killing her because maybe she went too far with him, made him feel bad about himself. Maybe she rejected him another time. Maybe he’s impotent and she knew and made fun of him. Whatever, he has a fit and kills her with the same stocking that makes his eyeballs smoke. And being a sex freak, he knows about autoerotica and puts together the scene, wipes the place clean, and heads home.”
Reardon nodded and turned to Steve. “What do you think?”
“Well, I am,” Neil said.
Breaking the deadlock, Kevin Hogan said, “Speaking of redheads, we found an unopened bottle of L’Oreal Sunset Blaze number seventy-seven in her bathroom. Maybe she used it, or maybe she had it done professionally. But the M.E. says she’s not a natural.”
“So much for ‘the flaming thatch,’” Dacey said.
That got a snicker. “According to Mickey DeLuca who manages the Mermaid, she began to color her hair red about a month ago.”
“So what’s your take on where we should aim?” Reardon asked Steve.
“The Mermaid clientele. Some strip-joint groupies don’t have both oars in the water. Get a psycho who thinks the naked lady is dancing just for him, he becomes obsessed and begins stalking her. We look for guys with records of violence against women.”
“We’ve got him,” Neil said.
“Right,” Steve said, “but we also look elsewhere.”
“Then tell me what I’m missing here.”
“You been watching Dr. Phil or something?” Reardon asked.
“Sounds more like Dr. Ruth,” said Dacey. “I’m no expert profiler, but I have to agree with the lieutenant. He strikes me as a user who goes to women for sex.”
Neil made a dismissive hissing sound but said no more.
Growing weary of the back-and-forth, Reardon said, “Okay, we dig deeper with Pendergast and continue going through the club list.”
“I think we should bring him in is all,” Neil said. “He’s scheduled to fly to Europe next Wednesday. He goes and we may never find him.”
Reardon’s face looked like a clenched fist. He stood up. “Okay. You can question him again, but I want you to find some real evidence—a witness, solid forensics, a paper trail. Anything. Just come back with something to chew on, because the prosecutor eats nails for breakfast and won’t take the case unless we do.”
28
WINTER 1973
“Hey, Beauty Boy, I want you to come here a sec.”
He was in his room doing his math when she called him from the hall bathroom. He didn’t want to go in there because she was getting dressed. But he knew if he didn’t obey she’d get mad. And when she got mad, she got mean and didn’t speak to him, which he couldn’t take. So he got off his bed and crossed the hall, but stopped outside the bathroom. The door was open as it always was when she was doing makeup or fixing her hair.
He made a quick glance inside and pulled back. She was at the mirror in her underwear.
“For heaven’s sake, I’m not gonna bite you.”
“Mom, you’re not even dressed.”
“You’ve seen more at the seashore.”
Her bra and panties were made of some kind of black lacy see-through material—nothing he’d ever seen at Hampton Beach.
She ran a brush through her hair, a lustrous coppery mane. Without looking at him she said, “You know, there’s gonna come a day when you’ll pay money to see a woman in her underpants.”
He couldn’t imagine that, but said nothing and moved to the doorway.
Shalimar. It was the cologne she always wore, and the scent filled the room with a cloying sweetness. The bottle sat on the glass shelf with other bottles and jars: creams, foundations, lotions, makeup, lip gloss—all the stuff she put on her face when she was going out.
She fluffed up her hair then put on lipstick. When she was satisfied she turned to him full-front and put her hands on her hips. Her lips were the color of bubble gum. “Well, what do you think?”
It was their ritual. Whenever she got dressed she would pose for him, waiting for him to say she looked pretty, that he liked her dress or blouse or her hairdo or new bathing suit. Nothing she’d ever do with his father, who was either in the air or too disinterested.
“You look pretty.” Her black dress was on a hanger attached to the shower stall.
“You didn’t even look, for pete’s sake.” When he didn’t raise his eyes, she snapped, “Hey! I’m talking to you, Buster. What’s the problem?”
“I have to do my homework.” He was getting uncomfortable and could feel the scratch of her eyes on him. And something else—a slightly askew stare, one eye fixed on him, the other focusing someplace else, making her appear as if she were only half in the moment.
She adjusted her stance and moved her hip so that the dark mound of her sex thrust out at him and her breasts rose to full attention. “Well?”
“I said you’re pretty.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“What about
“You’re beautiful.”
She gave him a hard look. “You didn’t say it like you really mean it.”
He said nothing, just wanted to go back to his room. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. When she drank she got mean.
“Well?” She glowered at him with those wild off-center eyes.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess? What kind of an answer it that?”
“Yeah, you’re beautiful.”
He didn’t even know what “beautiful” was supposed to look like. At twelve years old he didn’t think in those terms. But he guessed she was beautiful, otherwise she wouldn’t have been an artist’s model or in magazine ads or on TV. Over the last two years she had landed a few small roles on shows shot in Boston—like that episode of
Tonight she was getting dressed for a dinner party she and his father were attending. At the moment he was out buying wine. When she looked back at him again, her eyes were almost normal. “I just wish your
He started to go back to his room.
“I haven’t excused you yet.”
Her eyes were big and centered.
“Damn! You’re going to be a knockout when you grow up, you know that? A damn knockout. Girls are going to be all over you. But you’ll always be my Beauty Boy.” She reached out and gave him a hug when he made a move
