Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

  Pendergast nodded weakly, not knowing where Neil was going.

  “And that’s what happened. She was a licensed exhibitionist, probably turned tricks on the side. We’re talking your basic whore who played on men’s weaknesses, and she lured you into the bedroom.”

  Up to this point, Neil had been pacing in front of Pendergast. But he circled behind him. “And there she was lying naked on the bed humping the air, teasing and taunting you. Then something went wrong. Maybe she said something that rubbed you wrong—an insult about your manhood. You were a little high from the wine and meds and she just wouldn’t let up, maybe riding your ass, playing the desperate whore. Then before you knew it, something snapped.” With that Neil produced a black stocking from his back pocket and twisted it around Pendergast’s neck.

  For an instant Steve thought Neil would strangle him to death. But just as quickly he let go and pressed his face to Pendergast, who was gasping and massaging his throat. “That’s what you did. You blanked out and strangled her with that black stocking.”

  “N-n-no.” He cowered from Neil, rubbing his neck.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.” And he grabbed Pendergast by his shirt and lifted him into the air. “You fucking little worm. You killed her because she was bad and wanted to make you bad.”

  Pendergast shook his head. “No.”

  “Fuck no!” And Neil stormed out of the room. A minute later he returned with two officers. “You’re under arrest. Take him away.”

  “For what?”

  “For the murder of Terry Farina. Read him his Miranda and get him the fuck out of here.”

  The video came to an abrupt end.

  Steve stared at the blank screen for several seconds as a rat uncurled in his gut.

  36

  It was after seven. The detective shifts were changing and the office was empty but for a couple of sergeants. In his office, Reardon was just packing his briefcase to leave for the weekend when Steve walked in.

  “You look like hell.”

  “That’s the good news.”

  Reardon’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s the problem?”

  We’re back to door one. And I don’t want to open it.

  “You said you saw the Pendergast video.”

  “Some of it, why?”

  “You might want to take a closer look because I think we’ve got a problem.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe he shouldn’t be in lockup.”

  A television monitor with a DVD player sat on a table near Reardon’s desk, and Steve slipped in the disk. With the remote, Steve jumped to key segments. Reardon said very little while he watched, occasionally asking Steve to replay sections, occasionally muttering to himself.

  “I double-checked the reports. We don’t have his DNA in the bedroom. And we don’t have a witness to his car being on her street. Those are fabrications. Plus he violated the guy’s rights all the way up. The D.A. sees this, she’ll blow a fuse.”

  “Any way to confirm his alibi?”

  “No.”

  “What about the latents?”

  “They may be old like he claims. He said he was up there once after a dinner date with her. But there’s nothing in the bedroom or anywhere else.”

  “He could have wiped them.”

  “True, but nobody’s going to like the claim we’ve got bedroom prints when we don’t.”

  “But he lied when he said he was never up there.”

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of a stretch for probable cause.”

  “Why the hell didn’t he insist on his lawyer or just walk out? The guy’s got a Ph.D., for Christ’s sake. You’d think he knows his rights.”

  “Neil kept tweaking him with threats of going to the press about his priors. And maybe he’s so walking wounded he wanted to be beaten up.” It was clear that Reardon had barely looked at the video but had taken Neil’s word. At the moment, Steve wanted to spit at him.

  “Shit!” Reardon said.

  “Looks like he arrested him for having sex with her.” He handed Reardon the DVD. He would make some calls on Neil’s claims about the latents and witness then review the DVD.

  “Don’t go far.”

  Steve went back to his office and took a tab of Ativan. That pea was now a bowling ball.

  He sat at his desk, which had two piles of papers, pencils in one cup, pens in another. Things lined up, pathologically neat unlike the contents of his mind. His eyes fell on the photo of him and Dana from a trip to the White Mountains a few years ago. The air was crisp and keen and the sky an endless blue.

  Suddenly his mind was a fugue again:

  Well, Bunky, isn’t this a fine how do you do? Came in thinking the gargoyle was off your back. That maybe you’d been wrong. That it was just a weird set of coincidences. That her death didn’t belong to you. That it was that randy English prof after all, graduated from lewd and lash to murder most foul. And now we’re back to numero uno.

  So, what’ll it be?

  Could make it easy for yourself, walk right in there and tell the captain that you were the last to see her alive. Got the receipts. Got the number in your PDA phone. Took the forbidden Ativan cocktail and let Mr. Hyde out of his cage. Plus you’ve got a big fat time hole that you can’t account for—from 6:22 when you bought the champagne ’til Reardon’s call. Blanko, nada.

  And what about those dreams of her? And Dana? Explain those if you’re not wracked with guilt that you did something wrong.

  Autosuggestion and some form of psyche dysmorphia, to use the good doc’s term.

  Bullshit. You were there. Felt the vibes as soon as you walked in.

  Yeah, then where did the stocking come from?

  Maybe they were hers. Just never been worn. Unwrapped them and tossed out the packaging somewhere else.

  Go in there and tell him. Get rid of that goddamn lump before it bores a hole through you.

  Nearly two hours later Reardon called Steve into his office. He had reviewed the video and made his check-up calls. Against protests that he was in bed, Neil drove back into headquarters. When he entered he looked at Steve then to Reardon. “Somebody die?”

  “Close enough,” Reardon said.

  “What’s that mean?” Neil said, a white stirrer in his teeth.

  “I just finished reviewing the Pendergast interrogation. My concern is the guy’s lawyer gets a look, he’s going to want to know the probable cause.”

  Neil’s face flared as he flashed a damning glance at Steve then looked back at Reardon. “He started off saying that he’d never been to her apartment until I mentioned the latents, and suddenly he remembered. The first thing he gave me was a fucking lie.”

  “But you told him we had his prints on her bed and his hair on the sheets. Those aren’t in the forensics reports. We have no latents from the bedroom. Nor a witness who saw his car on her street. What the hell were you thinking? His fucking lawyer will be all over us.”

  “I told him that to pull him out, and he did. He admitted lying to us.”

  “That still doesn’t connect him to the crime, for Christ’s sake.”

  “We’ve got an admission that he was dating her, that he’d been to her apartment. Plus his computer’s loaded with evidence that he could have stalked her. We’ve got motives up the grunt.”

  “We’ve got circumstantials up the grunt.”

  Neil shot another look to Steve. “Feel free to jump in, partner.”

  The word came out like a wad of phlegm.

  Reardon cut him off. “Theriault won’t prosecute unless you’ve got something physical linking him to crime. And we’ve got shit—no DNA on or near her body, no witnesses, no e-mails or phone record. Nothing but prints on a bottle. He won’t risk his reputation if we can’t connect him.”

  Neil turned to Steve, his eyes saucered. “You going to sit there like a goddamn zombie or something? You know the guy’s a fucking slimeball.”

  Steve wanted to support him. Wanted to say, Yeah, he’s a slimeba
ll and we got him. Means, motive, opportunity. Enough to convince a jury he’s the one. Had me going without a history of violence, but got the goods with the latents, DNA, and witness. Except, partner, you lied about all that. And I’m back on the drill bit.

  “We don’t have a case.” Steve’s words rose up devoid of inflection.

  Disgusted, Neil turned to Devin. “You let him out, and in five days he’ll disappear.”

  “Right now he’s going nowhere. The immediate problem is you attacking the guy with the stocking. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I was reenacting his crime.”

  “You assaulted a witness during interrogation. A defense lawyer will jackboot all over you, maybe even toss a fucking lawsuit on us.”

  Neil made a dismissive gesture. “We can handle it.”

  Reardon’s face was bright with rage. “No we can’t handle it because you let him know how she was killed. If the media gets that, which it most certainly will, a key piece of evidence goes public. You gave away our fucking trump card.”

  “I guess I got a little carried away.”

  “A little carried away? That was fucking stupid.”

  Tension crackled like electrical discharge. In Neil’s behalf, Steve said, “The last thing Pendergast wants to do is talk to the press.”

  “But not his attorney.”

  “We can get to him or her to keep quiet,” Neil suggested. “Maybe even get an injunction to quash release.”

  Reardon did not look convinced. “Whatever, we’ve got enough to hold him ’til the arraignment. In the meantime, go out and get something real, okay? Check his alibi against neighbors. Check his phone record, credit cards, pay-per-view cable, people who can put him and Farina together on the night she died. And bring it in by court time.”

  Steve and Neil both got up to leave, but Neil avoided looking at him.

  “By the way, somebody let the word out about his prior offenses and the media want details.”

  “Who let that out?”

  “Who the hell knows? But the vultures are circling.”

  And that pea’s a damn auger in my brain.

  37

  Steve did not drive straight home. Instead, he made a copy of the Farina file and the Pendergast video. After calling ahead, he drove to Belmont, a small town ten miles west of Boston, and up a sleepy little street off Cushing Square. At number thirty-two, a modest Tudor single family, he rang the doorbell. In a matter of moments the door swung open and a large woman filled the entrance. She squinted at him. “I remember the face, but the name escapes me.”

  “Philo Vance.”

  She laughed and gave him a one-arm hug. “How are you, Steve?”

  “Just dandy.” She led him inside.

  Jacqueline Levini had worked for the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI at Quantico for several years before accepting a teaching position at Northeastern University. She was an old friend and a gifted profiler and the one who gotten him the job in the evening program. In her late fifties, Jackie looked more like someone who studied subatomic particles than serial killers. She had a frizzy head of salt-and-pepper hair that looked as if it had been styled by Albert Einstein. Her face was fleshy and expressive and lit by piercing blue eyes that made you wonder if she were wearing colored contact lenses. She was dressed in an oversized T-shirt that said ITALIA. Her father was from a small medieval Umbrian town of Todi where she returned each summer to stay with relatives. In her hand was a glass of red wine.

  “I’ve got a lovely bottle of Montefalco from my friend Dick Elia, and it refuses to be consumed alone.”

  She led him into the living room, which was done in leather and claret Oriental carpets and soft lighting. He could feel the demon pull of the bouquet. “Sorry, Jackie, but I have to refuse.”

  “It’s too late to be working, or don’t you like wine?”

  “It doesn’t like me.”

  “Then how about a coffee or Pellegrino?”

  “Pellegrino would be fine.”

  She disappeared down the hall to the kitchen.

  Jackie was a widow of nearly ten years. She lived alone and her only son lived on the West Coast. She taught a graduate course in the College of Criminal Justice but spent most of her time doing research and consulting for law enforcement agencies throughout the country. She had written scholarly articles on forensic psychology, crime, and psychosexual dynamics, as well as trade books on sex crimes for the general reader. Over the years she had established herself as a favorite consultant of news networks whenever a high-profile crime was in the air. On her fireplace was a photograph of her in one of her several appearances on Larry King Live.

  “How’s Dana doing?” Jackie said when she returned with his drink.

  She knew Dana from happy social events and he had dreaded the question. Because he didn’t want to get into their separation he simply said that she was doing fine.

  “Any baby Markarians yet?”

  “Not yet.” He took a sip of the drink to change the subject. “I appreciate your help, especially at this hour.”

  “No problem, besides you spare me from student theses that are making my eyes cross. Brilliant kids who can’t write for shit. So, what do you have?”

  “You probably heard about this.” He handed her a photocopy of the Boston Globe story.

  “Oh, yeah, the fitness instructor and part-time stripper. I read about it.”

  “You’ll be reading more tomorrow because we have someone in custody.” Steve filled her in on the investigation and laid the DVD on the top of the file. “The material on him is a bit thin to make a profile, but the interrogation might help. Unfortunately it’s four hours long.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Evidence that he’s capable of this.”

  She took a sip of her wine and nodded. “And you have doubts?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll do what I can. When do you need this by?”

  Steve looked at his watch.

  “I don’t see you for months on end and suddenly it’s red alert.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh, boy! I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since college.”

  “I owe you big-time.”

  “A dinner at Flora in Arlington will do.”

  “You’re on.”

  She walked him to the door.

  “Thanks.” He gave her a hug, thinking: Tell me it’s not me.

  38

  WINTER 1974

  Lila did not speak to him for four days. If he walked into a room she was in, she’d leave without a word. When he came home from school, she’d be out or locked in her room. If it was only the two of them at dinner, she’d leave the meal on the stove and eat alone. When his father was around, she’d act normal but would address him with a flat voice and a glacial stare.

  The silent treatment went on until she was good and ready to move on. It was her secret weapon, far worse than his father’s reprimands and threats. In fact, he would have preferred those. When she got like that, it was as if she had not only abandoned him but had died and been replaced by some loveless creature in the semblance of her—like a science fiction alien. Desperate to bring her back, he’d swear that he’d be good, that he’d do anything to make her nice again. He even began wishing to get sick so she’d feel sorry for him. But he didn’t. The only way she’d come back was if he’d beg for forgiveness like the Christian penitents she had told him about.

  On the morning of the fourth day, he got dressed for school but knew he couldn’t get through his classes with Lila hating him. She was in her bedroom armchair. He could hear the television through the door. He knocked several times, and when she didn’t respond he meekly opened the door. She glared at him. “I didn’t say you could come in.”

  But he did and went right down on his knees before her chair. “I’m sorry,” then he burst into tears, begging forgiveness. He wasn’t sure what exactly he had done wrong, but he was convinced that he had
forced her into a shameful act that would threaten her mortal soul. He laid his head on the arm of the chair and sobbed, but she didn’t respond—didn’t put her hand on his head and say he was forgiven, that things were normal again, that she still loved him. It was like supplicating to a stone idol.

  All she said was, “You’ll be late for school.”

  When he came home that afternoon, things were back to normal. That lasted for several weeks. Then one evening when she was to meet his father in Manchester for dinner, she called him upstairs. He left his homework on the dining-room table.

  “In here,” she said. She was in the master bathroom. “You can come in.”

  Modesty was not an issue with Lila, especially since that Christmas night last year when a barrier had been crossed. But as he approached her bathroom, he had had an uneasy sense another barrier would be toppled. He was right: she lay naked in the tub.

  But, to his relief, she was up to her neck in soapsuds. For her birthday she had asked him for lavender bubble bath, which he had bought with his snow-shoveling money. Her head appeared to be floating on a cloud. The surface of the tub was a large lumpy lavender-scented froth.

  She grinned at him. “So what do you think?”

  “Pretty cool.” He dipped his hand into the stuff and blew off scraps, which drifted down to the berg of foam she lay under.

  “It’s the best birthday present I’ve had in years.” She took his hand and pulled him toward her for a kiss.

  It was wet from the bath and he sneak-wiped it and started to leave.

  “Hey, not so fast.”

  “I’ve got to finish my project.” He was doing a science report on the metamorphosis of butterflies from caterpillars.

  “That can wait.”

  He felt himself cringe inside. She had that wide, dark, spacey glaze in her eyes. Hanging on the towel rack were her black stockings. She and his dad had some business function, which meant they would get back late and probably be drunk.

  She pulled up a sponge from the foam. “I can’t reach my back.”