Skin Deep (39 page)

They were all wrong. Every one of them.

The Hewson woman had the proper eye structure and cheekbone width, but the brow was too wide and the chin was Munchkin-sharp. Plus her eyes were the wrong hue and her hair had a tawdry fire.

The Murphy woman had a good length of jaw that calibrated closely with the lower half of the computer template. But her brow was ridged and low and she had refused implants in her cheeks, which would have filled her out and approximated the heart shape he had sought.

The same with the others—there was always some element that threw off the balance and fell short of the perfect 1.618 phi ratio of cheek-to-cheek width to crown-to-chin length—all had fallen short, including the Farina woman, whose brow was too wide.

He had Lila's complete portfolio from the days she had modeled hot chocolate to the promo portraits that Harry Dobbs had sent around. He also had some glorious color and black-and-white close-ups like those of Greta Garbo by Clarence Sinclair Bull or Grace Kelly by Yousuf Karsh. Those he had scanned and downloaded into his computer; then using software developed for 3-D facial recognition by security firms, he converted the images into digitalized templates based on approximate calibrations of her skull structure and the dimensions of her eyes, nose, brow, and jawline. That rendered a skeletal frame upon which to create a muscle-based morphing capability to determine where potential candidates were lacking—where flesh should be enhanced by implants, where bone may need to be reduced, where features needed to be fleshed out or reduced to achieve the exact likeness. In the ten years since he had looked for potential candidates, he found only a handful of women who came close—whose faces did not need a suspicious amount of refashioning to satisfy his needs.

And over the decade, he had made some changes but not in his requirements. No, some things were absolute. Changes in technical matters, strategies, and approaches. He had also, of course, made some basic changes in himself, divining the true source of his needs and the solution for gratifying the imp in his soul. A gratification that was nothing short of destiny.

And this Markarian woman was the answer.

It wasn't until one o'clock that Saturday afternoon when Steve finally heard back from Chief Nathan David of the Wellfleet P.D. Because the file photo of Marla Murphy was grainy, Steve had asked for a sharper, more recent likeness. David had placed the request with the family, saying that the case had been reopened. The family obliged and sent him a photo taken shortly before her death. It was the image attached to Chief David's e-mail.

Steve opened it with no expectations. He clicked on his printer then got the Stubbs file to include it. When the printer was finished, he looked at it.

At first he wasn't sure that David had sent a photo of the same woman. So he opened the file and removed the grainy original. In that one she had blond hair. But what caught his attention was that her features looked different. Her nose looked broader and longer, her eyes were more squinty, and her lips were thinner. It was the same woman as in the grainy older shot. But the face in the recent photo was pretty—voluptuous, more balanced in features. She also had red hair.

He picked up the phone and called Chief David and thanked him for the photo and pointed out the difference in the woman's likeness. “I'm just wondering if this is the same woman, Marla Murphy.”

David put the phone down to get the files. Then he returned. “Yeah, it's Marla Murphy.”

Steve strained to keep his voice neutral. “Any report that she had cosmetic surgery?”

“Not that I know of, but I see what you mean. I thought it was just the hair.”

“Can you tell me the next of kin?”

He named the deceased's sister, a Sarah Pratt-Duato.

He thanked David and hung up. For a few seconds he sat there looking at the photos and feeling a strange premonitional awareness build. Then he called the number David had given him for Marla's sister. “Is this Sarah Pratt-Duato?”

“Yes.”

Steve identified himself, said the case had been reopened and that he had a few questions for her.

“I'll do my best.”

He explained the discrepancies in the photographs. “Did your sister have cosmetic surgery? She looks younger and her features don't match up.”

After some hesitation she said, “I suppose it doesn't matter anymore but, yes, she had some face work done. She was in a profession that puts a premium on physical appearance, and she had yielded to the pressure.”

“A news reporter.” Steve felt a small shudder pass through him as if the temperature of the room had dropped twenty degrees.

“Yes. As you can imagine, to make it in that profession you have to move from station to station, and all they seem to hire these days are superstars or pretty girls. And she was not a superstar.”

“Of course. And what procedures exactly did she have done?”

“The usual for women her age—Restylane injections, eyelid work, abrasion therapy. She also had a nose job even though I don't think she needed one.”

Steve's mouth was suddenly dry. “Do you know when she had the cosmetic surgery?”

“A few weeks before her…her
murder
.” She gave emphasis to the word.

He named the approximate dates.

“Yes, about then. I don't remember exactly since she kept it quiet until I saw her and it was obvious. Of course, in her business, nobody wants to know. It's just the image that's for sale.”

“Sure.”

“I'd like to add that my sister did not commit suicide and wasn't into any perversions as reported.”

“I'm sure.”

“Thank you, and I hope you get the so-and-so.”

“One more question if you don't mind. Do you know the name of the surgeon?”

“She never said.”

Steve thanked her, put the phone back onto the cradle, and just sat there looking at the last photograph of Marla Murphy before she was strangled with a black stocking.

She looked like Dana with red hair.

“I love your hair.”

Aaron Monks opened the door to the black BMW to let Dana inside. He had arrived at three o'clock that Saturday dressed in cream—chinos, windbreaker, matching shirt, light shoes. Because it was a cool afternoon, Dana had on slacks and carried a fleece-lined jacket and cap for the ride.

Aaron drove them to the marina where Cho and Pierre met them on the
Fair Lady
. She joked about her being his own Eliza Doolittle.

“Yes,” he said, and chuckled politely.

The harbor was overcast, so they sat in the aft salon where Aaron put out some appetizers and a bucket of champagne. The cabin doors were left open for the view.

Aaron was particularly animated, like a kid on an outing. He made small talk. He did ask if she had kept her promise not to reveal their date, and she had. Not even Lanie knew. Especially Lanie who would have told everybody in greater Boston, probably called the News Seven hotline. So she wouldn't have to make something up, she had turned off her cell phone.

They took their drinks as the boat pulled into the harbor. Dana loved the Boston skyline, which looked like a miniature in shades of gray against the dark clouds. She hoped it wouldn't rain. Aaron said it was not in the forecast. In fact it was only a passing cold front and clear all the way down the eastern seaboard. He'd be heading that way the next day for Martinique.

The boat moved south toward Cape Cod at a high speed. It was a very powerful boat that made for an exhilarating ride.

In about an hour they passed Plymouth Harbor where the
Mayflower
had landed. But instead of heading northeast toward the lower Cape, Pierre put the boat on a course toward the canal. He cut the speed and they passed under the Sagamore Bridge, then the Bourne Bridge, and out to open water, passing Falmouth and Woods Hole on the right. Aaron kept up a running commentary about some of the places they were passing.

At a couple of points on the trip Dana asked where they were going. Each time Aaron acted mysterious, saying “You'll see.”

They passed a series of islands in the Elizabeth chain. Aaron pointed out Naushon and several smaller ones all owned by the Forbes family. Then they passed Pasque Island, which was covered mostly by poison ivy, and Penikese where a reform school was located. Then Cuttyhunk, which was open to the public. To the east lay Martha's Vineyard, its lights twinkling like fireflies against the clouds. They continued westward toward a low-lying hump that emerged from the surface like the back of some prodigious sea creature.

“Homer's Island,” he said. “Known as the exclamation point at the end of the Elizabeth chain.”

“What's there?”

“Vita Nova. A place I've leased.”

As they grew closer, Dana made out lights of the harbor and buildings along the ridge beyond. They continued along the northern flank where large gracious estates hugged the bluffs.

After several minutes, they pulled into Buck's Cove above which Aaron pointed to Vita Nova, a large dark mansion that sat high on a bluff overlooking the
U
-shaped cove and the large dock where they tied up. At the end of the dock was a wooden staircase that led up to the house. Except for a small dinghy, no other boats were in dock and none moored in the cove.

“Where are your friends?”

“They're already here.”

“Oh, island residents.”

“Some are, and others will arrive by ferry on the other side. Cars aren't allowed on the island, so everybody gets around by golf-cart taxis. It's quite charming.”

“But I thought you'd said there's only one ferry a day that comes in the morning.”

“They're coming by private ferry.”

“Oh.”

Steve called Dana, but she wasn't home. Nor did she answer her cell phone. He left a message to call him as soon as possible.

He stared at the blowups of Corrine Novak in disbelief. The last shot before her death showed a red-haired younger woman with tighter skin, more fetching open eyes, a chiseled nose, bee-stung lips, a smooth, tapered jaw, and other differences he couldn't put his finger on. It may have been the lighting and angle differences, but she could have been Dana's sister.

It was a little past one and he was certain that Captain Ralph Modesky was not at his office at the Cobbsville P.D. But he called anyway. A desk sergeant named Eames answered. Steve identified himself and said it was urgent that he reach him. The sergeant said that he thought Captain Modesky was at a luncheon. “Then, Sergeant Eames, I'll need his cell phone in addition to his home number.”

Steve heard hesitation. The sergeant probably shared the same small-town mind-set that they were not going to be pushed around by the big blue bullies from Beantown.

“I'm not sure Captain Modesky will appreciate a call at this time. It's a public event.”

“So is the
New Hampshire Union Leader, The Boston Globe,
and every other news organ in New England should word get out that a desk sergeant held up the investigation of serial murders.”

Eames read off the numbers.

On the second ring, Steve reached Modesky, who let him know he was at a muckety-mucks function. “I'll be quick. It's about the Novak case.” He explained the differences in the woman's photographs. “Do you recall if she had ever had cosmetic surgery?”

“Is that important?”

“It might be.”

“I can't imagine why. Yeah, I think her father said something about that.”

“You're saying she had some face work done.”

“That's what I said. So what's the problem?”

“It wasn't mentioned in the autopsy report.”

“Because it wasn't relevant to the cause of death. Is that it?”

“Not quite. The autopsy chart that asks for scars, blemishes, et cetera. They're filled in with
none
.”

There was a gaping silence. “Lieutenant, nose jobs are done inside, through the nostrils, so nothing was there to pick up, and she died by strangulation so nobody went looking up her nose.”

“Uh-huh, but from the photos it looks like she had some work done on her eyes, plus her lips look plumped up in the later photo.”

Modesky made an exasperated sigh in Steve's ear. “I don't know, Lieutenant Markarian. Maybe the plastic doc was very good. Maybe the M.E. missed the scar. Most likely he didn't and just dismissed it as irrelevant to the case and entered
none,
okay?”

“You're probably right.”

“Look, Lieutenant Markarian, if you're saying we have the wrong photos, you're in gross error, you got that? I know we may appear to you like the Mayberry sheriff's office up here, but those are the same woman, Corrine Novak. Nobody messed up. Nobody mis-IDed her. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Modesky clicked off.
I know they're the same woman
. And another Dana look-alike.

While Pierre and Cho finished the boat operations, Aaron led Dana up the stairs.

He chatted like a tour guide about the island and how because of the Gulf Stream some exotic tropical fish occasionally showed up. In fact, a couple of years ago there was an infestation of a rare Caribbean jellyfish right here in Buck's Cove. He also explained how for years he had been leasing the mansion as both a summer home and an offsite office, that the original owners gave him permission to convert some basement rooms to a surgical suite.

They entered from the front and into a voluminous and stately foyer with a large mahogany staircase leading to the second floor.

He took her for a quick tour of the first floor. On the right was a huge living room with a large marble fireplace and upholstered chairs and sofas arranged on Oriental rugs. The water-side windows overlooked a darkening infinity broken up by the distant lights of Martha's Vineyard.

The kitchen, a large open space, occupied a rear corner of the house so that dinners could be prepared with an ocean view. He went to the refrigerator for more champagne. Dana could still feel the drinks from the boat ride, but she agreed to a short glass.

While Aaron got the drinks, she peeked into the adjacent dining room, which had a large table with place settings for ten in elegant white china with gold trim. But as in the kitchen nothing appeared to be in preparation for a dinner party. No fresh flowers, no serving pans. In fact, a thin layer of dust had settled on the dishes. Perhaps the caterer hadn't arrived yet. Or maybe the food was going to be boated in with a serving staff.

“When is everybody arriving?” she asked, moving back into the kitchen.

Aaron checked his watch. “Soon.” He handed her a glass of champagne.

She took a tiny sip.

“And before they do, I want you to see this first.” He led her across the kitchen to a door that opened onto a flight of stairs going down. “This way.”

She held on to the handrail as she descended because she was beginning to feel spacey.

Below Aaron flicked a switch, lighting up a full cellar that had been converted into a mini-clinic replete with a full operating room with large overhead lights, steel cabinets, scrub sinks, oxygen tanks, cases of medical equipment, IV stands, and closets with medical supplies. Two recovery rooms were down the hall as well as a small conference room and an office. Landscape photos punctuated the walls.

He led them into his office. “It's because of the clientele,” he explained. “For the lack of a better expression, famous faces who prefer total discretion, which is what brings us here. The famously private.”

“Where the paparazzi can't find them.” She sat in a chair facing him at his desk.

“Exactly. Because of its location, they can spend their recovery here instead of going to some faraway resort. Plus the island has catering services, so it's more like a vacation.”

On the wall above his head was an abstract sepia drawing that she had seen before. “That's the same picture that's hanging in your other office.”

“Yes.”

“Is it Japanese?”

“No, I did that.”

“You did?” There was something haunting in the image—something vaguely familiar just below the level of consciousness. “A plastic surgeon and artist.”

“I think every plastic surgeon should be something of an artist, don't you agree? That they should have an aesthetic vision of what they want to achieve?”

“Yes.” Upstairs she heard some footsteps. “I think your other guests are arriving.”

“It's probably Cho and Pierre.” He glanced at his watch again. “We still have time.”

Dana raised her glass to her mouth then put it down. She was feeling light-headed.

Aaron's eyes seemed large and intense all of a sudden. “Remember you once asked me if I thought there were universals of beauty—elements that cut across cultures?”

She nodded. “I think it was a silly question, actually.”

“On the contrary. There are universal ideals of beauty. You see it in the animal kingdom, in courting rituals of birds all the way up to the great apes. Creatures are drawn to mates who possess traits indicative of strong survival abilities. You're a science teacher. It's pure Darwin.”

“Uh-huh.” She heard the words but was having difficulty following the train of thought.

“The same with people. In the name of survival and evolutionary progress I think we are genetically coded to be drawn to people with certain facial traits—large, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, clear skin, a short nose, short square chin. Look in any fashion magazine, and you'd see what I mean. And that's true for men and women. What we consider beauty is a genetic code for evolutionary advantage. Are you following me?”

“Mmmm. But doesn't culture shape that?”

“You mean do cultural values affect our perception of beauty? Of course, but there's a set of facial features which is universally appealing irrespective of the culture of the perceiver. I won't bore you, but my point is that beauty has basics—the golden ratio we talked about. Think of the great Hollywood beauties or supermodels. Each is a subtle variation of the phi archetype.”

“Uh-huh.” But her brain had turned to fuzz.

“Of course, there are subjective individual ideals—what psychologists call imagoes. Do, you know the term?”

“Imagoes. No.”

“We all have them,” he said. “They're the embedded ideal of one's parents.”

A strange intensity had lit in his face.

“For some individuals, the imago parent is the prototype which determines the way he perceives himself and others. Some say it's an innate force second only to the longing for God—a yearning underlying all others.”

She nodded, but was having a hard time concentrating on what he was saying.

“Perhaps because it's always been an unattainable goal.”

“What is?”

“To become one with the imago, to lose oneself in it, to become totally absorbed by it.” His hands moved to the keyboard again. “For the rare individual, it's the ultimate fulfillment. The ultimate destiny.”

She tried to stand but flopped back down. “I don't feel well.”

“It's just the blood rushing to your head.”

No. I'm feeling faint, like I'm going to pass out.

“Here,” he said. He tapped the keys then turned the screen for her to see.

For a moment as the image came into view she had no reaction as her mind told her she was peering into a mirror.

Then it occurred to her that staring out from the monitor was her own face. And she had long, fluffy, coppery hair.

He grinned at her. “See?”