Skin Deep

9

Located on Route 128 near Gloucester, the Kingsbury Club was a large mausoleum-like structure in white stone with dark glass and cubistic turrets and a lot of low greenery. Steve had arrived early for his appointment with the athletic director, so he sat in the car and reviewed the Farina reports, hoping in part to snatch whatever kept teasing him since Ottoman’s office.

He reviewed the photographs, but nothing came. One series of shots was of Terry with her sister, photo-lab-dated five years ago. In them, she had short brown hair and was heavier, only vaguely looking like the woman he remembered. The other images from the crime scene made his mind slump. Her golden red hair looked obscenely radiant against an engorged face the color of night.

But this time the image caused a quickening in his veins that he recognized. Someone had done this to her. Someone so driven by hatred and rage that he could squeeze the life out of this woman while champagne still bubbled in her glass. Someone who was out there walking the streets, breathing air, feeling the sun on his face, while Terry Farina lay bone-sawed in a refrigerator in the city morgue. It was an awareness that made Steve hum to get the dirtbag who did that to her.

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

It was the first question she had asked when he told her he was in homicide. They had met during a break in the café downstairs in Shillman Hall, their classroom building. He was behind her in the coffee line. She was taking a child psych course, he was doing his Criminology class next door.

Yeah, he had.

“What was it like?”

He didn’t want to talk about it.

“Were you scared?”

He didn’t remember. It had happened in a fog. He changed the subject.

She had said she liked her job as a fitness trainer, especially the aerobics class because it kept her in shape. But she wanted to move on and had gotten accepted to Massachusetts School of Professional Psychology, which was why she was taking refresher courses. The older photos reminded him that when they had first met her hair was brown and cut shoulder-length with wispy bangs the way Dana wore her hair. And how she had resembled Dana.

As arranged, he met Alice Dion, the Kingsbury fitness director, and Bob Janger, the owner, in the lobby, a bright open area behind which stretched a bank of windows onto the main workout area. Dion was in her forties, with short black hair and a tan. She had a solid athletic build that spoke favorably of the dozens of machines on the other side of the glass. Janger, who reminded Steve of the actor Stanley Tucci, was a neat muscular guy with a shaved head and a shadow of where his hair used to be. He wore a blue club shirt and chinos, looking every bit like the owner of an upscale fitness club. They brought Steve to Dion’s office, a small cubicle with a desk and computer. With their permission, Steve tape-recorded their exchange.

“This is a terrible loss,” Janger said. “She’d been with us for three years, and she was terrific. Smart, motivated, and dedicated to her clients, and they loved her. She was one of our best trainers.”

Dion nodded in agreement. “I still can’t believe it. She was very professional and a really fun person.” Her eyes filled up.

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm her?”

“No, not a soul,” Dion said.

Janger shook his head. “No one.”

“Do you know if she was personally close to any of the club members, maybe even dating any?”

“Actually,” said Janger, “we have a hard-and-fast rule that the staff cannot become involved with club members. We had a problem in our first year, and since then it’s been written in stone: no dating clientele.”

“To what consequence?”

“They’d be fired, no questions asked.”

“Seems like an effective deterrent.”

“So far so good.”

“Do you know if she was seeing anyone?”

“Not that I know of,” Janger said, and he looked to Dion.

She thought for a moment. “She didn’t say much about her private life.”

“So, she never mentioned going out with anyone—a dinner or movie date or whatever?”

“Not to me. But maybe to some of the other staff. Maybe Michelle San Marco. She’s one of the other aerobic instructors. She and Terry were pretty close, except she’s not in today. But I can give you her number.” And she jotted it down on one of her cards and gave it to him.

“I’d also like a list of her clients over the last three years.”

“Sure,” Alice said, and turned to her computer and hit a few keys. In a few minutes her printer kicked into action. When it was finished, she handed him a printout of a few dozen names, most of them women’s.

“If you’ll bear with me I’d like to do some cross-checking.”

“Sure,” Dion said. “Can I get you something in the meantime? Coffee, water, soft drink?”

“Water would be just fine, thanks.” Dion left, and Steve went down the list looking for matches to names from Terry Farina’s Rolodex—neighbors and friends the investigation had compiled. There were more than a hundred on the list, which he’d have to check for overlaps. But at a glance none jumped out but Neil French.

When Dion returned, Steve mentioned that his partner had hired Farina.

They both remembered him. “Big good-looking guy,” Janger said.

“Yes. She was his trainer for a while.”

“He must be pretty upset by this,” Dion said.

“He is.”

They talked some more, and when it was clear that they had nothing else to give him, Steve got up to leave. They walked him to the front door, where Steve handed them each his card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help.”

“Of course,” Janger said.

Alice Dion nodded as she studied Steve’s card.

As he was about to leave, she looked up and Steve felt something pass between them. The next moment she headed back to her office.