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“Not that I know of,” Janger said, and he looked to Dion.

  She thought for a moment. “She didn’t say much about her private life.”

  “So, she never mentioned going out with anyone—a dinner or movie date or whatever?”

  “Not to me. But maybe to some of the other staff. Maybe Michelle San Marco. She’s one of the other aerobic instructors. She and Terry were pretty close, except she’s not in today. But I can give you her number.” And she jotted it down on one of her cards and gave it to him.

  “I’d also like a list of her clients over the last three years.”

  “Sure,” Alice said, and turned to her computer and hit a few keys. In a few minutes her printer kicked into action. When it was finished, she handed him a printout of a few dozen names, most of them women’s.

  “If you’ll bear with me I’d like to do some cross-checking.”

  “Sure,” Dion said. “Can I get you something in the meantime? Coffee, water, soft drink?”

  “Water would be just fine, thanks.” Dion left, and Steve went down the list looking for matches to names from Terry Farina’s Rolodex—neighbors and friends the investigation had compiled. There were more than a hundred on the list, which he’d have to check for overlaps. But at a glance none jumped out but Neil French.

  When Dion returned, Steve mentioned that his partner had hired Farina.

  They both remembered him. “Big good-looking guy,” Janger said.

  “Yes. She was his trainer for a while.”

  “He must be pretty upset by this,” Dion said.

  “He is.”

  They talked some more, and when it was clear that they had nothing else to give him, Steve got up to leave. They walked him to the front door, where Steve handed them each his card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help.”

  “Of course,” Janger said.

  Alice Dion nodded as she studied Steve’s card.

  As he was about to leave, she looked up and Steve felt something pass between them. The next moment she headed back to her office.

  10

  DERRY, NEW HAMPSHIRE

  FALL 1970

  “Mom, my head hurts.”

  In the dim gray light of dawn he had padded from his room into the master bedroom where Lila slept alone in the big fancy canopy bed. His father had left while it was still dark that morning to drive to Boston’s Logan Airport in order to pilot the 747 he was assigned for the next several days. They had been out the night before, and Lila’s clothes were still draped across a chair, her black lace-top nylons hanging on the arm.

  Still furry with sleep, Lila opened her eyes. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” She sat up and put her arms around him.

  “I couldn’t even sleep,” he whimpered.

  It was a month after the accident and the headaches were getting worse. She gave him a kiss on his forehead. “My poor little Beauty Boy.”

  “It hurts so much.” His voice broke and he struggled not to cry as he rested his head against her.

  “I know. I know. I’m so sorry.” She patted the side of the bed for him to sit down. “Want me to get the peas?”

  A bag of frozen peas across his forehead worked when the headaches were mild, but not when they got this bad. “No.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you your medicine, and that should do the trick.”

  She got up and went to the bathroom and returned with a pill and a glass of water. She sat beside him, dressed in a shiny pink baby-doll nightie with a short bottom—a gift from his father last Valentine’s Day. And while he drank it down, she rubbed his leg. “Good boy. That will make you feel better.”

  She got back into the bed and held up the covers for him to crawl in beside her. When he did, she pulled the covers over them both and snuggled up against him, his face against her chest. He could detect the sweet flowery scent of her perfume in her hair and on her breast. With one hand she gently massaged his temple. “Does that feel better?”

  “Mmmm.”

  She kissed him again. “Good,” and continued massaging him.

  “But I wish you didn’t have that stupid accident.”

  “Me, too, that stupid truck driver.”

  “Yeah.”

  She kissed him again. “You try to sleep, okay?”

  “But what about school?”

  It was the third week into fourth grade at Bishop Elementary. The cuts and bruises had all but healed. Except for a starburst scar on his forehead where he had hit the windshield, no one would have known that he had experienced a terrible car accident, sending him into a three-day coma.

  “Well, I think we’re going to skip school today.”

  “Okay.”

  “Besides, all those kids and the noise is kind of scary when you’re not feeling well, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” And he snuggled into the warm satiny pillow of her chest. Even though he liked school and had friends, including Becky Tolland who lived a few streets away, he welcomed a day with Lila.

  “And you know what we can do when you’re feeling better? We can work on your model airplane and maybe do some drawing. Would you like that?”

  The model 747 from his father he had completed in an hour and now it sat on a shelf. Since then Lila had bought him several more kits, including a fighter jet. He took to them with a passion, working for hours methodically fitting together the intricate pieces and affixing all the colorful decals. On occasion she would sit on the floor with him like another kid and put together a model as they did puzzles that she had bought. She had also bought him a sketchbook and different colored pencils. They would often sit and draw together.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know what?” she said. “You’re my best friend in the whole world.”

  “Me, too.”

  She kissed him on the top of the head and pulled him closer. He could feel her crucifix against his cheek. He pulled it out. “You always wear this.”

  “I sure do, and I will ’til the day I die.”

  “But Dad doesn’t wear one.”

  “I know, but he should.”

  Jesus was one of the many things they fought about. Raised a Roman Catholic, she went to church almost every Sunday, but his father never accompanied her, except on Christmas and Easter. He boasted that he was a born-again agnostic.

  “And I wear it for good reason, because Jesus protects me.”

  “What does he protect you from?”

  “Danger, evil, mistakes I may make. Maybe I’ll get you one so Jesus can protect you, too. Would you like that?”

  “Yes, but can he make my headaches go away?”

  “You bet he can. In fact, let’s say a little prayer right now.”

  “Okay.”

  She closed her eyes and made him do the same thing as she asked Jesus to make his headaches go away. They were quiet for a while, then she whispered, “Feel any better?”

  “No, it still hurts.”

  “Oh, poor baby. But I tell you what. Let’s play a little game, okay?”

  “What game?”

  “It’s called ‘How Big Is My Headache?’”

  He had never heard of the game, but he nodded.

  “Okay, but you have to use your imagination, You have to tell me if it’s bigger or smaller. Okay? Is it as big as a house?”

  “Smaller.”

  “Is it as big as a car?”

  “Smaller.”

  He liked this game. He liked the attention she gave him. (More than he ever got from his father, who wasn’t silly or fun like Lila. Plus he never had the time.) He liked being close to her and absorbing her sweet scent and warm softness. “Smaller.”

  “Good. Okay, is it as big as…Mommy?”

  His dad didn’t like him to call her that, once reminding him that his real mother was dead and that Lila was his stepmother and that he should address her as Lila. But he didn’t remember his real mother and liked calling Lila Mom. She defended him, and Kirk never brought it up again. “Smaller.”

  She gav
e him a kiss on his head again. “Well, that’s good. Is it as big as a football?”

  He thought about that for a while. “Yes.”

  “Great. Now, close your eyes and imagine that you have that football in your hands, okay? But it isn’t made of leather but Silly Putty. Okay? Now take that Silly Putty ball in your hands and press in the pointy ends and make it nice and round.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Now squeeze it and squeeze it and squeeze it until it gets smaller and smaller and roll it in your hands until it’s just a fat pink cherry, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now pop the cherry in your mouth and with your tongue roll it around, making it smaller and smaller until it’s just a tiny little pink berry. Then in one big gulp, swallow it.”

  He did what she said, and almost by magic his headache disappeared. “It’s gone!” he squealed, looking up at her with wide incredulous eyes.

  “See? Dr. Lila to the rescue.” And she gave him a kiss on his mouth. “Now you close your eyes again and get some sleep.” She put her hand behind his head.

  He closed his eyes and happily burrowed himself into her softness, savoring the absence of that nasty throbbing, and stretching his body along hers. After a moment he felt her hand gently pet the back of his head and neck as she closed one leg over his, drawing him into the deep warm refuge of her. In the last few moments before he sank into sleep, he remembered thinking that there was no other place in the world that he would rather be.

  It must have been nearly two hours later when in the brighter light of the bedroom he woke only to discover that Lila had herself fallen asleep while still cuddling him, and that her top was pulled down, her crucifix was gone, and her naked breast was against his open mouth.

  11

  “How could anyone want to kill her?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “I’m not sure how well you knew my sister, Lieutenant, but she was a wonderful person.”

  “I only knew her in passing,” Steve said, “but that was my impression.”

  “I can’t think of anyone who would do that to her.” Cynthia Farina-Morgan looked at her brother Richard.

  “Neither can I,” he said. “But I’m afraid we really didn’t communicate much. And I didn’t know her friends.”

  Terry Farina’s only immediate family, they had flown in earlier that Monday, Cynthia from Buffalo, Richard from Chicago. Before arriving at headquarters, they had made the funeral arrangements for their sister.

  It was late that afternoon, and they met in a small conference room overlooking Tremont Street. Neil had taken his daughter for her weekly psychiatrist’s appointment, so only Steve interviewed them. Cynthia was the woman with Terry in the photograph from her bedroom. He could see a resemblance. But although Cynthia was two years her junior, Terry looked younger.

  The brother, Richard Farina, a mutual funds investor, was balding, portly, and dressed in a white button-down shirt, a tie, and a blue blazer and chinos. Earlier in the day he had been brought to the M.E.’s office where he had positively identified his sister.

  Only a few minutes into the meeting and Steve had sensed a low-grade contention between them. “Did you know anyone she was dating or had dated?”

  “No. She broke up with a guy last year. A Phillip Waldman,” Cynthia said.

  “Do you have any reason to think this Phillip Waldman might have wanted to harm her?”

  “No. He was out of her life and on his own. I didn’t know her friends either. But she never mentioned anyone giving her trouble.”

  “And when was the last time you spoke to Terry?”

  “Maybe two weeks ago.”

  “Did she mention any personal problems she might have had?”

  “No. In fact, she was enjoying life and taking new directions.”

  Steve turned to Richard. “When was the last time you spoke to your sister?”

  “Maybe two months ago. She called to thank me for her birthday card.”

  “Was there anything she said that might suggest she had made enemies, anyone giving her any problems, or someone she might have crossed?”

  “No. But frankly she never confided in me about her personal affairs. Just chitchat.” Then he added, “She had a whole other life she never talked about.”

  Cynthia glared at him. “Richard!”

  “‘Richard’ what?” he snapped back. Then he looked at Steve. “I’m sorry, but Terry was in a world of people with questionable credentials.”

  “How’s that?” Steve asked.

  “Richard, she’s your sister.”

  “Yeah, and my sister was a stripper.”

  “A stripper?”

  “Yes. Health training was her day job.”

  Steve looked at Cynthia. “Is that right?”

  Cynthia’s face flickered with fury. “Yes, but so what? And it was exotic dancing.”

  “Call it what you want,” Richard said. “She was in the sex business, and who knows the kinds of people she interacted with?”

  “This is the first time we’ve heard about this,” Steve said. “Do you know where she performed?”

  “I know nothing about it,” Richard said.

  “I don’t know where she was dancing,” Cynthia said, her voice still scathing. “But it was a side thing she did for the money so she could go to grad school in the fall. She wanted—”

  Richard cut her off. “Lieutenant, the important thing is that your investigation be confidential regarding the details of how she was found. Please. This could be a great embarrassment to our family.”

  “I understand, but it adds another dimension to the investigation which the media will probably get wind of.”

  Richard Farina nodded, his face grim.

  Cynthia began to tear up again. “It’s so unfair. She had so much going for her.”

  “How long did you know she was an exotic dancer?” Steve asked Cynthia.

  “For a while. And frankly, Detective, I didn’t care. And I still don’t.”

  “Well, I didn’t know until this morning,” Richard said. “And, yes, I’m shocked and upset. I’m just grateful Mom and Dad never knew.”

  “Richard, she was dancing two nights a week. It was a part-time job. The rest of the week she was a full-time fitness trainer.”

  “Yeah, but once it gets out—and it will—all the headlines will blare ‘Stripper Found Dead,’ ‘Stripper Murdered,’ ‘Stripper’ this and ‘Stripper’ that. That will be her public persona: Terry Farina, stripper.”

  Cynthia flared up at him. “She was your sister, too, and you speak of her like trash.”

  “I guess I’m not so liberated. But when I think of strippers I think prostitution, pornography, drugs, and frankly, low-life,” Richard said. “I have children who will know tomorrow that their murdered aunt stripped at some bar. It’s a disgrace to our family.”

  “You’re the disgrace, disparaging her when she’s dead.”

  “I’m not sure it’s useful squabbling over this,” Steve said.

  “Lieutenant, I knew my sister,” Cynthia said. “She graduated magna cum laude from NYU and she was beginning to make a more meaningful life for herself.” She shot her brother a look of rebuke.

  “When was the last time you saw your sister?” Steve asked Richard.

  “At my father’s funeral. A year and a half ago. We weren’t close.”

  Cynthia glared at him. “Maybe if you ever pulled your head out of your damn investment portfolio you might have gotten to know your sister.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. Where were you when she was breaking up with Phillip and needed support?”

  “She didn’t confide in me.”

  “Gee, I wonder why.”

  Steve was growing weary of their snarling. He pulled a photocopy he had made of Terry’s kitchen calendar and asked her about some of the names they could decipher in the day boxes. Some had turned out to be movie dates with Katie
Beals, a hairdresser’s appointment, a doctor’s checkup, the GRE exams.

  “It says here that last month she’d gone to the Pine Lake Lodge in Muskoka, Ontario. She was there for a week. Did she tell you about that?”

  “Ontario? No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Farina shook his head.

  “Did she ever mention having friends in Ontario or visiting anyone in Canada?”

  They both shook their heads.

  Steve made a mental note to look into the Muskoka thing.

  The interview continued another few minutes. Before they left, Cynthia asked if they could go to Terry’s apartment to gather some of her things. “Not for another day or so. We’re still investigating it. But I’ll call you when you can.”

  They shook hands. “Again, I’m very sorry about this,” Steve said. The words sounded so flat when they hit the air.

  Cynthia wiped her eyes. “Please find the monster who did this, Lieutenant. Please…”

  “We will.”

  12

  We will.

  The assurance he gave to families all the time—a little dollop of hope that justice would have its day. And each time Steve passed on that promise, every fiber of his being was crackling with conviction, in spite of the fact that back at headquarters they had a room full of cold cases—their little “chamber of shame” as it was known.

  We will, Terry.

  Flowers were in full bloom and the sunlight made a dappled green canopy in front of the house where Terry Farina had been strangled two days ago. Around six thirty, Steve pulled into a spot across the street. He removed the keys from the ignition, slipped them into his jacket pocket, but sat for a few minutes taking in the scene.

  There was no traffic. The only movement was a strip of yellow police tape still fastened to a tree in front of the house, looking like a tribute to soldiers at war. A young mother pushing a baby stroller came down the opposite side of Payson Road. As she approached, she abruptly steered the stroller down a driveway and crossed to the other side to avoid passing in front of number 123.

  As he waited for the woman to pass out of sight, he was hit with an overwhelming sensation that he had done this before. Been here on this street, parked in this very spot—sitting and waiting. The layout of the buildings; the way the road unfolded beneath the canopy of trees. The shafts of sunlight through the branches. He had been here before. Before Sunday. Before the investigation. But he could not recall ever driving up Payson Road before or any prior cases that had brought him to the neighborhood. So why the uneasy sensation flittering across his arms and up his back like electric currents?