Skin Deep (10 page)

“When you're settled, we'll schedule another appointment. Meanwhile, we'll both think it over.”

Christ!
In her ambivalence he had decided she was too flakey to operate on. “Okay, then let's make another appointment.”

“Okay.” Monks picked up his phone. “May Ann, when can we see Mrs. Markarian again?” He nodded as May Ann checked. “September sixth? Is that the earliest?”

That was three months from now.

“Okay, if that's the best we can do.” He hung up. “Sorry. We're booked solid until then.”

Dana felt as if the wind had been punched out of her. “I was hoping to get this taken care of while I'm still on summer vacation.”

“Isn't there a chance of a cancellation or something?” Steve asked.

“If there is we'll call.” He made a slight shift in his body to say the consultation was over.

“Is it possible we could meet sooner? Please, I think I can decide in a day or two.”

Monks put his hands together as if praying and brought them up to his chin as he studied her. Suddenly she felt a tinge of desperation. She had not yet turned in her resignation and was scheduled to return to Carleton High in the fall.

“It's out of the ordinary, but perhaps we could meet after-hours. I often work late, especially since I'm going on vacation the month of August. I'll check with May Ann.”

Dana felt a wave of relief and thanked him.

“Before you go, I'd like to take some photos of you, if you don't mind.”

She took that as a good sign and agreed. And he led them to the next office, where a young woman stood Dana against a dark backdrop and took several shots of her face in profile, straight on, and at different angles.

As she and Steve left the office, two thoughts kept colliding in her head: that she was indeed a victim of the makeover culture. And that she no longer gave a damn.

They walked toward the car in silence. Finally Steve said, “So what do you think?”

“What do I think? I'll tell you what I think. I think this was a setup.”

“What was a setup?”

“His refusal to operate. You don't want me to have anything done, so you called ahead and told him I was indecisive about what I wanted.”

He looked at her in shock. “What? That's bullshit. I don't even know the guy.”

“I saw the way you were smirking in there. You could have contacted him, said you didn't support me but let me come in anyway to make an ass out of myself. You're also afraid you're going to have to pay for it, which is why you looked so distracted in there.”

“I never spoke to the guy in my life. He sent you home because you can't make up your mind. So don't turn it on me. And I don't give a damn who pays for it.”

“Then why did you look so bloody miserable?”

“How I looked has nothing to do with this.”

She flashed a hard glare at him but could not find a comeback, just anger.

Maybe he hadn't called. Nonetheless, she felt a free-floating anger carry her toward the car. Without a word, Steve unlocked the doors and they got in.

For twenty minutes they rode in prickly silence until Steve dropped her off. “Look, I'm sorry,” she said when they arrived at the house.

“Accepted. And I didn't call the guy.”

“Okay, I believe you.” Then before she got out of the car she said, “By the way, do you think he's gay?”

“It had occurred to me. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

When he awoke that Tuesday morning, Steve's brain was throbbing from his nightmare. It stayed with him throughout the visit with the surgeon and into the unit meeting later that morning. What added to the discomfort was the thought that his subconscious mind had transformed Dana into Terry Farina. But only when Dana had asked that question did he realize what may have stalked the shadows behind that identity swap: the fear that Dana was contemplating her postop social life.

“I don't think the stockings belonged to her,” Steve said.

Captain Reardon's eyebrows arched. “Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that it's a brand that doesn't match any others she owned, and she had an extensive collection. Crime lab says they'd never been worn and there's no record of purchase.”

“So where'd they come from?”

“The killer.”

The unit meeting had convened in a conference room on the second floor of the homicide division. Because the investigation had kicked into turbo, half a dozen detectives were working twelve-hour days. Steve sat between Captain Reardon and Neil French. Also present were three other Boston detectives, Sergeants Marie Dacey, Kevin Hogan, and Lenny Vaughn, who had done telephone and credit card checks and interviews with neighbors on Farina's street. Also an investigator from the Jamaica Plain station, one from the state police, a crime lab technician, and an assistant D.A. named Mark Roderick.

Terry Farina's death had officially been ruled a homicide, and later Roderick would hold a news conference to inform the public and to ask people to call the Crime Stoppers Tipline with any information. By this time tomorrow, newspapers would be in the racks and on the driveways and the phones would be jumping with calls from the media, other police departments, people with dead-end tips, and a few nutcake suggestions about Albert DeSalvo coming back from the dead.

“So you're saying the killer brought them as a gift,” Dacey said.

Steve nodded, determined to plow through the muck in his mind and thrust himself completely into the investigation. He had nothing to hide and no tangible reason to suffer guilt. Except that his heart was throbbing so forcefully that he feared it was visible, like a frog's throat.

But, he did have something to hide—that he had placed a call to the victim and maybe dropped off her sunglasses And until he worked it out on his own, that would remain in the shadows. “Except there was no packaging in the trash or anywhere in the apartment.”

“You mean he brought them for the sole purpose of killing her?” Dacey said.

“That's my guess. And given her outfit, she expected him.”

“The sexy underwear,” Vaughn said.

“And the makeup.” The crime scene close-ups showed that she was wearing lipstick, eyeliner, and eye shadow. “She appears to have dressed in anticipation of a sexual encounter.” And his mind flashed with images of that purple monster head hanging above him as she forced herself on him. In his head he shouted,
No!
And like a bubble the image blinked away. “He could have ditched the packaging anywhere in the city.”

“But Beals claims Farina said nothing about having a date.”

“Maybe it was a last-minute thing.” Steve felt a discomforting ripple through the layers.

What the hell are you doing, guy?

Another voice cut in.
Got nothing to sweat.

Yeah, like the snake eating its own tail.

Steve pushed ahead. “You saw the report on her kitchen drawers and cabinets. Her mail, the
Boston Globe,
magazines—it was all piled out of sight. The back hall table was stacked with more papers, bath towels balled up on the closet floor. She was in a rush to tidy the place.”

“I noticed that, too,” Dacey said. “But she was also going away so maybe she didn't want a mess to come home to.”

“True, but why stuff your mail in a dish cabinet unless you're in a rush?”

“So, you think he contacted her at the last minute.”

“Yeah, to say he was coming over, which explains why she never told Beals or had it on her calendar.”

“But the records show she received two calls from Katie Beals at 11:07
A.M.
and 2:14
P.M.
Beals confirms each,” Dacey said.

Steve nodded. “Text message or e-mail. He could have sent a message just before arriving then erased it after he killed her. Her laptop was on the floor, her cell phone on the night table.”

“That's a little far-fetched.” It was Neil's first comment of the meeting. Up to this point he just sat and listened, his mouth working a coffee stirrer.

“The other possibility,” Dacey said, “is that he blocked caller ID, hit *67.”

Steve said nothing and guzzled some cold coffee. His headache felt as if it were cleaving his brain in two.

“Anyone familiar with Microsoft Outlook could delete e-mails without a trace,” said Kevin Hogan. “And you're right, he could have erased a text message from her cell.”

“But if her friends and family say she wasn't seeing anyone,” Reardon said, “who the hell was the guy she let in to have sex with?”

“Maybe someone she had just met,” Dacey threw out.

“We don't even have a decent time line. Ottoman gave us twelve hours,” Neil said.

“I think we do have a time line,” Steve said. “I think she was killed between 5:47 and 10:00
P.M.
And the killer turned on the AC and bed massage to throw things off.”

“How the hell you come up with that?” Neil asked.

“Because one of the things stuffed in her flatware drawer was a UPS envelope. I called to confirm. It was delivered and signed by her at 5:47 on the second.” Steve pulled it out of his briefcase and laid it on the table.

Reardon inspected the package. “How come nobody picked up on this yesterday?”

A long moment of silence filled the room as heads jerked around the table. “We were still sorting things out,” Steve said.

Reardon shook his head in dismay. “Keep going.”

“I was in the apartment yesterday around six and the room still gets sun. But after seven, it drops behind the buildings and the place is pretty dark. If they were in the bedroom doing stuff, they'd have a light on to see. Plus the killer would need light to set up the autoerotica scene.”

“If they were having sexual foreplay, they'd most likely do it in the dark.”

“Sexual foreplay implies a main event. And there was none….”

My, my, aren't we glib.
The voice was back.

“…No traces of semen on the bedding or on her or in her. No saliva or strange DNA or hairs—all of which suggests that the visitor remained either fully or partially clothed and was wearing an outfit that left no fiber evidence—some synthetic material—or was dressed in plain white cotton like her bedsheets. Whatever, he took care not to leave a trace.”

“Report says her jewelry wasn't touched and a hundred and fifty dollars in cash was still in her handbag,” Vaughn said. “So no robbery and she wasn't raped. I don't see a motive.”

“Sexual obsession,” Steve said. The words just popped out.

“But where's the gratification?” Vaughn asked.

“He could have masturbated,” Dacey said.

“Except no ejaculate was found on the vic's body or at the crime scene.”

Dacey nodded. “He could have done it in a tissue and either took it with him or sent it down the toilet.”

Is that it?
the voice asked. “Possibly,” Steve said, and punched it down again.

“What about the ex-boyfriend?” Neil asked.

“Checks out,” Dacey said. “He was at a sporting event in Scranton over the weekend. A cable station video confirms that.”

“I want to backtrack,” said Reardon. “If the killer needed light to see, how come they were reportedly off?” He directed the question to Steve.

“Well…,” Steve began.

Well, what, Bunky?

“I guess he screwed up,” Steve said. “He turned them off when he left. If she committed suicide, she would have done it with the lights on.”

“So, why'd he turn them off?”

“A subconscious impulse to cover up his crime.” He uttered the syllables as if he were chewing on gravel.

“Seems a major screwup for someone so clever as you claim,” Neil said.

“It was an emotionally charged moment. Even a paranoid control freak doesn't always think clearly. He's scrambling to get away and also forgets stuff.”

Jesus, man!

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Hogan said. “He forgets to turn off the living-room lights, which Beals and the landlady say were on when they entered. And you say it's getting dark in there around seven.”

The room fell silent as the speculations sank in. Then heads began to bob.

“I like it,” Reardon said.

“Me, too,” Dacey said.

The others agreed. Neil did not react, just chewed his plastic stick. But his words from yesterday chimed in Steve's brain:
“You seem to have all the answers.”

Breaking the silence was Mark Roderick, the assistant D.A., reviewing his notes. “So, you're saying that he e-mails, calls, or text messages to say he's dropping by—possibly blocking caller ID so it doesn't show on phone records. She straightens out the place in a blitz, gets dressed. He shows up but not to go out since she's leaving the first thing the next day. There's some kind of sexual interlude although no sexual ejaculate is found. Suddenly for some reason he pulls out the stocking and strangles her. Maybe erases any communications and sets up the accident scene.”

“Something like that.”

“But why? What triggered a lover or would-be lover to suddenly strangle her with his own gift stockings?”

“That's what we have to find out,” Steve said.

“We should also check on the stockings,” Vaughn said. “What local stores carry them, and recent mail orders from the manufacturer to the Commonwealth.”

Steve nodded.

“But didn't any of her friends or family know about the guy?” Dacey asked.

Steve looked toward Charlie Reardon. “Captain?”

“This might help,” Reardon said, and opened a folder. “It came in late yesterday afternoon from the computer lab.”

He held up two glossy color blowups of Terry Farina posing in big red hair, a thong, and black stockings. Steve had seen them yesterday, but not the other people in the room.

“Her stage name was Xena Lee.” Then Reardon looked at Neil. “Did you know she was a stripper?”

“No, not a clue.”

“But you knew her, right?”

“Yeah, but only from the health club.”

Neil stared at the photos, looking as if he had just spit up something. Steve knew what he was thinking: that this was not the nice pretty woman who led his workout class but a big-haired Jezebel who took her clothes off for guys at a bar in Revere.

“Where did you get these?”

“Her laptop. They're from the Web site of the Mermaid Lounge, where she performed.”

Reardon passed around printouts of “Xena Lee” in different provocative poses—rearing her thonged bottom at the camera, flashing her breasts but blocking her genitals with one hand, straddling the pole while making an open-mouthed come-take-me look at the camera. Because of the heavy makeup, the startled red mane, the lighting and angles, and the wild cat expressions, it was hard to reconcile these images with those in the backyard shots of her and her sister. In one printout, she was pressed against the pole wearing only thigh-high black stockings.

“Looks like what she was strangled with,” Dacey said.

“It hasn't got the same fancy lace top, but close enough,” Vaughn said.

“Guess the perp's got a thing for black stockings.”

“Looks that way,” Steve said.

“This adds a whole 'nother venue,” Reardon said. “The people who frequent strip joints are all over the social-economic landscape. Also means a higher-than-average number of congenital whackos who may have tattoos from head to foot or look like Kenny dolls with Harvard M.B.A.'s.”

“How often was she stripping?” Dacey asked.

“From the Web site schedule, a couple nights a week, Thursdays and Saturdays. During the day she was full-time at the Kingsbury Club.” Reardon looked at Neil for a response.

“I guess she was good at keeping a secret,” Neil said.

Reardon nodded. “We called the Beals woman before the meeting and she had no idea.”

“Probably not something one boasts if she wants to keep her day job,” Steve said in Neil's defense.

“Cyber's also putting together a list of people she exchanged e-mails with,” Reardon said. “Unfortunately, she had a program that automatically deletes e-mails after three days, except for those designated to save.”

The meeting went on for a few more minutes. When it was over, Reardon asked Steve to remain behind. Just before Neil filed out behind the others, he muttered to Steve in passing, “Moving to the head of the class, huh?” Then he closed the door before Steve could respond.

Reardon put his hand on Steve's shoulder. “I want to tell you that I'm impressed how you put it all together—the stocking check and time line.”

“Thanks.” Steve was buzzing to leave.

“That's the kind of investigative work I like to see. Things are coming together for you, I take it.”

Steve knew what he meant. “I'm doing fine.” That wasn't true, but that's what came out.

“Good to hear. Lots of people develop drinking problems during times of stress. You're not the first in this department. But I want you to know I'm impressed with your turnaround.”

Steve made an appreciative nod and made a move to the door.

“And this gives you focus and purpose. How are things on the home front?”

Reardon knew Dana only casually, from holiday parties and department events. But it was clear that Reardon admired her. “We're working on it.”