Skin Deep (3 page)

“Because the angle bothers me.” He moved to the bed. “Look at the ligature. All the pressure is on her throat and the veins and carotid arteries along the sides.”

“Yeah, which is how she died.”

With his gloved hand he lifted the plait of hair at the back of her neck to expose the
V
gap made by the stretched stocking. “There's enough room to put my fingers through.”

“So?” Neil said.

“How many hangings have you seen?”

Neil was taken aback by the question. “I don't know. A couple.”

“How many accidentals?”

“What's your point?”

“Look at the bruising on the back of her neck.”

“That's the lividity.”

“Lividity works with gravity—where the blood settles. Look at the bottom of her face where it hangs over. It's purple. This isn't the same color as settled blood. That's trauma.”

Mangini flicked on a penlight and inspected the ligature around the woman's neck. “Could also be an abrasion.”

“Looks like even pressure marks all the way around, which I don't think would happen with the stocking the way it is. There wouldn't be any on that
V
gap, but there is.”

“Only way to know for sure is to have the lab do a cell analysis.”

“We'll put in for that. Also she was wearing a sexy evening dress and a thong—hardly an outfit if she's going to lie here and sex herself. Even if she was, why leave the lights on in the other rooms if she was going to bed?”

“So, what are you saying?” Mangini asked.

“I'm saying I want crime scene to do a full-blown processing because I think someone was with her.”

Neil's face flushed red. “I think maybe you're taking this a little far, Steve.”

Steve nodded Neil to the other side of the room. In a low voice he said, “I understand how you want to wrap this up, but I'm not convinced this is an accident. Even if it is, nothing's been dusted in here. The floor's not been vacced. Nobody's done a rape kit on the body. This is
not
department protocol.”

“Because Mangini was convinced. The techs were convinced. And I'm convinced. She was having a sexual fantasy thing but passed out and suffocated.” He removed the mangled stirrer from his mouth. “This isn't the Portman case.”

“Smooth, Neil.”

Three months before Neil joined the force, Steve had misread a crime scene, incorrectly declaring a suicide. The family had hired a detective who claimed that the investigators had jumped to conclusions and, as a result, the department ended up taking flak from the media. It was shoddy work and the inevitable manifestation of the stress from Steve's alienation from Dana: heavy drinking, showing up late for work or not at all, use of excessive force with suspects. His superiors had reprimanded him, but when the Portman case hit the headlines six months ago, Captain Reardon suspended him for a week.

“I think you're going overboard is all,” Neil said. “Another thing, it's embarrassing for her family.”

“You know the family?”

“No, but you saw the pictures out there—nieces and nephews or whatever. We drag this out and the neighbors outside are gonna want to know what's going on. Then the fucking media will horn in. So let's just wrap this up, okay?”

“We're going to wrap this up, but we're deferring to policies and procedures when cause of death isn't immediately apparent.”

“Everything by the rules, huh?”

“Yeah, especially with someone we know.”

“All the more reason to protect her dignity.”

Steve stared at Neil. A large part of him wanted to do what Neil said—send her to the M.E. and let it go. But in some dark recess of his gut he felt a rustling unease. “I don't know how to say this without saying it, but I'm the lead on this. So, yeah, by the rules.”

Because of their brief partnership, Steve and Neil were still meshing. Reardon had paired them as complements to each other. Steve was the more traditional investigator who used logic, precision, and scientific evidence to reconstruct a crime scene. He was methodical and orderly and took pride in the details and style of his reports. He was also good with people, almost deferential to a fault. Neil, on the other hand, was more gut-intuitive, impulsive, sometimes letting assumptions get ahead of facts. He was also a cunningly effective interrogator, sometimes playacting to manipulate a suspect into spilling his guts. He was good, and they made an effective team. But this was the first time in their partnership that Neil had outright challenged Steve. Maybe because the victim was a mutual acquaintance. Maybe resentment because Neil was older and had been a cop longer, while Steve had rank.

“Look, guys,” Steve said to the others, “we've got some inconsistencies here. So, I want to take this from the top: a full forensic on the body—hands bagged, fingernail clipping, DNA, prints, vaginal swab, blood-typing, semen illumination, fibers, hairs—the works.”

Neil started to leave.

“Where you going?”

He gave Steve a sulky look. “To talk to the landlady.”

“We're going to need some backup for a neighborhood sweep plus an RMV check on all parked cars, the owners talked to.”

The others nodded.

“I also want all phone company records including home and cell and work. Also her laptop settings and e-mail messages preserved and copied. Same with her answering machine and any address books, mail correspondence, and credit card purchases in the last forty-eight hours.” Then Steve added: “And any known boyfriends, past and present.”

He then picked up the telephone by her bed and pressed *69 to get the last incoming call while Neil watched him over his shoulder from the bedside. “The number you are trying to call cannot be reached by this method.”

Neil continued to stare at him, knowing what Steve was doing.

Steve shook his head. “Whoever it was blocked caller ID.”

While the techs got ready to do a full processing, Steve headed out of the room. But before he left he glanced back. Neil was at the bedside looking at the body of Terry Farina. His back was to him, but Steve could swear that Neil made the sign of the cross.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

They were walking down the back stairs to the landlady's apartment.

“I don't know, four or five months ago. How about you?”

“Two or three weeks.” Steve had gotten to know Terry casually from the short class breaks. On occasion they'd meet downstairs at the Dunkin' Donuts eating area in their classroom building, a few times have coffee together. She was in her late thirties and was taking refresher courses because she had decided to attend grad school in the fall. “So, you've never been here before?”

Neil looked over his shoulder at Steve. “No, I've never been here before. I would have told you that.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Neil pulled two aspirin from a tin and dry-swallowed them. “What I know is she broke up with a guy last year then moved down from someplace up north. I still don't believe it, but if it turns out to be personal, he's a lead.”

Steve tapped the door and Officer Abraham led them to the living room where another uniform sat with the landlady, Jean Sabo, and Terry's friend, Katie Beals. Steve explained that they were uncertain of the cause of death and that the interview was voluntary but asked that the women remain confidential about the case. As was policy, they were questioned separately. Steve began with Mrs. Sabo, asking if she had heard anybody upstairs—voices, footsteps, loud sounds—that day over the last twenty-four hours.

“No, but I didn't really pay much attention. Terry was very quiet. Also, I had the television on.” She said she had three sets—one in her bedroom, a small flat screen in the kitchen, and the living-room console. “Besides I was out most of yesterday.”

“About what time did you get home?”

“A little after seven.”

“And you put the TV on?”

“Yes, the kitchen and bedroom. They keep me company while I putter around.”

“And what time did you retire last night?”

“Just after
Law and Order,
ten o'clock.”

“And you remember hearing nothing.”

“No, I heard nothing.” Then she turned toward Neil. “I thought you said it was an accident.” Her hand went to her mouth. “Do you think someone did that to her?”

“We're not exactly sure how she died.”

Steve interviewed her for a few more minutes then let Neil continue while he moved into the kitchen. Katie Beals, a petite, attractive woman of thirty-six, was still fragile from the discovery. Steve explained that although she had already given Sergeant French a statement he wanted her to take him from the top.

“We were going to Vermont for five days. I had to work on Saturday so we were going to leave this morning.”

She explained they were to stay at her parents' place, which jibed with the pen notes on the kitchen calendar upstairs. VT in the Sunday box, Home in the Thursday box.

“I came to pick her up. I rang and rang then called her phone and cell. I could see the light on from outside, but when she didn't answer I went down to Mrs. Sabo.”

“Which light?”

“The living room.”

Steve asked her to describe the condition of the apartment when they entered and to retrace their steps, and if they touched anything or the body. They hadn't, except for the telephone in the dead woman's kitchen to call 911.

“And you didn't touch the body, maybe shake her, feel for a pulse, anything like that?”

“No, no. I could tell she was dead just looking at her. It was just so horrible. I think I just froze and screamed. Jean made the call from the phone in the other room. It's such a blur, but we didn't touch her or anything.”

“How long have you known Terry?”

“Since September. We took an evening class together at Northeastern last year.” She was struggling through her tears to talk. “She was a beautiful, happy person. I don't understand.”

“You think she killed herself?”

“That's what he said.”

“Who?”

“The other detective.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we're not ruling out anything at this point. I know this is a terrible experience for you, but one possibility is that her death was an accident—that she may have died while engaged in autoerotic asphyxiation. Do you know what that is?”

She winced as if not wanting to hear the explanation. “Vaguely.”

“It's a way to heighten sexual pleasure through partial strangulation. I'm sorry to have to ask—and I don't know how close you were—but is this something you think she'd be into?”

“God, I don't think so. I've only known her for a few months, but no…” She trailed off.

“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?”

“No, but she was a fairly private person. She said she'd broken up with a guy last year before moving here. I think she just wanted to remain unattached for a while.”

“Do you know the name of this guy?”

“No. But I think he moved out of state and got married.”

“So, you don't know of anyone she might have dated.”

“No.”

“What about family?”

“Her parents passed away a few years ago, but she has a brother in Chicago I think and a sister in upstate New York. I never met them, and she didn't talk about them much.”

He interviewed her for several more minutes, taking down names of friends and acquaintances. Then Beals opened her handbag and removed a photograph. “I was going to give this to her,” she said, her voice choking.

In the shot Farina was dressed in a tight pullover and jeans in front of a woman's clothing store. She had struck a cheesecake pose, making a saucy expression at the camera, one hand holding a shopping bag, the other behind her head. Her hair was auburn, unlike the apartment shots of her.

“How recent is this?”

“Two weeks ago. We went shopping and had so much fun…I can't believe she's dead.”

“May I hold on to this?”

She nodded. “You can keep it. I have a duplicate.”

In the photo, her hair was pulled back to reveal her face. Looking at it, he remembered what it was that had caught his eye the first time they had met in the coffee line months ago. At first he couldn't put his finger on it—the cast of her eyes, the mouth, the heart-shaped face—but something about her had struck him as familiar. Only after they began chatting did he realize that it was her vague resemblance to his wife, Dana.

Looking at the photograph reminded him of that resemblance. Then again, since their separation half the women on the street seemed to resemble Dana.

“I've had it with this nose. It sits on my face like a damn dorsal fin.”

Dana stepped out of the bathroom with her hand cropping the top of her nose. She turned her profile to Steve, who was struggling to slide an air conditioner into the window. “What do you think?”

It was nearly nine that same day when Steve arrived to install the AC in their bedroom window. He was exhausted because they had reworked the Farina apartment for five more hours then scoured the neighborhood with the local police. Nobody had seen or heard anything. Her only known relatives—a sister and a brother—had been notified of her death. Pending the M.E.'s autopsy report, the Farina case was being treated as suspicious.

“Get rid of the bump and maybe narrow it down a little.”

“Shit!” Something jammed against the rear casing of the machine, leaving it suspended against his stomach and the windowsill edge while he stretched with his free hand to reach a hammer from his tool kit to bang in a nail head that was sitting too high on the slide track. “They can make computers that fit in your ear, but they can't make an AC that won't cause hernias.”

He glared at her with the unit against his stomach, the sharp underside edges cutting into his fingers, his lower lumbar screaming for relief. “Not to distract you, but would you please get the hammer and slam down that nail?”

She looked at him. “Why don't you just put it down and do it yourself?”

“Because if I put it on the table, it'll leave a scratch, and if I put it on the bedspread, it'll leave a stain. And your vanity chair is piled with clothes. And if I put it on the floor, I'll probably end up in traction trying to get it up again. And if I have to give any more explanations I'm going to hurl it out the window.”

“Nice how all those hours at the gym are paying off.”

“Deadlifting an AC is not part of my workout.”

She snapped up the hammer and whacked the nail head flat.

With a heave, he slid the machine onto the track and brought down the window to hold it in place. A breath exploded out of him. They had been separated for more than half a year, but he still came over to help with chores. It was how he hoped to stay connected.

“By the way, I thought you were going to do this yesterday.”

“I got tied up.”

“You could have called.” She turned back to the long floor mirror. “I also think I need a lid lift. What do you think?”

He lay flat-out on the bed. “I think I'll never be straight again.”

“That's not what I'm talking about.” She turned toward him with her hands on the sides of her face and pulled back her skin.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm asking if you think I need a lid lift. They're beginning to droop. In a couple years I'll look like Salman Rushdie.”

“I think I had that at Legal Seafood once.”

“I'm being serious.” She was now looking in a hand mirror at her face.

“Dana, you don't need a lid lift. What you need is to come down here and jump on my bones.” He looked at her and tried to flush his mind of the images of Terry Farina.

Dana made facial contortions in the mirror. “They also make my eyes look small.”

A few copies of
Vogue
and
Glamour
sat on her nightstand. “You might also want to stop subscribing to magazines that feature fourteen-year-olds.” The inside of her closet was covered with cutouts of anorexic waifs in outfits she admired.

“My mother had droopy eyelids,” she continued. “What luck! I got her eyelids and my father's big fat Greek nose.” She put the mirror down, and with her middle fingers she pulled up her eyelids then turned to him as he stared up at her from her pillows. “What about this?”

“You look like you've been zapped with a cattle prod.”

She then held up her lids and with the sides of her hands stretched back the skin. “How about this?” And she turned her face toward him again.

“You just hit Mach five.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your face is all swept back, like a test pilot.”

“You're not taking this seriously.”

“And you're taking it too seriously. Your eyes are not small, plus your lids give you a sexy hooded gaze.”

“
Hooded gaze?
That's what I'm talking about.”

“Okay, bad choice of words.”

“At least admit I need a nose job.” Her voice began to crack and she sat at the edge of the bed, fighting back tears.

In disbelief he said, “What's the problem?”

“Every time I look in the mirror I see a tired woman with a potato nose looking back at me.”

This was not the Dana Zoukos Markarian that he knew. Although she had inherited her sandy blond hair from her Swedish mother, she did have an ethnic nose and occasionally joked about it. But she was also blessed with natural good looks—a high forehead, a smooth, porcelain complexion, and large green-gray eyes—that gave her a classic acropolis face. No doubt, with a nose job she'd be even more attractive. But Dana was not vain nor preoccupied with her appearance. Steve put his arm around her shoulders. “Aren't you getting a little carried away?”

She wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “I didn't get the job.”

“Aw, hell! I'm sorry.”

For the last fourteen years Dana had taught chemistry at Carleton High, but she had decided that she wanted to move on. She had grown tired of the routine and all the paperwork, tired of increasing class sizes and shrinking budgets, tired of feeling like an indentured servant to the Commonwealth. She wasn't tired of the kids, however. On the contrary, she enjoyed them and they, in return, had voted her Teacher of the Year twice. They filled in for the children she and Steve never had. But her friend Lanie Walker had suggested that she consider pharmaceutical sales. It was intellectually stimulating and lucrative—with commission, six figures by her third year. And she didn't need a selling background or a degree in pharmacology, since the company was looking for people with brains and a winning personality. Dana became interested, and over the past few months she had interviewed with four companies. Three passed her over, but the fourth, GEM Tech—where Lanie worked—which specialized in medication for dementia, had called her back for a third interview two weeks ago. “What happened?”

“What happened was they hired a younger woman.”

“How do you know that?”

“Lanie has a recruiter friend. The same with the others. Thirty-nine and too old to sell pills.”

“You're talking age discrimination, which is against the law.”

“Yeah, but try to prove it. I didn't include my date of birth on the applications or the year I graduated from college. Nothing. For all they know, I could be twenty-five or seventy-five. But the interviewer looked at me and thought, ‘Too old,' but kept feeding me questions and let me prattle on while I'm thinking, ‘Gee, this is going great.'”

“You still get carded in restaurants.”

“Only because the lights are dim.”

“Dana, you look twenty-something.”

She turned her face toward him. “No, I don't. Look at my eyelids. Look at the crow's-feet. Look at the lines under my eyes. And this goddamn nose. I hate it.”

He looked into those large feline eyes and felt a warm rush. “I think you're beautiful.”

“You're blind. They would have turned down Cindy Crawford. I'm telling you they're looking for youth, not beauty. What they want to send to doctors are healthy-looking kids.”

“But you're a mature woman who's taught science for years. You know how to work with people. You've got a great personality—”

“Yeah, yeah, but experience and credentials count for nothing. The recruits are twenty-two-year-olds with degrees in business and sociology. It's pathetic. We live in a skin-deep culture that eats its old.”

“You're not old.”

“No, but I'm starting to look old.” She got up and turned on the AC to see if it worked. It did and she turned it off. “Lanie knows a good doctor who did some work on her.”

Steve's eyes fixed on the AC. “By the way, what was the temperature last night?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just wondering.”

“It was cool and rainy. Why?” She stared at him for a long moment. “Are you okay?”

He didn't respond for a moment. “I had another spell yesterday.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know. The last I remember was dropping off my grades at the Criminal Justice office. Then I think I grabbed a bite to eat near campus. It's all blank after that.”

“You don't remember going home?”

“No. Just waking up this morning when Reardon called.”

She gave him a long penetrating look. “Were you drinking?”

He saw that coming. “Maybe a beer.”

“Or two or three…on top of Ativan. You know the doc said that can screw you up.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “I don't know what I drank. And I take the Ativan as needed.”

“Did you?”

He looked at her and shook his head. “I don't remember.”

“So, where were you?”

“A restaurant across from the quadrangle.”

“And you don't remember driving home? Taking a shower? Going to bed?”

“No.”

“You must have had your PDA turned off, too, because I tried calling a couple of times.”

“I guess.” He had to charge his PDA that morning while he showered and got ready to leave for the crime scene. He always did that at night. But he hadn't.

She shook her head and was about to reprimand him when she stiffened. “Something's burning.”

“The lamejunes.”

Steve had brought over some Armenian pizzas and other delicacies. Even when they were living with each other, he prepared many of the meals because Dana got no pleasure from cooking nor was she particularly creative. In fact, she overcooked everything. He, on the other hand, got lost in the creative process—a relief from the constant stress of his job.

He bolted down the stairs to find smoke billowing out of the oven. He had forgotten to set the timer. He pulled out the tray. The lamejunes were smoking disks of char. “They're a tad well-done, but you might like them.”

“Very funny.”

He washed the remains into the garbage disposal while Dana snapped on the vent. On the kitchen island were platters of rolled grape leaves, pickled vegetables, and cheese and spinach turnovers plus a bowl of hummus with triangles of pita and Calamata olives. He started to pull more lamejunes out of the box, but Dana said she wasn't hungry.

“The grape leaves are homemade. I rolled them with my feet the way you like them.”

She gave him a thin smile but shook her head and leaned against the sink.

Steve poured her a glass of Gewürztraminer and himself a club soda. She was quiet and stared into her glass. “Can I stay over?”

“I don't think it's a good idea.”

“I promise I won't let you touch me.”

“No.”

“I miss you.” He missed coming home to her. He missed their conversations, her supple mind, her humor. He missed their marriage. He missed looking at her. Living his life without Dana was like trying to breathe on one lung.

The good news was that she was still wearing her wedding band. It was the first thing he checked when they got together. It made him feel safe still, but the expression on her face did not.

She took a sip of the wine and laid the glass down with a
plink.
“Then you should have thought of that before you decided to jump all over Sylvia Nevins's bones, to use your eloquent turn of phrase.”

He sighed. There it was again—the old transgression that she kept rubbing his nose in.

Last year he had gotten high at a party and made a move on a foxy assistant medical examiner. One thing led to the next and he ended up in her bed. Then again the following week when Dana was away on a field trip. Unfortunately, Sylvia had picked up rumors that Steve and Dana were having marital problems and wanted more than a couple of one-nighters. But when he declared that their brief affair was over, that he was still working things out with his wife, she became ballistic. To get back she left Dana a telltale phone message. That was the turning point: Dana announced that she wanted a separation.

It was a turning point for him, too. When he learned that she had told Dana everything, Steve drove to Sylvia's place. He had been drinking, and in a moment of rage he slapped her across the face, accusing her of trying to destroy his marriage. She shot back that he had made the move on her, and he counteraccused her of leading him on for months. None of that was important. But what pecked at his conscience was the knowledge that he had crossed a barrier—that in a weird half-conscious angry-drunk moment he had struck a woman. For weeks following that he had had disturbing dreams of violence—sometimes against Sylvia, sometimes against Dana. Dreams that mixed up nightmare details, leaching in from his casework. Dreams that had sent him to his doctor for stronger meds.

He had apologized to Sylvia.

He had apologized to Dana:
“I feel rotten about it.”

“You mean you can't live with the guilt.”

“Yeah, and I'm very sorry. It was stupid and wrong.”

“And vengeful.”

“Vengeful? What are you talking about?”

“Don't go brain-dead on me. Vengeful because I want kids, and you can't commit. So to get back for my pushing, you hop into bed with the first available bimbo.”

“That's bullshit.”

“It's not bullshit. You couldn't commit to getting engaged. Then you couldn't commit to getting married. And when you finally gave in, you declared you wanted to hold off on kids. Well, I've been holding off long enough. I told you it's now or never. So, instead, you shack up with Sylvia Nevins because you don't like ultimatums.”