Skin Deep

91

“The guy gave her a computer projection of what she’d look like with a nose job. He also colored her hair red.”

Steve explained to Captain Reardon what he had found. “They all had had cosmetic surgery and looked alike at their deaths. Only one of them had reddish hair, but at autopsy they all had the same shade of red. The thing is that nobody knew who did their work, like they were operated on under some code of omertà.”

While Reardon listened, Steve explained how Dana had had cosmetic procedures, including rhinoplasty, performed by Aaron Monks.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I can’t locate her.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got a missing wife problem, not a serial killer.”

“Captain, I think she may have even been seeing him socially.” He hated uttering the words.

After a moment’s silence, Reardon said, “This sounds more personal than investigatory.”

“I know how it sounds, but I’m telling you I think Monks is our man.”

“And I think you’ve got nothing to go on. And before you jump in, I got a call from Captain Ralph Modesky of the Cobbsville P.D. saying you called him today in the middle of a political fundraiser asking questions about cosmetic surgery.”

“Yeah, on legitimate police matters. Does the investigation have to stop for lunch?”

“Lieutenant Markarian, I don’t like the tone of your voice.”

“And I don’t like resistance on running down a prime suspect.”

“He’s not a prime suspect. You’ve got nothing—no priors, no physical evidence, not even circumstantial evidence. Nothing but that he did your wife’s cosmetic work and she vaguely resembles the victims. Besides the guy is the Bigfoot of plastic surgery, probably up for the Nobel Prize. You check his whereabouts on any of these?”

He hadn’t, but the Boston Globe “Party Line” said that on the night Terry Farina was killed Monks had been photographed at a banquet at the Westin Hotel in town. It ran from five to closing, but he could have slipped out a little after eight to make it to her apartment—maybe even do a fast outfit change in the car—kill her then return to the hotel to seal an alibi. “I want to search his place.”

“You can try, but I doubt you’ll get a warrant. And if you go over there looking for your wife, you’re doing it as private citizen Markarian. You hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how to say this without saying it, but if you try to break into Dr. Monks’s place or anywhere else without papers, I’m going to cut you another asshole. Is that clear, Lieutenant Detective Markarian?”

“Yeah.”

“You cannot enforce the law by breaking the law.”

Steve hung up.

Moments later he was in his car as private citizen Markarian with Lieutenant Detective Markarian’s service weapon on his belt and an assault rifle in the trunk with enough rounds to shoot nonstop into next week.

He called Dacey and explained what he had found. She said she understood. They were heading for Monks’s place, which was 17 John Street in Lexington. According to GPS, it was a mile out of the center. Because Steve was closer, he got there in under twenty minutes.

John Street turned out to be what was probably the only remaining dirt road left in that town. The house was a large modern place with no lights on. A BMW SUV sat in the driveway. Steve rang the doorbell, but nobody answered.

Dacey arrived while Steve finished walking around the place.

“Alarm signs all over,” Dacey said.

“Forget it. Nobody’s here. And the car engine’s cold.”

Steve also didn’t want to be held up explaining to local uniforms why they had broken in. Plus it would get back to Reardon, who’d send a posse after them.

The clinic was in Chestnut Hill. “By the way,” Dacey said, “the receptionist’s name is May Ann Madlansacay.”

“And you wonder why I forgot.”

Because they might need backup, Steve made one more call as he led Dacey to the clinic. To Neil French.

They arrived a little after four.

The parking lot was empty, but for a cleaning van. Several other medical offices were located in the building, but the sign on the door said that all closed at two, that the building was locked until Monday morning.

Dacey had pulled up to the door with her blue-and-whites flashing silently and pressed the call button until one of the cleaning persons came to the door. She badged the man and explained they were here to search an office.

Neil French arrived as Steve had expected he would. Steve explained the situation. “I think he killed Terry, and Dana may be with him.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Yeah.”

They followed the cleaning man up the stairs to the clinic, which he opened.

“What are we looking for?” Dacey asked

“My wife.”

Steve didn’t believe in telepathy, ESP, precognition, or any paranormal claims, including psychics they sometimes turned to in desperation. But he knew on some visceral level that Dana was in trouble.

While Dacey checked the other rooms, Neil tried to access the appointments’ calendar at the reception desk. But they needed a password.

A Rolodex listed Monks’s name, Lexington address, and several telephone numbers, including one that simply said “Homer’s.” There was also a listing for the receptionist and office manager, May Ann Madlansacay. Steve punched the numbers and said a silent prayer. A woman answered. “Is this May Ann Madlansacay?”

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Steve Markarian with the homicide bureau of the Boston police. You may recognize the name because my wife had some work done by Dr. Monks.”

“Oh, yes.”

“It’s very urgent that we locate him.”

“Oh, my. Is he all right?”

“We don’t know, but we’d like to know where he might be.”

There was some hesitation. Then she said, “How do I know you are who you say you are? He gets people calling all the time from the media saying they’re someone else.”

“How about I send a squad car to 343 Acacia Lane in Newton to talk to you in person?”

“No, there’s no need for that. He’s probably at home.”

“We were just there—17 John Street in Lexington. Nobody’s there.”

“Well, he may be cruising on his boat. Or he may be at his summer place.”

“Where’s that?”

“I really don’t think I can give you that information.”

“The option is bringing you to police headquarters.”

“Well, it’s not public information,” she said. “But he has a place on Homer’s Island.”

“Homer’s Island. Where’s that?”

“I believe it’s between Falmouth and Martha’s Vineyard.”

“Are you saying it’s his summer residence?”

“Actually, it’s where he goes to get away. It’s also an offsite clinic where he sometimes operates.”

“You mean he’s got an operating room out there?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say he was going this weekend?”

“He didn’t, but he usually goes there on weekends and days off.”

“Do you know where he moors his boat? And the name of it?”

“Yes, it’s moored at the Waterboat Marina near the New England Aquarium.”

“And the boat’s name?”

“Fair Lady.”

When Steve got off the phone, Neil said, “It’s one of the Elizabeth Islands.” Online he found a nautical site for Massachusetts. Neil enlarged the image. Homer’s Island was the last in the Elizabeth chain beyond Cuttyhunk.

Dacey had wandered back from the other rooms. The place was empty. “There’s a photo of a fancy white power cruiser on his wall you might want to take a look at.”

Steve headed into Monks’s office while he punched Dana’s telephone numbers again. Nothing. Then he called Monks’s cell phone and got a voice mailbox. He called the number for Homer’s Island and got a busy signal.

The file cabinets were locked in the back room. They could send a car to pick up Madlansacay, but that would take time. It was quarter to five, and Steve didn’t give a rat’s ass about the contents of Monks’s file. He wanted to find Dana.

He turned to Dacey. “Hogan’s on duty. Call him to check the marina on the boat.”

Dacey snapped out her phone and made the call.

He turned to Neil. “Who do you know who’s got a chopper?”

“A chopper? Nobody, but I know some guys in the coast guard.” And he whipped out his PDA.

Dacey returned. “He says the slip is empty, the boat’s gone. According to the harbormaster he left at about four o’clock. A security guard said that a woman was with him. I asked for a description. He said he didn’t get a good look, but she was an attractive redhead.”

“Sweet Jesus!”

His eyes fell blankly on the sepia drawing on the wall behind Monks’s desk. He didn’t know what it was, but the first time he was here something about that abstract had bothered him. Something just beneath the range of awareness. He closed his eyes to center himself. He may have closed his eyes for twenty or thirty seconds when on the inside of his eyelids an image appeared.

A woman’s face.

He opened his eyes again and stared at the image again for maybe another half minute, then closed them again.

A jolt of realization passed through him. The image reappeared on the inside of his lids. He opened his eyes. That was no random abstract Japanese drawing. It was the image of a woman in sepia on white but in negative. When he stared at it long enough then closed his eyes the positive formed in his vision.

Dana.