Faces of Fear (7 page)

"Be careful not to tug," he warned Danielle as he smoothed putty around the cotton-stuffed eye socket.

She nodded silently and continued working as efficiently and expertly as Conrad himself, laying the flowing waves of hair around Margot's head so they would neither be soiled by his work nor be in his way. Only when the face was finished would she finally lay the hair over Margot's shoulders.

Two hours later the reconstruction was finished. Conrad stood back, regarding his work with the detachment of the complete professional. The face looked smooth and blank, like a freshly fired ceramic doll's head.

Danielle opened her cosmetics case and laid everything out on a tray. "Go get a cup of coffee or something, Conrad," she said, looking up at the big clock on the wall. "Or lie down for a while. You're exhausted."

"Not until she's perfect," he replied.

With an expertise in her own field that was equal to Conrad's in his, Danielle began applying makeup to the colorless putty from which he had rebuilt Margot's face, and as Conrad watched, his wife slowly began to emerge from the blank, expressionless facade he had created.

He could no longer pretend that this was just another head, just another face.

This was Margot, the love of his life, dead and lying on a slab.

"Conrad?"

He tore his eyes away from his beautiful wife and looked up at Danielle. Perspiration dotted her forehead.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes drifting back to Margot's face.

"We need to dress her."

Conrad stripped the plastic off Margot's favorite dress, a burgundy Versace. He had also brought black lace Oscar de la Renta lingerie; Margot would be as perfectly dressed in death as she had always been in life.

As Danielle carefully peeled away the sheet that covered Margot's body, Alston Bedwell, the funeral director, pushed the mahogany coffin through a set of big doors and into the cool preparation room where they had been working.

Conrad pulled the sheet back up to cover his wife's nakedness as Bedwell wheeled the coffin next to the table where she lay. The funeral director stopped short when he caught sight of the classic beauty of Margot Dunn, lying in graceful repose as if ready for a photo shoot.

"Oh, my," he said. "You've done an extraordinary job. She looks…" He paused, searching for the right word, but only one would do. "She looks alive," he finished.

Conrad's gaze shifted from Margot to Bedwell. "For me, she'll always be alive," he said softly.

The funeral directer stepped forward and laid a professionally gentle hand on the grieving man's shoulder. "We need to take her upstairs now."

"Conrad?" Danielle said.

Reluctantly, Conrad drew the sheet back, and the three of them began to dress Margot Dunn.

Twenty minutes later they were finished and Margot looked utterly flawless.

Danielle flicked her blush brush over Margot's décolletage one last time and smiled gently at Conrad. "She's ready to meet her guests."

Conrad's heart ached as he gazed at the face of the woman he had vowed to love until death. But it wasn't long enough—he would love her far beyond something so fleeting as death. "You see?" he whispered to her. "I've made you perfect again. You should have trusted me. You should have waited for me."

But she hadn't waited, and now he had to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

* * *

RISA SHAW PULLED a simple black crepe dress from the back of her closet and carefully examined it for spots or other flaws. "I guess I should have sent this to the cleaner's after the party at the Wilmingtons'," she muttered ruefully, more to herself than to Alison, who idly sprawled on her mother's bed.

"It looks okay from here," Alison said.

Risa picked a bit of lint from the hem and turned it around. "Well, it's going to have to do." She held it up and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. "It'll pass," she decided, rehung the dress on the hanger, and started rummaging through her lingerie drawer. "What are you doing this afternoon?"

Alison hesitated. "Dad's picking me up," she said. "We're just gonna hang out."

Risa froze as cold fury rose inside her, but she bit back the angry words that came to her lips. Though the wound Michael had inflicted on her still oozed bitter anger, she had decided that no matter how she felt, she wouldn't let her anger or her pain drive a wedge between Alison and her father. What had happened was between them, and Alison had no part in it at all.

She found the bra and panties she was looking for but kept rummaging anyway, buying time while deciding how to respond to her daughter. Alison had a perfect right to spend time with her father. She wasn't about to deny that, and she certainly wasn't going to be jealous about it.
Be casual,
she told herself.
Don't say anything you'll wish you hadn't.
"Going to a movie?" she finally ventured, struggling to sound as if nothing was wrong.

"I'm not sure…" Alison said in a tone that told Risa she
was
sure, and whatever they were doing, they wouldn't be going to a movie.

Risa turned and looked straight at her daughter. "You're going to his place?"

The stricken look on Alison's face gave it away so quickly it was almost comical. Alison had never been able to lie, and obviously still couldn't. "I didn't want you to feel bad," she said, her voice quavering and her eyes glistening with tears. "Dad—well, Dad wants me to meet Scott."

Scott. So there it was. Every instinct in Risa wanted to scream at her daughter, to demand that she refuse to be a party to Michael's betrayal of her. But even as the words rose in Risa's throat, she pushed them away, reminding herself once more what she already knew to be true: that Michael hadn't betrayed her at all. Falling in love with another woman would have been a betrayal. But it hadn't been another woman. It was something Michael had been struggling with for years, and she knew, in her heart, that it was something he could in the end do nothing about. Indeed, if he'd told her he was gay before they'd married, they would still have been friends.

Good friends.

And she'd believed him when he said he hadn't known he was gay all those years ago.

She'd seen the genuine torment in his eyes when he told her the other night what had been going on. It wasn't torment for having been caught, but at the pain the truth was causing her.

The pain she was still feeling.

Now, as she saw the pain her daughter was suffering just at the thought of hurting one parent by seeing the other, Risa decided that she and Michael had borne enough pain for all of them, and that whatever happened, she wasn't going to put any of hers onto Alison. Not onto Alison, and not onto Michael either. "Of course he wants you to meet Scott," she said. "He wants to share his life with you, and he always will." A tiny tear dropped off Alison's lower lid and landed on her cheek. Risa sat on the edge of the bed and wiped it away. "He loves you, honey. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing."

Alison nodded and brushed tears from her eyes with both hands. "So you won't be mad at me?"

Risa thought quickly, wondering how many hurdles she could make it over in one day. The one she'd just jumped had seemed far too high a few moments ago, but she'd made it. And felt exhausted.

She slipped her arm around Alison's shoulders. "Honey, I'm going to ask you for a huge favor."

Alison tensed. "What kind of favor?"

"I'm wondering if it would be too much to ask you to let me meet Scott first. That way, I'll at least know who you're spending time with."

Alison frowned. "You don't trust Dad?"

"Of course I trust him," Risa hurriedly assured her. "But you have two parents for a reason, because parents balance each other out. Would it be a terrible thing for you to go with me this afternoon and meet Scott another time?"

Alison shifted away from her mother. "I never even met Margot Dunn. Why would I want to go to her funeral?"

"Well, she was an international supermodel, and there will probably be lots of famous people there."

Alison looked more interested, but not much. "Like who?"

"How would I know?" Risa countered, frantically searching for the name of someone, anyone, who would not only interest Alison, but be likely to show up at the funeral. "Probably some movie stars," she finally ventured, hoping it might be enough.

"Really?"

Risa shrugged casually, then stood up and went back to her lingerie drawer. Pulling out the underwear she'd already chosen, she laid it out on the bed.

"Yeah, but a
funeral
?" Alison said, still obviously unconvinced.

Risa decided to lay her cards on the table and trust her daughter. "I have to go because Conrad Dunn is a client and a friend, and he needs all the support he can get right now. And I gotta tell you, hon, right now I could use some support, too." As Alison wavered, she played her last card: "Please? For me?"

Her daughter hesitated, then uttered the words that told Risa she'd given in: "What am I supposed to wear?"

"You have that black skirt you wore when you sang in the Christmas chorale. Just wear that with a simple white blouse."

Alison shrugged. "Okay. I'll call Dad and tell him I'll meet Scott sometime next week." She eyed Risa, waiting for an answer. "Okay?" she pressed. "Next week?"

"Next week," Risa promised. "We'll make it happen, okay? Now jump in the shower. Lexie will be here to pick us up in an hour."

"I have to call Dad first."

"I'll call him," Risa said. "I'll explain everything. He'll understand."

"Okay," Alison said, but made no move to get up.

Risa waited.

"Are you and Dad going to fight?" Alison finally asked. "Are you going to hate Scott no matter what he's like?" Another tear rolled out of the corner of her eye, trailing toward her ear.

"No, honey." Risa said. "We are not going to fight. Your father doesn't want to fight, and neither do I."

"But it seems so weird, Dad living somewhere else, and with a guy." Alison took a deep, quivering breath.

"I know, sweetheart, but it will be all right. Trust me. It's going to be hard for a while, for all of us, but we'll get through it. And we'll get through it without fighting, okay? I can't say I'm happy about all this, but I know there's nothing I can do to change the way people are. Your father is who he is, and I'll just have to get used to it. I'll do my best not to get angry, but if I ever do—and I probably will—you'll just have to forgive me, okay?"

Alison nodded. "Life is weird," she finally said.

"Indeed it is," Risa agreed. She hugged her daughter and silently vowed to keep the peace with Michael and Scott.

No matter what.

* * *

THE DOORBELL RANG just as Scott poured himself and Michael a second cup of coffee, the remains of a Belgian waffle feast still on the dining room table. As the bell rang again, Scott sighed in resignation. "There goes our lazy Saturday morning."

"Not necessarily," Michael replied. "Maybe it's just the postman. Isn't he the one who always rings twice?"

Abandoning the coffee, Scott headed for the front door. "Mine never rings at all—he just leaves things on the porch and hopes for the best."

He opened the door to find Tina Wong hovering impatiently, her finger poised to press the bell a third time. She spotted Michael sitting at the table in the dining room, and ignoring Scott, walked right in, brushing past him as if he didn't exist. "You turned your phone off," she said accusingly.

"It's Saturday," Michael said. "And good morning to you, too."

Scott shot a questioning look at Michael. "Shall I offer her a cup of coffee?"

Tina didn't wait for Michael to respond, and either didn't catch his sarcastic tone or chose to ignore it. "Black, with one sugar." She turned to eye Scott as if he were a recalcitrant waiter. "Not Splenda, or Equal, or any of that crap. Sugar." Then she set her briefcase on the dining room table, snapped open the locks, and sat down next to Michael. "I've got a lot of stuff on the Caroline Fisher murder."

Michael shrugged a helpless apology to Scott as Tina pulled a folder from her briefcase and opened it. She spread the contents out on the table as Scott disappeared into the kitchen.

"Not only was she mutilated," she said, "but the killer stole parts of her." She spread out five eight-by-ten photos.

Michael was still looking at the pictures a minute later when Scott reappeared and set a mug of coffee in front of Tina. "Jesus," Scott breathed as his eyes fell on the images, "isn't it a little early in the morning for that kind of stuff?" He touched Michael's shoulder. "How about I leave you two to your business? I'll be out by the pool."

"The killer not only mutilated with apparent glee," Tina said as soon as Scott was out of earshot, "but took the breasts, vagina, and—get this—glands."

Scott quickened his step, disappeared into the kitchen, and closed the door behind him.

"Glands?" Michael repeated hollowly.

"Glands. Both adrenals and the thymus."

Michael sat back. "Okay, I'll grant you that's pretty weird. But how does it merit interrupting my Saturday?"

"Because," Tina said, riveting him with her trademark piercing stare, "this is not the first time that glands have been taken from a murder victim." She handed him two faxed autopsy reports. "San Diego, and San Jose, one week apart, fifteen years ago. And now again, Caroline Fisher in Encino."

"Fifteen
years,
Tina?" Michael said, handing her back the pages without so much as a glance. "That's a long time. It doesn't mean anything."

"Wrong!" Tina declared, pushing the papers back at him. "We've got a serial killer here, Michael. Right now we're ahead of the other stations, and I don't even think the cops have put it together yet. But they will." She leaned toward him, a posture he'd seen her use during many an effective interview. "Before they figure it out, I want to run a special that will blow the roof off our ratings."

Michael shook his head. "Two murders fifteen years ago is no longer news," he said.

But Tina wasn't about to be put off that easily. "I'm telling you, Michael—there's a monster out there. And right now I'm the only one who knows this isn't his first kill. The murderer, me, and now you—we're the only ones who know."