Skin Deep (14 page)

“Seems our Professor Cute Butt's got a bunch of flags on his report card,” Reardon said, and gave Steve a nod of acknowledgment.

Around the conference table with Steve were Neil, Sergeants Marie Dacey, Lenny Vaughn, and Kevin Hogan, plus two investigators from Jamaica Plain. Since Steve's return from Hawthorne, they had probed Pendergast's past and come up with more particulars, which animated Chief Reardon, who had been feeling the heat from the D.A.'s office because the Boston homicide rate was at a twelve-year high. The summer hadn't even officially begun and the number of murders in Boston was at thirty-nine, seven ahead of last year's pace. And the mayor, the statehouse, the media, and the public were demanding that something be done.

“Besides the sexual harassment charges, he's got a prior at Clark University in Worcester where he used to teach summer courses. He was released for trading grades for sex.”

“Always good to find a teacher with standards,” Steve said, feeling buoyed by the finds. “What's interesting is that he had targeted one particular female, a twenty-one-year-old redhead.”

“Is that right?” Neil said.

A few hours earlier Neil had attended Terry Farina's funeral, so he, too, welcomed the news. Steve handed him a folder. “He also has a five-year-old charge for a lewd and lash in New Hampshire for sex with a minor of seventeen, a student at another summer course he taught at UNH. He had claimed the girl told him she was twenty. The charge was later dropped.”

“We looked into the suspension and talked to the dean,” Dacey said. “What he'd do was drop notes or e-mails to females, complimenting them on their sexy outfits, saying things like he'd like to get to know them better, then invite them to concerts and movies.”

“He also had a habit of using sexual language in class,” Vaughn added. “He'd read sexually provocative passages from books, or make sexual metaphors in his composition classes.” Vaught read from his notes: “‘Good writing begins with a sharp focus—like sex. You're working to a climactic effect, creating ripples of associations.'”

“Subtle,” Steve said.

“What else do we know about him?” Neil asked.

“Single, divorced for about fifteen years. No kids. Been at Hawthorne for twenty-three. Voted Instructor of the Year in '94 then again in '98,” Steve continued. “His sexual harassment suspension expired last week, the end of the academic year.”

“So, he'll be back in class in September.”

“Right.”

“Another thing,” Reardon said, glancing at his notes. “Detective Hogan talked to a Marsha Verchovny a.k.a. Jinxy who said that Terry Farina told her that she'd gone out with him but wasn't sure how often. She also wasn't looking for a relationship.”

“So we've got a guy with some prior sexual improprieties, but no violence. He frequented the strip club, was taken by the victim, and dated her at least once. He lines up better than anyone else we've got so far,” Steve said. “But what's the motive?”

“Yeah, Bunky, what's the motive?”

From nowhere that voice was back, like Jiminy Cricket with fangs.

“Seeing if they can fill you in?”

Steve squeezed it down.

“How about he goes to collect on his options?” Neil said. “They begin to get sexual, she turns him down, he loses it, and chokes her.”

“So she's naked before he kills her?” Steve said.

Neil looked at him. “As opposed to what?”

“To him stripping her after he kills her. If they were consensual, then the rage might have surfaced while they were being sexual.”

“How about he's impotent? Which may explain the porn sites: he's trying to see if he can get aroused.”

Impotent? Not getting much action of late, but the old mojo's still working.

“So you're saying he comes in, he gets her to do a little private strip, but he can't get it up so he murders her.”

“Why not?”

Reardon was studying Steve. “I think you've got a problem with that.” It was a flat statement to draw Steve out.

“Sounds logical, except what little profile we have says he looks more like a guy who likes women than hates them.”

“That's my feeling,” Dacey said.

Sergeant McCarthy from J.P.P.D. picked up a photo of Xena. “With all due respect, I think she could have aroused a dead man.”

That got a chuckle from the others. “Whatever. He's all we got,” Neil said. “I think we should check him out. Might also want to get a paper for his computers.”

“Already in process. Also his home PC and any laptop. We're waiting for the court magistrate on that.”

Reardon checked his watch. “We called the English Department, and according to the secretary he's in his office until around five—which gives you time if you hustle.” He directed the statement to Steve and Neil.

They got up to leave.

“By the way,” Reardon said, “the secretary says he's leaving the country next week for a month. So if he's our man, we're going to have to show it fast, because we don't have the funds to chase him all over Europe.”

“I haven't even laid eyes on the son of a bitch,” Neil said, “but I've got a gut for him.”

“Let's hope you're right.”
Please.
And for the second time today Steve drove to Hawthorne State.

The English Department was located on the fourth floor of an old redbrick building across the street from a student dormitory. An office roster led them to Pendergast's office. Steve tapped at the door, and the man from the Web site photo opened it. “Professor Pendergast?”

“Yes.” He gave them a slightly annoyed look.

When Steve introduced himself and Neil and flashed his badge, Pendergast flinched. “Sorry to disturb you, but we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“What about?”

“The death of Terry Farina.”

Pendergast blanched and Steve's heart surged with promise.

Pendergast pulled open the door so that they could enter. He glanced down the halls to see if anyone had noticed, then closed the door behind them. “Have a seat.” He nearly stumbled over himself setting out chairs for Steve and Neil.

It was a long narrow office with bookcases on two walls and a rear window facing a tall building. Pendergast took refuge behind his desk, which floated a flat screen monitor containing a Word text. Leaning against the bookcase was a red Trek road bike with about ninety-seven gears on the rear wheel. Tacked to a corkboard over his desk was a photograph of him in bright riding gear, straddling his bike with mountain peaks in the distance. On the wall was a plaque for an Excellence in Teaching award.

Pendergast's age was listed as fifty-one, but he had a tight, smooth, boyish face and thick brown hair that made him appear younger. It also helped that he was about six two and trim and wore jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. He had a silver hoop earring in his right ear and he wore wire-rimmed bifocals that made him look like a fashion model trying to appear scholarly. Steve had little difficulty imagining him charming the clothes off coeds. As they spoke, he worked at the image of him stocking-strangling Terry Farina.

“What's this all about again?”

“I'm not sure if you've seen the news, but a woman named Terry Farina was found dead on June third, and her death has been ruled a homicide. We're wondering if you knew her.”

Pendergast started to blink. “What's the name again?”

“Terry Farina.”

Pendergast made a wincing frown as if trying to process the name. It was a lousy attempt that nurtured a joyful butterfly flutter in Steve's chest.

“Terry Farina?” Pendergast said, hedging to see how much they knew.

“Yes. And I hope you don't mind, but we'd like to tape-record this, which is standard procedure.” Recorders were useful for detecting inconsistencies since, in Steve's experience, most people were terrible liars. They also allowed an investigator to look for facial tics and body language clues to possible deception. And Pendergast had several.

He looked at the tape recorder and his eyes fluttered as if the air were smoky. “I've been teaching for nearly twenty-five years and have had a lot of students.”

“Of course,” Steve said. Pendergast was playing coy, but his forehead began to glisten. “She was an exotic dancer who performed at the Mermaid Lounge in Revere.” Steve laid two nude Xena shots in front of him.

Pendergast's eyes saucered. “She was murdered? How awful.”

Steve could not spot a newspaper on the guy's desk, but if he was near a television in the last two days, he could not have missed the story.

“We're just wondering if you knew her,” Neil said.

“If you're asking if she was a student of mine, I have to say that I don't remember her in any of my courses. I could check my grade sheets.” He started to get up to check a file cabinet.

It was a pathetic attempt, and Steve gave Neil a look that said,
Hold back.
“No, that's okay. We checked with Admissions. She was never a student here.”

“You're asking me if I knew her from her professional life.” He blinked luxuriously at the photos. “Well, I'll be honest with you, it's the stage name I knew her by, which is why I was thrown.”

“Sure, no problem. And we appreciate your candor. So you knew her professionally.”

“Yes. As a dancer.” Then he made a little chuff. “And, you know, I'm no different than any other red-blooded guy who likes beautiful women.”

“Of course,” Neil said, his head bobbing encouragement. “From the Mermaid Lounge, right?”

“Yes.”

“She was pretty popular up there,” Steve said, and shot Neil a look to take it.

“Yeah, we were up there the other day,” Neil said, working the regular-guy-bond routine. “It's a pretty hot spot, got some real babes working the pole.”

Pendergast nodded. “It's a nice classic club where you can order a wine and watch exotic dance artists.”

Exotic dance artists.
He spoke of the Mermaid Lounge as if it were Cirque du Soleil. “How often would you say you patronize the Mermaid?”

“Not that often.”

“Once a week? Once a month?”

“Maybe two or three times a month. I'm not exactly a regular.”

“And when would you say was the last time you were there?”

“I don't know exactly. A few weeks ago.”

Yes!
Steve thought. “Well, we checked the club records. As you know there's a lot of credit card fraud going around.” Steve laid the printouts on top of the photos. “Is this your signature?”

Pendergast had not expected that. “Yes, that's my signature.”

“Uh-huh. Well, if you take a look the last entry for your Visa card shows that you were there on Thursday, May thirty-first, the last night she performed and two nights before she was killed.”

Alarm filled Pendergast's eyes. “Well, I guess maybe I was.”

“Would you say that was the last time you saw her?”

“Yes. I left a few minutes after her show.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“No buddies with you or a female companion?”

“No.”

“Can you tell us how well you knew her?”

“Not well at all. Just casual chitchat at the club. She was very friendly and talked to everybody.”

“Of course. I hear she took questions from the stage, and she was pretty funny.”

“Yes, she was very entertaining.”

While they spoke, Pendergast's computer monitor automatically switched onto an image of an old painting of a woodland setting with a woman with wild and flaming red hair on a white horse and a knight walking beside her, holding her hand. A ripple passed through the image, assimilating motion. Another passed through Steve's chest. “Nice screen saver. What's the image?”

“Oh, it's called
La Belle Dame sans Merci,
by Walter Crane, a nineteenth-century British painter.”

“‘
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried
—
“La Belle Dame sans Merci; Hath thee in thrall!
”'”

“Wow, you know Keats. I'm impressed.”

“I minored in English.” Steve glanced back down at the photo of Terry Farina, her hair aflame and one leg wrapped around the pole. In a flash, he saw Dana.

“Did you ever see her after-hours, you know, go out for a drink or dinner?” Neil asked.

“I think the dancers aren't allowed to socialize with patrons.”

“Yeah, sure, but you know what I mean. You see a babe who's available, and no club rules are going to get in the way, right?”

“Well, actually, I think they can get fired if word gets back. I had no romantic relationship with her.”

Neil persisted. “But did you ever have contact with her outside of the club?”

Pendergast shot Steve a look. He probably suspected that they had talked to the other dancers. In a fit of blinking he said, “Look, I want to be perfectly honest with you gentlemen. I'm not going to lie. We went out to dinner once.”

Steve looked at the computer monitor, wondering how fast they could move to get a court warrant for the cyber guys to check the hard drive.
Jesus, this is looking good.
“Have you ever been to her home?”

“Her home?” Pendergast's voice hit a nail. “I'm not even sure where she lived.”

Steve studied his face but could detect no betraying micro-expressions. “Jamaica Plain.”

“Oh, yeah.” Pendergast dropped his face to his watch.

“It's a standard question, but I'm wondering if you can tell us where you were last Saturday between five
P.M.
and midnight.”

“Saturday? I was home.”

“Any way to verify that?”

“Are you saying I'm a suspect?” His features were stricken with fear.

Oh, yeah,
Steve thought. “No, just a person of interest.”

“I have no way to verify it. I didn't see or talk to anyone. But I'm telling you I was home wrapping up work before my trip.”

“About what time did you go to bed?”

“I don't know, a little after nine I guess.” He checked his watch again. “I really have to go.”

Steve could have continued for hours, but they had no legal justification for watching Pendergast squirm. He nodded at Neil. “Well, I think that's it for now. We'll probably like to talk to you again. Thank you for your time. You said you're taking a trip?”

“Yes, next week I'm going to a conference in Wales, then I'll spend some time traveling.”

“How long?” Neil asked.

“A month.”

Neil nodded. “I'm wondering if we could have a DNA sample from you. It's a standard request of all witnesses.”

That put Pendergast on guard. A refusal would make him appear all the more suspicious. He agreed, and Neil produced a swab and baggie and asked him to scrape the inside of his mouth. Then he slipped the bag into his briefcase and moved to the window. “Nice view.”

“It used to be until they put up that eyesore of a building. Once we could see the Boston skyline.”

Neil picked up a pair of field glasses from a shelf of books and focused out the window.

“There used to be beautiful marshes out there.”

“Oh, wow! It really pulls it in.”

Pendergast watched Neil. “They're great for bird-watching.” He checked his watch. “I really have to go.”

“So do we,” Neil said, then he swung the glasses toward the building across the street. “What's the building?”

“A student dorm.”

“Men's dorm? Women's dorm?”

“It's coed.”

Neil turned the glasses toward the windows of the building. “They never had coed dorms when I went to school. Hell, I would have killed for that.”