“How’s that?” Steve asked.
“Richard, she’s your sister.”
“Yeah, and my sister was a stripper.”
“A stripper?”
“Yes. Health training was her day job.”
Steve looked at Cynthia. “Is that right?”
Cynthia’s face flickered with fury. “Yes, but so what? And it was exotic dancing.”
“Call it what you want,” Richard said. “She was in the sex business, and who knows the kinds of people she interacted with?”
“This is the first time we’ve heard about this,” Steve said. “Do you know where she performed?”
“I know nothing about it,” Richard said.
“I don’t know where she was dancing,” Cynthia said, her voice still scathing. “But it was a side thing she did for the money so she could go to grad school in the fall. She wanted—”
Richard cut her off. “Lieutenant, the important thing is that your investigation be confidential regarding the details of how she was found. Please. This could be a great embarrassment to our family.”
“I understand, but it adds another dimension to the investigation which the media will probably get wind of.”
Richard Farina nodded, his face grim.
Cynthia began to tear up again. “It’s so unfair. She had so much going for her.”
“How long did you know she was an exotic dancer?” Steve asked Cynthia.
“For a while. And frankly, Detective, I didn’t care. And I still don’t.”
“Well, I
“Richard, she was dancing two nights a week. It was a part-time job. The rest of the week she was a full- time fitness trainer.”
“Yeah, but once it gets out—and it will—all the headlines will blare ‘Stripper Found Dead,’ ‘Stripper Murdered,’ ‘Stripper’ this and ‘Stripper’ that. That will be her public persona: Terry Farina,
Cynthia flared up at him. “She was your sister, too, and you speak of her like trash.”
“I guess I’m not so liberated. But when I think of strippers I think prostitution, pornography, drugs, and frankly, low-life,” Richard said. “I have children who will know tomorrow that their murdered aunt stripped at some bar. It’s a disgrace to our family.”
“You’re the disgrace, disparaging her when she’s dead.”
“I’m not sure it’s useful squabbling over this,” Steve said.
“Lieutenant, I knew my sister,” Cynthia said. “She graduated magna cum laude from NYU and she was beginning to make a more meaningful life for herself.” She shot her brother a look of rebuke.
“When was the last time you saw your sister?” Steve asked Richard.
“At my father’s funeral. A year and a half ago. We weren’t close.”
Cynthia glared at him. “Maybe if you ever pulled your head out of your damn investment portfolio you might have gotten to know your sister.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. Where were you when she was breaking up with Phillip and needed support?”
“She didn’t confide in me.”
“Gee, I wonder why.”
Steve was growing weary of their snarling. He pulled a photocopy he had made of Terry’s kitchen calendar and asked her about some of the names they could decipher in the day boxes. Some had turned out to be movie dates with Katie Beals, a hairdresser’s appointment, a doctor’s checkup, the GRE exams.
“It says here that last month she’d gone to the Pine Lake Lodge in Muskoka, Ontario. She was there for a week. Did she tell you about that?”
“Ontario? No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Farina shook his head.
“Did she ever mention having friends in Ontario or visiting anyone in Canada?”
They both shook their heads.
Steve made a mental note to look into the Muskoka thing.
The interview continued another few minutes. Before they left, Cynthia asked if they could go to Terry’s apartment to gather some of her things. “Not for another day or so. We’re still investigating it. But I’ll call you when you can.”
They shook hands. “Again, I’m very sorry about this,” Steve said. The words sounded so flat when they hit the air.
Cynthia wiped her eyes. “Please find the monster who did this, Lieutenant. Please…”
“We will.”
12
The assurance he gave to families all the time—a little dollop of hope that justice would have its day. And each time Steve passed on that promise, every fiber of his being was crackling with conviction, in spite of the fact that back at headquarters they had a room full of cold cases—their little “chamber of shame” as it was known.
Flowers were in full bloom and the sunlight made a dappled green canopy in front of the house where Terry Farina had been strangled two days ago. Around six thirty, Steve pulled into a spot across the street. He removed the keys from the ignition, slipped them into his jacket pocket, but sat for a few minutes taking in the scene.
There was no traffic. The only movement was a strip of yellow police tape still fastened to a tree in front of the house, looking like a tribute to soldiers at war. A young mother pushing a baby stroller came down the opposite side of Payson Road. As she approached, she abruptly steered the stroller down a driveway and crossed to the other side to avoid passing in front of number 123.
As he waited for the woman to pass out of sight, he was hit with an overwhelming sensation that he had done this before. Been here on this street, parked in this very spot—sitting and waiting. The layout of the buildings; the way the road unfolded beneath the canopy of trees. The shafts of sunlight through the branches. He had been here before. Before Sunday. Before the investigation. But he could not recall ever driving up Payson Road before or any prior cases that had brought him to the neighborhood. So why the uneasy sensation flittering across his arms and up his back like electric currents?
Someplace he had read that there was no real mystery to deja vu—nothing metaphysical, no ESP or romantic intimations of past lives. In the time it took for one side of the brain to inform the other side of the experience being recorded, it seemed like two different events, though separated by mere nanoseconds. Kind of bad news for the full-mooners of the world.
He shook away the sensation, got out of the car, and headed toward the building. The place was still, the windows of the second-floor apartment were dark. The pink and white geraniums in boxes on the upper porch looked out of place.
He walked around back. Mrs. Sabo was apparently out since the garage was empty. Terry’s navy blue Ford Escort had been confiscated for examination by forensics techs. He returned to the front, and with a duplicate house key from Mrs. Sabo he let himself inside. The door locked automatically behind him and, according to Mrs.
