Skin Deep (32 page)

FALL
1975

“She was so beautiful.”

Becky's mother gave him a tearful squeeze. “I'm so sorry.” Her husband said basically the same thing and shuffled on to his aunt and uncle who made up the rest of the receiving line and with whom he would have to live until he was eighteen. The thought of moving to Fremont added to his numbness. Another sweet little surprise in Lila's legacy.

The Tollands were the last of the guests at the two-hour wake. It was the same funeral home and the same mourners who had attended his father's wake the week before. The same receiving line except Lila was now in the casket.

Festooned with roses and shiny sympathy banners, the casket was closed, of course. She apparently was dead for nearly twelve hours, and her face was already disfigured and bruised from Kirk, made worse by the noose. She was dressed in her favorite black lacy sundress and a large gold crucifix with the detailed full-body Jesus, his feet snugly tucked in the upper reaches of her cleavage.

At his insistence a small bouquet of white roses was placed in her hands along with the set of rosary beads from her confirmation. She also wore a pair of black nylon stockings with lacy elastic tops. Wolfords. The choice of her death wardrobe was his.

Becky was the last in line. She gave him a long close hug. “What can I say?”

“Nothing.”

As they embraced, he looked over Becky's shoulder to the tawny red cherry casket, almost the same color as Lila's hair. And even though he could not see her, he felt something radiate from those frozen shut eyelids within.

Even unto death I shall be with you
.

Lila's favorite hymn passage.

He tapped Becky on the back to release the embrace—an embrace that would be the last real exchange with a female for years. Of course, Becky could not know that Lila had usurped his passion. And that Lila would be in his system forever like one of those childhood vaccines whose preventive effects would last a lifetime once in your blood.
This
was her legacy. This and a black lace-top stocking.

“If there's anything I can do, just call.”

He nodded and Becky left to join her parents outside.

It was nine
P.M.
, time to go. His aunt and uncle were waiting in the other room. All the chairs were empty. The funeral was tomorrow morning at Holy Name Church in Derry.

For the last time he stood at the casket. Yes, she was beautiful. And now she was something grotesque and hard.

He knelt on the low padded stool. He wasn't religious, so he didn't pray. He closed his eyes, and like a movie projected on the inside of his skull, he saw her laughing, reading from a script in front of the mirror. Giving him smirky looks. Crying. Fighting with his father. Folding into her funk; angry, bitter, wounded. He saw her give him those withering looks, then the far askew stares, and the sulking mask that scared him more than death itself.

He also saw her cupping his face and kissing him to make some hurt go away. And like flicking channels, there she was dancing before him in those maddening, forbidden black nylons, peeling off one then the other and drawing it teasingly from his body to hers, entwining their sexes.

My mommy, my Salome.

And he saw her radiant with happiness in the Algonquin Room.

He saw her at the bathroom mirror, brushing that glorious burnt rose mane. He knew he would never ever see or smell that hair again, so before the police cut her down he snipped off a lock.

And now I hate you. I hate you for leaving me.
I hate you.

Her secret death note to him. Her exit line.

You bitch. You hurtful, hurtful bitch.

We could have gotten away with it. You passed the polygraph. There were no witnesses. You showered when you came home, so no cordite was on your hands. No evidence at the scene connected to the killing. And I was your alibi. The police said that they had a small list of potential suspects, and you weren't one of them. And the insurance money from Kirk. You could have had it all. We could have. You could have found another acting job. It wasn't the end of the world.

You left me, Lila. And now I'm a ward of my dolt uncle and boring aunt, executors of Kirk's will. I have to leave my school and town and friends and move to another.

You did this to me.

His eyes fell on the crucifix hanging above the casket.

Jesus. For eternity he was going to hang in her dead cleavage in mute fourteen-carat gold while she shriveled to a mummy.

Jesus.

What the hell did Jesus ever do for you? He didn't get you the big break you'd prayed for all your life. He didn't get you a husband who fulfilled your needs. He didn't stop his hand from smashing your dreams. He didn't grant you peace from what your father did. He didn't end your suffering. Jesus had nothing to do with you, just dangled false hopes around your neck until you got so weighted down you made yourself a noose out of your love toy. But you let Jesus get the best of you like a jealous lover. And here you are.

And now what? What happens to me, Lila? You're dead forever. The ultimate silent treatment. And I've got to go on living with nothing
—
nothing but a black lace stocking.

Bitch. You heartless, selfish bitch. You left me in the cold forever.

He slammed the casket with the flat of his hand and walked into the night.

“Then maybe it was Pendergast after all. But, you know, I really don't give a shit.”

But I do, Neil. Oh, boy, do I.

Over the two days following the break-in, Neil's computer hard drives had yielded no incriminating evidence connecting him to Terry Farina or the Novak woman, although that case was still being considered coincidental. Likewise, the Wolford stockings had, in fact, been purchased by his daughter and were found in their still unopened packages in her room.

Although Neil's suspension from duty was now officially over, Steve and he had not crossed paths at headquarters. But he did leave a message on Neil's cell phone apologizing for the break-in. He explained the circumstances behind the unwarranted search. “It was a desperate measure, and I'd understand completely if you reported it to the captain,” he added, knowing that the consequences could mean his and Sergeant Dacey's suspension from the force.

But Neil did not return the call, nor had he apparently reported the incident, since Steve had not been red-carpeted. He also had not reported his suspicion that Steve had been with Terry Farina in Conor Larkins before she was murdered.

Maybe it was Pendergast after all.

And maybe he'd dig a little deeper on the guy before he went to Reardon and fessed up.
Back to door one.

That was what Steve told himself as he drove to visit Dana.

He had not seen her since the operation. Nor had they talked. But she had left a brief message that it had gone well but that she didn't want visitors until the discomfort and draining was behind her. Then today she left a message to drop by that evening after work.

“It looks much worse than it feels,” she said when she met him at the door.

Her face was heavily bandaged, with a thick packing running down her nose and tape crisscrossing under her eyes and across her brow. The flesh of her upper face was swollen and purple and her eyes were bloodshot. Once again, Steve could not help but see Terry Farina's choked-up purple face. “I certainly hope so.”

She led him into the kitchen where she had been sipping a milkshake through a straw. The doctor had put her on a liquid diet for a few days. While she described what little she recalled, Steve was having difficulty imagining how different she'd look once the dressing came off. In fact, he was having difficulty trying to remember her old nose.

“What time's the appointment?”

“Eleven tomorrow morning.”

“Excited?”

“Nervous. He said he took off the hump and thinned it down. Which means I'm probably five pounds lighter.”

Steve laughed.

“And you'll be happy to know he gave me a break on the fee—four thousand.”

“That's nearly half. How come?”

“He had another operation that same day and didn't need to double-book the OR team.”

“Two in the same day?”

“He's trying to get all his commitments behind him before he leaves for vacation.”

“There was something on him in the paper the other day, something about an award.”

“Yeah, he's pretty high-profile.”

“Do we know if he's gay or not?”

“I don't think he is. He was married before. His wife died some years ago.” She got up and rinsed out her glass. “I've got to get to bed.”

He got up. “I'm still hoping we could talk.”

“About what?”

“About what I said on the phone the other day. For lack of a better phrase, I've done some soul-searching and I wanted to tell you that I think I'm ready to you know what. C-c-c-c-commit. K-k-k-k-kids.”

Her face contorted under the dressing. “Please don't make me laugh.”

“I think I'm ready.”

“Nice timing.”

“Well, you can't rush into these things. When can we talk?”

“I'm really not ready for this.”

“You mean I'm seven months too late.”

“I didn't say that. Let me just get through this.”

“What are you doing next Sunday?”

“What's next Sunday?”

“July first. Our anniversary. Maybe a nice quiet dinner somewhere.”

“Steve, we're separated, remember? Besides, I'm going out with Lanie and some other friends.”

“Then how about the fourth? I'm off-duty. Maybe dinner at Flora then drive up to the river to catch the fireworks.” He tried to read her face, which was impossible with all the dressing.

She processed the suggestion, which seemed to take an hour. “All right. Okay.”

“Try to control your enthusiasm.”

She didn't respond and walked him to the front door. “How's sobriety going?”

He checked his watch. “Two hundred and fifty-three hours, eleven minutes.”

“Good. Keep it up.”

“How's the dating going?”

“I'm not.”

“Good. Keep it up.”

“You're impossible.”

“Only because love is blind.” He kissed her lightly on her cast and opened the door. “Call me after the unveiling.”

“Okay. Any breaks on the Farina case?”

“No.”

 

Steve arrived at home a little after nine. He took a shower and was just heading for bed when he heard the doorbell ring. He slipped on his jeans and a shirt and went downstairs. Standing in the foyer on the other side of the security door were Dacey and Hogan.

“Hey,” said Dacey. “How ya doin'? Can we talk?”

“Yeah, sure.” They had never been to his apartment before, and their expressions said their mission was serious. Before he closed the inside door, he spotted two squad cars double-parked across the street. Their lights were off, but he could see two uniforms in each. Instantly he felt a hot wire glow in his gut.

He led them upstairs. Dacey sat on the sofa while Hogan stood with his hands loose by his sides, looking as if he were ready to snap for his piece.

“Got something of a problem you might help us with,” Dacey said.

“Must be pretty big with the backup outside and him poised like
High Noon
.”

She opened up a pocket notepad. “The name Thomas Sena ring a bell?”

“Who?”

“Guess some time back you'd gotten into a fight with someone…a Thomas Sena in a bar in Chicopee.”

It took him a moment for the name to register. “That was twenty years ago.”

“Yeah, well, your prints are still in the IAFIS database.”

“So?”

“They were found on Terry Farina's mailbox.”

“We also found this,” Hogan said, and handed Steve a sheet of paper.

It was a photocopy of his department business card. On the reverse side in his handwriting was, “Terry—Congrats! Knock 'em dead.”

“Want to tell us about this?”

Steve stared at the photocopy for a long moment. His handwriting. His words. He could even see his hand with the blue razor point pen he kept in his car visor moving to inscribe the message on the back of his card. He'd done it on his knee before he got out and headed for her front door.

Like a Polaroid photograph rapidly developing, it came back to him. “Son of a bitch.”

He sank into a chair, staring at the note. “I put them in the mailbox, the sunglasses and the bottle of champagne.”

“What's that?”

“That's it!”

“What's it? What you talking about?”

He grinned at them. “I remember. I met her the afternoon of June second at Conor Larkins…” And he told them what he recalled—meeting her while she was finishing up a final. Having a drink with her. Her leaving. His having a couple more drinks and something to eat. Finding her sunglasses. Calling her. Getting the champagne on the way over…

“So why didn't you tell us this?”

“Because I had blacked out on medication.”

“But you were one of the last to see her alive. Steve, you withheld information relevant to the investigation.”

“Because I had no recollection of being up there and no way to prove that I hadn't.”

Dacey shot Hogan a look of bewilderment. “But we've got the proof.”

He nodded. “Were my prints found anywhere inside?”

“No.”

Steve felt his organs settle back into place. “I wanted to tell the truth except I didn't know what the hell it was. But now I remember. I called to say she'd left her sunglasses in the pub, and that's when she said she'd just gotten word of the scholarship. The UPS delivery. It's all coming back.”

Dacey made skeptical eyes at him. “You know we're going to need a statement from you.”

“Sure.” With the uniforms outside, they were prepared to arrest him. But they wanted to do so without incident and fanfare. Back at headquarters he imagined that Reardon was apoplectic that it had come to this—the lead investigator now prime suspect. “You have a print kit with you?”

“A print kit? It's in the car.”

“Good. I'll give you my statement on the way.”

“On the way where?”

Hogan drove while Steve and Dacey sat in the back. The two squad cars tailed them. On the way, Steve made his statement into a tape recorder, going moment-to-moment from what he recalled of that afternoon.

In twenty minutes, they parked in a spot across the street from 123 Payson Road in Jamaica Plain. On Dacey's order the uniforms remained in their cars.

“Trust me,” Steve said. “If this doesn't pan out, Miranda me.”

Terry Farina's apartment was no longer an active crime scene and had been released to Mrs. Sabo. The day after the funeral, Cynthia Morgan and her brother removed their sister's personal items—photographs, paperwork, files from her desk. Because they lived out of state, they had not yet made arrangements to remove the rest of her belongings.

Mrs. Sabo was home, because he could see her television flicker through the windows.

“Steve, you're on the other side of this now, you can't go in there with us.”

“It's because I'm on the other side I want this done right. It's my ass we're investigating.”

“Yeah, but it's like the fox inspecting the chicken coop. We can't do this.”

“Except this fox is your friend and colleague. And I'm the only one who can prove I didn't do it. And you don't know what to look for.”

Hogan looked at Dacey and nodded. “Yeah, fuck it.”

Dacey nodded and went over to the patrol cars to explain. When she returned the three of them went to Mrs. Sabo's door. Dacey explained that they wanted to check the apartment one more time, and she led them upstairs and inside, then went back down.

The interior looked the same as it had the last time they were here. But because of all the traffic, it was useless as a crime scene. Nonetheless, Steve asked them to put on latex gloves and began with the dining-room china cabinet. Nothing. They next checked the commode across from the small dining-room table. Nothing. The same with the hall closet.

Then they went through the cabinets in the kitchen beginning with those beside the sink, then under the sink and above the stove.

“Here,” Steve said.

Above the refrigerator was a small storage space. Sitting amongst some bottles of liquors and white wine was a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. The liquor store had had it in stock after all. And he had never gone in to check, fearing he'd be recognized.
Son of a bitch!

With rubber gloves he removed the bottle by the foil creased around the cork knob and placed it on the countertop. He made a nod and Dacey opened the fingerprint kit and began to dust the surface with a camel hairbrush. When she finished, she took close-up photos, then with lengths of tape she removed each print. She inked a pad and had Steve put his prints on a blank sheet. When she was finished, she used a magnifying viewer and inspected each of the prints.

“Okay, we've got a match.”

But there were some stray prints also on the bottle. “My guess is those belong to Terry and the liquor store people. You file her prints with IAFIS?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Farina's laptop still sat on the floor. Steve plugged it into the wall. “Go ahead, call them up.”

“Steve, this is not protocol.”

“Marie, you came to me on suspicion that I came up here and killed Terry Farina. I didn't and I'm going to prove that to you. That's protocol enough.”

She looked at him without expression then looked to Hogan, who nodded.

Dacey sat at the laptop and after a few minutes had retrieved the fingerprints of Terry Farina from the database. Through the magnifier she studied the prints on the bottle. “Yeah, they match.”

Steve found the sunglasses in a case in a kitchen drawer. Using the same procedure, Dacey lifted some partials from a lens. It was Steve's. Another was Farina's. No others were found.

Steve removed the receipt from his wallet. “I called ahead then stopped at Central Street Liquors for the champagne.” He showed them. “Purchased at 6:22
P.M.
Her UPS was half an hour earlier. I dropped it off with the glasses and note in the mailbox then headed home. You can check that it's the same bottle because there's the retailer's code under the UPC on the back label.”

Dacey passed the receipt to Hogan, who nodded.

Steve then pulled his PDA from his belt and scrolled down the outgoing calls to Farina's number, which showed the call being made at 5:53 on June second. Steve pressed the
SEND
button and the telephone rang. Hogan picked it up and heard Steve's voice.

“Somebody else was here after me.”

“How do you figure that?” Hogan asked.

“The champagne she was drinking was Taittinger. Someone else brought it.”

“So how did the Clicquot and glasses get up here if you didn't bring them up?”

“Probably Terry. Maybe she went down to open the door and saw them in the box.”

“Why not your second visitor?” Hogan said. “He shows up with his own champagne then brings up both, but they drink the Taittinger instead.”