by Gary Braver
On a table behind his desk was a photograph of a long white power boat with a palm tree island behind it. And isolated on the rear wall was a single sepia-and-white abstract, which looked Japanese and was probably rare and very expensive like the rest of the décor. Missing were photos of a wife and children. She also noticed that Monks was not wearing a wedding ring.
He handed Steve a bottle of water and sat down staring at Dana, probably calibrating how much work her face needed.
“So,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m looking into the possibility of getting a lid lift. They’re starting to droop, something my mother had”—as Dana continued she could hear the feeble attempt at justifying her needs, her mind flashing on the two women in the waiting room—“I think they make me look older.”
Monks came over to her, pulled up a stool, and slipped on the pair of half-glasses. He studied her face, then pushed back her lids, smoothing back the skin around her eyes. As he did so, Dana couldn’t help but study him. Up close he did not appear so young as from across the room. His skin was dry and pocked as if he’d suffered from chicken pox as a child. Crow’s-feet crinkled at the corner of his eyes and small pouches and wrinkles underscored each. Also, there was a raised mole on his lower left cheek, looking as if a bug had crawled out of his mouth. His nose was nicely shaped and his lips were full. But frown lines etched his forehead. She wondered why a man who spent his life correcting other people’s faces had not had his own done. Do auto body shop owners drive around with dents and broken headlights? The more she ruminated, the more resentful she began to feel. Also the more foolish for being here. This man had built a dynasty on the exploitation of human vanity, but he was above his own craft.
“I’m also thinking of having my nose fixed.”
“Let’s talk about your nose first. What about it bothers you?”
“Everything. It’s a big, fat Greek nose and I hate it.”
He smiled and turned her in profile. “It does throw off your face.” He ran his finger across the bump. “Do you have any breathing problems?”
“No.”
“Ever break it?”
“No.”
“Then you probably don’t have a deviated septum. Should be easy enough to fix—remove the bump and narrow it down.”
“Well, that’s down the road a bit. My main question is what a lid lift would do.”
He studied her again, touching her cheekbones and chin, for some reason. Then he felt around her brow, stretching the skin around her eyes. “Upper bletharoplasty would open up your eyes more.” He handed her a hand mirror and with his fingers gently spread the offending skin and in the reflection her eyes did open up. He then smoothed a plane of skin above the brow, eliminating the crow’s-feet and the forbidding frown line above the bridge of her nose. “That’s with upper lids and Botox for the brow.”
Ten years disappeared from her face.
He pulled down a screen on one wall and from his desk computer projected before-and-after images. “This will give you a better idea. Each of these women had eyelid surgery.”
Several before-and-after images of women rolled down the screen, showing glaring differences as a rejuvenated freshness had been restored to their upper faces. Monks also showed split shots of women with other procedures—upper and lower bletharoplasty, brow lifts, Restylane treatment of the nasolabial folds, cheek implants, chin work, et cetera. Then before-and-after photos of women with rhinoplasty. As the images flicked by, Dana could not help but feel the seductive powers at work—which, of course, was the intended purpose.
“We cannot promise miracles, but you can see the improvement.”
“Some of those women looked pretty young,” Steve said.
“Yes, some are in their twenties in fact. That’s because people have begun to regard cosmetic surgery as a preventive medicine against aging. Younger skin is more elastic, the effects last longer, and the recovery period is shorter.”
“But couldn’t that encourage obsession?” Steve asked.
“Yes, which is why I make a psychological profile of patients before I operate. One woman who came in was only twenty-seven yet had sixteen surgical procedures. She was a slave to the scalpel, and had spent a fortune.”
“What did you do for her?”
“Sent her home. She needed a psychiatrist, not a surgeon.”
“I imagine all the makeover shows haven’t helped,” Steve said.
“No, especially with women wanting to have Nicole Kidman’s nose or Angelina Jolie’s lips. We also turned away a woman who was obsessed with wanting to look like Jessica Simpson. She had had several reconstructive procedures and was still not happy. She couldn’t pass a mirror without being sick at how she didn’t resemble the singer.”
“That sounds pathological.”
“Yes, technically a form of body dysmorphic disorder. So, when people come in with photos of the features they want, I tell them that they may be disappointed because we cannot guarantee the exact likeness. And unless they accept that, I won’t operate.”
“Is it mostly women?”
“We get an occasional male.” He tapped a few keys. And on the screen appeared a man with a slick black pompadour and a hurt truculent expression. “Rodney is an Elvis impersonator.”
There was a resemblance but mostly in the hair, eyes, and huge white sequined collar.
“That’s before.” Monks tapped a few more keys and the screen split with a shot of Elvis Presley on the right and Rodney on the left. It was nearly impossible to tell the difference. “Of course, he had to have had some basics to work with—forehead structure, cheekbone width, length of jaw. It’s much harder to take down bone than build up, which can be done with fat injections and implants. That’s what we did here.”
“Amazing,” Dana said, staring at the screen. “And you probably added another twenty years onto his professional life.”
Monks moved his mouse and clicked a few keys. “Particularly challenging was this fellow.” On the screen was the image of a rather ordinary-looking man with a short wide nose, long narrow face, and thin lips. Then Monks clicked the mouse and the next slide was a glamour shot of a beautiful woman with golden hair, large open and heavily made-up eyes, high cheekbones, and full red lips.
“My goodness.”
“What’s interesting is that he didn’t want to look like any particular woman, he just wanted to look feminine, which meant some alteration of his facial structure in addition to his eyes, lips, and nose.” Monks clicked the mouse, and more shots of the man followed in a cocktail dress with short blond hair, in kabuki whiteface and kimono, in leather bondage attire and shiny black hair, and in a huge blond fright wig and lavish makeup.
“A drag queen,” Steve said.
“Yes, and an internationally famous one who does performance theater with a traveling dance and theater company. The challenge was to create female features out of his.”
“Looks like you succeeded,” Steve said, “but it sounds confusing.”
“Well, these men aren’t attempting to pass as women except as a hobby or professional art form—as opposed to some private sexual identity thing or gender dysmorphia.”
“Back to Dana,” Steve said. “Where would the procedures be done?”
“Right here. We have our own operating room down the hall and OR staff, including an anesthesiologist and nurses, which, by the way, makes procedures a lot cheaper than at a hospital.”
“Since you raised the ugly stuff,” said Steve, “what about cost?”
Monks smiled. “We do have a financial assistant, but since you asked, for upper lids our standard fee is four thousand.”
“What about a nose job?”
“Seventy-five hundred.”
So much for that, Dana thought. “What about removing crow’s-feet?”
“Any that remain would be a matter of collagen treatments, which is three hundred dollars per procedure.”
“And the n
asolabial folds?”
Monks smiled as he studied her face. “Four hundred.”
“A brow lift?” she asked.
“Frankly, I don’t think you need that, but our standard fee for a full brow lift is four thousand.”
“Not that I’m considering it, but what does a full face-lift cost?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“Oh,” Steve said, probably thinking that four of those a week would equal his annual salary. Also wondering who would pay.
“Yes, it’s expensive, but consider the fact that in New York the same procedure can be thirty-five thousand and in Los Angeles you can pay as much as fifty. By comparison, in, say, Big Horn, Montana, you might find a clinic that advertises face-lifts for under three thousand.”
“Yeah, and probably end up looking like a sheep,” Steve said.
Monks laughed.
“Frankly, what do you think I need?” Dana asked.
He studied her for a few moments. “Well, you came in here for your upper eyelids in the hope of creating a rejuvenating effect. You also mentioned rhinoplasty. Then you asked about the brow and frown lines, then crow’s-feet and nasolabial procedure. You then speculated about a full face-lift.” He rocked back in his chair and glared at her. “I don’t think I can operate on you.”
Dana felt her insides drop. “What? Why not?”
“Because you’re not settled on what you want.”
Steve tried to repress a self-satisfied grin.
“But what about just the upper lid lifts?”
“Given your expectations, you might be dissatisfied. Your eyes would look great, but they might appear incomplete with your nose and brow. Or you may start wondering about chin work or something else. I can’t live with that.”
Dana was dismayed. “I was just speculating about the other procedures. I think I want the upper lid lift and maybe a nose job if I can afford it.”
“Then maybe you should settle in your mind what exactly you want and can afford.”
“So, where does that leave me?” She could hear pleading in her voice. She could not believe that the same man who did pro bono work for street people was playing hardball with her.
“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.”
16
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.”
