Skin Deep (19 page)

When Steve returned, he hit the play button again. On the monitor, Neil had entered with two coffees and donuts. He said nothing about Pendergast's request for a lawyer. Instead, he stood sipping and glaring down at him, waiting for him to break the tension. And he did.

“Look, I don't want to leave the wrong impression. I didn't mention being at her place because I knew how it'd look.”

Either he had dismissed the lawyer option in hopes of winning Neil's approval or deep down he felt he deserved the punishment. What he did not know was that as soon as a request for legal counsel was made, the interrogation was legally over; and the only way to continue was for the witness to reinitiate it. Pendergast had done that, and Neil was off the hook.

“I hear what you're saying, Earl.” Neil now sat across from him again. It was well into the second hour. “Let me ask you a question. What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Porsche.”

Neil looked at his notes. “A red 2006 Boxter, Mass plates 919 WMD. Well, I have news for you,” he said with wide gotcha eyes. “A witness out walking his dog saw your car down the street from Terry's apartment. It's a hot set of wheels he hadn't seen there before.”

“That can't be. I was in my apartment and didn't leave until the next day.”

“We have no verification of that. And we've got a sworn affidavit you were on Payson Road.”

“I'm telling you I was home.”

“No, you
weren't
home, Professor. You were at Terry Farina's where you drank half a bottle of white wine, tried to fuck her, but something went wrong—you couldn't get it up or whatever, so you killed her.”

For a terrible moment, Steve felt as if Neil were interrogating him.

Pendergast began to stand up. “I've had enough of this.”

Before he could take a step Neil stabbed his finger in Pendergast's face. “You walk out of here and that tells me you've got something to hide. Sit your ass down and tell me what went on up there.”

Pendergast stood staring at Neil, probably wondering why if they had his DNA and a witness they didn't arrest him. He lowered himself into the chair. Again he protested that he was home nursing a headache. But under Neil's coercion, mental exhaustion crossed with medication to turn that protest into mush. His voice weakened and the fight waned, which only encouraged Neil to slam away that once a liar always a liar, that he suffered from pathological denial, which was why he didn't remember actually killing Terry. He reviewed his sexual offenses and all the adult Web sites, showing him downloaded images, including men engaged with underage girls. It was less a review than a stoning.

Pendergast denied interest in child porn, but under threat of a charge Neil got what he was after. “I really feel bad about all that,” he said, trying not to break down.

“It's okay, Earl. I understand.”

“I've got problems I'm trying to deal with. I don't like some of the things I've done. I've hurt women.”

“How've you hurt them, Earl?”

“Led them on then broke things off. I'd like to find someone and settle down, but I can't. It's a curse.”

Neil patted Pendergast's shoulder. “I understand, pal. Really. Lots of guys are like that.” He purred with false compassion as tears rolled down Pendergast's face.

“I know what my problem is. I'm looking for someone to fill a void.”

“An old girlfriend?”

Pendergast shook his head and didn't elaborate.

“It's okay, guy. It's okay.”

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered. “I don't like what I've done.”

Neil handed him a box of Kleenex then produced photos of Terry naked at the pole and laid them out on the table. “Look, Earl, I'm going to tell you something you can take to the bank. Right now I'm the best friend you have in the world. Okay? You've made some mistakes—we all do. But at this point I just want you to know that I'm here to help you from making worse mistakes that could send you to prison for the rest of your life. Okay?”

Pendergast nodded.

“Good.”

Neil was putting Pendergast in a long yes mood, creating a mind-set where he'd be less likely to lie. Four hours had passed, and Pendergast only wanted to get it over with, no matter what. Neil asked about his medications and Pendergast named antidepressants and tranquilizers, which Neil latched onto with claims that known side effects included violent fits and retrograde amnesia. “Let's talk about the last night you were with her—last Saturday. You went over to her apartment for a little visit….” And he trailed off to let Pendergast fill in the blank.

Pendergast snapped alert. “I wasn't at her house last Saturday.”

“Then tell me about the other time.”

“I told you. We went out to eat, then to the Regatta Bar. And I took her home.”

“Then what?”

“Then she asked me up for a glass of wine. And we talked about her application.”

“White wine. Which you'd brought, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring anything else with you? A gift or anything? Flowers or a pair of stockings?”

Pendergast shook his head.

“How many glasses of wine did you have?”

“I don't know. Maybe two.”

“There was only half a bottle of Pinot Gris found.”

“Maybe it was three. I don't remember.”

“Did she drink the white wine also?”

He thought for a moment. “I think she had red.”

“And how many did she have?”

“I don't recall. Maybe two.”

“Good. I like how it's coming back to you. Then you began to make out on the couch, but that wasn't very comfortable so you went into the bedroom.”

“No, we didn't go into the bedroom.”

“Did you have sex?”

“No.”

“You mean you didn't even get a kiss for all you did?”

Pendergast glared at Neil for a long moment. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You mean you made out.”

“A little.”

“A little? Why didn't you go all the way? You had that gorgeous woman with the flaming red hair and hot bod. Mean you couldn't get it up?”

“We didn't have any condoms.”

“Ah, so you would have, but you didn't want to take the chance, right?”

Pendergast nodded.

“Because she was a stripper.”

“Yeah.”

“But she wanted to have sex.”

“Yes.”

Neil pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to squeeze back the possibilities. “It's all coming back.” Neil seemed crazed all of a sudden. “Did you initiate it or did she?”

“I don't remember.”

“Then maybe I can help you. You began to make a lot of kissy-face and you nuzzled your face into that thick red hair and stroked her breasts, which fired her up and she began to rub your bulge, right?” Neil's face was bright red.

“I want to go.”

“You're not going anywhere. You're going to tell me what you did.”

“I-I'm tired. I don't remember.”

“Sure, you're tired and forgot stuff. I wasn't there or anything, but let me guess. She then got up and went into her little routine, peeled off her dress like she was at the pole. Stripped down to her bra and thong and fancy black stockings that made your eyeballs smoke, right?”

Pendergast shook his head, too afraid to leave with Neil pacing like a leopard, narrating.

“Then she peeled off her stockings one by one and dangled them at you, right?” He didn't wait for an answer. “And you know what I think?

I think you killed her but it wasn't your fault. Really. You know why? Because she made you do it. I think it was really an accident.”

“No,” Pendergast pleaded.

“Yes. And it's because she wanted to make you
bad.
” He snapped up a photo of her wearing only black stockings. “The thing is, Earl, Terry Farina was nothing but a little tramp. She preyed on men like you and me for money. And that's what it was all about,
money.
You and a thousand other guys got suckered into laying down good money to watch her strip. But she went too far and tried to recruit you, told you you could have the real thing, right? I mean look at her.” And he spread the photos while Pendergast gaped without expression.

“I know what you like: pretty women, clean women. What normal guy doesn't? But not the scullery maid even if she's got gorgeous red hair. You were looking for Ms. Right, not her, because she was bad.” Neil nudged his shoulder. “Right?”

Pendergast nodded.

“You bet. She was dirty and she tried to make you dirty, and you got mad. And you know what? Maybe she got what she deserved.”

Pendergast grunted.

“Thing is, women like that get you to drop your defenses, make you act against your better judgment—create illusions and denial. It happens to me. Happens to everybody. Do something dumb and you repress it from your memory. It's perfectly human. You're a college professor, I needn't tell you.”

Pendergast nodded weakly, not knowing where Neil was going.

“And that's what happened. She was a licensed exhibitionist, probably turned tricks on the side. We're talking your basic
whore
who played on men's weaknesses, and she lured you into the bedroom.”

Up to this point, Neil had been pacing in front of Pendergast. But he circled behind him. “And there she was lying naked on the bed humping the air, teasing and taunting you. Then something went wrong. Maybe she said something that rubbed you wrong—an insult about your manhood. You were a little high from the wine and meds and she just wouldn't let up, maybe riding your ass, playing the desperate whore. Then before you knew it, something snapped.” With that Neil produced a black stocking from his back pocket and twisted it around Pendergast's neck.

For an instant Steve thought Neil would strangle him to death. But just as quickly he let go and pressed his face to Pendergast, who was gasping and massaging his throat. “That's what you did. You blanked out and strangled her with that black stocking.”

“N-n-no.” He cowered from Neil, rubbing his neck.

“Yes. Yes.
Yes.
” And he grabbed Pendergast by his shirt and lifted him into the air. “You fucking little worm. You killed her because she was bad and wanted to make you bad.”

Pendergast shook his head. “No.”

“Fuck no!” And Neil stormed out of the room. A minute later he returned with two officers. “You're under arrest. Take him away.”

“For what?”

“For the murder of Terry Farina. Read him his Miranda and get him the fuck out of here.”

The video came to an abrupt end.

Steve stared at the blank screen for several seconds as a rat uncurled in his gut.

It was after seven. The detective shifts were changing and the office was empty but for a couple of sergeants. In his office, Reardon was just packing his briefcase to leave for the weekend when Steve walked in.

“You look like hell.”

“That's the good news.”

Reardon's eyebrows shot up. “What's the problem?”

We're back to door one. And I don't want to open it.

“You said you saw the Pendergast video.”

“Some of it, why?”

“You might want to take a closer look because I think we've got a problem.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe he shouldn't be in lockup.”

A television monitor with a DVD player sat on a table near Reardon's desk, and Steve slipped in the disk. With the remote, Steve jumped to key segments. Reardon said very little while he watched, occasionally asking Steve to replay sections, occasionally muttering to himself.

“I double-checked the reports. We don't have his DNA in the bedroom. And we don't have a witness to his car being on her street. Those are fabrications. Plus he violated the guy's rights all the way up. The D.A. sees this, she'll blow a fuse.”

“Any way to confirm his alibi?”

“No.”

“What about the latents?”

“They may be old like he claims. He said he was up there once after a dinner date with her. But there's nothing in the bedroom or anywhere else.”

“He could have wiped them.”

“True, but nobody's going to like the claim we've got bedroom prints when we don't.”

“But he lied when he said he was never up there.”

“Yeah, but it's kind of a stretch for probable cause.”

“Why the hell didn't he insist on his lawyer or just walk out? The guy's got a Ph.D., for Christ's sake. You'd think he knows his rights.”

“Neil kept tweaking him with threats of going to the press about his priors. And maybe he's so walking wounded he wanted to be beaten up.” It was clear that Reardon had barely looked at the video but had taken Neil's word. At the moment, Steve wanted to spit at him.

“Shit!” Reardon said.

“Looks like he arrested him for having sex with her.” He handed Reardon the DVD. He would make some calls on Neil's claims about the latents and witness then review the DVD.

“Don't go far.”

 

Steve went back to his office and took a tab of Ativan. That pea was now a bowling ball.

He sat at his desk, which had two piles of papers, pencils in one cup, pens in another. Things lined up, pathologically neat unlike the contents of his mind. His eyes fell on the photo of him and Dana from a trip to the White Mountains a few years ago. The air was crisp and keen and the sky an endless blue.

Suddenly his mind was a fugue again:

Well, Bunky, isn't this a fine how do you do? Came in thinking the gargoyle was off your back. That maybe you'd been wrong. That it was just a weird set of coincidences. That her death didn't belong to you. That it was that randy English prof after all, graduated from lewd and lash to murder most foul. And now we're back to numero uno.

So, what'll it be?

Could make it easy for yourself, walk right in there and tell the captain that you were the last to see her alive. Got the receipts. Got the number in your PDA phone. Took the forbidden Ativan cocktail and let Mr. Hyde out of his cage. Plus you've got a big fat time hole that you can't account for
—
from 6:22 when you bought the champagne 'til Reardon's call. Blanko, nada.

And what about those dreams of her? And Dana? Explain those if you're not wracked with guilt that you did something wrong.

Autosuggestion and some form of psyche dysmorphia, to use the good doc's term.

Bullshit. You were there. Felt the vibes as soon as you walked in.

Yeah, then where did the stocking come from?

Maybe they were hers. Just never been worn. Unwrapped them and tossed out the packaging somewhere else.

Go in there and tell him. Get rid of that goddamn lump before it bores a hole through you.

 

Nearly two hours later Reardon called Steve into his office. He had reviewed the video and made his check-up calls. Against protests that he was in bed, Neil drove back into headquarters. When he entered he looked at Steve then to Reardon. “Somebody die?”

“Close enough,” Reardon said.

“What's that mean?” Neil said, a white stirrer in his teeth.

“I just finished reviewing the Pendergast interrogation. My concern is the guy's lawyer gets a look, he's going to want to know the probable cause.”

Neil's face flared as he flashed a damning glance at Steve then looked back at Reardon. “He started off saying that he'd never been to her apartment until I mentioned the latents, and suddenly he remembered. The first thing he gave me was a fucking lie.”

“But you told him we had his prints on her bed and his hair on the sheets. Those aren't in the forensics reports. We have no latents from the bedroom. Nor a witness who saw his car on her street. What the hell were you thinking? His fucking lawyer will be all over us.”

“I told him that to pull him out, and he did. He admitted lying to us.”

“That still doesn't connect him to the crime, for Christ's sake.”

“We've got an admission that he was dating her, that he'd been to her apartment. Plus his computer's loaded with evidence that he could have stalked her. We've got motives up the grunt.”

“We've got circumstantials up the grunt.”

Neil shot another look to Steve. “Feel free to jump in,
partner.
”

The word came out like a wad of phlegm.

Reardon cut him off. “Theriault won't prosecute unless you've got something physical linking him to crime. And we've got shit—no DNA on or near her body, no witnesses, no e-mails or phone record. Nothing but prints on a bottle. He won't risk his reputation if we can't connect him.”

Neil turned to Steve, his eyes saucered. “You going to sit there like a goddamn zombie or something? You know the guy's a fucking slimeball.”

Steve wanted to support him. Wanted to say,
Yeah, he's a slimeball and we got him. Means, motive, opportunity. Enough to convince a jury he's the one. Had me going without a history of violence, but got the goods with the latents, DNA, and witness. Except, partner, you lied about all that. And I'm back on the drill bit.

“We don't have a case.” Steve's words rose up devoid of inflection.

Disgusted, Neil turned to Devin. “You let him out, and in five days he'll disappear.”

“Right now he's going nowhere. The immediate problem is you attacking the guy with the stocking. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was reenacting his crime.”

“You assaulted a witness during interrogation. A defense lawyer will jackboot all over you, maybe even toss a fucking lawsuit on us.”

Neil made a dismissive gesture. “We can handle it.”

Reardon's face was bright with rage. “No we can't handle it because you let him know how she was killed. If the media gets that, which it most certainly will, a key piece of evidence goes public. You gave away our fucking trump card.”

“I guess I got a little carried away.”

“A little carried away? That was fucking stupid.”

Tension crackled like electrical discharge. In Neil's behalf, Steve said, “The last thing Pendergast wants to do is talk to the press.”

“But not his attorney.”

“We can get to him or her to keep quiet,” Neil suggested. “Maybe even get an injunction to quash release.”

Reardon did not look convinced. “Whatever, we've got enough to hold him 'til the arraignment. In the meantime, go out and get something real, okay? Check his alibi against neighbors. Check his phone record, credit cards, pay-per-view cable, people who can put him and Farina together on the night she died. And bring it in by court time.”

Steve and Neil both got up to leave, but Neil avoided looking at him.

“By the way, somebody let the word out about his prior offenses and the media want details.”

“Who let that out?”

“Who the hell knows? But the vultures are circling.”

And that pea's a damn auger in my brain.