Skin Deep

“We don’t even have a decent time line. Ottoman gave us twelve hours,” Neil said.

“I think we do have a time line,” Steve said. “I think she was killed between 5:47 and 10:00 P.M. And the killer turned on the AC and bed massage to throw things off.”

“How the hell you come up with that?” Neil asked.

“Because one of the things stuffed in her flatware drawer was a UPS envelope. I called to confirm. It was delivered and signed by her at 5:47 on the second.” Steve pulled it out of his briefcase and laid it on the table.

Reardon inspected the package. “How come nobody picked up on this yesterday?”

A long moment of silence filled the room as heads jerked around the table. “We were still sorting things out,” Steve said.

Reardon shook his head in dismay. “Keep going.”

“I was in the apartment yesterday around six and the room still gets sun. But after seven, it drops behind the buildings and the place is pretty dark. If they were in the bedroom doing stuff, they’d have a light on to see. Plus the killer would need light to set up the autoerotica scene.”

“If they were having sexual foreplay, they’d most likely do it in the dark.”

“Sexual foreplay implies a main event. And there was none….”

My, my, aren’t we glib. The voice was back.

“…No traces of semen on the bedding or on her or in her. No saliva or strange DNA or hairs—all of which suggests that the visitor remained either fully or partially clothed and was wearing an outfit that left no fiber evidence—some synthetic material—or was dressed in plain white cotton like her bedsheets. Whatever, he took care not to leave a trace.”

“Report says her jewelry wasn’t touched and a hundred and fifty dollars in cash was still in her handbag,” Vaughn said. “So no robbery and she wasn’t raped. I don’t see a motive.”

“Sexual obsession,” Steve said. The words just popped out.

“But where’s the gratification?” Vaughn asked.

“He could have masturbated,” Dacey said.

“Except no ejaculate was found on the vic’s body or at the crime scene.”

Dacey nodded. “He could have done it in a tissue and either took it with him or sent it down the toilet.”

Is that it? the voice asked. “Possibly,” Steve said, and punched it down again.

“What about the ex-boyfriend?” Neil asked.

“Checks out,” Dacey said. “He was at a sporting event in Scranton over the weekend. A cable station video confirms that.”

“I want to backtrack,” said Reardon. “If the killer needed light to see, how come they were reportedly off?” He directed the question to Steve.

“Well…,” Steve began.

Well, what, Bunky?

“I guess he screwed up,” Steve said. “He turned them off when he left. If she committed suicide, she would have done it with the lights on.”

“So, why’d he turn them off?”

“A subconscious impulse to cover up his crime.” He uttered the syllables as if he were chewing on gravel.

“Seems a major screwup for someone so clever as you claim,” Neil said.

“It was an emotionally charged moment. Even a paranoid control freak doesn’t always think clearly. He’s scrambling to get away and also forgets stuff.”

Jesus, man!

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Hogan said. “He forgets to turn off the living-room lights, which Beals and the landlady say were on when they entered. And you say it’s getting dark in there around seven.”

The room fell silent as the speculations sank in. Then heads began to bob.

“I like it,” Reardon said.

“Me, too,” Dacey said.

The others agreed. Neil did not react, just chewed his plastic stick. But his words from yesterday chimed in Steve’s brain: “You seem to have all the answers.”

Breaking the silence was Mark Roderick, the assistant D.A., reviewing his notes. “So, you’re saying that he e-mails, calls, or text messages to say he’s dropping by—possibly blocking caller ID so it doesn’t show on phone records. She straightens out the place in a blitz, gets dressed. He shows up but not to go out since she’s leaving the first thing the next day. There’s some kind of sexual interlude although no sexual ejaculate is found. Suddenly for some reason he pulls out the stocking and strangles her. Maybe erases any communications and sets up the accident scene.”

“Something like that.”

“But why? What triggered a lover or would-be lover to suddenly strangle her with his own gift stockings?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” Steve said.

“We should also check on the stockings,” Vaughn said. “What local stores carry them, and recent mail orders from the manufacturer to the Commonwealth.”

Steve nodded.

“But didn’t any of her friends or family know about the guy?” Dacey asked.

Steve looked toward Charlie Reardon. “Captain?”

“This might help,” Reardon said, and opened a folder. “It came in late yesterday afternoon from the computer lab.”

He held up two glossy color blowups of Terry Farina posing in big red hair, a thong, and black stockings. Steve had seen them yesterday, but not the other people in the room.

“Her stage name was Xena Lee.” Then Reardon looked at Neil. “Did you know she was a stripper?”

“No, not a clue.”

“But you knew her, right?”

“Yeah, but only from the health club.”

Neil stared at the photos, looking as if he had just spit up something. Steve knew what he was thinking: that this was not the nice pretty woman who led his workout class but a big-haired Jezebel who took her clothes off for guys at a bar in Revere.

“Where did you get these?”

“Her laptop. They’re from the Web site of the Mermaid Lounge, where she performed.”

Reardon passed around printouts of “Xena Lee” in different provocative poses—rearing her thonged bottom at the camera, flashing her breasts but blocking her genitals with one hand, straddling the pole while making an open-mouthed come-take-me look at the camera. Because of the heavy makeup, the startled red mane, the lighting and angles, and the wild cat expressions, it was hard to reconcile these images with those in the backyard shots of her and her sister. In one printout, she was pressed against the pole wearing only thigh-high black stockings.

“Looks like what she was strangled with,” Dacey said.

“It hasn’t got the same fancy lace top, but close enough,” Vaughn said.

“Guess the perp’s got a thing for black stockings.”

“Looks that way,” Steve said.

“This adds a whole ’nother venue,” Reardon said. “The people who frequent strip joints are all over the social-economic landscape. Also means a higher-than-average number of congenital whackos who may have tattoos from head to foot or look like Kenny dolls with Harvard M.B.A.’s.”

“How often was she stripping?” Dacey asked.

“From the Web site schedule, a couple nights a week, Thursdays and Saturdays. During the day she was full- time at the Kingsbury Club.” Reardon looked at Neil for a response.

“I guess she was good at keeping a secret,” Neil said.

Reardon nodded. “We called the Beals woman before the meeting and she had no idea.”

“Probably not something one boasts if she wants to keep her day job,” Steve said in Neil’s defense.

“Cyber’s also putting together a list of people she exchanged e-mails with,” Reardon said. “Unfortunately, she had a program that automatically deletes e-mails after three days, except for those designated to save.”