Skin Deep

32

Maybe I really did do it, Steve thought as he waited in the car for Dana.

Maybe inside there’s a dark twin like in that old horror movie Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In it, he remembered, Spencer Tracy claims that man is not one creature but two—that the human soul is the battleground between an “angel” and a “fiend,” each struggling for dominance. Hoping to separate and purify each element, he develops a potion in his lab but succeeds in bringing only the dark side into being—Mr. Hyde without an angelic counterpart. As Hyde takes over, Jekyll ceases to exist. And by the end, all that’s left is the fiend.

Sitting in the car, Steve wondered if that was what had happened to him. That for one awful moment while lost in a chemical fog, all semblance of his former self had yielded to some id-primitive double.

He peered at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked older, as if his biological clock had fast-forwarded over the last week. More crinkles appeared around his eyes and a few more gray hairs had sprouted in his sideburns. The whites of his eyes seemed dimmer, shocked with tiny red hairlines, maybe from the lack of sleep. Or maybe he was glimpsing signs of madness lurking behind them.

I don’t want to be a killer. I don’t want to be one of the dirtbags I spend my life chasing. Please, God.

He slipped the receipt for the champagne into his pocket when Dana emerged from the clinic. As she made her way toward him, he tried to dispel the clammy alienness in his mind. To concentrate on the moment.

She was wearing white slacks and a mossy green and yellow top with a white jacket over it. Her honey hair bobbed as she approached the car. He forced a cheery smile.

She got into the car and looked at him. “What do you think?”

There was a purple rim along her smile lines. “I don’t see much of a difference.”

“Well, I see a big difference. The lines are practically gone.”

“What about the bruising?”

“That’ll fade in a few days. And I can cover it up with makeup.”

“So, what did he do?”

“It was really pretty simple,” she said, inspecting herself in the visor mirror. “He injected something called hyaluronic acid into the smile lines to fill them out.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

He looked at her. “Smile.”

She made the effort against the stiffness. “In a couple of days the swelling will go down and it’ll loosen up. But no deep lines.”

“But,” he sang, “I’ve grown accustomed to your lines, your frowns, your ups, your downs.”

“Well, Mr. Higgins, get unaccustomed because they’re gone. And maybe a few other things. I’m thinking of getting my lids and nose done.”

“Okay.” He pulled the car onto Route 9 South to 95 North to take her back to Carleton.

“I’m just wondering if we can afford it.”

The “we” hovered in the air like a hummingbird.

“If I get them done at the same time, it would be only eight thousand. Separately, twelve.”

“You mean a package deal?”

“Because he wouldn’t have to arrange two separate surgical teams and anesthesiologists.”

“We have the money.” He didn’t know if joint payment meant that they still had a future together or that she was squeezing him before their divorce. The very notion made his stomach roil.

“Good,” she said.

“So, I take it you’re pretty happy with him.”

“Yes. He’s got a terrific reputation and he’s very nice—”

“And very rich, famous, handsome, and, I hope to God, as gay as Elton John.”

“Stephen, I’m not interested in Aaron Monks.”

“Then why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring? Or did you take a shower up there?”

She looked at her naked finger and opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a reply. For several minutes they rode in silence. Then she turned her head toward him. “Are you all right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been distracted since you picked me up.”

Distracted? Only because I might have killed a woman because she reminds me of you. “How do I seem distracted?”

“Look, if it’s the expense that’s bothering you, I’ll pay with my own money.”

“That doesn’t bother me.” He waited for an explanation of her naked finger, but decided he didn’t want to hear it.

When they pulled onto Hutchinson Road, she said, “I saw an article on the Farina murder. How’s the investigation going?”

“Nothing solid yet.”

“That’s too bad. It’s all over the papers that she was a stripper, and almost no mention that she was dancing to save money for school.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Yes, because the message is that her death was her own fault. She was a stripper so she took self-imposed risks—she asked for it. It’s the same old stuff: when it’s a woman, blame her, especially if she’s sexy.”

He nodded.

“But never would those club guys be blamed if their pickups got stolen,” she said. “Maybe you should lock up all the sexy women to prevent men from risking a murder rap.”

He made a noncommittal grunt and pulled up their driveway. Dana thanked him and got out of the car. “I hope to God you get the bastard.”

He nodded and drove off. Suddenly his mind was a fugue again.

Well, Bunky, looks to me like you got the bastard. Sitting on him in fact. The question is, you gonna turn him in? Or we gonna keep nosing in the sand for truffles?

But there’s no hard evidence, just circumstances.

Bullshit, circumstances. The means. The opportunity. The motive.

The means: she had a bureau full of stockings. May have been wearing them. Or maybe you brought them.

The opportunity: you were with her just before she was killed.

The motive: you were juiced and full of rage. And she was there and looked like your wife.

If it’s evidence you want: You found her sunglasses and you looked through them and saw a plan. You called to say you found them, can be right over. Picked up the Taittinger. Went up for a little Sylvia action, except this one had glorious spun-copper hair that you love. Maybe she resisted. Most likely you did. And ye ancient guilt trip kept the mojo from cranking. Maybe embarrassment. Shame. Rage and the fact that she reminds you of You-Know-Who. In a moment of fury, the old reptile cracked out of its egg and nixed her, the image of the wife who dumped you, and your guilt for adultery. A threefer!

And all the king’s horses and all the doc’s meds couldn’t put Stevie together again.

He was passing under the BU bridge heading East on Storrow Drive when his PDA jingled. The caller ID said it was Captain Reardon.

You did it. Now do the right thing. Do the right thing: tell them.

“Where are you?”

“On my way in. What’s up?”

“We’ve got Pendergast in custody.”

“What?”

“Crime scene found some latents in Farina’s apartment, on a wineglass and a bottle of Pinot Gris in the fridge. According to the girlfriend, Farina drank only red, and the bottle of white had his prints all over it. He also admitted to having been up there.”

“He did?” Steve’s brain could barely process the message.

“We brought him in on a few things and he started telling other stuff.”

“You saying he confessed?”

“Stopped just this side, but he might as well have. Arraignment’s Monday.”

Jesus! “Who did the questioning?”

“Neil.”

“I’m on my way.”