Skin Deep (30 page)

“It could be his daughter,” Dacey said.

Steve felt the C-clamp tighten on his chest again. “What do you mean?”

“He might have given her his card and she bought them for herself.”

That very thought had occurred to him, but he said, “Except I've only seen him give her cash in the past.”

“Maybe he was low.”

“I doubt he'd let her wear them.”

“Like that's going to stop a sixteen-year-old.” Dacey took a sip of her beer. “All I know is that this sucks.”

“I'll say.”

Well, Bunky, back to door number three. And you still haven't explained your prints on the mailbox. No, but it could have been his daughter.

They were sitting at a rear booth in Punjab on Massachusetts Avenue in Arlington center. The place was ten miles from Boston and Neil hated Indian food, which meant that there was no chance of his showing up. Just in case, Vaughn was on him.

Steve and Dacey were splitting an order of samosas, chicken tandoori, a vegetable biryani, and some naan. Dacey had a Taj Mahal and Steve had iced green tea.

Dacey clicked his glass. “To Mr. Virtuous.”

“Yeah, and no more days of cakes and ale.” He sipped his tea. “Spicy Indian food and iced green tea. I feel like some kind of exotic Amish.”

Dacey snickered and guzzled her beer. “How long you been off the booze?”

Steve checked his watch. “One hundred and twenty-one hours, eleven minutes. But who counts?”

“Must be a bitch.”

“Especially watching you drink your Taj Mahal.”

“It only makes you stronger.”

Dacey ate some food and washed it down with beer. Steve sipped his tea.

“He came in this morning to get some things from his desk and I go, ‘Hey, Neil, how you doing?' And he looks at me with a crazed look and goes, ‘How the fuck you think I'm doing?' Then he stomps out. I think maybe Reardon's right, like he's ready to pop.”

“Hogan said the same thing. Bumped into him this morning and gave him an icy stare with barely a word.”

“So what the hell do we do? The magistrate says no search warrant and Neil's like smoking dynamite.”

On the application they had listed all the evidence, including the Wolford's purchase, but it came back to them with a flat “Insufficient evidence.” “From the court's point of view, he's right. We've got circumstantials and no probable cause. And Reardon's too skittish to step over the line.”

“But what about his daughter?”

“What about her?”

“She's a handful to begin with, and now with the suspension he's got to be stretched,” Dacey said. “I mean, I'm having nightmares that he snaps and takes a gun to her and himself.”

Steve ate some of the chicken and drank more tea.

“So what do we do?”

“Grass.”

“Grass?”

“Stuff tastes like boiled grass. Which means I'll probably never get prostate cancer.”

Dacey snorted. “I'll take my chances,” she said, and flagged the waiter for a second beer.

Steve rubbed his face. “I don't know what to think anymore.”

“Well, if you saw him this morning, you'd wonder if he's sitting on stuff that could make the difference.”

Make the difference. Him or me.

“If nothing else, it would clear some doubts. And if he's good, call him back in and that's that.”

Steve looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

She took a sip of beer and wiped her mouth. “Plan B.”

FALL
1975

He went to bed early the night before he and Lila were to return to New York for the shoot of her
Taxi Driver
scenes. He was beside himself with excitement. He had an excused absence from school for the next two days.

Lila had told him not to expect much, since most of the day they'd just hang around as the lighting and camera technicians set up the scenes. Then about the time when everybody thought they'd die of boredom, the director would call them to action. The scene was less than a minute long, but with retakes could take two hours or more. But it would be fun to be on the set with all those people and equipment with ordinary folks looking on. He'd also get to meet Robert De Niro and Martin Scorsese and that young actress who plays the child prostitute.

Lila was out doing some last-minute shopping so Kirk would have something to eat while they were away. From his bedroom he heard her pull into the driveway and enter the back door with the groceries. A few minutes later he heard her and his father in the kitchen talking. Suddenly their voices became hard and loud. They were fighting. But this was worse than the others. Lila was screaming as if she'd been hurt.

He jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs. When he entered the room, his father was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his face red. Lila was on the floor gasping for breath and bleeding from the nose and mouth. On the counter table was her portfolio—the one with the studio shots of her in the nude from her modeling days. He had secreted the album under his bed and his father had found it.

“She gave that to you, didn't she?”

He was too startled to answer. Lila muttered in dismay at the blood coming from her face.

His father snapped open the album to shots of her naked. “She let you have this shit.”

“Look what he did to me,” Lila said, pushing herself to her knees.

His father made a move to swing at her again, when he jumped on his back. “You leave her alone!” he shouted, and nearly stumbled onto the floor with him.

But Kirk caught him and threw him against the refrigerator. He grabbed him up by his pajama top. “Why, you going to beat me up?”

“Don't you touch him!” Lila screamed, and pulled herself up, whimpering over her ruined face.

His father pushed him away.

“Look what he did to me.” She pulled a dish towel off the stove and let out a cry of horror at all the blood. Her face was a mess. One eye was red and swollen shut, her cheek cut, and her mouth was oozing blood from a split upper lip. She removed a broken front tooth. “Oh, Jesus!”

“Good enough for you,” his father growled. “I want you out of here by the time I come back. You hear me?” He tossed the photo album on the counter beside her. “And take this trash with you.” Then he flashed his face to his son. “And you, you little creep, go to bed.
Now!
”

Lila leaned against the counter, staring in disbelief at the bloodied tooth in her hand.

“You can't leave her like this. She needs a doctor.”

“Then take her to one. And send the bill to the Holiday Inn, because that's where I'll be.” He looked at Lila. “You better be gone by morning.” He grabbed his car keys and left.

She stood whimpering at the sink with the towel against her face. He went to the freezer and pulled out a package of frozen green peas. She took it and put it against her eye. “Go to bed,” she said in a barely audible voice. “Please.”

For a long moment he kept his hand on her shoulder, knowing that she just wanted to be alone with her pain and grief. Her face was a mess.

He went upstairs but did not go to bed. Downstairs Lila was crying, swearing, and throwing things around the room. Tomorrow she would have to call Harry Dobbs and tell him what had happened, that she could not show up with her face like it was, that it would take days to heal and for a dentist to replace her tooth. He stood there, quaking in the sounds of her rage.

Sometime later she stumbled up the stairs and pushed her way into her bedroom. For a moment she stood there in the dark. Then she went to his father's bureau, tearing through the drawers, unaware that he stood in the far corner watching her. In frustration, she slammed shut the bottom drawer. She turned around and saw him. She said nothing, just glared at him through the swollen bruised eyes, still wild with fire.

He stood there in his pajamas with his father's .38 Smith & Wesson in hand.

For a stunned moment she studied him. Then without a word she took the pistol from him.

No. He gave it to her.

The next moment she brushed by him and left the room. He heard her move down the stairs and leave through the back door in the kitchen and drive away in her car.

It was maybe two hours later when in the black of his bedroom he heard her return. The stairs creaked as she climbed to the landing. He got out of bed and opened the door. She looked at him at the top of the stairs. Her left eye was half closed from the swelling and the color of eggplant. Her other eye was also discolored and her lip was puffy and scabby. She did not have the gun. She did not say anything but passed into her bedroom and closed and locked the door.

Around dawn, he heard the front doorbell ring. Outside were two police cars.

Lila wore a black patch on her eye and heavy makeup when she went down to let them in. He put on his pants and followed. The officers' faces were grim with bad news. Her husband had been found shot to death in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn on Route 93. He had apparently been attacked by someone intent on robbery because his wallet was missing.

Lila broke down in tears as the police filled in the details. Kirk was attacked in his car through the open window, one of the officers said. She kept saying, “Oh, God,” and “I don't believe this,” all the while keeping one hand on her mouth to cover the gap where Kirk had punched out her tooth. They said there were no witnesses, but they were still investigating, of course. They apologized for asking, saying that was a routine part of the investigation. They wanted to know where Lila was between ten last night and two
A.M.
She said she was in bed. Her stepson confirmed that, saying that in the middle of the night he had gotten up because of a headache and went to Lila, who knew where his medication was. That was around two, and because of the pain he had remained awake for more than an hour. He showed them the vials of painkillers.

Lila looked at him with a blank expression, but he could feel something pass from her. The police asked more questions and checked the house. The kitchen had been cleaned up of broken dishes. Before they left, they asked her about the bruises on her face. She said that she had fallen down the cellar stairs yesterday while bringing down a chair, the back of which hit her in the face, knocking out her tooth. Her voice did not waver from the lie. When they asked what Kirk was doing at the Holiday Inn, Lila said that the hotel was near the Manchester airport where the airline put up the crew for early departures. After a few more questions, the police left.

Over the next two days she went through the motions of being the grieving wife and made funeral arrangements with Kirk's sister and brother-in-law. He, of course, did not go to school but stayed in his room most of the time. When their paths crossed, Lila barely spoke.

Meanwhile, the swelling went down from the cold compress, and the discoloration was hidden by the eye patch and makeup. Her dentist fashioned a bridge with a temporary tooth. On the third day following his death, Kirk was waked at a local funeral home in a closed casket.

He stood in line beside Lila, his face long with mourning. She nodded graciously as people offered condolences. He did the same, adopting her style and body language, even her words as he thanked the mourners. He did not cry. He could not even fake that. But some of the mourners broke down in sorrow, saying how his dad was such a great guy. Several schoolkids and their parents came by, but not Becky Tolland and her family. He was thankful for that.

After the wake he went home with Lila and his aunt and uncle, who stayed in the guest room. Lila continued her widow's grief and only responded by rote. She said very little to him, and went to bed quietly. The following morning a funeral mass was held at Holy Name Church. Lila wore a thick veil. He sat in the first pew beside her while the priest went on interminably. He hated church. The funeral was not for his father but for her.

They rode in a long black Cadillac to Oak Grove Cemetery outside Derry. He sat beside her in the second row of seats, his aunt and uncle behind them. Nobody said anything. He took her hand, but it was dead. He gave it a squeeze as if to ask if she was okay—maybe a word or nod or a squeeze back—anything to relieve the anxiety wracking his guts. But she was lifeless.

It crossed his mind that maybe she was so thoroughly into her role as grieving widow that she didn't want anything to break the spell. Method acting to the end.

He stood with her at the grave. Because of the veil he could not read her face, but he wanted to lift it and give her a wink and a smile. But that would have to wait. It was almost over.

At the luncheon back at the church she perked up and spoke to people, acting subdued. Later they returned to the house with his aunt and uncle, so once again there was no chance to be alone with her. She retired to bed early, while he stayed up until his aunt and uncle finally left.

The next morning the same two police detectives returned to the house to say that Lila's story checked out: Kirk did have a room reserved at the motel and was scheduled to fly out of Manchester the next day. But they wanted her to take a polygraph test. When he overheard from the next room, he nearly passed out. But she calmly agreed and left with them. Yet inside she must have been a wreck. No matter how good an actress, she could not fake electrical impulses.

For the next three hours he could not keep himself from vomiting. Twice he was on his knees before the toilet bowl. He had no doubt that the cops suspected her. It was the facial bruises. They were a dead giveaway. The police clearly hadn't fallen for her cellar stairs story. Nor his swearing that she was home all night. Maybe they had found some physical evidence at the scene. Or, worse, a witness.

A little before two, a police car pulled up in front, and an officer opened the rear door to let Lila out. She was not in handcuffs. On the contrary, the officer walked her to the door and shook her hand. But when she stepped inside, she was not smiling.

“Well?”

She laid down her handbag. “Well what?”

“Did you pass?”

“I got the part.” Her voice was flat.

He didn't quite know how to read her. “That's great.” He made a move to hug her, but she snapped away. “What's the problem?”

“What's the problem?”

His heart froze.

“You.”

“Me? Wha-what about me?” He thought his heart would never start beating again.

Because of the swelling and bruising, her face was a lumpy asymmetrical distortion of her own. She had also not eaten over the last several days and looked dehydrated. It was like addressing a shriveled and battered imposter of his stepmother, made all the more awful by her voice.

“You made me a bad girl,” she said in a thin whine.

“What do you mean?”

“You made me do it.”

“Do what?”

“The gun. You put the gun in my hand.”

His mind was scrambling in disbelief. “Y-you were looking for it.”

“No, I wasn't. I was looking for my rosary beads.”

“Your rosary beads were in your jewelry box. And you were tearing through his things, his bureau drawers. I knew what you were looking for and got it for you.”

She shook her head as if mechanically programmed. “For you.”

“You were looking for it because he hit you, because you couldn't go to New York like that.”

“You made me do it to protect you.”

It was like talking to a child. “Mom, please, that's not true. I didn't make you. You got in the car on your own and went after him.”

“I did it for you.”

“You did it for
us
. For you and me. Because he hurt you. Because he tried to ruin your happiness.”

She continued like a little girl, shaking her head. “You made me dirty. You made me bad. And now Jesus will never forgive me. Never.”

Then she made a stiff turn and walked out of the room and up the stairs to her bedroom. After a few stunned minutes, he followed her and tried to open the door, but it was locked. He knocked and knocked, begging her to open up. Begging her forgiveness. But nothing. He could hear her in there, going to the bathroom, running water, flushing the toilet. The creak of her bed.

“Please open up. I beg you.” He slid down on his knees, tapping the door with his knuckles and sobbing. “Please forgive me. I'm sorry. Please. Pleeeeeeease.”

But she would not open it. Nor would she talk to him through it. The light strip under the door went black.

After several minutes he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled into his room and went to bed. In the dark, staring at the black ceiling, he muttered a silent prayer to Jesus that in the morning Lila would be her old self again. He took three painkillers to sleep.

Sometime around eight he woke to the sunlight flooding through the window. He had forgotten to pull the shades. His throat was thick and tender from deep wracking sobs. He lay in bed a few minutes attuned to the sounds of the house. There were none. Nor the aroma of coffee that Lila made every morning.

He opened his door and crossed the hall to hers. He put his ear against it. Nothing. She was still asleep. So he went into his bathroom to brush his teeth and wash up. All the while his stomach felt as if it were churning asphalt.

When he was finished, he went downstairs and made a pot of coffee. He poured a cup and added heated milk and honey the way she liked it. He brought it up and listened at her door. It was nearly nine o'clock. She would probably want to call the dentist to check on her new cap.