Skin Deep

13

The phone was still ringing in his head as he drove to Carleton.

And slowly memory began to condense out of the fog. Terry Farina’s number was on his scroll of outgoing calls because he had telephoned about her sunglasses.

Yes. He had called to tell her that she had left them in the pub. Conor Larkins on Huntington Avenue Across from the NU quad. It’s where he had bumped into her.

That was it. And it came back to him with a shudder.

Last Saturday afternoon. He was off-duty and did his grades at home. Then he drove to campus to drop them off. Because it was the weekend, the night school office was closed, so he went to the grade sheet drop-box in the open lobby. It was late afternoon and he was hungry so he went to the pub for a sandwich. To his surprise, Terry was in a quiet booth in the corner doing a final on her laptop. She was just finishing but invited him to join her. She had already eaten and he didn’t want to eat alone, so he ordered a draft of Sam Adams and she had a glass of white wine. They chatted for a while until she had to leave to run off her exam in the library then slip it under her instructor’s door. Then she would head home because she was going out of town the next morning. They said goodbye, and he stayed behind and ordered a sandwich. Before he left, he noticed that she had forgotten her sunglasses. Because he didn’t have her home number, he called Information, then gave her a call to say he could drop them off.

As he turned off Route 2 into Carleton, all he could remember beyond that was parking across the street from Terry’s apartment building. Until Reardon’s call the next morning, everything else was a dead blank.

The good news was that there was no listing of his call in the subpoenaed records from her carrier. The only way the call was untraceable to his PDA phone was if he had first dialed *67 to block caller ID. The bad news was that he had.

And how do you explain that, pal?

The only thing that made sense was the old childhood guilt thing—the abnormal craving to eliminate any sign that he may have done something wrong even if he hadn’t. Out of an ancient impulse to eradicate possible bad-boy intentions, he had deleted the connection.

Okay, so what were your bad-boy intentions?

He pushed down the voice. He had also lost all recall.

But a fifteen-hour hole?

Maybe it was the beer. That and the medication the doctor had put him on. Sure! For a few years that had worked well, leveling off the symptoms to the point that he could take a milligram or two of Ativan as needed. But since his breakup with Dana, some of the anxieties and compulsive thoughts had returned. And with them, symptoms like the guilt clean-up rituals.

At least he was no longer a slave to the compulsive hand-washing and seven showers a day. Nor did he still go through his day plagued by the closed-looped tape playing in his head as when he was younger: “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.”

But he wasn’t completely cured.

There was *67.

By the time he arrived at the house he felt better, although he made a mental note to check the online pharmacy sites when he got home.

It was a little after eight when he pulled behind Dana’s car, which sat in the middle of the garage, overlapping both slots. They had lived separately for six months, but whenever he stopped by he felt like an intruder on his own turf, his marriage house—the neat, white, central entrance colonial with green shutters and a hostas-lined redbrick front walk and detached garage—the place on which he still made monthly payments.

He had come this time to pick up a container of his summer clothes from the cellar as well as a few items for his apartment.

Dana was grading student papers at the kitchen island when he arrived. She had expected him and said a cool hello then went back to her papers. As he rummaged through the stuff they had collected over the years, his mind flooded with memories from when they were a young pretty couple making young pretty plans. But the sadness was crossed with eddies of resentment.

He loaded his car, making three trips up the stairs and across the kitchen to the outside, avoiding any exchanges or eye contact while she sat there with her papers, fortified in her determination to live the rest of her life without him. Once she looked up and flashed him a smile, but instead of feeling gratified it made him all the more irritated. When he returned on his last run, she removed her glasses and slid a glass of sparkling water toward him. “Suddenly we’re cordial,” he said, tasting the sourness of his words.

“Just trying to be nice.”

He picked up the glass and took a sip. He knew every nuance of Dana’s emotional makeup. Something in her expression said there was another agenda.

“The news is full of the Farina murder. How’s the investigation going?”

He could tell that she had little genuine interest in the case. “Nothing solid yet.”

“The paper says she was taking night courses at Northeastern.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you know her?”

“Did I know her?” A worm slithered inside his chest.

“From your class.”

“She was taking courses in psychology, not criminal justice.”

“Such a shame. They said she was going to go to grad school in the fall.”

“Yeah.”

“Not that it makes any difference, but she was pretty.”

“She was also a stripper.” He mentioned that as if it explained something.

“A stripper?”

“I’m sure it’ll be all over the media soon.”

“I thought she was a fitness trainer.”

“She stripped on the side,” he said. “According to her family she wasn’t your average pole dancer. She was raised in a wealthy suburb of Chicago and went to private schools for girls then NYU. It’s where she started stripping.”

“Is that right?”

In spite of the subject matter, he felt some relief that he had caught her interest, that he could still share something with her. “It was fast, easy money. Later she moved to Boston, and because she was in good shape she worked at health clubs. When she decided to go back to school she started stripping again to pay her way.”

Dana nodded. “Sounds like she was reinventing herself.”

“Maybe so.” He guzzled down his drink. “I’ve got to go.” He moved to the door.

She got up and came over to him. “I need a favor.”

“Sure.”

“The cosmetic surgeon’s office called to say there was a last-minute cancellation. He can see me tomorrow morning.”

“What for?”

“It’s only a consultation. He’s Lanie Walker’s surgeon, and he’s quite famous.”

“You’re really getting serious about this.”

“Yeah, I am. I’m just wondering if you’d come with me. Are you free?”

Steve’s heart leapt up. He would have expected Lanie to accompany her. “What time?”

“Seven. He’s squeezing me in before he goes into surgery.”

“The guy starts early.”

“I guess he’s going on vacation in a few weeks and is making extra time.”

“And, no doubt, some traveling cash. Where’s his office?”

“Route Nine, Chestnut Hill.”

“That’ll work because I’ve got a unit meeting at nine.”

“I wouldn’t ask, but Lanie’s out of town.”

Steve felt his heart slump. “Oh. So you want me because you need a ride, not moral support.”

“Both.”

He didn’t believe her. “I’ll be by at six thirty.”

She could hear the flatness in his voice, but she disregarded it. “I appreciate that.”

He opened the door. “Is that what you’re doing—reinventing yourself?”

“I’m only going to inquire about a lid lift, maybe a nose job.”

“Uh-huh, then why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?”

She glanced at her hand. “I took it off to take a shower.”

“Since when?”

“I always take my rings off when I shower.”

He nodded and he left, trying to recall if that was true.