by Gary Braver
“Maybe this closes the case for you.”
Steve uttered a noncommittal “Yeah.” There was nothing more that he wanted. If Pendergast had done it, that would be exoneration for both him and Neil. But that had yet to be determined. The case was still open as Pendergast’s connection to Farina continued to be investigated.
“But I have a funny feeling that you didn’t call because of the Pendergast case.”
There was a pause. “I’ve decided to get a nose job. The doctor hasn’t scheduled it yet, but he’s trying to before he goes on vacation.”
“And you called to ask if I thought it was a good idea?”
“No, I called to tell you. In a few weeks I’m going to look different. He’s got software that creates afterimages. He showed me what I’d look like, and I think it’s a nice improvement.”
He was quiet for a few moments.
“Does this bother you?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s something I’ve always wanted.”
“And it sounds like a prelude to divorce.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said out of the blue.
“You mean you have a date.”
“I’ll talk to you next week.” And she hung up.
He stared at the phone for a protracted moment, thinking, My marriage is over.
54
Steve was right: Dana did have a date.
Aaron Monks showed up exactly at six thirty in a long black BMW sedan. She met him at the door in a new beige pantsuit and a white blouse. He was dressed in a gray blazer with a blue shirt, blue and pink tie, and black pants.
It was her first non-Steve date in seventeen years, and she felt nervous. It didn’t help that in anticipation she had read articles about him online. But his easy, understated manner and boyish shyness put her at ease.
They took Storrow Drive into Boston and turned off at the Fenway exit, down Boylston and up Dartmouth to 1 Huntington Avenue between the Boston Public Library and Copley Place to Sorellina. A valet took the car.
Sorellina, which specialized in Italian-Mediterranean cuisine, was an elegantly designed open space in ebony and ivory, with white leather chairs and matching walls. Creating a warm modern feel was the glow of a large back-wall mural of a manicured garden spiked with cypress trees, creating a Gothic dreaminess. The high ceiling consisted of large black-and-white panels, complemented by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Copley Place. Behind a chic border screen was a chic bar with chic people sipping chic martinis out of large chic trumpets.
The hostess was a tall thin blonde in a green sheath. She looked like a tulip. With a broad smile, she greeted Dr. Monks by name and led them to a window table looking onto Huntington. The restaurant was clearly the in-spot for Boston glitterati, financial-corporate types, and Back Bay money. As she looked around the room she felt like a visitor from Arkansas. She could not remember the last time she and Steve had dined so elegantly.
Steve.
He lived just a few blocks from here. But it was not a place he could frequent on a cop’s salary. The menu entrées ranged from thirty-four to fifty-six dollars.
When the waiter came, Dana ordered a California Chardonnay. Aaron had the same. When the wine arrived, Aaron clicked glasses with her. “I have good news. We can do you next Sunday.” And he discreetly scratched his nose.
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and smiled warmly. “I’ve put together a freelance team of nurses, surgical assistants, and an anesthesiologist. So we’re all set.”
“At which hospital?”
“At my suite. We’ve got a full operating room, which is why the lower fee.”
“If it’s not too gauche, may I ask what that will be?”
“This is not the right setting to talk business, but don’t worry about it.”
“Okay,” and she sipped her wine, feeling a warm glow spread throughout her, uncertain if it was the wine, the anticipation, or the company. Or maybe all of that. When the waiter returned she ordered the special, monkfish piccata. Aaron ordered the veal Milanese and they split an appetizer of tuna tartar.
“Congratulations. I saw in the paper that you were named Teacher of the Year. You should be very proud. Teaching’s one of the toughest professions, especially at the high school level.”
“Thank you.”
“That was also a nice photograph of you.”
Except that the camera flash made her nose look even bigger than it was. “Speaking of newspapers—and you’ve heard this a thousand times—how is it that one of the top twenty-five most eligible bachelors in town is unmarried?”
“A thousand and one.” He smiled. “Well, I was married once. But she died several years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
He made a nod of acknowledgment and took a sip of his wine.
“She must have been quite young.”
“Yes, she was.”
“And no children.”
“Nope, no children. What about you?”
“No children.”
“Would you like children?”
“Yes, I would.” It was time to change the subject. They were quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “What made you choose cosmetic surgery?” As soon as the question hit the air, she could hear Steve: Are you kidding, girl? You saw his office. Look where he eats.
“Actually, I started out wanting to be a physical anthropologist, you know, studying old bones. Then I considered forensic anthropology. But those didn’t hold my interest like cosmetic surgery.” Then he added, “And, frankly, they didn’t pay as well.” He took a sip of wine.
So much for coy rationalizations.
“Not that money was the prime consideration. Reconstructing old bones didn’t interest me as much as reconstructing living ones. I like how cosmetic surgery fuses science with aesthetics.”
“A form of living art.”
“Exactly, and well put. The good part is you help people feel better about themselves. Some come in depressed to the point of suicide. Then they have procedures, and all at once their lives are turned around. Relationships improve, careers improve. It’s very gratifying, particularly with nonelective reconstruction—people born with genetic defects or suffering other disfigurements.”
“But the majority of your work is elective surgery, correct?”
“Yes, because of the growing demand of an aging population. If people can’t live forever, they can at least look younger longer. And isn’t that what motivates most people?”
“What is?”
“Re-creating their past. Trying to recapture lost youth.” He held her eyes for a moment.
“Please excuse the intrusion.” Out of nowhere the maître d’ appeared. “Dr. Monks, madam. My name is Mario Orsini. I just want to say you performed miracles for my wife.”
Monks looked over at Dana. “I swear this is not a setup.”
“No, no,” Orsini said. “When I saw the reservation, I had to come by to thank you. You probably don’t remember, but you operated on my wife three years ago.” He produced a copy of Aaron’s book, About Face: Making Over. “If you don’t mind, to Celia.” He handed Aaron a pen.
“Ah, yes, Celia Orsini. Lovely woman,” Aaron said, and signed the book. “How is she doing?”
“She’s doing great,” Orsini said. “I also want to congratulate you on the award you got a couple of weeks ago.”
“Thank you.”
“It was right across the street at the Westin on the second.” He pointed to the upper windows of the hotel. “We could see all the cars. You’re doing wonderful work with the transplantation stuff. Again, please excuse the intrusion.” He left with the book.
“The next time we’ll go someplace a little farther from home.”
The next time. She liked the sound of that. Very much.
When they finished, he drove her home. He took her arm and walked her to the front door, where he gave her a friendly ki
ss on the cheek. “See you Wednesday. And remember, nothing to eat for twelve hours.”
“Thank you. I had a wonderful evening.”
“The best is yet to come.”
From inside she watched him roll back down the driveway and pull away. She turned off the lights and went to bed, still trying to determine if the warm glow at her core was the anticipation of her makeover or the hope that Aaron Monks would be a part of it.
55
Shortly after the discovery of Terry Farina’s murder, Steve had submitted a report to the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or ViCAP, a nationwide data information center designed to collect, collate, and analyze data on crimes of violence—specifically murder—which is available only to law enforcement personnel. Steve had given all the data including date, time, location, environment, demographics, how the crime scene looked, and a description of the deceased’s condition with salient particulars, forensic evidence, lab analyses, et cetera. That report went into the online database shared by state and local law enforcement agencies throughout the country.
Steve was at his desk when a call came in from the Cobbsville, New Hampshire, police department. A Sergeant Detective Edmund Pyle said that he had picked up Steve’s broadcast last week about the Farina murder, and last night while loading old data from 2003 into the system he noticed some elements in a cold case file. The death had been ruled suspicious although the evidence pointed to suicide. The victim was a white, forty-two-year-old female who was found in a kneeling position, hanging naked from a black lace-top stocking.
It took Steve less than an hour to reach the Cobbsville P.D. And all the way up he kept telling himself this was a coincidence. Not related. And as far as he could recall, he had never been to Cobbsville, New Hampshire, before in his life.
Sure, just like you didn’t recall being in 123 Payson Road.
The building looked more like a 1930s town library than a police department—a two-story yellow brick-and-concrete structure with large casement windows, an apron of plantings around the front, and a flagpole.
He showed his badge to the desk sergeant. A minute later Sergeant Edmund Pyle came down. He said that he had made a copy of the report for him, and led him upstairs to the office of Captain Ralph Modesky, who had been lead detective on the case.
Modesky was at his desk, dressed in his white shirt uniform and black tie. About sixty years of age, he had closely cropped gray hair, a long fleshy face, and baggy gray eyes that looked like shucked oysters. Steve thanked him for his time and took a seat across the desk. In front of Modesky was a photocopy of the Boston Globe story about Pendergast’s suicide and Steve’s ViCAP report on Terry Farina. “Maybe it’s a big day for both of us.”
“We can only hope,” Steve said.
“I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes on the other side of town, so let’s get right to it. Her name was Corrine Novak, but everybody knew her as Corry.” He put his hand on a black three-ringed binder about three inches thick—the Corrine “Corry” Novak death book.
Corrine Corry Novak. Steve tested the name and, with relief, nothing in his memory banks lit up.
Modesky summarized the case: she had been found naked in her open closet with the stocking knotted around her neck. Investigators detected no signs of forced entry, no struggle, and no evidence that she had been sexually molested. Also no traces of alcohol or drugs in her system.
“And no suicide note,” Modesky said. “This is not a woman who remotely wanted to die.”
He removed three crime scene photographs of the woman taken from different angles. She was kneeling on a small shelved space in a closet, her body held upright by the stocking, a hand towel stuffed under the noose, presumably to prevent bruising. Her neck was grossly stretched, making Steve think of poultry in a butcher’s window. Although her face was discolored and distorted, there was nothing familiar about the woman’s appearance or the scene.
But what sent a small jag through his midsection was the woman’s hair. It was full and flaming red. “What’s the official cause of death?”
“The official was ‘accidental sexual asphyxiation.’”
“But you didn’t buy it.”
“I still don’t. And now more than ever.”
“Why do you suspect murder?”
“Why? I can give you about thirty reasons.” Modesky counted on his fingers. “One, sexual scarfing is practiced mostly by males, often wearing women’s underwear or bondage apparel. Two, there’s nothing in Corry Novak’s psychological profile or her history that indicated she was into sexual experimentation, especially this terminal sex shit. Three, she had everything going for her: a great job, great friends, money, good looks. All her relatives and friends said she was a happy, upbeat person with no history of depression or any other mental problems or any alcohol or drug abuse. She had bought a new car, and she was planning a trip to Cancún two weeks before she died. She was living a good life.”
“What about forensic evidence?”
He tapped the folder. “You can see for yourself. No evidence of foul play. No sign of entry. Nothing missing, including jewelry.”
“Does the report happen to say what brand stocking she was killed with?”
“Not that I remember. Is that important?”
“It may be.”
“You can check for yourself.”
“What about suspects?”
“There was a landscape guy who’d been working on the complex grounds the week before. He had a conviction three years earlier for lewd behavior, drug possession charges, and one arrest for solicitation of prostitution—small stuff, no time served. But he checked out.”
“Any boyfriends, past or present?”
“Nothing. She was recently divorced and the ex checked out. So did her friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. You name it. Everybody checked out. Whoever did it didn’t leave a friggin’ trace.”
Steve looked at the death photo again. “Who found her?”
“Her fourteen-year-old sister.”
“Jesus.”
In her death photo the woman’s face was eggplant-purple and bloated, her neck obscenely stretched, her tongue hungout, and thick white mucus frothed at her mouth and nostrils.
“She’s still on a pile of medications and seeing a counselor. It’s been over five years. She’ll be screwed up the rest of her life.”
“How did the rest of the family deal with it?”
Modesky shook his head. “Drove her father to his grave. He fell into severe depression and drank himself to death. Not only could he not take the grief, but he had to deal with the possibility his daughter was into that kind of lifestyle or, worse, that she wanted to kill herself.”
“Nice options.”
“Yeah, but to the very end he was convinced it was homicide. The mother eventually accepted the coroner’s conclusions, maybe even the sister. But they also have to live with the stigma that Corry was some kind of sexual weirdo—that she’d recklessly thrown away her life for an orgasm.” He shook his head. “A goddamn mess.”
He slid the folder to Steve. “We never produced the evidence, but my every instinct tells me that someone had done this to her. And it kept me awake for months. This was no low-life broad. She was a smart, professional young woman who was going places.”
Steve nodded. “What line of work was she in?”
“A buyer for Ann Taylor, the woman’s fashion chain, making six figures. And that’s the thing of it. According to friends and family, she was starting over. She’d gotten divorced a few months before, bought herself a new convertible, moved into a big new condo. It was like she was reborn. If it’s your guy, I hope the son of a bitch is burning in hell.”
Modesky checked his watch and pushed the file folder toward Steve. He got up to leave. “One more thing. She withdrew some money—thirty-three hundred dollars—a few weeks before her death, but we could not find a trace of where it went.”
“You think that might have been part of why she d
ied?”
“I’m saying it’s a detail that never was explained.”
Steve thanked Modesky and left.
His stomach was growling since he hadn’t eaten for hours, so he drove to a nearby restaurant to go through the file. He took a booth in a far corner, ordered a tuna steak with rice and vegetables and an iced coffee, and went through Corry Novak’s murder book, which contained pages and pages of forensic material, police reports, and interview summaries. The label of the black stocking was not given.
The few photographs of her showed a pleasant-looking woman with a warm, engaging smile and bright, clear hazel eyes, and features that competed with each other. She had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a tightly set mouth with thin lips. Her shoulder-length hair was brown with blond streaks and parted in the middle. Steve thought she was attractive though not pretty. But from the gleam in her eyes and bearing he could imagine her making major decisions that affected the fashion choices of thousands of women.
And she was someone who did not register a flicker of familiarity.
(Thank you.)
The file also included the last known photo taken of her. It was a group shot at a luncheon in New York City with other buyers after a fashion show. Because she was a face in a larger crowd, he had to use a magnifying glass.
It was probably because the photo was a blowup of a smaller original, but he could barely recognize her as the same woman in the earlier pictures. Her features were slightly blurred and her hair was full and colored an auburn red. If he didn’t know better, he could swear it was Terry Farina.
56
SUMMER 1975
It was as if a curse had been lifted from the house, because his father had been scheduled to fly for the next week. In the intervening days before going to New York, Kirk had called three times to apologize, but Lila hung up on him. He even sent a telegram saying he was sorry, that he was drunk and ran his mouth. But she tore it up. And on Wednesday they left for New York City.
