It was a long narrow office with bookcases on two walls and a rear window facing a tall building. Pendergast took refuge behind his desk, which floated a flat screen monitor containing a Word text. Leaning against the bookcase was a red Trek road bike with about ninety-seven gears on the rear wheel. Tacked to a corkboard over his desk was a photograph of him in bright riding gear, straddling his bike with mountain peaks in the distance. On the wall was a plaque for an Excellence in Teaching award.
Pendergast’s age was listed as fifty-one, but he had a tight, smooth, boyish face and thick brown hair that made him appear younger. It also helped that he was about six two and trim and wore jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. He had a silver hoop earring in his right ear and he wore wire-rimmed bifocals that made him look like a fashion model trying to appear scholarly. Steve had little difficulty imagining him charming the clothes off coeds. As they spoke, he worked at the image of him stocking-strangling Terry Farina.
“What’s this all about again?”
“I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news, but a woman named Terry Farina was found dead on June third, and her death has been ruled a homicide. We’re wondering if you knew her.”
Pendergast started to blink. “What’s the name again?”
“Terry Farina.”
Pendergast made a wincing frown as if trying to process the name. It was a lousy attempt that nurtured a joyful butterfly flutter in Steve’s chest.
“Terry Farina?” Pendergast said, hedging to see how much they knew.
“Yes. And I hope you don’t mind, but we’d like to tape-record this, which is standard procedure.” Recorders were useful for detecting inconsistencies since, in Steve’s experience, most people were terrible liars. They also allowed an investigator to look for facial tics and body language clues to possible deception. And Pendergast had several.
He looked at the tape recorder and his eyes fluttered as if the air were smoky. “I’ve been teaching for nearly twenty-five years and have had a lot of students.”
“Of course,” Steve said. Pendergast was playing coy, but his forehead began to glisten. “She was an exotic dancer who performed at the Mermaid Lounge in Revere.” Steve laid two nude Xena shots in front of him.
Pendergast’s eyes saucered. “She was murdered? How awful.”
Steve could not spot a newspaper on the guy’s desk, but if he was near a television in the last two days, he could not have missed the story.
“We’re just wondering if you knew her,” Neil said.
“If you’re asking if she was a student of mine, I have to say that I don’t remember her in any of my courses. I could check my grade sheets.” He started to get up to check a file cabinet.
It was a pathetic attempt, and Steve gave Neil a look that said, Hold back. “No, that’s okay. We checked with Admissions. She was never a student here.”
“You’re asking me if I knew her from her professional life.” He blinked luxuriously at the photos. “Well, I’ll be honest with you, it’s the stage name I knew her by, which is why I was thrown.”
“Sure, no problem. And we appreciate your candor. So you knew her professionally.”
“Yes. As a dancer.” Then he made a little chuff. “And, you know, I’m no different than any other red-blooded guy who likes beautiful women.”
“Of course,” Neil said, his head bobbing encouragement. “From the Mermaid Lounge, right?”
“Yes.”
“She was pretty popular up there,” Steve said, and shot Neil a look to take it.
“Yeah, we were up there the other day,” Neil said, working the regular-guy-bond routine. “It’s a pretty hot spot, got some real babes working the pole.”
Pendergast nodded. “It’s a nice classic club where you can order a wine and watch exotic dance artists.”
Exotic dance artists. He spoke of the Mermaid Lounge as if it were Cirque du Soleil. “How often would you say you patronize the Mermaid?”
“Not that often.”
“Once a week? Once a month?”
“Maybe two or three times a month. I’m not exactly a regular.”
“And when would you say was the last time you were there?”
“I don’t know exactly. A few weeks ago.”
Yes! Steve thought. “Well, we checked the club records. As you know there’s a lot of credit card fraud going around.” Steve laid the printouts on top of the photos. “Is this your signature?”
Pendergast had not expected that. “Yes, that’s my signature.”
“Uh-huh. Well, if you take a look the last entry for your Visa card shows that you were there on Thursday, May thirty-first, the last night she performed and two nights before she was killed.”
Alarm filled Pendergast’s eyes. “Well, I guess maybe I was.”
“Would you say that was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes. I left a few minutes after her show.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes.”
“No buddies with you or a female companion?”
“No.”
“Can you tell us how well you knew her?”
“Not well at all. Just casual chitchat at the club. She was very friendly and talked to everybody.”
“Of course. I hear she took questions from the stage, and she was pretty funny.”
“Yes, she was very entertaining.”
While they spoke, Pendergast’s computer monitor automatically switched onto an image of an old painting of a woodland setting with a woman with wild and flaming red hair on a white horse and a knight walking beside her, holding her hand. A ripple passed through the image, assimilating motion. Another passed through Steve’s chest. “Nice screen saver. What’s the image?”
“Oh, it’s called La Belle Dame sans Merci, by Walter Crane, a nineteenth-century British painter.”
“‘Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci; Hath thee in thrall!”’”
“Wow, you know Keats. I’m impressed.”
“I minored in English.” Steve glanced back down at the photo of Terry Farina, her hair aflame and one leg wrapped around the pole. In a flash, he saw Dana.
“Did you ever see her after-hours, you know, go out for a drink or dinner?” Neil asked.
“I think the dancers aren’t allowed to socialize with patrons.”
“Yeah, sure, but you know what I mean. You see a babe who’s available, and no club rules are going to get in the way, right?”
“Well, actually, I think they can get fired if word gets back. I had no romantic relationship with her.”
Neil persisted. “But did you ever have contact with her outside of the club?”
Pendergast shot Steve a look. He probably suspected that they had talked to the other dancers. In a fit of blinking he said, “Look, I want to be perfectly honest with you gentlemen. I’m not going to lie. We went out to dinner once.”
Steve looked at the computer monitor, wondering how fast they could move to get a court warrant for the cyber guys to check the hard drive. Jesus, this is looking good. “Have you ever been to her home?”
“Her home?” Pendergast’s voice hit a nail. “I’m not even sure where she lived.”
Steve studied his face but could detect no betraying micro-expressions. “Jamaica Plain.”
“Oh, yeah.” Pendergast dropped his face to his watch.
“It’s a standard question, but I’m wondering if you can tell us where you were last Saturday between five P.M. and midnight.”
“Saturday? I was home.”
“Any way to verify that?”
“Are you saying I’m a suspect?” His features were stricken with fear.