Skin Deep (31 page)

He tapped the door. Nothing. He tapped again. “It's me. I have coffee for you.”

Nothing.

He tapped more sharply, still nothing. She probably had taken sleeping pills and was in a drugged state. He laid down the cup and raced down the stairs for the duplicate keys in a kitchen drawer. When he found them he raced back up and went through several tries before he found the right one. It slipped into the tumbler all the way and turned.

The interior was still dark, and it took him a moment to make sense of the strange dark configuration in the middle of the four-poster canopy bed that took up most of the room. But it was the odor that hit him first.

He flicked the light switch and a sharp staccato shriek rose out of his lungs.

Lila was naked and hanging by the neck from a single black stocking tied to the upper frame of her bed.

Steve had no more than seventy minutes to do this if Neil kept to schedule.

The usual appointment with Lily's psychiatrist was at five
P.M.
and would run for fifty minutes. In the rush-hour traffic it would take them a minimum of fifteen to get back to his place on Park Drive.

At about ten to five, Dacey reported that she was four cars behind Neil's black Explorer. “You're good to go. They're heading south on Brighton Avenue toward the Francis Street parking garage. I can see the Walden Medical Building.”

“Good.” Steve sat in another unmarked car parked in a resident's spot on Park Drive across from number 448—a yellow brick and granite four-story structure named the Versailles. They each wore headsets connected to their PDAs' open Nextel lines, which could not be picked up by radio.

Steve's concern was that another car sat in the open garage shared by Neil. Were the tenant to spot him snooping around he might have a face-off with him or, worse, a patrol officer. He could imagine the fun headlines:
BOSTON HOMICIDE DETECTIVE ARRESTED FOR BREAKING INTO PARTNER'S HOUSE
. Reardon's reaction would be cardiac arrest.

Dacey came online. “Okay, subjects just pulled into the med center.”

“Good. Problem is a neighbor just pulled her trash barrel in front and is chatting with someone. I'll have to wait to go around back.” They both knew that would be a critical delay.

“Do what you have to do.”

Although a surveillance team of two was not ideal, Dacey would wait outside the medical center while Neil was upstairs with his daughter for her session and would stay with them when they left. Neil usually sat in the waiting room then either brought Lily home or took her to dinner. Steve prayed she had an appetite since that would buy them half an hour, maybe more if she wanted to shop.

The neighbors chatted for a full seven minutes. When they left, Steve got out of the car and headed toward the house. He was about to cross the street when the first tenant returned with a second barrel. Before she spotted him, he ducked behind a parked pickup, pretending to tie a sneaker. The tenant left the barrel at the curb then headed to the front door. When he was sure no other tenants were coming out, he whispered, “I'm going in.”

“Hustle,” Dacey said.

Steve slipped into the rear of the building, keeping close to the wall. He heard a television through a first-floor window. Neil lived on the second. A set of six two-car bays made up the rear of the building. He had been here before with Neil and was counting on the spare key being in the same place he had told Lily. She had called to say she was locked out and forgot where the spare was. The window frame. Steve reached up and ran his fingers along the top.

Yes!
His hand closed around it and he moved back out into the drive and up to the front door. He pressed the button next to
FRENCH
. When he got no response, he let himself into the foyer. The place was quiet. He made his way up to the second landing and to 2B. The key fit and he was inside. “Okay. I'm in,” he whispered to Dacey. “What's happening there?”

“Nothing. The car's still in the lot. Wish I brought a book.”

He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and made his way through the kitchen and into the living room. “I'm checking the living room.”

“You've got fifty-two minutes.”

“How's your battery power?”

“Getting low.”

“Got extras?”

There was a pause. “Shit, negative. I better click off. I'll call when I've got something.”

“Affirmative.”

Steve had been to Neil's apartment only twice before, which made him feel even more grungy. Even on a search warrant, he would have hated it. It was Neil and his daughter's private space, and he was going to go through it hoping to find clues that Neil was bad and he wasn't. He could not imagine a worse circumstance for creeping a suspect.

There were five rooms, but the ones that counted were Neil's and the spare bedroom that served at his office. He passed through the living room and skimmed the interior, which was neatly arranged with furniture Neil had shared with his wife—floral armchairs and divan, an antique credenza. On the mantel were framed photographs—a shot of Neil receiving an award for valor from his superior officer at the Gloucester P.D. Another of him, a young Lily, and his wife; the same woman in the obit photo. Her hair was brown.

The door to Lily's room was closed, as it was the last time he was here; and tacked to it was a
HAZARDOUS WASTE
sign. The door was unlocked and he opened it.

His first thought was that the sign was not a joke. Clothes, shoes, books, magazines, and a lot of other stuff were in jumbled heaps on the floor, a pile of laundry spilled from two plastic baskets on the bed. The walls were plastered with posters of rock and movie stars and a thousand other magazine cutouts, mostly of thin young celebs. A white chest of drawers had a pile of cosmetic stuff, and over it was a mirror with stickers, more cutouts, and photos taped to the glass. It looked like the room of a crazy person. Or a self-destructive teenage girl who was on a bunch of meds and who regularly saw a shrink.

Steve closed the door and checked his watch—fifty minutes left.

By contrast, the master bedroom looked as if it had been attacked by Merry Maids. The large oak sleigh bed was made, square-cornered, the spread folded neatly over the pillows, decorative pillows fussily arranged points up. A pair of men's leather slippers sat under the bed table. Across from the bed was an oak bureau with bottles of aftershave, cologne, and lotions lined up, a small inlaid jewelry box, and a photo of Lily and Neil. Also a large container of aspirin.

Above the bureau hung a large wooden crucifix with a carved Jesus. Steve wondered if the same man who prayed to that tortured Jesus did those things to Terry Farina.

He went through the drawers from top to bottom. The top two contained men's underwear—boxer shorts, white socks in balls in one drawer, colored in another. Pajamas and different tops in the third drawer, the bottom reserved for walking shorts. Nothing.

But in one drawer he did find an old billfold under some T-shirts, and in it a photo of Neil and Terry Farina, posing in ski outfits on a slope. His arm was around her shoulder and both were beaming at the camera.

“Hey,” Dacey said into his earpiece. “They're coming out.”

“Shit.” They were leaving ten minutes early. Maybe the doc had to cut it short, got an emergency call or something. Or maybe Lily flipped out. Whatever, if they were coming home, he had fifteen minutes tops. “Stay with him and tell me his route.”

“Roger. Find anything?”

“Negative.”

The closet area contained garment bags hung and a chest of drawers sat in the back under pants and shirts hanging from a pole. But given the press of time, Neil's office was a priority.

Like his bedroom, it was a tableau to order—desk, file cabinets, bookshelves all neatly arranged—files stacked evenly on shelves, desktop papers arranged in wire baskets, large and small paper clips in little dispensers, a bowl with loose change. It was the self-defensive statement of a man taking control despite whatever emotional chaos raged around him. Or inside.

At the far end of the room were a treadmill and a bench with some free weights arranged on a rack in ascending order of weight. What pulled at Steve was the closed laptop. He wondered at the evidence it held—correspondences with Farina before her death, even an e-mail that he was coming over the night she died. The only problem was that he didn't know Neil's password and didn't have the software to crack it. To get what he wanted he'd have to bring it to the lab. Without a warrant that could not be done. And outright theft was out of the question since Neil would suspect an inside job, which could result in legal action against him, Dacey, and the department.

He started with the desk drawers, which had the usual desk paraphernalia and papers, envelopes, pads. The filing cabinet had neatly arranged folders labeled for bills and IRS filings. There was a folder labeled Cards, and in it birthday and Father's Day cards from Lily.

Dacey called him back. “Hey. Good news. They're pulling into the Westin garage on Huntington. Guess the kid's got an appetite.”

“Or maybe he's buying her one at Neiman Marcus.”

“Find anything?”

“No.”

“Thank God.”

Thank God? Clear Neil, and hang yourself.

“Yeah,” Steve muttered, and checked his watch. At minimum, they had picked up thirty minutes, more if they went shopping and dining.

He finished going through the drawers but found nothing. He headed back into the bedroom.

“Fuck!” shouted Dacey in his ear. “I lost him.”

“What?”

“They got into an elevator and went up to the fourth. By the time I got up there they were gone. I checked the stores and restaurants but couldn't find them.”

She sounded out of breath. “Where are you now?”

“…to the garage.”

“Dacey, you're breaking up.”

“I'm heading back…garage…can't fucking believe…”

“Dacey, can you read me?”

“Yes…batteries.”

“Let me know if their car is still there.”

“Affirmative.”

But a few minutes later Dacey buzzed him back. “Can you read me? It's still here.”

“Affirmative, I read you. Good news.”

“I'm getting back in.”

He could hear her close the car door. “Stay with it. Better than running all over the mall.”

“Okay.”

The closet was a walk-in with men's clothes on hangers and a wall rack for T-shirts, polo shirts, and various footwear—several pairs of running shoes to a line of black and brown dress shoes. Steve recognized some shirts and ties hanging from a wall rack. Again, everything was lined up and arranged according to some fastidious principle. And again he remembered what Neil had said about psychopaths being obsessively orderly. Maybe that was a confessional slip.

On the top shelf was a steel box where Neil kept his service weapon. It was not locked. He opened it. The weapon was gone.

At the far end of the closet hung two garment bags. He unzipped them. They were tightly packed with women's clothes. Probably his wife's favorite pieces Neil could not part with.

“Oh…the kid…”

“You're breaking up, Dacey. Say it again.”

“…in the car…girlfriend…”

“Lily's in the car with a girlfriend?”

“Affirmative…is low.”

“Where's Neil?”

Nothing.

“Dacey, can you read me? Can you read me? Where's Neil?”

Nothing. Dacey's PDA was dead. All he got was that she had spotted Lily and a girlfriend getting into Neil's car. Maybe he was going to join them. Maybe they were just dropping off packages and were rejoining him for dinner. Or maybe they were going to swing around front to pick him up and bring him home. The latter was the worst-case scenario, which meant that he had no more than five minutes to finish and get out. If that was the case, Dacey would find a public phone to call him. He set his PDA on vibrate and zipped up the garment bags.

Pushed into the corner was another chest with two small top drawers and three larger ones below. The top right was full of women's underpants, all different colors and folded neatly. The left contained brassieres, slips, panty hose, camisoles, and other things he couldn't identify. They were probably Ellen French's, appearing not to have not been touched since her death. He could not shake a worm of discomfort for doing this—for violating the dead wife of his own partner. But he also reminded himself that he was doing this not to incriminate Neil but to absolve himself of the shuddering fear that he was a psychotic killer.

He crouched down on his knees and opened the bottom drawer. On top he saw a folded pair of black stockings. His heart almost stopped. He put his hand on the sheer bottom to remove the garment when he heard something.

“Find what you were looking for?”

It was Neil, and his gun was two feet from Steve's head.

“Do you have a paper, Lieutenant?”

“No.”

“Then I could kill you.”

“Yes, you could. But it wouldn't be a good idea.” Steve turned his head to look at him.

“Straight ahead and don't move.”

“Neil, let me up.”

“You're an intruder going through my things.”

“Shooting your partner point-blank in the back of the head won't stand up.”

“It's dark and I couldn't make you out. All I have to do is flick the switch.”

Like you did in Farina's bedroom,
he thought. “Neil, don't do this. You've got a kid.”

“Yeah, I've got a kid.”

“Let's do this right. Let me up and put the weapon away.”

Steve began to turn when Neil stopped him. “Put your hands on your head.”

Steve put his hands on his head, thinking that in the next second a bullet would explode his brain. And Neil would stage it so he'd get away with murder.

“How much have you creeped?”

“Why's that important?”

“You're wearing gloves. Did you go through all the drawers and desk? Look under the bed? Check the other closets? Do a full-blown process?”

Steve didn't answer.

“You've been trying to pin this on me since day one.”

Neil's voice sounded flat, without affect. No anger or guile. Just flat.

“That's not true. When you admitted that you and Farina were lovers you became a witness.”

“And I somehow graduated to suspect. How'd that happen?”

“Put the gun away and let's do this right.”

“There is no right. You told the papers I was taken off the case. That I was given a temporary suspension. And there's speculation of improprieties—that I'm a suspect.”

“Where the hell did you hear that?”

“Calls from the
Globe
and
Eyewitness News
.”

“That was probably Pendergast's lawyer—maybe getting back for his death.”

“You don't bullshit well, Steve. Never have. That was you because no one else wants to discredit me.”

“Why would I want to discredit you?” Steve's mind scrambled.

“In fact, you could be planting evidence for all I know.”

“Jesus, man, what the hell would be my motive?”

“To keep them off you. You knew her. You had a thing for her. And you may have been the last person to see her alive.”

Steve felt goose skin flash up his trunk. “What're you talking about?”

“I knew you were after me so I did some snooping of my own. Does Conor Larkins ring a bell?”

“Conor Larkins?”

“Don't go stupid on me.”

“You mean the pub?”

“Yeah, the pub right across from Northeastern. I knew she liked to go there to do her homework. So I asked around, showed her picture. Seems that she was there the afternoon she was killed and she wasn't alone. Nope. With a guy who may have been you.”

Steve felt as if he were walking through a minefield. “If you thought it was me, why didn't you bring it to Reardon?”

“Because I only found out today, and when I showed the waitress your picture she wasn't too sure, but she said it could have been you. It's been three weeks and her memory was fuzzy. But I'm thinking that maybe it was you after all. You had all the answers,” he said. “You did her and decided to try to hang it on me. Maybe get a medal and make up for the Portman shit.”

Steve's s breath had bulbed in his throat. “I didn't kill her.” The words rose up without thought.

“Yeah? Then maybe it was Pendergast after all,” Neil said. “But, you know, I really don't give a shit. I really don't fucking care. My wife is dead. My daughter's a fucking mess, I'm under suspicion for murder by my own colleagues. Life's short, but at least it sucks.”

Steve's heart froze. He had seen Neil in despair when Lily once overdosed on sleeping pills, but he had not been so low as this. His voice was dead and he was thinking that he had little to live for—the prospect of trying to prove his innocence and possibly spending the rest of his life behind bars. What Steve could hear was hopelessness. And in that hopelessness he wanted to take Steve with him. It's what people suffering clinical depression did—go to the office and shoot everybody who ever looked cross-eyed at them.

This is my death,
Steve told himself.
He's going to kill me. Then he's going to kill himself. My punishment, and such sublime irony.

“Freeze! Lower the gun, Neil.”

Steve turned. Dacey. She was in a stance with her hands on her weapon and aimed at Neil's back.

Neil looked over his shoulder at her.

“Drop it, Neil. Drop it.”

For a brutal moment Neil stood frozen with the gun at Steve's head and Dacey with hers at Neil's. In the tiny window of awareness, Steve imagined Neil fulfilling the existential moment and blasting Steve and taking Dacey's fire. And he held his breath and waited for the explosions.

Instead, Neil swung the weapon around so Dacey could take it. She did and stuffed it into her belt behind her. Steve got to his feet.

Dacey moved to snap her cuffs on Neil, but Steve stopped her hand. Neil was staring down at the still open bottom drawer of his dead wife's clothes. Dacey's weapon was still on him. She began to utter a command when Neil moved past Steve and bent down. “Is this what you want?” he said, and pulled up the black stocking.

But it was not a stocking. It was one leg of a folded set of panty hose.

Neil held it up to Steve's face. “This what you're looking for?”

Steve could think of nothing to say.

“How about this?” Neil said, and pulled out more panty hose, then some letters bundled together. Then a small red photo album. “Or these?”

Then Neil yanked out the whole drawer and dumped the contents at Steve's feet. Then the next drawer and the next, until there was a pile of Ellen Gilmore French's intimate apparel spilling over the feet of Steve and Dacey, who stood there as if they'd each been shot with a stun gun.

Neil looked back at them. “Lily five seventeen ninety-one.”

For a moment Steve said nothing. Then he put it together. “Your daughter's birthday.”

“And the password to the laptop.”

Before Steve could think of a response, Neil turned and left. They heard the front door close behind him.

Steve looked down at the pile of garments on the floor. “Shit,” he muttered.

He looked at Dacey. He didn't know what she had heard, but her eyes were huge and fixed on him.