him your son or your brother?”
Lila flew at him and grabbed his shirt like a cat. But he clamped his hands on her wrists and bent them painfully until she cried out.
“Leave her alone.” And he picked up a heavy glass ashtray fashioned after a clamshell, and came down with it to the side of Kirk’s head. But at the last moment Kirk deflected the blow, sending the ashtray flying.
Lila swung at him, screaming, but Kirk pushed her off him.
She bolted from the patio. “Nice wholesome family!” he shouted after her.
“I hate you, Dad. I wish you were dead.” He ran after Lila.
He found her in the parking lot at the front of the inn. She had found their car and he got in and they drove home, where she got her things and some money and made him pack.
Then they drove off to a motel where Lila said they would sleep in separate beds. That was fine with him because as he lay in the darkness of their rented room, he knew that evening was a turning point. He didn’t know what the outcome would be, but he knew that they had passed a point of no return: that she could live without his father.
53
The Pendergast arrest and suicide was the kind of story the media loved.
For the next two days the local papers and news shows were all over it like seagulls to garbage: popular college prof suspected in the strangulation murder of stripper student sent to jail where either out of guilt or disgrace he’s found hanged, some commentators noting the symmetry of justice.
As expected, Pendergast’s family members and friends protested that the police had targeted him for past mistakes and had arrested him on “exaggerated evidence.” They presented him as a popular teacher whom students had invited to their homes, to graduation parties and weddings; a first-rate educator who had done good things in the eyes of the student body and the community, teaching writing workshops in local high schools and visiting book groups in senior centers. A sister threatened a lawsuit against the Boston P.D. for wrongful arrest and criminal neglect in his death, arguing that he should have been given psychological counseling and put on suicide watch.
Of course, the D.A.’s office expressed regrets and offered condolences to the family. However, when asked by a reporter if the case was closed, the D.A. said that at this point in time Mr. Pendergast remained their most likely suspect.
Steve muted the television in the middle of another rant about a travesty of justice by Pendergast’s lawyer —most of which Steve agreed with. He was in the Queen Anne chair sipping a beer. His eyes had come to rest on the fireplace photo of him and Dana in Jamaica. The jangle of the phone brought him back.
“What are you doing?” Dana asked.
“Sitting here thinking about you.”
“Are you drinking?”
He couldn’t lie. “I’m having a beer.”
“Beer?”
“I’m ramping down. And before you ask, stopping at two, which I read is good for you.”
“That’s red wine.”
“Oh, boy! Then after I finish this I’ll have two Merlots.”
He heard her chuckle. “You don’t need the beer.”
“It helps me think about you.”
“Now you’re trying to put a guilt trip on me.”
“And apparently it’s not working.”
“The papers are saying that Pendergast’s suicide was tantamount to a confession.”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’d like to—”
“—since that would close the case.”
“But they’re saying that he might have taken his life because he was mortified by the charges and the exposure of his past offenses. Wasn’t he coming off a year’s suspension?”
“Yes.”
“Which means he was probably already anxious about returning to the classroom in the fall.”
“I’m sure. Conviction or not, his future wasn’t bright.”
“Didn’t you say he was on medication?”
“For depression and anxiety.”
“Then he was a high-risk candidate for suicide. So why wasn’t he put on suicide watch?”
“I guess the psychiatrist didn’t think he was a danger to himself.” And then he thought,
“Maybe this closes the case for you.”
Steve uttered a noncommittal “Yeah.” There was nothing more that he wanted. If Pendergast had done it, that would be exoneration for both him and Neil. But that had yet to be determined. The case was still open as Pendergast’s connection to Farina continued to be investigated.
“But I have a funny feeling that you didn’t call because of the Pendergast case.”
There was a pause. “I’ve decided to get a nose job. The doctor hasn’t scheduled it yet, but he’s trying to before he goes on vacation.”
“And you called to ask if I thought it was a good idea?”
“No, I called to tell you. In a few weeks I’m going to look different. He’s got software that creates afterimages. He showed me what I’d look like, and I think it’s a nice improvement.”
He was quiet for a few moments.
“Does this bother you?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s something I’ve always wanted.”
“And it sounds like a prelude to divorce.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said out of the blue.
“You mean you have a date.”
“I’ll talk to you next week.” And she hung up.
He stared at the phone for a protracted moment, thinking,
54
Steve was right: Dana did have a date.
Aaron Monks showed up exactly at six thirty in a long black BMW sedan. She met him at the door in a new beige pantsuit and a white blouse. He was dressed in a gray blazer with a blue shirt, blue and pink tie, and black pants.
It was her first non-Steve date in seventeen years, and she felt nervous. It didn’t help that in anticipation she had read articles about him online. But his easy, understated manner and boyish shyness put her at ease.
They took Storrow Drive into Boston and turned off at the Fenway exit, down Boylston and up Dartmouth to 1
