by Gary Braver
“You’re probably right.”
“Look, Lieutenant Markarian, if you’re saying we have the wrong photos, you’re in gross error, you got that? I know we may appear to you like the Mayberry sheriff’s office up here, but those are the same woman, Corrine Novak. Nobody messed up. Nobody mis-IDed her. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
Modesky clicked off. I know they’re the same woman. And another Dana look-alike.
87
While Pierre and Cho finished the boat operations, Aaron led Dana up the stairs.
He chatted like a tour guide about the island and how because of the Gulf Stream some exotic tropical fish occasionally showed up. In fact, a couple of years ago there was an infestation of a rare Caribbean jellyfish right here in Buck’s Cove. He also explained how for years he had been leasing the mansion as both a summer home and an offsite office, that the original owners gave him permission to convert some basement rooms to a surgical suite.
They entered from the front and into a voluminous and stately foyer with a large mahogany staircase leading to the second floor.
He took her for a quick tour of the first floor. On the right was a huge living room with a large marble fireplace and upholstered chairs and sofas arranged on Oriental rugs. The water-side windows overlooked a darkening infinity broken up by the distant lights of Martha’s Vineyard.
The kitchen, a large open space, occupied a rear corner of the house so that dinners could be prepared with an ocean view. He went to the refrigerator for more champagne. Dana could still feel the drinks from the boat ride, but she agreed to a short glass.
While Aaron got the drinks, she peeked into the adjacent dining room, which had a large table with place settings for ten in elegant white china with gold trim. But as in the kitchen nothing appeared to be in preparation for a dinner party. No fresh flowers, no serving pans. In fact, a thin layer of dust had settled on the dishes. Perhaps the caterer hadn’t arrived yet. Or maybe the food was going to be boated in with a serving staff.
“When is everybody arriving?” she asked, moving back into the kitchen.
Aaron checked his watch. “Soon.” He handed her a glass of champagne.
She took a tiny sip.
“And before they do, I want you to see this first.” He led her across the kitchen to a door that opened onto a flight of stairs going down. “This way.”
She held on to the handrail as she descended because she was beginning to feel spacey.
Below Aaron flicked a switch, lighting up a full cellar that had been converted into a mini-clinic replete with a full operating room with large overhead lights, steel cabinets, scrub sinks, oxygen tanks, cases of medical equipment, IV stands, and closets with medical supplies. Two recovery rooms were down the hall as well as a small conference room and an office. Landscape photos punctuated the walls.
He led them into his office. “It’s because of the clientele,” he explained. “For the lack of a better expression, famous faces who prefer total discretion, which is what brings us here. The famously private.”
“Where the paparazzi can’t find them.” She sat in a chair facing him at his desk.
“Exactly. Because of its location, they can spend their recovery here instead of going to some faraway resort. Plus the island has catering services, so it’s more like a vacation.”
On the wall above his head was an abstract sepia drawing that she had seen before. “That’s the same picture that’s hanging in your other office.”
“Yes.”
“Is it Japanese?”
“No, I did that.”
“You did?” There was something haunting in the image—something vaguely familiar just below the level of consciousness. “A plastic surgeon and artist.”
“I think every plastic surgeon should be something of an artist, don’t you agree? That they should have an aesthetic vision of what they want to achieve?”
“Yes.” Upstairs she heard some footsteps. “I think your other guests are arriving.”
“It’s probably Cho and Pierre.” He glanced at his watch again. “We still have time.”
Dana raised her glass to her mouth then put it down. She was feeling light-headed.
Aaron’s eyes seemed large and intense all of a sudden. “Remember you once asked me if I thought there were universals of beauty—elements that cut across cultures?”
She nodded. “I think it was a silly question, actually.”
“On the contrary. There are universal ideals of beauty. You see it in the animal kingdom, in courting rituals of birds all the way up to the great apes. Creatures are drawn to mates who possess traits indicative of strong survival abilities. You’re a science teacher. It’s pure Darwin.”
“Uh-huh.” She heard the words but was having difficulty following the train of thought.
“The same with people. In the name of survival and evolutionary progress I think we are genetically coded to be drawn to people with certain facial traits—large, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, clear skin, a short nose, short square chin. Look in any fashion magazine, and you’d see what I mean. And that’s true for men and women. What we consider beauty is a genetic code for evolutionary advantage. Are you following me?”
“Mmmm. But doesn’t culture shape that?”
“You mean do cultural values affect our perception of beauty? Of course, but there’s a set of facial features which is universally appealing irrespective of the culture of the perceiver. I won’t bore you, but my point is that beauty has basics—the golden ratio we talked about. Think of the great Hollywood beauties or supermodels. Each is a subtle variation of the phi archetype.”
“Uh-huh.” But her brain had turned to fuzz.
“Of course, there are subjective individual ideals—what psychologists call imagoes. Do, you know the term?”
“Imagoes. No.”
“We all have them,” he said. “They’re the embedded ideal of one’s parents.”
A strange intensity had lit in his face.
“For some individuals, the imago parent is the prototype which determines the way he perceives himself and others. Some say it’s an innate force second only to the longing for God—a yearning underlying all others.”
She nodded, but was having a hard time concentrating on what he was saying.
“Perhaps because it’s always been an unattainable goal.”
“What is?”
“To become one with the imago, to lose oneself in it, to become totally absorbed by it.” His hands moved to the keyboard again. “For the rare individual, it’s the ultimate fulfillment. The ultimate destiny.”
She tried to stand but flopped back down. “I don’t feel well.”
“It’s just the blood rushing to your head.”
No. I’m feeling faint, like I’m going to pass out.
“Here,” he said. He tapped the keys then turned the screen for her to see.
For a moment as the image came into view she had no reaction as her mind told her she was peering into a mirror.
Then it occurred to her that staring out from the monitor was her own face. And she had long, fluffy, coppery hair.
He grinned at her. “See?”
88
Steve called Dana’s numbers again, and still no answer. He called Lanie Walker, who said she didn’t know where Dana was. He called Jane Graham, two colleagues at her school, but they had no idea either. The same with her aerobics teacher, who had not seen her for at least a week.
His blood was racing. He made another call. On the third ring he heard Mickey DeLuca answer. It was about one o’clock and the afternoon dancers were on the stage warming up the beach crowd. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”
“I’ll do my best, Detective.”
“I’m looking at photos of Terry Farina a.k.a. Xena Lee. She looks different in the older ones than your Web site shots.”
“Yeah, and that’s because couple of months ago she got a new rack.”
“A n
ew rack?”
“You know, inserts, breast enhancements.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Came back with friggin’ musk melons. What a difference! I mean, like, the guys went wild.”
“I’m sure. But the thing is her face looks different also. Her features…”
“Yeah, she got a paint job, bright red hair. ‘Xena on Fire’ is how we billed her.”
“I’m talking about her face. Her eyes and mouth look different. Know anything about that?”
“No, not really.”
“Did she ever mention getting any plastic work done on her face?”
“No. I mean, she was in her upper thirties, and girls sometimes do that, because customers like them young. But she never said anything about a face job.”
“When she took those weeks off in May, did she say anything about having some work done, maybe getting away to recover?”
“She never said.”
“Did she ever mention a plastic surgeon, or ever say where she got her breasts done?”
“Not a clue. The girls don’t talk about their personal lives. We’re pretty strict.”
“Know any friends who might know?”
“Not a clue.”
“Other girls or staffers up there?”
“Not a clue.”
His answer would probably cover any known subject in the universe. When he hung up, Steve dialed Katie Beals. He got the answering machine and left the message to call him on his cell phone as soon as possible. It was urgent.
His eye fell on the map with markers of where the women lived—a hundred-mile circle around Boston. All the victims were around forty and in professions where a premium is put on looking younger than their age.
All were in transition from relationships, starting over, reinventing themselves.
All were killed within weeks of having cosmetic surgery.
All dyed their hair red about the same time they had their cosmetic makeovers.
All had the same heart-shaped face with wide cheeks and forehead and angular jaw and full lips.
He dialed Dana’s number. Again he got the answering machine. Steve tried to control his voice. “It’s me again. It’s urgent. Call me immediately.” He dialed her cell phone. He got her voice mail. He left the same message.
Almost seems like a progression.
Jackie’s words cracked across his mind like an electric arc.
89
“Aaron, you’re hurting me.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to.”
He loosened his grip on her arm as he led her out of the office and down the hall. Her legs moved as if they were made of wood.
“I think you need to lie down.”
But she didn’t want to lie down. “I want to go home.”
She tried to concentrate on putting one foot solidly in front of the other. They were moving down the corridor from his office. The fluorescent lights were making a harsh glare in her eyes as she moved.
“There’s a bed in here,” Aaron said as they approached a room. “I’ll give you something to make you feel better.”
Through the haze she heard herself say, “No, I want to go home.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The water’s choppy. You might get seasick. Tomorrow will be better.”
She made a feeble attempt to free her arm, but he only held her more firmly. In a part of her brain that was still lucid she wondered, What happened to the nice doctor? Why is he being rough with me? Why won’t he take me home?
She continued shuffling down the hall with Aaron steering her. They turned into a dimly lit room where he led her to a reclining chair. He guided her onto it.
“You’ll feel better,” he said, and patted her hand.
“I want to go.”
“Tomorrow. I promise. I’ll get you something to make you feel better. Okay?”
She did not respond. She was having a hard time focusing on his face as he stood beside her.
“Just relax. Think of something pleasant like cruising in the Caribbean. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Martinique?”
“Mmmm.”
“Maybe I’ll take you with me.”
Someplace behind her she heard a telephone jingle.
“You stay put and relax. I’ll be right back”
“I want to go home,” she mumbled. She watched him leave the room. I don’t feel good.
She got up from the chair and steadied herself as the rush of blood to her head set her spinning. She shuffled to the door and opened it.
The bright lights of the empty corridor filled her eyes. Across the way was a white door. Hoping it would lead her outside, she moved to it and pushed it open, telling herself that she had to get out of this house, off this island. Things were happening that she didn’t understand. She had been brought here for a dinner party, but no one else was here, and Aaron was acting strangely. And why that picture of her with fluffy red hair?
Vaguely she sensed that things were being choreographed against her, as if she were moving in a dark and elaborate scheme.
The room was dark but a relief from the too bright corridor. She felt the wall and found a switch. She flicked it on. The light was not so blinding as outside, but she still had to squint because her eyes were very sensitive for some reason.
The interior looked like some kind of recovery room with medical equipment and IV stands, electronic monitors and other equipment sitting silently in racks against the walls. Against another wall were beds made up in stiff white.
But what caught her eye was a gurney in the middle of the room. Because her vision was blurry and her brain slow, it took her a few moments to realize that it was not empty—that something was lumped under a white sheet.
As steadily as her feet would allow, she shuffled toward the gurney. Her brain fluttered in and out of awareness in rapid cycles as if what her eyes took in was illuminated by strobes.
From the impressions, the sheet appeared to be draped across a human body, for she could make out the little tents at the feet and the vague impression of legs and torso and a head contoured under the tip of a nose. Almost without thought her fingers picked up the edge and pulled back the sheet.
Dana let out a cry of horror. It was Aaron Monks.
90
“Aaron Monks. The cosmetic surgeon. I don’t know what I’ve got, but I want to talk to him.”
“Where are you?” Dacey asked.
“On my way to my wife’s.”
“I’ll call for backup.”
“Let me check first. What you can do is find his receptionist. I think she’s a Filipina woman with a long last name beginning with m. Also, I need to know who manages the building his clinic is in.”
“No problem, but I think you might want to call Chief Reardon.”
It was Saturday afternoon, and Reardon was probably playing golf somewhere.
Hi, Chief. Sorry to interrupt your game, but seems we got a serial killer who goes after redheads who all had plastic surgery and who look like my wife, who just got some work done by Dr. Aaron Monks, surgeon of the stars. Just want to break into his office and look around.
Steve made it to their house in less than fifteen minutes.
What bothered him was that the outside lights, including the driveway floods, were on. And it was two in the afternoon, which meant that either Dana had forgotten to turn them off when she went to bed last night, or she hadn’t come home yet. The other possibility was that she didn’t want to return to a dark house.
But what set off an alarm was that her car sat in the garage. Someone had again picked her up. Maybe the guy in the limo.
He let himself in through the back door. The kitchen lights were on, so was a lamp in the living room and family room. The only sound he could hear was the refrigerator. He called out her name. Nothing. A single wineglass sat on the counter by the sink. It had been rinsed out. A tiny puddle of water remained at the bottom. He picked it up and felt a shudder that took him back t
o that night in Terry Farina’s apartment.
He made a fast check of the downstairs rooms. No Dana, and all was in place. He bounded upstairs, calling her name again. Their bedroom was to the right at the top of the stairs. The door was open and the interior was dark. He said a little prayer that Dana was under the blankets.
The bed was flat and empty. He flicked on the lights, his fingers slimed with perspiration. He checked the guest bedroom, then their offices.
No Dana.
He dialed her cell phone. Once again he got her voice mail and left an urgent message to call him no matter what time.
“Shit,” he said aloud.
Her desk calendar lay open with no entries for the last several days, but last Wednesday she had scribbled “checkup.” He didn’t know if that was for a regular medical exam, her dentist, or Monks.
He went back into the master bedroom then to the bathroom. He flicked the switch, ducked his head in, then flicked it off, thinking about calling colleagues at Carleton High. He started out of the bedroom toward the stairway, when he stopped in his tracks. Like the afterimage of an old television set something lingered in his mind. He shot back inside and moved to her vanity.
On it sat a color photograph.
For a moment all he could feel was numbness as his brain processed what he was looking at. Then a bolt of horror shot through him. It was a computer portrait of Dana.
His first thought was of James Bowers. The forensic anthropologist.
But that didn’t make sense. He opened his briefcase and found the projection image Bowers had given him. It had the same digitalized flatness, the same Photoshop fabrication, except in the printout Dana had red hair.
Then it hit him.
91
“The guy gave her a computer projection of what she’d look like with a nose job. He also colored her hair red.”
Steve explained to Captain Reardon what he had found. “They all had had cosmetic surgery and looked alike at their deaths. Only one of them had reddish hair, but at autopsy they all had the same shade of red. The thing is that nobody knew who did their work, like they were operated on under some code of omertà.”
