chin was Munchkin-sharp. Plus her eyes were the wrong hue and her hair had a tawdry fire.
The Murphy woman had a good length of jaw that calibrated closely with the lower half of the computer template. But her brow was ridged and low and she had refused implants in her cheeks, which would have filled her out and approximated the heart shape he had sought.
The same with the others—there was always some element that threw off the balance and fell short of the perfect 1.618 phi ratio of cheek-to-cheek width to crown-to-chin length—all had fallen short, including the Farina woman, whose brow was too wide.
He had Lila’s complete portfolio from the days she had modeled hot chocolate to the promo portraits that Harry Dobbs had sent around. He also had some glorious color and black-and-white close-ups like those of Greta Garbo by Clarence Sinclair Bull or Grace Kelly by Yousuf Karsh. Those he had scanned and downloaded into his computer; then using software developed for 3-D facial recognition by security firms, he converted the images into digitalized templates based on approximate calibrations of her skull structure and the dimensions of her eyes, nose, brow, and jawline. That rendered a skeletal frame upon which to create a muscle-based morphing capability to determine where potential candidates were lacking—where flesh should be enhanced by implants, where bone may need to be reduced, where features needed to be fleshed out or reduced to achieve the exact likeness. In the ten years since he had looked for potential candidates, he found only a handful of women who came close—whose faces did not need a suspicious amount of refashioning to satisfy his needs.
And over the decade, he had made some changes but not in his requirements. No, some things were absolute. Changes in technical matters, strategies, and approaches. He had also, of course, made some basic changes in himself, divining the true source of his needs and the solution for gratifying the imp in his soul. A gratification that was nothing short of destiny.
And this Markarian woman was the answer.
84
It wasn’t until one o’clock that Saturday afternoon when Steve finally heard back from Chief Nathan David of the Wellfleet P.D. Because the file photo of Marla Murphy was grainy, Steve had asked for a sharper, more recent likeness. David had placed the request with the family, saying that the case had been reopened. The family obliged and sent him a photo taken shortly before her death. It was the image attached to Chief David’s e-mail.
Steve opened it with no expectations. He clicked on his printer then got the Stubbs file to include it. When the printer was finished, he looked at it.
At first he wasn’t sure that David had sent a photo of the same woman. So he opened the file and removed the grainy original. In that one she had blond hair. But what caught his attention was that her features looked different. Her nose looked broader and longer, her eyes were more squinty, and her lips were thinner. It was the same woman as in the grainy older shot. But the face in the recent photo was pretty—voluptuous, more balanced in features. She also had red hair.
He picked up the phone and called Chief David and thanked him for the photo and pointed out the difference in the woman’s likeness. “I’m just wondering if this is the same woman, Marla Murphy.”
David put the phone down to get the files. Then he returned. “Yeah, it’s Marla Murphy.”
Steve strained to keep his voice neutral. “Any report that she had cosmetic surgery?”
“Not that I know of, but I see what you mean. I thought it was just the hair.”
“Can you tell me the next of kin?”
He named the deceased’s sister, a Sarah Pratt-Duato.
He thanked David and hung up. For a few seconds he sat there looking at the photos and feeling a strange premonitional awareness build. Then he called the number David had given him for Marla’s sister. “Is this Sarah Pratt-Duato?”
“Yes.”
Steve identified himself, said the case had been reopened and that he had a few questions for her.
“I’ll do my best.”
He explained the discrepancies in the photographs. “Did your sister have cosmetic surgery? She looks younger and her features don’t match up.”
After some hesitation she said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore but, yes, she had some face work done. She was in a profession that puts a premium on physical appearance, and she had yielded to the pressure.”
“A news reporter.” Steve felt a small shudder pass through him as if the temperature of the room had dropped twenty degrees.
“Yes. As you can imagine, to make it in that profession you have to move from station to station, and all they seem to hire these days are superstars or pretty girls. And she was not a superstar.”
“Of course. And what procedures exactly did she have done?”
“The usual for women her age—Restylane injections, eyelid work, abrasion therapy. She also had a nose job even though I don’t think she needed one.”
Steve’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Do you know when she had the cosmetic surgery?”
“A few weeks before her…her
He named the approximate dates.
“Yes, about then. I don’t remember exactly since she kept it quiet until I saw her and it was obvious. Of course, in her business, nobody wants to know. It’s just the image that’s for sale.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to add that my sister did not commit suicide and wasn’t into any perversions as reported.”
“I’m sure.”
“Thank you, and I hope you get the so-and-so.”
“One more question if you don’t mind. Do you know the name of the surgeon?”
“She never said.”
Steve thanked her, put the phone back onto the cradle, and just sat there looking at the last photograph of Marla Murphy before she was strangled with a black stocking.
She looked like Dana with red hair.
85
“I love your hair.”
Aaron Monks opened the door to the black BMW to let Dana inside. He had arrived at three o’clock that Saturday dressed in cream—chinos, windbreaker, matching shirt, light shoes. Because it was a cool afternoon, Dana had on slacks and carried a fleece-lined jacket and cap for the ride.
Aaron drove them to the marina where Cho and Pierre met them on the
“Yes,” he said, and chuckled politely.
The harbor was overcast, so they sat in the aft salon where Aaron put out some appetizers and a bucket of champagne. The cabin doors were left open for the view.
Aaron was particularly animated, like a kid on an outing. He made small talk. He did ask if she had kept her promise not to reveal their date, and she had. Not even Lanie knew. Especially Lanie who would have told everybody in greater Boston, probably called the News Seven hotline. So she wouldn’t have to make something up, she had turned off her cell phone.
They took their drinks as the boat pulled into the harbor. Dana loved the Boston skyline, which looked like a miniature in shades of gray against the dark clouds. She hoped it wouldn’t rain. Aaron said it was not in the forecast. In fact it was only a passing cold front and clear all the way down the eastern seaboard. He’d be heading
