Face of Betrayal (3 page)

Nic had to backspace and retype the last words, changing them to
B KEWL.

PDXer:
ANYTHING U REALLY WANT TO C?

BubbleBeth:
MEAT MARKET
.

It was rated R, which meant technically she couldn’t get in. Well, BubbleBeth couldn’t. Sometimes Nic forgot to distance herself. She wasn’t thirteen, she wasn’t going to school, she didn’t fight with her mom.

PDXer:
GR8. R U WEARING ANY UNDIES RIGHT NOW?

Bingo.

CHANNEL FOUR

December 15

W
ith varying degrees of dread, TV crime reporter Cassidy Shaw and five other people seated in swivel chairs in Channel Four’s dressing room watched Jessica Lear. Jessica was a high-definition makeup consultant the station had flown up from LA to teach them how to prepare for the high definition-era.

HD was five times sharper than regular TV. That meant every line, spot, and lopsided lip would be in sharp focus. You could even see nose hairs, which made Cassidy shudder just thinking about it.

HD also allowed TV sets to show more colors. For years, government standards had limited the range of colors available to broadcasters. But HD allowed the use of some formerly forbidden shades of red. That meant that every blotch, pimple, and tiny broken vein showed up on-screen with the brutal clarity of a surgery textbook.

When she first started out on TV, Cassidy had been taught that she needed to define her face with eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, lip liner, blush, etc. It was almost like paint-by-number. Because studio lights made everyone look pale and washed out, the end result still looked natural on-screen. But that era had come to an end. It had started with the national programs, but as more and more viewers made the switch to HD, it had begun filtering down to all the regional markets—including Portland.

Now all of the on-camera talent had gathered in the dressing room for a makeup application lesson. After the consultant left, they would be on their own. The guys were used to a quick swipe of pancake to hide five o’clock shadow. The men who worked in the field weren’t even asked to do that. But now everyone—anchors, reporters, even the weather and sports guys—needed to learn how to look good on the new HD sets.

Jessica, who could have been any age from thirty to fifty, said, “Traditional makeup looks too theatrical in HD. It looks cakey and fake. But wearing no makeup at all would look”—she paused while she found a diplomatic term—“
distracting
.”

Old,
Cassidy translated.
Old and ugly.
And Cassidy was determined never to be old and ugly.

Her parents had raised her to believe that being beautiful was a woman’s top priority. Good grades had meant little to them, but let Cassidy gain five pounds or go without makeup, and she heard about it. Her bone-deep determination to stay beautiful was what kept her a size 2—well, maybe a 4, if she was being honest, but she was a size 2 on her good days.

The drive not to be old and ugly got her butt into a spinning class six days a week. It made her go to the dermatologist for another round of Botox and laser treatments. It led to regular trips to the nail salon, hair salon, and spray-on tan place. It maxed out her credit card. But it was better than the alternative.

“This is an arms race,” Jessica said. “We’d all like to go back to the old days. But we need new weapons. We can’t slap on powder when every grain looks like a boulder.”

“What about plastic surgery?” asked anchor Brad Buffet (Boo-fay, as he insisted on pronouncing it). He turned sideways to regard his sagging jowls.

Jessica shook her head. “That’s iffy too. In HD, when you’ve had work done, you can actually see the seams. You could end up looking like Frankenstein.”

“So basically, this is like being naked,” Anne Forster, another reporter, complained.

“It’s only like being naked if you don’t learn how to cover everything up,” Jessica said, and then named a big star in movie comedies. “On regular TV, she still looks great, as sexy as ever. But in HD, she’s nothing but a mass of wrinkles and unfortunate pockmarks.”

Cassidy leaned closer to the mirror. In HD, the faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes would probably look like folds of origami and her pores like giant shell-blasted craters.

“So,” Jessica said, holding up a metal gizmo about six inches long with an open bowl on the top to hold liquid, “we airbrush.” The applicator looked like something a house painter might use to paint the home of an elf. “Can I have a volunteer?”

Cassidy was the first to wave a hand in the air. After pinning back her hair, Jessica told her to close her eyes and hold her breath. The air compressor fired up, making a weird bubbling sound as it aerated the liquid.

Two minutes later Cassidy was so close to the mirror she could kiss it, the way she used to do when she was twelve and desperately wanted a boyfriend. Her skin looked perfect, a flawless sunny beige. No wrinkles, no bumps, no broken veins, no blemishes. It was all still there, of course, but it was now covered with a very thin layer of paint.

If Richard Nixon had had this,
Cassidy thought,
Kennedy would never have been elected.

MYSPACE.COM/THEDCPAGE

Stupid Stepmom Tricks

September 6

T
his morning, V took me to the place where I’ll be living for the next five months: the Daniel Webster Senate Page Residence.

There’s one floor for girls & one for guys. On each floor there’s a community day room, which sounds like something in a mental hospital. Down in the basement is where we’ll go to school, plus do laundry & eat.

I’m sharing one tiny room with three other girls: one from North Carolina, one from Texas & one from Idaho. They are all nice. And pretty. And talented. (Just in case they ever read this.) We get to share two sets of bunk beds, two totally crammed closets, one bathroom with two sinks & one phone. Thank goodness V & Daddy let me bring my cell phone & bought me this laptop. They think I’m just going to use it for homework. They’re kind of clueless, so they’ll never figure out about this blog. (Once V even called the Internet the “world wide interweb.”)

I couldn’t wait for V to leave. None of the other girls still had their parents with them. When she finally left, she asked the Capitol policeman how close an eye they keep on the pages or, as she put it, “these kids.”

The cop told her that she didn’t need to worry about her “sister” being safe. There’s a security alarm system & pass cards & a twenty-four hour post here. And everyone has to go through metal detectors to get into Webster Hall or the Capitol.

(V didn’t correct him about the sister thing, which was typical, but annoying. She’s only fifteen years older than me. She likes it when people think we’re sisters, but really, we don’t look anything alike. I look like my real mom. I’m blonde & five foot two, she’s brunette & five foot eight.)

As soon as I got back into our room, the girl from Texas started talking about how this place used to be a funeral home & how down in the basement is where they embalmed the bodies & about how they still keep some of the old equipment in a locked closet. It gave me the creeps.

And I tried not to, but it made me think of my mother. I mean, they must have done that stuff to her after she was dead. Flushed out her blood, pumped her full of chemicals.

The thing is, our room does have a weird smell.

JAKE’S GRILL

December 15

N
ormally she would have walked the five blocks to Jake’s Grill, but tonight Allison decided to drive. As she pulled into a parking lot behind a Subaru with a “Keep Portland Weird” bumper sticker, she told herself it was because she was too tired. But part of it was that she also felt vulnerable, even if the streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers. As she hurried inside the restaurant, she urged herself not to be so paranoid. She had received death threats before.

But never one hand-delivered to her car.

Under a high, white plaster ceiling, the large room was all dark wood and white tablecloths; unchanged for decades, the kind of place where you could still smoke at the bar. Jake’s was just loud enough that you wouldn’t be overheard, but not so loud you had to shout. Allison had chosen it because she thought it was the perfect place to talk shop.

Trying not to breathe in the odor of beer and stale cigarettes, she made her way past the bar and to the back of the dining room. Since she had found out she was pregnant, her sense of smell had gone into overdrive. In court this morning she had been aware of the witnesses’ shampoo and cologne, even the court reporter’s mouthwash. She’d had to throw away her lemon poppyseed muffin uneaten because it smelled too
lemony.

Cassidy and Nicole were already at a booth in the back, but they hadn’t yet noticed her. Cassidy was clearly telling a story, all gestures and animation. No doubt describing some amusing scrape she had recently gotten herself into. She had shrugged off the cardigan of her violet cashmere sweater set, revealing—perhaps not inadvertently—her toned and tanned upper arms. Her short blonde bob was perfect in the front and tousled in the back, which meant she had been ruminating. Whenever Cassidy was stymied, she twisted strands of hair at the back of her head—a spot the camera never saw.

As she listened to Cassidy, Nicole rested her glass of wine against her cheek, half hiding her mouth. Fifteen years earlier, when the three of them had attended Catlin Gabel, Nicole had stood out by virtue of being one of a handful of African-Americans at the private school. Given her prominent overbite, some of the crueler kids had dubbed her Mrs. Ed. When she spoke, she had cupped one hand in front of her mouth, muffling her speech.

Somewhere in the years since high school, Nicole had had her teeth straightened. With her dark, smooth skin and slightly slanted eyes, she had always been pretty. Now she was beautiful. Still, old habits died hard.

Nicole caught sight of Allison and waved. “Hey, girl!”

Still thirty feet away, Allison lip-read the words as much as heard them. As she unbuttoned her coat, she announced, “The Triple Threat Club is now in session.”

The three women hadn’t been close in high school. After graduation, they didn’t see each other again until their tenth reunion, where their common interest in crime—Cassidy’s in covering it, Nicole’s in fighting it, and Allison’s in prosecuting it—had drawn them together. A month later, Allison had suggested they meet for dinner. A friendship had begun over a shared dessert called Triple Threat Chocolate Cake, which featured devil’s food cake filled with rich chocolate mousse and topped with shaved chocolate.

As Allison pulled out a chair, Cassidy said, “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. And you were the one who picked this place.”

“Sorry. I was in a meeting that ran long.”

“We saved you some onion rings.” Cassidy pushed a plate toward Allison. Her lips were shiny with grease.

Suddenly feeling a little queasy, Allison shook her head. “That’s okay.”

“We’ve already ordered,” Nicole said, “but I kept a menu if you need one.”

“I already know what I want.”

The menu never changed. Jake’s served comfort food, all of it tasting of her childhood, back when her dad was still alive and her mom still cooked and Lindsay could still be counted on to come home at night. Pot roast, sirloin steak, prime rib, meat loaf with potatoes and gravy.

When the waiter came, Allison ordered the pork chop.

“You’ve got to try some of this Cab. It’s just”—Nicole let out a long sigh—“relaxing.” She filled Allison’s glass. “Let me tell you about this case someone else in cyber crimes is handling. He’s working with Jack in your office on it, Allison. What happens is: Husband and wife get a divorce. He moves out of state. Then he goes online and puts an ad on an adult sex site. And in the ad, he claims to be the ex-wife. He says, ‘This is my name, this is my phone number, this is my address, this is where I work, this is the kind of car I drive and the license number, and here’s my picture.’ But all the info he gives is hers. And then he says, ‘Oh, and my fantasy is to be stalked and raped.’”

Allison shook her head. How could someone who had promised to love and honor another human replace that with a rage so intense it caught things on fire?

Nicole continued, “So another guy answers the post. Of course, he thinks he’s talking to the ex-wife. And the ex-husband pretends to be her and says, ‘Yeah, this is my biggest fantasy, ha-ha. If you do it, I’ll pretend to resist because it just enhances the excitement.’”

Cassidy squirmed in her seat like a little kid. “Then what happened?”

“So this guy breaks in while the ex-wife is asleep one night. And he’s got a dozen roses and a box of See’s candy and a gag and a pair of handcuffs. And the whole time she’s fighting him off, he’s getting more excited, because it’s just like she said it would be. He gets one handcuff on her, but before he can cuff her to the bed, she beans him with the bedside lamp. When he wakes up, he’s under arrest and he’s the one wearing the cuffs.” Nicole looked at Allison. “The dilemma for your office is, what do we charge him with? Attempted rape? Or what?”

“I want in on this one,” Cassidy said.

Nicole wagged a finger at her. “I don’t want you to give anyone ideas. All I need is a bunch of bitter ex-husbands setting it up so that some stranger kills their ex.”

Cassidy looked self-righteous. “The public has a right to know.”

Nicole snorted. “Don’t give me that. It’s just pure titillation. There’s nothing a potential victim could do to stop this. All you’re doing is giving bad guys ideas.”

Taking on the familiar role of peacemaker, Allison changed the subject. “I saw you on TV last night, Cassidy.” She picked up her wine glass, remembered the baby, put it down. “On that segment about the missing girl.”

“Blink, and you would have missed it.” Cassidy set down her own glass, already empty.

“I must have missed it.” Nicole tipped some more wine into her own glass and then Cassidy’s. “So—a little kid? I didn’t hear anything about that.”