Lila slapped his chest with the flat of her hand. "Shut up! Shut up!"

"See, her mother and father didn't have much of a marriage-"

"Shut up."

But he continued. "She was her daddy's little princess. A way to get back at dear old Mom, who spent more time in church than she did in bed. Then Lila disappeared for a few months. So did her kid. Let's see, did that make him your son or your brother?"

Lila flew at him and grabbed his shirt like a cat. But he clamped his hands on her wrists and bent them painfully until she cried out.

"Leave her alone." And he picked up a heavy glass ashtray fashioned after a clamshell, and came down with it to the side of Kirk's head. But at the last moment Kirk deflected the blow, sending the ashtray flying.

Lila swung at him, screaming, but Kirk pushed her off him.

She bolted from the patio. "Nice wholesome family!" he shouted after her.

"I hate you, Dad. I wish you were dead." He ran after Lila.

He found her in the parking lot at the front of the inn. She had found their car and he got in and they drove home, where she got her things and some money and made him pack.

Then they drove off to a motel where Lila said they would sleep in separate beds. That was fine with him because as he lay in the darkness of their rented room, he knew that evening was a turning point. He didn't know what the outcome would be, but he knew that they had passed a point of no return: that she could live without his father.

53.

The Pendergast arrest and suicide was the kind of story the media loved.

For the next two days the local papers and news shows were all over it like seagulls to garbage: popular college prof suspected in the strangulation murder of stripper student sent to jail where either out of guilt or disgrace he's found hanged, some commentators noting the symmetry of justice.

As expected, Pendergast's family members and friends protested that the police had targeted him for past mistakes and had arrested him on "exaggerated evidence." They presented him as a popular teacher whom students had invited to their homes, to graduation parties and weddings; a first-rate educator who had done good things in the eyes of the student body and the community, teaching writing workshops in local high schools and visiting book groups in senior centers. A sister threatened a lawsuit against the Boston P.D. for wrongful arrest and criminal neglect in his death, arguing that he should have been given psychological counseling and put on suicide watch.

Of course, the D.A.'s office expressed regrets and offered condolences to the family. However, when asked by a reporter if the case was closed, the D.A. said that at this point in time Mr. Pendergast remained their most likely suspect.

Steve muted the television in the middle of another rant about a travesty of justice by Pendergast's lawyer-most of which Steve agreed with. He was in the Queen Anne chair sipping a beer. His eyes had come to rest on the fireplace photo of him and Dana in Jamaica. The jangle of the phone brought him back.

"What are you doing?" Dana asked.

"Sitting here thinking about you."

"Are you drinking?"

He couldn't lie. "I'm having a beer."

"Beer?"

"I'm ramping down. And before you ask, stopping at two, which I read is good for you."

"That's red wine."

"Oh, boy! Then after I finish this I'll have two Merlots."

He heard her chuckle. "You don't need the beer."

"It helps me think about you."

"Now you're trying to put a guilt trip on me."

"And apparently it's not working."

"The papers are saying that Pendergast's suicide was tantamount to a confession."

"That's what they're saying."

"Do you believe that?"

"I'd like to-"

Oh, do I ever!

"-since that would close the case."

And get the spike out of my back.

"But they're saying that he might have taken his life because he was mortified by the charges and the exposure of his past offenses. Wasn't he coming off a year's suspension?"

"Yes."

"Which means he was probably already anxious about returning to the classroom in the fall."

"I'm sure. Conviction or not, his future wasn't bright."

"Didn't you say he was on medication?"

"For depression and anxiety."

"Then he was a high-risk candidate for suicide. So why wasn't he put on suicide watch?"

"I guess the psychiatrist didn't think he was a danger to himself." And then he thought, Because nobody alerted the correctional authorities.

"Maybe this closes the case for you."

Steve uttered a noncommittal "Yeah." There was nothing more that he wanted. If Pendergast had done it, that would be exoneration for both him and Neil. But that had yet to be determined. The case was still open as Pendergast's connection to Farina continued to be investigated.

"But I have a funny feeling that you didn't call because of the Pendergast case."

There was a pause. "I've decided to get a nose job. The doctor hasn't scheduled it yet, but he's trying to before he goes on vacation."

"And you called to ask if I thought it was a good idea?"

"No, I called to tell you. In a few weeks I'm going to look different. He's got software that creates afterimages. He showed me what I'd look like, and I think it's a nice improvement."

He was quiet for a few moments.

"Does this bother you?"

"Yes."

"But it's something I've always wanted."

"And it sounds like a prelude to divorce."

"I've got to go," she said out of the blue.

"You mean you have a date."

"I'll talk to you next week." And she hung up.

He stared at the phone for a protracted moment, thinking, My marriage is over.

54.

Steve was right: Dana did have a date.

Aaron Monks showed up exactly at six thirty in a long black BMW sedan. She met him at the door in a new beige pantsuit and a white blouse. He was dressed in a gray blazer with a blue shirt, blue and pink tie, and black pants.

It was her first non-Steve date in seventeen years, and she felt nervous. It didn't help that in anticipation she had read articles about him online. But his easy, understated manner and boyish shyness put her at ease.

They took Storrow Drive into Boston and turned off at the Fenway exit, down Boylston and up Dartmouth to 1 Huntington Avenue between the Boston Public Library and Copley Place to Sorellina. A valet took the car.

Sorellina, which specialized in Italian-Mediterranean cuisine, was an elegantly designed open space in ebony and ivory, with white leather chairs and matching walls. Creating a warm modern feel was the glow of a large back-wall mural of a manicured garden spiked with cypress trees, creating a Gothic dreaminess. The high ceiling consisted of large black-and-white panels, complemented by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Copley Place. Behind a chic border screen was a chic bar with chic people sipping chic martinis out of large chic trumpets.

The hostess was a tall thin blonde in a green sheath. She looked like a tulip. With a broad smile, she greeted Dr. Monks by name and led them to a window table looking onto Huntington. The restaurant was clearly the in-spot for Boston glitterati, financial-corporate types, and Back Bay money. As she looked around the room she felt like a visitor from Arkansas. She could not remember the last time she and Steve had dined so elegantly.

Steve.

He lived just a few blocks from here. But it was not a place he could frequent on a cop's salary. The menu entrees ranged from thirty-four to fifty-six dollars.

When the waiter came, Dana ordered a California Chardonnay. Aaron had the same. When the wine arrived, Aaron clicked glasses with her. "I have good news. We can do you next Sunday." And he discreetly scratched his nose.

"Oh, that's wonderful. Thank you."

"My pleasure," he said, and smiled warmly. "I've put together a freelance team of nurses, surgical assistants, and an anesthesiologist. So we're all set."

"At which hospital?"

"At my suite. We've got a full operating room, which is why the lower fee."

"If it's not too gauche, may I ask what that will be?"

"This is not the right setting to talk business, but don't worry about it."

"Okay," and she sipped her wine, feeling a warm glow spread throughout her, uncertain if it was the wine, the anticipation, or the company. Or maybe all of that. When the waiter returned she ordered the special, monkfish piccata. Aaron ordered the veal Milanese and they split an appetizer of tuna tartar.

"Congratulations. I saw in the paper that you were named Teacher of the Year. You should be very proud. Teaching's one of the toughest professions, especially at the high school level."

"Thank you."

"That was also a nice photograph of you."

Except that the camera flash made her nose look even bigger than it was. "Speaking of newspapers-and you've heard this a thousand times-how is it that one of the top twenty-five most eligible bachelors in town is unmarried?"

"A thousand and one." He smiled. "Well, I was married once. But she died several years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

He made a nod of acknowledgment and took a sip of his wine.

"She must have been quite young."

"Yes, she was."

"And no children."

"Nope, no children. What about you?"

"No children."

"Would you like children?"

"Yes, I would." It was time to change the subject. They were quiet for a moment. Then she asked, "What made you choose cosmetic surgery?" As soon as the question hit the air, she could hear Steve: Are you kidding, girl? You saw his office. Look where he eats.

"Actually, I started out wanting to be a physical anthropologist, you know, studying old bones. Then I considered forensic anthropology. But those didn't hold my interest like cosmetic surgery." Then he added, "And, frankly, they didn't pay as well." He took a sip of wine.

So much for coy rationalizations.

"Not that money was the prime consideration. Reconstructing old bones didn't interest me as much as reconstructing living ones. I like how cosmetic surgery fuses science with aesthetics."

"A form of living art."