Under the Knife

by Diane Fanning

  “What missing person?” Greg asked.

  “Maria Cruz.”

  The name meant nothing to Greg. “Was she a client?”

  “Yes.”

  Greg told Ford about his conversation with Martin Mannert. He said that Dean had called in a panic because one of his patients, who was seeing him for the removal of a tattoo, passed out after he administered a local anesthetic. The patient had recovered, Martin told Greg, after Dean rushed her to St. Vincent’s hospital.

  “I want to know more,” Ford said. “We’ll get on this right after the holidays. I’ll call you back then.”

  Greg then called Martin, hoping to learn more about the patient who passed out. “He said she had no vital signs,” Martin offered.

  That’s far worse than passing out, Greg thought. “Do you remember when this happened?” he asked.

  All Martin could remember was that it was in the spring. Greg prodded Martin’s memory, trying to stir up a connection to some other event or to a particular date. Finally, something jiggled loose. “I know it was about the same time that Dean locked you out of the house.”

  Greg pulled out his planner and narrowed down the date: April 13. Did he kill her? If he did, where would he put the body? The questions rolled through Greg’s head for days, dark and grotesque scenarios playing out in his mind. He knew a large old home like Dean’s in Newark had lots nooks and crannies for hiding objects large and small. He didn’t known if Dean was capable of such a horrible act but the logic of the possibility made sense to him.

  Mentally, Greg traveled through the house at 212 Elwood. He moved from room to room, remembering details, peering in closets and crannies, trying to determine where the best hiding place might be. Where could he stash a body without the new owners finding it?

  His head full of visions of the house, Greg went to a home on Park Avenue to fulfill a contract to decorate a Christmas tree. In the middle of hanging ornaments, Greg’s mind raced to the carriage house, the memory of Dean pouring concrete flashing before his eyes. Before he knew it, he had blurted the whole story out to the woman assisting him. She burst into tears.

  Up until then, Greg thought he was being paranoid, allowing his imagination to run amok. Now, he believed his suspicions that Dean killed someone were true.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  AS A COSMOPOLITAN CENTER IN CENTRAL AMERICA, SAN JOSE was a relative newcomer. It did not develop into a city of any size until the late 1800s. As a result, it does not have the strong colonial flavor often associated with cities in that region. Although there are some graceful old buildings in the heart of town, the structures that dominate San Jose’s landscape were erected during the building boom of the 1950s and -60s.

  The streets of San Jose sprawl across the city in a manner similar to those of Manhattan. Numbered calles—streets—stretch in one direction intersecting numbered avenidas—avenues—running perpendicular. Unlike Manhattan, though, even-numbered streets and avenues are stacked on one side of the city center—odd-numbered ones on the other.

  On the surface, the consistency of this pattern would suggest an easy set-up to learn and navigate, but there is one sticking point. No businesses or residences have street addresses in all of Costa Rica. Josefinos use intersections and landmarks to give directions.

  Unfortunately for newcomers like Dean, in San Jose, as in any vital urban center, change is constant. Yesterday’s landmark gives way to today’s parking lot. However, locals seldom provide such significant details. For example, the Coca-Cola building is mentioned with great frequency, even though it’s been a bus depot for years.

  Dean’s ability to find his way around the city was hampered by that eccentricity, as well as the language barrier. English-only North Americans flock to a neighborhood called Gringo Gulch and mingle with bilingual ex-pats. They congregate in its hotels, its McDonald’s and at its many bars, including the New York Bar and Nashville South.

  There, imported drinks come with a very high price tag. Ticos rely on guaro, a harsh spirit distilled from fermented sugar cane, local beers, like Bavaria and Imperial, and a selection of wines. Unlike the vintages made up North, these wines are not made from grapes, but from spiny palm sap or from blackberries and other locally grown fruits.

  In the evening, a plethora of discothèques and dance halls fling open their doors and blast music into the streets. Entry is free or cheap. With drinks, they serve bocas, heaping plates of appetizers like cerviche, chicken wings and bean soup. No matter the musical taste—or the sexual preference—there is a club for everyone.

  Dean soon found his favorite spots to frolic in the gay night life of San Jose. He spent many nights at El CantaBrico at Calle 11 and Avenida 3, where the focus was on drinking and meeting men.

  Another of Dean’s favored hang-outs, Pucho’s Night Club, had a regular set of drag queens and male strip-tease acts. A block and a half away was Bochinche, a velvetroped, multi-leveled disco with huge video screens, and drag queen routines that alternated with DJ’s playing dance music.

  Businesses that catered to gay clientele extended beyond nightclubs. There were bathhouses like Jano and Paris. Hispalis, an upscale sauna—the largest in Central America—boasted twenty-five years of experience providing treatment and service for men.

  There was even a gay-friendly Internet café, 1@10, near the Plaza de la Cultura in the center of town. They lured gay patrons with a $1-an-hour access rate and a promise that 1@10 was “the place to go where you can be yourself.” Typically, though, Dean checked his email—two or three times a week—at the Cyber Café on Avenida 2.

  From there, he sent emails to friends in New York. To one, Dean claimed he had left town because of a botched tattoo removal, in which the patient had to be hospitalized. Of course, he never mentioned the real secret, left buried in Newark.

  DEAN HAD A COURT DATE IN MANHATTAN ON OCTOBER 8, 2003. He did not make it. His attorney, Margaret Shalley, admitted to the judge that she had no idea of her client’s current whereabouts. The court ruled that Dean’s bail was forfeit. Dean Faiello was now officially a fugitive from justice. A new date for sentencing was set for December. That day came and went, and still no sign of Dean. The judge issued a warrant for his arrest.

  When a bail bondsman sent Greg a bill for $6,000, he was confused. The original bail amount was $5,000 and he’d already given the company $2,500. Why was the bill higher than the balance on the bond? Before he could figure out the situation, the bond company went out of business. That debt, at least, was off Greg’s back.

  SAN JOSE KICKED OFF THE 2003 HOLIDAY SEASON WITH THE Festival de la Luz—Festival of Lights. More than a million people gathered for the night-time parade with its light-adorned floats and elaborate fireworks display. Dean loved the color and celebration of Christmas and threw himself into the unique elements of the festivities in a foreign land.

  The ticos’ spirit of celebration is enhanced by the aguinaldo, a government-mandated Christmas bonus each worker receives from his employer—the equivalent of one month’s pay. Costa Rica pioneered this concept in Latin America, and their example of Christmas largesse is now mimicked by other countries in the hemisphere.

  Homes bustled with holiday activity as families prepared their personal portal, a nativity scene that was often an ambitious life-sized project taking up an entire room. Bright tropical flowers and colorful fresh fruit decorated the displays.

  Dean was amused to see the Christmas tree he knew in the States replaced here with a new tradition: a big evergreen branch, a small cypress tree or several dried coffee branches decorated with white paint, brilliant strips of paper, colored balls, small figurines and lace, and topped with a gold star to represent the Star of Bethlehem. As he walked through the city, he saw door after door of homes and businesses decorated with cypress wreaths trimmed with red coffee beans and ribbons, and strings of multicolored lights that made the city glow. Everywhere, he heard heart-felt greeting of Feliz Navidad. He walked through the Zapote section
of San Jose watching it come to life with an improvised amusement park filled with rides, games of chance and food booths.

  On Christmas Eve, the celebration became more insular, and Dean was an outsider as families gathered at their churches for Misa de Gallo, a special holiday service, afterwards enjoying the traditional Christmas dinner featuring chicken and pork tamales stuffed with potatoes and vegetables and wrapped in plantain leaves. The adults wash their meal down with rum punch or rompope—eggnog laced with dark rum or brandy. For the children, they serve aguadulce, a sweet, fruit-based beverage. A quiet descended over the night club scene as doors shut so that employees could join their families.

  It all cut loose again the day after Christmas with Dean parading in the thick of the tope. Originally a prelude to a bull fight, consisting of men on horseback, the procession Dean saw had developed into much more. In addition to equestrian performances, caballo-drawn carriages and oxcarts trailed through the street. Floats, marching bands, dancing girls and clowns added to the festive atmosphere. As it wended its way through the byways of San Jose, revelers mingled and celebrated. The party did not stop until January 6, the day traditionally observed for the arrival of the Magi.

  It was an intoxicating season in San Jose—a month-long celebration of drink and good cheer. And in 2003, Dean partied through the whole holiday—all day and all night long.

  For the Cruz family, on the other hand, that Christmas was a solemn occasion: Maria was still missing. Nine months had come and gone and still no sign of her. The traditional high spirits of the Filipino Christmas—one that rivaled Costa Rica’s for its length and exuberance—were muted. The Cruzes went through the motions, but any feelings of renewal or good cheer were lost under the shadow of the mystery of Maria. The pain went even deeper in her parents’ hearts, her disappearance coming as it did before the first time in more than a decade that Maria planned to return to the Philippines for Christmas. Where was she?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  GREG WAITED TO HEAR BACK FROM BRIAN FORD. THE HOLIdays came and went. Still, the investigator did not call. Greg grew annoyed, not realizing until much later that Ford was doing all he could to convince others to pursue Greg’s lead. Once there was a possible homicide, however, it was no longer Ford’s case. The investigative responsibility moved from the attorney general’s office to the detective bureau of the New York Police Department.

  Greg sat down and composed a letter to Ford, describing the haunting scenario that played on a continuous loop in his mind. He wrote of Dean pouring a concrete slab and added his suspicion that it wasn’t big enough to conceal a whole human body. In closing, he asked that, whether he was right or wrong, he really would like to hear back from Ford.

  Greg went to the mailbox, envelope in hand. Suddenly, having it all down in writing intimidated him. It was so final. He stood rooted to the sidewalk, the letter burning in his hand. He knew it was a betrayal of the man he loved. He knew that if he mailed it, there was no turning back—ever. Greg didn’t want to hurt Dean—but he did want to do the right thing.

  He pulled down the metal door and slid the letter inside. It hit the pile of mail in the bottom of the box with a muted thump. For a few moments, Greg could not move. He had the sensation of having just stepped off of a steep cliff.

  He waited for a response with a numb mind. He paid close attention to the local news, suspecting that if he was right, he’d hear word there that someone had taken action. Although it was unlikely, he continued to hope that somehow the authorities would disprove his suspicions. He hung in limbo not knowing what, if anything, he should do.

  Greg didn’t hear from Ford or any other official for weeks, but he did connect with a friend—one who’d recently gotten a lengthy email from Dean. In it, Dean described his tropical home, complaining that no one in Costa Rica spoke English. The friend was concerned that she’d get in trouble for communicating with a fugitive.

  Greg didn’t think getting an email was a crime, but he encouraged her paranoia just the same. Contact the authorities, he urged her. Maybe if they wouldn’t respond to him, they would respond to someone else. “If you talk to them,” he told her, “please tell them to call me.”

  She did talk to police, who came to her house and picked up a hard copy of the email that same day. The next day, Joe Della Rocca visited Greg. When Greg told him about the concrete slab and his concern that a part of a body or other evidence could be hidden within, Della Rocca said, “Faiello’s too smart to do something like that.”

  “Is it smart to get busted for practicing medicine and then start practicing medicine again? Is that very smart?” Greg retorted.

  “You’ve got a point,” Della Rocca said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE ISSUE SURROUNDING JASON OPSAHL’S PENSION WAS AT last resolved after the first of the new year—in Dean’s favor. Debra and Patty visited attorney Tom Shanahan and pressured him to give them Dean’s money. They said that was what Dean wanted. Shanahan balked—Debra was not his client, Dean was. He asked Debra where Dean was, and she responded, “You don’t want to know.”

  The duo returned again, leaning on Shanahan to wire the money to a bank in Costa Rica. Neither Debra nor Patty mentioned that Dean was a fugitive on charges of practicing medicine without a license. Tom insisted on speaking with Dean before he did anything with the money.

  Dean called Shanahan and explained, “I’m taking a long vacation from my troubles with my business partners. I’m in the jungle.”

  At his request, in early February, Shanahan wired $50,000 to Banco Popular in San Jose to the account of Dean Faiello. With this inheritance in hand, Dean began squandering extravagant sums of money as he explored more of the country.

  Debra Faiello, on the other hand, assuaged her guilt with a concession to Jason’s memory. She made a contribution of $5,000 to Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS.

  Dean left San Jose by way of the country’s roller-coaster roads. He traversed miles of bumpy terrain before reaching the main highway, where vendors hawking sunglasses, cell phone accessories and baseball caps lined the sides of the road.

  He left the ring of mountains surrounding the Central Valley on the Pan-American Highway, the same road that connects Tierra del Fuego at the southernmost point of the Americas to Alaska at the north. He passed through a mosaic of forest, pasture, and farmland.

  Leaving the Pan-American highway, Dean caught the route built in the 1800s to transport coffee beans by oxcarts from farms to the ports on the coast—and from there to the cities of Europe.

  He entered an active geological fault zone with deep depressions in the road bed, approaching and then crossing over the crest. The highway then descended toward the coastline of the Gulf of Nicoya.

  A couple hours after leaving San Jose, Dean had entered Esparza—one of the oldest towns in Costa Rica, just twenty kilometers inland from Puntarenas. It was a sleepy little village with clean streets and laid-back town-folk. The quaint village square was lined with cobblestones and featured an octagonal gazebo and a bust of the founder of Esparza, Diego de Artieda y Cherino—a Spanish Governor of Costa Rica.

  He rented a home there under the name Diego Faiello. After spending a few days relaxing in an atmosphere far removed from the crowded streets of San Jose, Dean moved on, farther north to the Pacific Coast and the Villas Playa Samara, a beachfront hotel with spacious Mediterranean-style villas where the heady scent of tropical blooms blended with the tang of the ocean air to create a fragrance like none other. The lush, manicured grounds echoed with the brazen squawks of exotic birds and the mournful cries of howler monkeys.

  Dean requested the best accommodations possible when he checked in, paying cash in advance for three nights. At the doorstep of his three-bedroom villa, a seven-kilometer stretch of virginal white sand beach lay at his feet, with ground-hugging vines of beach beans and matapalo. Unlike much of Costa Rica’s Pacific Coast, where wild waves pound the shore, this spot was not a haven for surfers. A
long coral reef protected this stretch of waterfront, making the waves kiss the sand with a gentleness that felt as timid as an apology.

  Villas Playa Samara was heaven for nature lovers. Iguanas struck noble poses in the sun. Dolphins arced into the air on the horizon. Endangered giant sea turtles laid eggs on a nearby patch of beach, and scenic boat trips on the nearby Tempisque River offered an adventure in wonder. Every evening, the sun descended into the Pacific Ocean in a breathtaking medley of color.

  Dean, however, spent the greater part of his days sunning by the pool and getting refills at the swim-up pool-side bar. He downed Coronas, piña coladas, Cuba Libres and double vodkas with melon juice, running up a daily bar bill of $200 or more.

  He found Leo the bartender very attractive, and night after night invited him back to his room. However, Dean’s charming, seductive ways did not win over Leo.

  “Where are you from?” Leo asked.

  “New York.”

  “What is your profession?”

  “Well, I am a doctor.”

  “Really?”

  “I am a man of mystery. I have a lot of problems. Don’t ask me too many questions.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DEAN MAY HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SUPPRESS THE CURIOSITY OF a staff devoted to pleasing him, but he couldn’t stop the queries that Detective Della Rocca was making miles away back in Manhattan. Greg Bach’s story from the previous May gave birth to a lot of questions in Della Rocca’s mind.

  Two case files—one for a fugitive from justice that had sent Investigator Ford looking for a phony doctor, and the other for a missing persons complaint about the baffling disappearance of a young woman—were now blending into one. As they pushed their puzzle together, the two detectives found that all the pieces seemed to fit.