Skin Deep

37

Steve did not drive straight home. Instead, he made a copy of the Farina file and the Pendergast video. After calling ahead, he drove to Belmont, a small town ten miles west of Boston, and up a sleepy little street off Cushing Square. At number thirty-two, a modest Tudor single family, he rang the doorbell. In a matter of moments the door swung open and a large woman filled the entrance. She squinted at him. “I remember the face, but the name escapes me.”

“Philo Vance.”

She laughed and gave him a one-arm hug. “How are you, Steve?”

“Just dandy.” She led him inside.

Jacqueline Levini had worked for the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI at Quantico for several years before accepting a teaching position at Northeastern University. She was an old friend and a gifted profiler and the one who gotten him the job in the evening program. In her late fifties, Jackie looked more like someone who studied subatomic particles than serial killers. She had a frizzy head of salt-and-pepper hair that looked as if it had been styled by Albert Einstein. Her face was fleshy and expressive and lit by piercing blue eyes that made you wonder if she were wearing colored contact lenses. She was dressed in an oversized T-shirt that said ITALIA. Her father was from a small medieval Umbrian town of Todi where she returned each summer to stay with relatives. In her hand was a glass of red wine.

“I’ve got a lovely bottle of Montefalco from my friend Dick Elia, and it refuses to be consumed alone.”

She led him into the living room, which was done in leather and claret Oriental carpets and soft lighting. He could feel the demon pull of the bouquet. “Sorry, Jackie, but I have to refuse.”

“It’s too late to be working, or don’t you like wine?”

“It doesn’t like me.”

“Then how about a coffee or Pellegrino?”

“Pellegrino would be fine.”

She disappeared down the hall to the kitchen.

Jackie was a widow of nearly ten years. She lived alone and her only son lived on the West Coast. She taught a graduate course in the College of Criminal Justice but spent most of her time doing research and consulting for law enforcement agencies throughout the country. She had written scholarly articles on forensic psychology, crime, and psychosexual dynamics, as well as trade books on sex crimes for the general reader. Over the years she had established herself as a favorite consultant of news networks whenever a high-profile crime was in the air. On her fireplace was a photograph of her in one of her several appearances on Larry King Live.

“How’s Dana doing?” Jackie said when she returned with his drink.

She knew Dana from happy social events and he had dreaded the question. Because he didn’t want to get into their separation he simply said that she was doing fine.

“Any baby Markarians yet?”

“Not yet.” He took a sip of the drink to change the subject. “I appreciate your help, especially at this hour.”

“No problem, besides you spare me from student theses that are making my eyes cross. Brilliant kids who can’t write for shit. So, what do you have?”

“You probably heard about this.” He handed her a photocopy of the Boston Globe story.

“Oh, yeah, the fitness instructor and part-time stripper. I read about it.”

“You’ll be reading more tomorrow because we have someone in custody.” Steve filled her in on the investigation and laid the DVD on the top of the file. “The material on him is a bit thin to make a profile, but the interrogation might help. Unfortunately it’s four hours long.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Evidence that he’s capable of this.”

She took a sip of her wine and nodded. “And you have doubts?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll do what I can. When do you need this by?”

Steve looked at his watch.

“I don’t see you for months on end and suddenly it’s red alert.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, boy! I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since college.”

“I owe you big-time.”

“A dinner at Flora in Arlington will do.”

“You’re on.”

She walked him to the door.

“Thanks.” He gave her a hug, thinking: Tell me it’s not me.