"Oh."

86.

Steve called Dana, but she wasn't home. Nor did she answer her cell phone. He left a message to call him as soon as possible.

He stared at the blowups of Corrine Novak in disbelief. The last shot before her death showed a red-haired younger woman with tighter skin, more fetching open eyes, a chiseled nose, bee-stung lips, a smooth, tapered jaw, and other differences he couldn't put his finger on. It may have been the lighting and angle differences, but she could have been Dana's sister.

It was a little past one and he was certain that Captain Ralph Modesky was not at his office at the Cobbsville P.D. But he called anyway. A desk sergeant named Eames answered. Steve identified himself and said it was urgent that he reach him. The sergeant said that he thought Captain Modesky was at a luncheon. "Then, Sergeant Eames, I'll need his cell phone in addition to his home number."

Steve heard hesitation. The sergeant probably shared the same small-town mind-set that they were not going to be pushed around by the big blue bullies from Beantown.

"I'm not sure Captain Modesky will appreciate a call at this time. It's a public event."

"So is the New Hampshire Union Leader, The Boston Globe, and every other news organ in New England should word get out that a desk sergeant held up the investigation of serial murders."

Eames read off the numbers.

On the second ring, Steve reached Modesky, who let him know he was at a muckety-mucks function. "I'll be quick. It's about the Novak case." He explained the differences in the woman's photographs. "Do you recall if she had ever had cosmetic surgery?"

"Is that important?"

"It might be."

"I can't imagine why. Yeah, I think her father said something about that."

"You're saying she had some face work done."

"That's what I said. So what's the problem?"

"It wasn't mentioned in the autopsy report."

"Because it wasn't relevant to the cause of death. Is that it?"

"Not quite. The autopsy chart that asks for scars, blemishes, et cetera. They're filled in with none."

There was a gaping silence. "Lieutenant, nose jobs are done inside, through the nostrils, so nothing was there to pick up, and she died by strangulation so nobody went looking up her nose."

"Uh-huh, but from the photos it looks like she had some work done on her eyes, plus her lips look plumped up in the later photo."

Modesky made an exasperated sigh in Steve's ear. "I don't know, Lieutenant Markarian. Maybe the plastic doc was very good. Maybe the M.E. missed the scar. Most likely he didn't and just dismissed it as irrelevant to the case and entered none, okay?"

"You're probably right."

"Look, Lieutenant Markarian, if you're saying we have the wrong photos, you're in gross error, you got that? I know we may appear to you like the Mayberry sheriff's office up here, but those are the same woman, Corrine Novak. Nobody messed up. Nobody mis-IDed her. Okay?"

"Yeah."

Modesky clicked off. I know they're the same woman. And another Dana look-alike.

87.

While Pierre and Cho finished the boat operations, Aaron led Dana up the stairs.

He chatted like a tour guide about the island and how because of the Gulf Stream some exotic tropical fish occasionally showed up. In fact, a couple of years ago there was an infestation of a rare Caribbean jellyfish right here in Buck's Cove. He also explained how for years he had been leasing the mansion as both a summer home and an offsite office, that the original owners gave him permission to convert some basement rooms to a surgical suite.

They entered from the front and into a voluminous and stately foyer with a large mahogany staircase leading to the second floor.

He took her for a quick tour of the first floor. On the right was a huge living room with a large marble fireplace and upholstered chairs and sofas arranged on Oriental rugs. The water-side windows overlooked a darkening infinity broken up by the distant lights of Martha's Vineyard.

The kitchen, a large open space, occupied a rear corner of the house so that dinners could be prepared with an ocean view. He went to the refrigerator for more champagne. Dana could still feel the drinks from the boat ride, but she agreed to a short glass.

While Aaron got the drinks, she peeked into the adjacent dining room, which had a large table with place settings for ten in elegant white china with gold trim. But as in the kitchen nothing appeared to be in preparation for a dinner party. No fresh flowers, no serving pans. In fact, a thin layer of dust had settled on the dishes. Perhaps the caterer hadn't arrived yet. Or maybe the food was going to be boated in with a serving staff.

"When is everybody arriving?" she asked, moving back into the kitchen.

Aaron checked his watch. "Soon." He handed her a glass of champagne.

She took a tiny sip.

"And before they do, I want you to see this first." He led her across the kitchen to a door that opened onto a flight of stairs going down. "This way."

She held on to the handrail as she descended because she was beginning to feel spacey.

Below Aaron flicked a switch, lighting up a full cellar that had been converted into a mini-clinic replete with a full operating room with large overhead lights, steel cabinets, scrub sinks, oxygen tanks, cases of medical equipment, IV stands, and closets with medical supplies. Two recovery rooms were down the hall as well as a small conference room and an office. Landscape photos punctuated the walls.

He led them into his office. "It's because of the clientele," he explained. "For the lack of a better expression, famous faces who prefer total discretion, which is what brings us here. The famously private."

"Where the paparazzi can't find them." She sat in a chair facing him at his desk.

"Exactly. Because of its location, they can spend their recovery here instead of going to some faraway resort. Plus the island has catering services, so it's more like a vacation."

On the wall above his head was an abstract sepia drawing that she had seen before. "That's the same picture that's hanging in your other office."

"Yes."

"Is it Japanese?"

"No, I did that."

"You did?" There was something haunting in the image-something vaguely familiar just below the level of consciousness. "A plastic surgeon and artist."

"I think every plastic surgeon should be something of an artist, don't you agree? That they should have an aesthetic vision of what they want to achieve?"

"Yes." Upstairs she heard some footsteps. "I think your other guests are arriving."

"It's probably Cho and Pierre." He glanced at his watch again. "We still have time."

Dana raised her glass to her mouth then put it down. She was feeling light-headed.

Aaron's eyes seemed large and intense all of a sudden. "Remember you once asked me if I thought there were universals of beauty-elements that cut across cultures?"

She nodded. "I think it was a silly question, actually."

"On the contrary. There are universal ideals of beauty. You see it in the animal kingdom, in courting rituals of birds all the way up to the great apes. Creatures are drawn to mates who possess traits indicative of strong survival abilities. You're a science teacher. It's pure Darwin."

"Uh-huh." She heard the words but was having difficulty following the train of thought.

"The same with people. In the name of survival and evolutionary progress I think we are genetically coded to be drawn to people with certain facial traits-large, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, clear skin, a short nose, short square chin. Look in any fashion magazine, and you'd see what I mean. And that's true for men and women. What we consider beauty is a genetic code for evolutionary advantage. Are you following me?"

"Mmmm. But doesn't culture shape that?"

"You mean do cultural values affect our perception of beauty? Of course, but there's a set of facial features which is universally appealing irrespective of the culture of the perceiver. I won't bore you, but my point is that beauty has basics-the golden ratio we talked about. Think of the great Hollywood beauties or supermodels. Each is a subtle variation of the phi archetype."

"Uh-huh." But her brain had turned to fuzz.

"Of course, there are subjective individual ideals-what psychologists call imagoes. Do, you know the term?"

"Imagoes. No."

"We all have them," he said. "They're the embedded ideal of one's parents."

A strange intensity had lit in his face.

"For some individuals, the imago parent is the prototype which determines the way he perceives himself and others. Some say it's an innate force second only to the longing for God-a yearning underlying all others."

She nodded, but was having a hard time concentrating on what he was saying.

"Perhaps because it's always been an unattainable goal."

"What is?"

"To become one with the imago, to lose oneself in it, to become totally absorbed by it." His hands moved to the keyboard again. "For the rare individual, it's the ultimate fulfillment. The ultimate destiny."

She tried to stand but flopped back down. "I don't feel well."

"It's just the blood rushing to your head."

No. I'm feeling faint, like I'm going to pass out.

"Here," he said. He tapped the keys then turned the screen for her to see.

For a moment as the image came into view she had no reaction as her mind told her she was peering into a mirror.

Then it occurred to her that staring out from the monitor was her own face. And she had long, fluffy, coppery hair.

He grinned at her. "See?"

88.

Steve called Dana's numbers again, and still no answer. He called Lanie Walker, who said she didn't know where Dana was. He called Jane Graham, two colleagues at her school, but they had no idea either. The same with her aerobics teacher, who had not seen her for at least a week.

His blood was racing. He made another call. On the third ring he heard Mickey DeLuca answer. It was about one o'clock and the afternoon dancers were on the stage warming up the beach crowd. "I've got a few questions for you."

"I'll do my best, Detective."

"I'm looking at photos of Terry Farina a.k.a. Xena Lee. She looks different in the older ones than your Web site shots."

"Yeah, and that's because couple of months ago she got a new rack."

"A new rack?"

"You know, inserts, breast enhancements."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Came back with friggin' musk melons. What a difference! I mean, like, the guys went wild."

"I'm sure. But the thing is her face looks different also. Her features..."

"Yeah, she got a paint job, bright red hair. 'Xena on Fire' is how we billed her."

"I'm talking about her face. Her eyes and mouth look different. Know anything about that?"

"No, not really."

"Did she ever mention getting any plastic work done on her face?"

"No. I mean, she was in her upper thirties, and girls sometimes do that, because customers like them young. But she never said anything about a face job."

"When she took those weeks off in May, did she say anything about having some work done, maybe getting away to recover?"