He then picked up the telephone by her bed and pressed *69 to get the last incoming call while Neil watched him over his shoulder from the bedside. “The number you are trying to call cannot be reached by this method.”
Neil continued to stare at him, knowing what Steve was doing.
Steve shook his head. “Whoever it was blocked caller ID.”
While the techs got ready to do a full processing, Steve headed out of the room. But before he left he glanced back. Neil was at the bedside looking at the body of Terry Farina. His back was to him, but Steve could swear that Neil made the sign of the cross.
3
“When was the last time you saw her?”
They were walking down the back stairs to the landlady’s apartment.
“I don’t know, four or five months ago. How about you?”
“Two or three weeks.” Steve had gotten to know Terry casually from the short class breaks. On occasion they’d meet downstairs at the Dunkin’ Donuts eating area in their classroom building, a few times have coffee together. She was in her late thirties and was taking refresher courses because she had decided to attend grad school in the fall. “So, you’ve never been here before?”
Neil looked over his shoulder at Steve. “No, I’ve never been here before. I would have told you that.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs. Neil pulled two aspirin from a tin and dry-swallowed them. “What I know is she broke up with a guy last year then moved down from someplace up north. I still don’t believe it, but if it turns out to be personal, he’s a lead.”
Steve tapped the door and Officer Abraham led them to the living room where another uniform sat with the landlady, Jean Sabo, and Terry’s friend, Katie Beals. Steve explained that they were uncertain of the cause of death and that the interview was voluntary but asked that the women remain confidential about the case. As was policy, they were questioned separately. Steve began with Mrs. Sabo, asking if she had heard anybody upstairs—voices, footsteps, loud sounds—that day over the last twenty-four hours.
“No, but I didn’t really pay much attention. Terry was very quiet. Also, I had the television on.” She said she had three sets—one in her bedroom, a small flat screen in the kitchen, and the living-room console. “Besides I was out most of yesterday.”
“About what time did you get home?”
“A little after seven.”
“And you put the TV on?”
“Yes, the kitchen and bedroom. They keep me company while I putter around.”
“And what time did you retire last night?”
“Just after Law and Order, ten o’clock.”
“And you remember hearing nothing.”
“No, I heard nothing.” Then she turned toward Neil. “I thought you said it was an accident.” Her hand went to her mouth. “Do you think someone did that to her?”
“We’re not exactly sure how she died.”
Steve interviewed her for a few more minutes then let Neil continue while he moved into the kitchen. Katie Beals, a petite, attractive woman of thirty-six, was still fragile from the discovery. Steve explained that although she had already given Sergeant French a statement he wanted her to take him from the top.
“We were going to Vermont for five days. I had to work on Saturday so we were going to leave this morning.”
She explained they were to stay at her parents’ place, which jibed with the pen notes on the kitchen calendar upstairs. VT in the Sunday box, Home in the Thursday box.
“I came to pick her up. I rang and rang then called her phone and cell. I could see the light on from outside, but when she didn’t answer I went down to Mrs. Sabo.”
“Which light?”
“The living room.”
Steve asked her to describe the condition of the apartment when they entered and to retrace their steps, and if they touched anything or the body. They hadn’t, except for the telephone in the dead woman’s kitchen to call 911.
“And you didn’t touch the body, maybe shake her, feel for a pulse, anything like that?”
“No, no. I could tell she was dead just looking at her. It was just so horrible. I think I just froze and screamed. Jean made the call from the phone in the other room. It’s such a blur, but we didn’t touch her or anything.”
“How long have you known Terry?”
“Since September. We took an evening class together at Northeastern last year.” She was struggling through her tears to talk. “She was a beautiful, happy person. I don’t understand.”
“You think she killed herself?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Who?”
“The other detective.”
“Uh-huh. Well, we’re not ruling out anything at this point. I know this is a terrible experience for you, but one possibility is that her death was an accident—that she may have died while engaged in autoerotic asphyxiation. Do you know what that is?”
She winced as if not wanting to hear the explanation. “Vaguely.”
“It’s a way to heighten sexual pleasure through partial strangulation. I’m sorry to have to ask—and I don’t know how close you were—but is this something you think she’d be into?”
“God, I don’t think so. I’ve only known her for a few months, but no…” She trailed off.
“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?”
“No, but she was a fairly private person. She said she’d broken up with a guy last year before moving here. I think she just wanted to remain unattached for a while.”
“Do you know the name of this guy?”
“No. But I think he moved out of state and got married.”
“So, you don’t know of anyone she might have dated.”
“No.”
“What about family?”
“Her parents passed away a few years ago, but she has a brother in Chicago I think and a sister in upstate New York. I never met them, and she didn’t talk about them much.”
He interviewed her for several more minutes, taking down names of friends and acquaintances. Then Beals opened her handbag and removed a photograph. “I was going to give this to her,” she said, her voice choking.
In the shot Farina was dressed in a tight pullover and jeans in front of a woman’s clothing store. She had struck a cheesecake pose, making a saucy expression at the camera, one hand holding a shopping bag, the other behind her head. Her hair was auburn, unlike the apartment shots of her.
“How recent is this?”
“Two weeks ago. We went shopping and had so much fun…I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“May I hold on to this?”
She nodded. “You can keep it. I have a duplicate.”
In the photo, her hair was pulled back to reveal her face. Looking at it, he remembered what it was that had caught his eye the first time they had met in the coffee line months ago. At first he couldn’t put his finger on it—the cast of her eyes, the mouth, the heart-shaped face—but something about her had struck him as familiar. Only after they began chatting did he realize that it was her vague resemblance to his wife, Dana.
Looking at the photograph reminded him of that resemblance. Then again, since their separation half the women on the street seemed to resemble Dana.
4
“I’ve had it with this nose. It sits on my face like a damn dorsal fin.”
Dana stepped out of the bathroom with her hand cropping the top of her nose. She turned her profile to Steve, who was struggling to slide an air conditioner into the window. “What do you think?”
It was nearly nine that same day when Steve arrived to install the AC in their bedroom window. He was exhausted because they had reworked the Farina apartment for five more hours then scoured the neighborhood with the local police. Nobody had seen or heard anything. Her only known relatives—a sister and a brother—had been notified of her death. Pending the M.E.’s autopsy report, the Farina case was being treated as suspicious.