Skin Deep

61

Steve spent the next two days with Dacey at headquarters checking out what cyber had found on the hard drive of Neil’s office computer. They had scoured his files, e-mails, and Internet sites and so far had come up with nothing connecting him to Terry Farina—no correspondences and no incriminating links. There was more still to cover, but by the time he got home that Tuesday evening, he was mentally wrung out and frustrated—and crackling in the background like white noise was that mounting sense of guilt.

Before he took a shower, he gave Dana another call. The operation was on Sunday, and she had left a brief message to say it went well, but he still hadn’t talked with her. There was no answer, so he left a message that he called.

It was a little after nine when he sank into his pillow, feeling the kind of total exhaustion that told him he’d make it through the night without medication. For more than a week he had gone to bed cold turkey in an effort to shake his dependency. Although a couple of tabs would put him under, he’d wake up a few hours later and toss and turn, leaving him with the option of taking another pill or settling for a night of spotty sleep and a next day of feeling lousy. On the upside, Ativan did get him through the night dream-free.

He had a glass of warm milk and turned off the light, sinking into sleep in a matter of minutes. But it was far from a dream-free night.

He found himself at the front door of the two-family house at 123 Payson Road—the large brass number plate glaring in the sunset. But, oddly enough, instead of a gray-sided two-family structure, it was a white colonial with a central entrance, green shutters, and a brick walk hedged with hostas.

He rang the doorbell, and a beautiful red-haired woman in a black satiny dress opened it. He knew her face and was about to say something when she smiled and without a word turned and began to climb the stairs. He followed her into a living room, which didn’t make sense since the living room was downstairs on the left. But that’s where she had led him, and he did not again question the oddity. Nor the non-Euclidian shapes and angles of things and the odd discontinuity in time.

Suddenly he was holding a cold bottle of champagne by the neck, and she had produced two fluted glasses. Then they were on the couch and kissing.

He knew it was a dream, because it had that spectator quality that dreams can create. Yet it felt so real, so tactile. He could taste the champagne. He could feel her mouth on his. He could detect the apricot scent of her blazing hair. He was also aware of a sense of guilt, the kind he had come to know—the kind that made him feel naughty.

Then like the snap of a magician’s finger they were in a bedroom and she was lying naked on the bed, her arms raised to him. Her skin was an alabaster white and her mouth was moving. He felt the magnetic pull of her body, but he was transfixed on her face, which appeared to flicker between that of Terry Farina and Dana’s—one then the other blurring into one and the same.

As he took in her nakedness, he felt the heat of desire rise up, but suddenly that yearning flamed into angry wrath, and he felt himself fill with fury and an intense desire for violence.

The next moment, he was straddling the woman and pulling tight a black stocking around her neck. With horror she looked up at him, her eyes bulging like hen’s eggs, her mouth an O of soundless scream, her face swelling and darkening. For a brief moment, she thrashed under his weight and pounded his arms with her hands and tried to claw at the garrote, yet he pulled with all his might as if trying to snap her head off her spine.

With an explosive yelp he bolted upright in bed, panting, his chest jackhammering.

He kicked off the covers and leapt off the mattress as if it were contaminated ground and went into the bathroom and turned on the cold water, wishing it could flush the images from his mind. He splashed his face and looked at himself in the mirror.

Was that me?

Am I really insane?

He moved into the living room and sat on the couch in the dark. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt as if it were covered with fur. He felt the magnetic pull of the Chivas bottle in the kitchen cabinet, but resisted it.

God! He could not believe how real that nightmare felt, how vivid.

Please don’t let that be me.

Maybe, he told himself, the dream was not a re-creation of an act that belonged to him but autosuggestion, arising out of a vivid reconstruction of the killing of Terry Farina. That was possible, especially with his permanent guilt, wasn’t it? He had spent his professional life tracking predators, trying to imagine their instincts, to identify with them so as to understand their MOs, maybe second-guess them. As for the fury, imprints from childhood—the angry, oppressive will of his father taking him over. That was entirely possible since his innocence had been forfeited at a young age, stripping him to an innate instinct to survive in an environment of bitterness and repression—an instinct nurtured in part by his mother who, in spite of her own neuroses, was protective and affectionate to a fault.

He poured himself another glass of milk and moved onto the porch. The night was mild and the breeze made the sweat-dampened T-shirt a cool second skin. Cicadas filled the night air with an electric chittering. Above, clouds fringed with light from a gibbous moon scudded across the sky in a diorama of light and shade.

An hour later he was still sitting there, trying to shake the overwhelming sensation that that nightmare was reliving the hideous event—that he had been there, done that awful thing on some dark autopilot that was simply working out his conflicts.

Déjà vu all over again.

No! protested his better mind. Not autopilot. Autosuggestion. That was your cop imagination—you’re projecting yourself into the movements and mind of the killer.

As he stared into the clouds, like a click in his head, something occurred to him.

He got up and went into the kitchen and opened the Farina file. In it were blowup reproductions of different latent fingerprints that had been found in her apartment and yet to be identified. Others included Katie Beals, the landlady, a plumber, and other individuals who had been investigated and cleared. But there were two that had still not been matched.

He retrieved his fingerprint kit from the hall closet and inked a pad and laid his own prints on a blank sheet of paper. He cleaned his fingers and took a deep breath, and with the magnifying glass he inspected the image of his forefinger and double-checked it with the blowup of the latent found on the lid of Terry Farina’s mailbox.

An identical match.

Steve did not sleep for the next two hours then—unable to tolerate wakefulness—he took three tabs of Ativan and woke around eight to the sound of his alarm.

His eyes were burning and his head felt as if it were going to explode. His stomach was sour with aspirin. He showered and dressed and headed into headquarters.

As he turned onto Tremont Avenue, the communications tower of headquarters breaking the skyline in the distance, his phone rang.

His first thought was Dana. He had called her last evening to see how the operation went, but he only got her answering machine. So he had left a message for her to contact him when she felt up to it. But it was not Dana.

“Hey, where are you?” Dacey asked.

“On my way in.” And he wanted to add, I was cop-clever not to leave a trail in the apartment, but my prints were on her mailbox. I’m coming in to lay it all out.

“Well, we got bad news.”

“What?”

“Neil’s prints weren’t on record, so we took them off his desk and ran them through the checks. We’ve got matches to latents found in Farina’s apartment.”

“What?”

“We got four locations—the big picture frame over her bed, a beer mug in the freezer, the photo of her near her bed, also a lamp in the living room.”

His head was spinning. “They could be old,” he said. “He claimed he’d dated her for months. Besides, he drank only beer and there wasn’t any in her place.”

“I hear you, but that’s not all,” Dacey said. “We got a big red flag.”

“What big red flag?”

“Six days before Farina was killed, his Visa account showed the purchase of fifty-one dollars’ worth of women’s underwear from the Copley Place outlet of Wolford’s.”

Steve was nearly struck dumb. All he could say was, “Wolford’s?”

“Yeah, they got their own store there now.”

“What was the purchase?”

“That’s the bitch, it doesn’t itemize. But they were having a special on lace-top stockings.”

“Did you go up there?”

“No, I just called them and asked what was on sale.”

“I’ll take it.”

When he hung up, Steve’s hands were shaking. A C-clamp had been released from his chest and his blood was charging. Autosuggestion. And to think he had all but convinced himself that in an alcohol-Lorazepam fog some evil ectoplasm took him over and murdered a woman he barely knew because she reminded him of Dana. Jesus!

Steve turned the car around and called Vaughn, who was heading up one of the two teams keeping Neil and his daughter under surveillance. “Where is he?”

“Hasn’t left his place since last night.”

“What about the kid?”

“Cambridge Galleria. She’s got a summer job at Best Buy.”

“Okay, stay with them.”

Steve parked in the Copley Place mall. It was a little before noon, and the luncheon crowd filled the concourse. Located on the second level, Wolford’s was a small store located in a corner near the escalator. Three women milled about. No other males. Toward the rear sat a display of fall hosiery on sale. What caught his eye was the mannequin, dressed only in a lacy bra, lacy panties, and black lace-top stockings that stayed up without a garter belt. On the wall was a photo of a long thin model in a high plaid skirt and white stockings, her legs innocently knocked at the knees like Little Bo Peep. The sign said SEXY HI-THIGHS FOR FALL.

The rack had packages in all colors and styles. On sale—two pairs for the price of one: forty-eight dollars. That plus tax was fifty-one and change.