn't feel right. Door number two: Neil killing his old girlfriend? Think about it and the pieces begin to snap together like magnets. He wasn't on duty that day but agreed to take over for Hogan. He's first to the crime scene and convinces the techs it's accidental asphyxia. Stomps all over evidence. As soon as Pendergast's name surfaced, he's first to peg him as the bad guy. Never went to the ball game. No alibi. Lied about his relationship with the vic. Had a stockingful of motives. Gets a twofer: spurned jealous lover kills the bad girl and scapegoats the competition
—
poor geeky, creepy English prof.

(But tell me this: are we lining up circumstances to fit a conclusion in lieu of opening door number three?)

(And are we ye old pot calling ye old kettle black? That maybe you and Terry were lovers and you dispatched her to rid yourself of the guilt for having an affair that you conveniently burned out of your memory banks?)

Like she said, blame the victim. That and maybe get back at Dana through her look-alike.

“It's also possible,” Steve said, “that we're seeing a good cop trying to squeeze a confession out of a guy he thinks killed his girlfriend.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“My gut tells me nothing.”

“Well, we've got nothing connecting him to the crime scene.”

“And no documented history of his lying, false arrests, or giving misleading evidence in court.”

“What about Pendergast?”

Steve shook his head. “We've hit stone. Even her friends and coworkers never heard of Earl Pendergast, nor the brother and sister. Nothing from his credit cards, phone records. And he doesn't fit the profile.”

“Well, it's in the prosecutor's hands.”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever, Neil's off the case. When he comes back, we'll put him elsewhere. Meanwhile, work with Dacey, Hogan, and Vaughn. And this does not get out. The last fucking thing we need is the media getting wind we're investigating a crime where an investigator's a major suspect.” He rubbed his face. “Jesus H. Christ, I don't need this.”

“Well, Dana, if I must say so myself, you look wonderful.”

With his hand on her chin, Dr. Monks inspected the work he had done on her eyelids and the crease line above her nose bridge, turning her face as if examining a rare vase.

The assistant handed her a hand mirror. “I think you look great.”

Dana inspected herself. The scowl crease was gone and so were some frown lines. Even through the discoloration she could see that her eyes looked more open. But the enhanced smoothness only made her nose look bigger.

Dr. Monks donned a set of magnifying lenses to study the stitches. His eyes were huge, the centers almost completely black pupils. While he inspected her, it crossed her mind that what people said was true: enlarged pupils added to a person's sex appeal, which was probably why magazine ads showed models with exaggerated blackness to associate arousal with the products.

After a minute he removed the glasses. “The incisions are healing well and the swelling is down. Dana, you once again have smooth young eyelids.”

“Thank you.” Again he had addressed her by her first name. Until today she had been Mrs. Markarian.

He slipped the lenses back on and removed the stitches. Probably because of the ice compresses and medication she felt only minimal discomfort. When he was finished he handed her a hand mirror. “What do you think?”

She looked in the mirror again. “It looks great.” When the nurse left and closed the door she said, “I want you to know how grateful I am, given your schedule.”

He smiled. “No problem.”

“I'm considering having my nose done. But the recovery period is probably much longer.”

“Yes. The bruising fades in a week or so, but it takes a month or more for the swelling to go down, especially inside.”

From the look on his face she could tell he knew what was coming next.

“Well, I'd like to schedule that, but the only block of time I'll get is Christmas vacation, and I don't want to wait six months. Also I don't want to show up in class all black and blue.”

“Of course not.” He leaned back in his chair. “So what you're asking is if I can work this in before I go on vacation and before your summer vacation is over.”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me ask you why exactly you want to have it done?”

“Because I hate it. I look in the mirror and all I see is a fat potato in the middle of my face.”

He smiled. “So, it's not related to your separation from your husband?”

“No.”

He studied her as if trying to assess the veracity of her statement. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but you don't see this as a way of reestablishing your relationship with Mr. Markarian?”

“Not at all.”

“I ask because on occasion we get patients who confuse cosmetic needs for emotional or psychological ones. They'll show up in a state of urgency because they're going through an emotional crisis—usually a traumatic loss like the death of a loved one or separation or divorce—and believe that the only solution is aesthetic augmentation.”

“Well, that's not the case.”

Monks nodded. “But you can understand how some people regard a makeover as a way of restoring a lost emotional connection.”

“Yes, but that's not me. I don't want a nose job to win my husband back. I've wanted this long before I was even married, since I was a teenager, in fact.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“And if you had doubts?”

“I'd send you home. But that doesn't seem to be the case. So what are your expectations from the surgery?”

“My expectations are that I'll like the improvement and feel better about myself.”

He nodded. “And I think you will. I see it all the time. In fact, it's one of the joys of this profession—seeing how much happier and better adjusted people are after aesthetic procedures. Of course, it's no guarantee, and we're very careful to avoid promising folks that a nose job or face-lift will change their lives. But improving one's appearance will improve one's confidence, especially in establishing intimate ties with others.”

“I can see how rewarding that must be.”

“Yes, and especially so if a patient has a physical deformity or some disfiguring ailment. It's also true if something in a person's appearance constantly bothers them. If every time you walk by a mirror your heart sinks when you look at your sunken chin or narrow cheeks—”

“Or nose.”

“Or nose. If it's a constant source of anguish, then something should be done about it. I've had patients whose lives were turned around following cosmetic surgery. One woman had a prominent nose and a tiny chin. She hated her appearance, saying she looked like a troll. The sad thing was, she did. After a nose job and some jaw reconstruction, she not only looked like a different person, she was a different person. She'd come in and say how her life had been transformed. In the past she'd avoid social engagements, parties, and bars. She never dated. Now she's a woman about town, dating and partying. Like others, she changed from the outside in. The procedures released someone who lived deep inside but who needed the physical transformation to bring her out.”

“I'm not sure that's me, but I want a new nose.”

“Then, I think something should be done. Because it's not so much your nose but how you feel about it.” He moved closer and slowly turned her face to profile and back.

Again, she wondered why he never had cosmetic work done. His skin was dry and rough with pockmarks. He also had that distracting mole. Evidently he had no problem with his appearance.

“You should know that rhinoplasty is the most dramatic alteration of one's appearance. And since your nose is measurably out of harmony with the rest of your face, the change will be significant.” As he spoke, he ran his finger along her nose to demonstrate the changes and she followed him in the hand mirror. “What we'd do is remove the hump and narrow the cartilage pyramid and reshape the tip and base, which will open the plane of your face, making your cheekbones more prominent.”

All her life Dana regarded her appearance in segments. She had large gray-green eyes, high cheekbones, a round forehead, and feathery eyebrows. Her chin was short, squared off, and clefted. Her hair was a sandy blond like her mother's, its thickness probably from her father's Mediterranean genes. Also from his side, the Peloponnesian nose that overshadowed the rest. It was what the boys in high school saw first at a dance. If it weren't for her breasts and a shapely body, she would never have been asked to dance.

“Ironically, people may not even know that you had it done. They'll notice an improvement and ask if you lost weight or are doing your hair differently. But they'll pick up the change in your spirit, your increased well-being. And that's what this is all about.”

He then moved to his computer and maneuvered the mouse. “Unfortunately, I'm tightly booked, but it's possible I can put together a surgical team during off-hours or a weekend.”

“That would be great.” She could barely hide her excitement.

“But it may be on very short notice.”

“That's no problem.” She'd give him her cell phone number.

“Fine.” Then he asked about any allergies, hay fever, rhinitis, nasal congestion, any past ailments such as sinusitis, asthma, bronchitis, any injuries to her nose, et cetera. She had none.

“Good,” he said when he was finished.

There was a queer expression on his face that made his cheeks dimple and his eyes glitter. “The other day you'd asked about Versed and possible side effects.”

“Side effects?”

“You know, saying the unexpected.”

She felt herself tense up. “Uh-huh.”

He smiled. “Well, yes, I'd be delighted to have dinner with you.”

It took her a moment to realize what he was saying, then she was instantly mortified. He was no doubt sugarcoating some outrageous thing she had babbled in front of the nurse. “Oh, God.”

“Really, it was amusing, and a first.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Then he said, “So I guess your marital status has not changed. You're still separated.” He looked down at her naked ring finger.

“Yes. We're considering a divorce.” The word still felt alien to her. Especially since that wasn't completely true. Steve certainly was not considering it, and she only experimentally.

Monks nodded; his face had an odd look of speculation. “I'm sorry for the unpleasantness of that, no matter what the outcome.”

“Thank you.”

A slightly crooked smile spread across his mouth. “How about this Saturday evening?”

Her head was spinning. “Yes, sure, of course,” she said, without thinking if she had anything else scheduled, deciding that whatever it was she'd get out of it.

“Fine,” he said with a wide grin. “And we'll celebrate your new beginning. But I do have a favor to ask: that you please don't mention it to anyone, even Mrs. Walker. If word gets out, it might end up in the newspapers. And we both can do without that.”

“Of course.”

All the way home she fought the urge to call Lanie.