Skin Deep

30

Steve drove up Ruggles and took a right onto Huntington. At the stoplight at Gainsborough he made a U-turn and pulled beside a hydrant in front of Conor Larkins.

“Did you go to my place?

“Did you come upstairs?

“Did you? Did you?”

Conor Larkins was an underground bar with blue awnings and a staircase separating two storefront windows with Guinness signs, Northeastern banners, and stuffed NU huskies behind the glass. His eyes rested on the entrance while waiting for images to solidify out of the fog.

So why not go inside, me boy? Afraid of what you’ll find? Afraid someone will recognize you?

“Hey, didn’t I see you the other night with that woman who got murdered? That stripper from NU? Jeez, it was the same night.”

He took out her photograph. Christ! The more he stared at it, the more she looked like Dana.

“Did you kill me?

“Did you come up to my place for a little action but because you were so scrambled on meds and booze you looked at me, saw Dana, and all that resentment building up since she dumped you suddenly spewed up? Killed me as surrogate?”

Bullshit!

He put the car in gear and moved down Huntington. At its end he cut down to Jamaica Way, where he drove in the slower right-hand lane, his mind wide-open and poised for the sudden zap.

But nothing came back.

He pulled down Payson and parked across the street from 123. Mrs. Sabo’s light was on, but the second-floor apartment looked dead. He tried to recall walking up those steps and ringing the second-floor doorbell and Terry coming down, dressed in her black sheath. He couldn’t get it. Couldn’t even recall what she wore in the restaurant. Nothing but a pocket of night fog.

After maybe twenty minutes he left and drove down Center Street still expecting the brutal epiphany. He stopped at a deserted parking lot with a large Dumpster in back. Nothing. He continued for another couple of miles, stopping to see if the psychic trail would warm.

Nothing. Thank you! Thank you!

But you can’t prove a negative, Bunky. So how did the sunglasses end up at her place? You tell me that.

She came down, I gave them to her, she went up without me. Headed home, slept off the poisons. Meanwhile, somebody else went up there and did her in. Maybe Pendergast.

Good. Your chips and a prayer on him.

The sun had dropped behind the wall of buildings on St. Botolph when he pulled into a spot near his apartment. With his key, he let himself into the front door. On the floor was a large manila envelope with his name on it. Dana’s handwriting. Inside was some mail that had been sent to his Carleton address. And a handwritten note:

Am in town with Lanie. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven. These came the other day for you. Might want to give them your new address. Dana.

No “Love” or “XOXO.” Just “Dana.” Just plain ole “Dana” as if it were a note to the lawn service guy. “Might want to give them your new address.”

Bitch!

Inside were some bills and magazines. He climbed the stairs to his apartment. All he wanted to do was monkey work—dull mechanical brain stem stuff. So he decided to pay some bills and send notes to the senders informing them of his change of address. He went online and paid the bills. Electric. Telephone. Magazines. He filled out online forms with the change of address. He logged onto his Visa account. He scrolled down his recent purchases. His Conor Larkins bill was listed—$36.18 for the sandwich and drinks. Then his eyes fixed on the entry below that, and for a moment his brain had no reaction.

CENTER STREET LIQUORS, JAMAICA PLAIN MA. 06/02, 6:22 P.M.

Champagne $41.99

The bottle of Taittinger.

For special occasions he always bought Veuve Clicquot, which was his and Dana’s champagne of choice. But maybe they were out and he purchased the Taittinger instead. He could not recall buying champagne. He could not recall stopping at a liquor store.

But Terry Farina had left Conor Larkins to drop off her exam and probably arrived at her place around five thirty. Sometime after that he had called to say she had left her sunglasses behind. Would drop them off.

Stopped to buy champagne…

A soupy horror filled his head. He had gone over there full of meds and booze and smoldering anger.

Oh, sweet Jesus!