by Gary Braver
“True, but why stuff your mail in a dish cabinet unless you’re in a rush?”
“So, you think he contacted her at the last minute.”
“Yeah, to say he was coming over, which explains why she never told Beals or had it on her calendar.”
“But the records show she received two calls from Katie Beals at 11:07 A.M. and 2:14 P.M. Beals confirms each,” Dacey said.
Steve nodded. “Text message or e-mail. He could have sent a message just before arriving then erased it after he killed her. Her laptop was on the floor, her cell phone on the night table.”
“That’s a little far-fetched.” It was Neil’s first comment of the meeting. Up to this point he just sat and listened, his mouth working a coffee stirrer.
“The other possibility,” Dacey said, “is that he blocked caller ID, hit *67.”
Steve said nothing and guzzled some cold coffee. His headache felt as if it were cleaving his brain in two.
“Anyone familiar with Microsoft Outlook could delete e-mails without a trace,” said Kevin Hogan. “And you’re right, he could have erased a text message from her cell.”
“But if her friends and family say she wasn’t seeing anyone,” Reardon said, “who the hell was the guy she let in to have sex with?”
“Maybe someone she had just met,” Dacey threw out.
“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.�
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“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.”
The meeting went on for a few more minutes. When it was over, Reardon asked Steve to remain behind. Just before Neil filed out behind the others, he muttered to Steve in passing, “Moving to the head of the class, huh?” Then he closed the door before Steve could respond.
Reardon put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I want to tell you that I’m impressed how you put it all together—the stocking check and time line.”
“Thanks.” Steve was buzzing to leave.
“That’s the kind of investigative work I like to see. Things are coming together for you, I take it.”
Steve knew what he meant. “I’m doing fine.” That wasn’t true, but that’s what came out.
“Good to hear. Lots of people develop drinking problems during times of stress. You’re not the first in this department. But I want you to know I’m impressed with your turnaround.”
Steve made an appreciative nod and made a move to the door.
“And this gives you focus and purpose. How are things on the home front?”
Reardon knew Dana only casually, from holiday parties and department events. But it was clear that Reardon admired her. “We’re working on it.”
“You still living separately?”
“Yup.” He really didn’t want to talk about it.
“I hope things work out for you.”
“Me, too.”
Reardon walked him to the door. “Good luck and keep up the good work.”
Steve thanked him and closed the door, thinking that he’d kill for a drink.
17
The Mermaid Lounge was located on Ocean Drive at the northern end of the strip at Revere Beach. Named after Paul Revere, the three-mile-long sandy crescent was America’s first public beach in 1896. During the first half of the twentieth century it became a world-famous amusement park with a roller coaster, carousels, stage shows, fireworks, even hot-air balloons. The place flourished until the 1970s when the amusements were torn down to make way for hotels and condominiums. Now it was home to “The best exotic entertainment club in Eastern Mass.”
In spite of that claim to fame, the Mermaid Lounge was a squat cinderblock bunker that was painted industrial gray and could have passed for a muffler shop. Steve had passed it on the road in the past but could not recall ever being inside.
He and Neil parked in front. You’d never know it was a strip joint but for the Plexiglas display boards at the entrance—a small photo collage of featured “exotic entertainment performers.” Current headliners were Trixi LaFlame, Cherry Night, and Jinxy.
“How much you wanna bet those aren’t their real names,” Steve said.
Neil was not in a jesting mood and didn’t respond. He was fixated on another poster on the opposite wall—a shot of a naked woman blocking her breasts and glaring catlike at the camera. The caption read, THE FABULOUS XENA—EVERY THURSDAY AND SATURDAY NITE.
“Doesn’t even look like her.”
Steve nodded. It was not the same woman he had shared coffee breaks with. “Hair dye and four pounds of makeup will do that.”
As they went inside, Steve could feel Neil’s tension. The place represented everything he abhorred. “Maybe I should do the talking,” Steve said. “And try not to shoot anybody.”
Neil smirked and followed him in. The place had a divey murky beer biker feel—a place with more tattoos than people. The interior was a dark rectangle with the main stage on the long wall and a smaller stage at the rear, poles rising from each. Twenty people sat at the bar and scattered tables, mostly guys although Steve spotted two women. Two flat screens flickered with sports shows. A sign pointed to private booths on the far side of the room. Because it was early afternoon, no dancers were onstage. Behind the bar was a guy about thirty with a bouncer’s upper torso pressed into a black T-shirt.
A waitress in a tiny pink halter top and black short shorts came up to them. Steve did not recognize her, nor she them. He flashed his badge and asked if the manager was in. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get him.” She hustled off and returned with the bartender.
“Mickey DeLuca. Nice to meet you, Officers.” He pumped their hands. “What’s the problem?”
Again no recognition. “We’d like to ask you about one of your dancers.” Steve handed him a shot of her with her sister.
DeLuca looked at it. “Jeez, I don’t recognize her.” Steve moved him into the light. Then his face brightened. “Yeah, that’s her on the right. Xena Lee.”
“Xena Lee,” Steve repeated as if taking an oath.
“Her stage name. She took it from that old TV show Xena: Warrior Princess.” Then he squinted at the photo again. “Must be an old picture. Her hair’s red now. But, yeah, that’s Xena, real name’s Terry Farina. What’s the problem?”
“I’m sorry to say she’s dead.”
“What?” DeLuca’s head snapped back as if he’d been jabbed with a needle.
“She was found in her apartment Sunday morning, and the case is being treated as a homicide.”
“Homicide. Holy shit! Who’d want to kill her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to learn. Maybe you can tell us a little about her, maybe her friends and fans, guys she might have known and dated.”
DeLuca looked shaken by the news. He led them to a table in the empty rear corner. He said he knew very little about Terry Farina’s personal life, except that she broke up with a guy last year but never mentioned seeing anybody else. She drove herself to and from work and kept to herself. As DeLuca talked he kept glancing at Neil, who said nothing but stared at DeLuca as if he were dog vomit.
“She was a great performer. Really. And she looked fantastic. Fact is, she had more energy than women fifteen years younger. Honest to God, she could go all night.”
“I guess she kept in shape.”
“Yeah, I think she was a yoga instructor or something. The thing was, she’d finish dancing then take questions from the crowd, like some kind of celebrity. She was wicked awesome, really sharp, and a great personality. She was more popular than some of the national acts we get—you know, girls from New York and Atlantic City, former movie stars. She was one of our all-time bests. I can’t believe this.”
“When was the last time she performed?”
“Last Thursday. She took off Saturday night because she was going away.”
“Do you know any customers who might have wanted to do her harm?”
“No, no one.”
“How about any customers who might have harassed her or who went too far—troublemakers, guys your security people had to talk to?”
He shook his head. “If somebody gives us a hard time, we ask them to leave. But we don’t take their names.”
“But you know the names of your regulars, right? Any of those who might have been aggressive with her?”
“No. Nothing like that. I mean, guys might get a little high and make some noise, but it’s always innocent.”
“Anybody
who might have had a thing for her? Someone who went out with her?”
“No. Besides, club policy is that the performers aren’t allowed to date customers.”
“Right. How about someone who might have stalked her?” Neil asked.
DeLuca shook his head. “Nothing like that, at least not that I know of.”
Steve nodded. Either DeLuca was playing dumb or he was dumb.
“Look, Mickey, we’re trying to learn the names of anyone who may have had a sexual thing for her, okay? And this is a sex club where she danced. So, I want you to help us here, because the likelihood is that her killer frequented your establishment.”
“I understand, but nobody’s coming to mind.”
Steve looked at the big wide-eyed stare and wondered if anything came to Mickey DeLuca’s mind. He glanced at his notes. “We’ve got some evidence that she was out of town for a week or so in April. Know where she went or anything about that?”
“Oh, yeah. I think she said she was visiting relatives in Canada or something. Lemme check the books.” When he returned, he said, “Yeah, she was off for over three weeks, mid-April to the first week in May. Wasn’t great for business, because she had her regulars. But she came back, and the guys were like bees to honey up here. What a loss.”
“You mentioned Terry’s regulars. I’m wondering if we can have a list of those.”
DeLuca made a woeful expression. “The thing is, we don’t keep records of them.”
“You mean the women have regular customers and you don’t have their names? This is a club, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s mostly on a first-name basis, and there’s no telling they use their real names or just nicknames or something.”
“How about people who pay by credit card?”
“Yeah, we have those. But that’s private information, right?”
Steve glanced at one of the business cards he got from a dispenser at the front desk. The card read, VISIT OUR WEB SITE. “How about people who subscribe to your newsletters?”
“Well, we have the Swingers Hotline, but that’s private information, too.”
“I respect that, but we can subpoena that and your credit card customers, so we’re asking you to save us all some time, okay, Mickey? Just a list of names, and it won’t go anywhere else.”