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 murder.” She gave emphasis to the word.
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 Fair Lady. She joked about her being his own Eliza Doolittle.
“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 that way the next day for Martinique.
The boat moved south toward Cape Cod at a high speed. It was a very powerful boat that made for an exhilarating ride.
In about an hour they passed Plymouth Harbor where the Mayflower had landed. But instead of heading northeast toward the lower Cape, Pierre put the boat on a course toward the canal. He cut the speed and they passed under the Sagamore Bridge, then the Bourne Bridge, and out to open water, passing Falmouth and Woods Hole on the right. Aaron kept up a running commentary about some of the places they were passing.
At a couple of points on the trip Dana asked where they were going. Each time Aaron acted mysterious, saying “You’ll see.”
They passed a series of islands in the Elizabeth chain. Aaron pointed out Naushon and several smaller ones all owned by the Forbes family. Then they passed Pasque Island, which was covered mostly by poison ivy, and Penikese where a reform school was located. Then Cuttyhunk, which was open to the public. To the east lay Martha’s Vineyard, its lights twinkling like fireflies against the clouds. They continued westward toward a low-lying hump that emerged from the surface like the back of some prodigious sea creature.
“Homer’s Island,” he said. “Known as the exclamation point at the end of the Elizabeth chain.”
“What’s there?”
“Vita Nova. A place I’ve leased.”
As they grew closer, Dana made out lights of the harbor and buildings along the ridge beyond. They continued along the northern flank where large gracious estates hugged the bluffs.
After several minutes, they pulled into Buck’s Cove above which Aaron pointed to Vita Nova, a large dark mansion that sat high on a bluff overlooking the U-shaped cove and the large dock where they tied up. At the end of the dock was a wooden staircase that led up to the house. Except for a small dinghy, no other boats were in dock and none moored in the cove.
“Where are your friends?”
“They’re already here.”
“Oh, island residents.”
“Some are, and others will arrive by ferry on the other side. Cars aren’t allowed on the island, so everybody gets around by golf-cart taxis. It’s quite charming.”
“But I thought you’d said there’s only one ferry a day that comes in the morning.”
“They’re coming by private ferry.”