Skin Deep

48

Steve had briefed the captain on the phone as they headed back to headquarters. When they arrived, Reardon’s face was a terracotta mask. He looked at Neil across the desk from him. “Were you lovers?”

“Is this a formal interrogation, Captain?”

“No more than Pendergast’s was.”

Neil made a face to say he didn’t like the comment. “We were close.”

“And you never told anybody.”

In Neil’s defense Steve said, “At the crime scene he said that he knew her from the health club.”

“There’s a fucking mile between casual acquaintance and an intimate relationship with a homicide victim. What the hell were you thinking? You kept us in the dark on a critical piece of information.”

“I didn’t want to go public,” Neil said. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“Maybe? This suppression of information is sufficient to disqualify you from the case.”

“Give me a break,” Neil said.

“I’m giving you a break. You could be fired from the force.”

Neil’s face hardened. He looked to Steve, but said nothing.

“You’re suspended from the case permanently and from your current load for the next two weeks, but we’ll call it a leave of absence. When you return you’ll still have your other cases.”

“With or without pay?”

“Because it’s an infraction, with. And let me suggest that you work on your interrogation tactics. You were out of control with Pendergast.”

“Okay.”

A long moment passed. Then Neil asked, “Am I a suspect?”

“At the moment, you’re a person of interest and we’ll want a full statement from you. I’ll see you in your office in fifteen.”

Neil got up, and in silence Steve watched him walk to the door. As soon as the door closed Reardon shot a look at Steve. “Do you think he did it?”

Crosscurrents ripped through Steve.

“And how do I know you didn’t kill her, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

Reardon nodded. “What was his relationship with her?”

“It started off as trainer and client then became more.” Steve measured his words. “I think he got serious about her. But I think he’s still conflicted, still unresolved in his feelings. He never approved of her stripping, but he feels bad that he made her feel sleazy about it.”

“So maybe he was narrating how he killed her himself—all the sexual taunting, feeding him motives, attacking him with the stocking. Like he was reenacting his own crime.”

Steve’s next words could set in motion the investigation of his own partner—

“In fact, where exactly were you that night?”

—or himself.

What Reardon had speculated was the unthinkable: a veteran homicide cop implicated in a high-buzz murder case. Exactly what he did not need on top of all the shrill press about the murder rate and police incompetence.

At the same time Steve was speculating on hideous Monty Hall options:

Facing three doors, Bunky, and behind one is the killer, behind the others, scapegoats. The host tells you it’s door number one, which is Earl Pendergast. Door number two is Neil. Door number three is good ole Stevie McHyde. For too many reasons Pendergast doesn’t feel right. Door number two: Neil killing his old girlfriend? Think about it and the pieces begin to snap together like magnets. He wasn’t on duty that day but agreed to take over for Hogan. He’s first to the crime scene and convinces the techs it’s accidental asphyxia. Stomps all over evidence. As soon as Pendergast’s name surfaced, he’s first to peg him as the bad guy. Never went to the ball game. No alibi. Lied about his relationship with the vic. Had a stockingful of motives. Gets a twofer: spurned jealous lover kills the bad girl and scapegoats the competition—poor geeky, creepy English prof.

(But tell me this: are we lining up circumstances to fit a conclusion in lieu of opening door number three?)

(And are we ye old pot calling ye old kettle black? That maybe you and Terry were lovers and you dispatched her to rid yourself of the guilt for having an affair that you conveniently burned out of your memory banks?)

Like she said, blame the victim. That and maybe get back at Dana through her look-alike.

“It’s also possible,” Steve said, “that we’re seeing a good cop trying to squeeze a confession out of a guy he thinks killed his girlfriend.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“My gut tells me nothing.”

“Well, we’ve got nothing connecting him to the crime scene.”

“And no documented history of his lying, false arrests, or giving misleading evidence in court.”

“What about Pendergast?”

Steve shook his head. “We’ve hit stone. Even her friends and coworkers never heard of Earl Pendergast, nor the brother and sister. Nothing from his credit cards, phone records. And he doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Well, it’s in the prosecutor’s hands.”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever, Neil’s off the case. When he comes back, we’ll put him elsewhere. Meanwhile, work with Dacey, Hogan, and Vaughn. And this does not get out. The last fucking thing we need is the media getting wind we’re investigating a crime where an investigator’s a major suspect.” He rubbed his face. “Jesus H. Christ, I don’t need this.”