“This is our last day,” she said in a whisper, “before the operation.”
Rudy stopped kissing and looked up, the shower stream hitting him squarely in the nostrils. Through the droplets he could see the woman of his dreams squeezing her perfect breasts in her perfect hands. With a playful laugh, she said, “Say so long to these little guys.”
God, Rudy thought, what am I doing? The irony was wicked.
All the rich geezers and chunky bimbos he had conned into plastic surgery, patients with no chance of transforming their looks or improving their lives-now he finds one with a body and face that are absolutely flawless, perfect, classic, and she’s begging for the knife.
A crime against nature, Rudy thought; and he, the instrument of that crime.
He stood up and made reckless love to Heather right there in the shower. She braced one foot on the bath faucet, the other on the soap dish, but Rudy was too lost in his own locomotions to appreciate the artistry of her balance.
The faster he went, the easier it was to concentrate. His mind emptied of Chemo and Roberta and Stranahan and Maggie. Before long Rudy Graveline was able to focus without distraction on his immediate crisis: the blond angel under the shower, and what she had planned for the next day.
Before long, an idea came to Rudy. It came to him with such brilliant ferocity that he mistook it for an orgasm.
Heather Chappell didn’t particularly care what it was, as long as it was over. The hot water had run out, and she was freezing the orbs of her perfect bottom against the clammy bathroom tiles.
25
Mick Stranahan asked Al Garcia to wait in the car while he went to see Kipper Garth. The law office was a chorus of beeping telephones as Stranahan made his way through the labyrinth of modular desks. The secretaries didn’t bother to try to stop him. They could tell he wasn’t a client.
Inside his personal sanctum, Kipper Garth sat in a familiar pose, waiting for an important call. He was tapping a Number 2 pencil and scowling at the speaker box. “I did exactly what you wanted,” he said to Stranahan. “See for yourself.”
The Nordstroms’ malpractice complaint was clipped in a thin brown file on the corner of Kipper Garth’s desk. He had been waiting all day for the moment to show his brother-in-law how well he had done. He handed Stranahan the file and said, “Go ahead, it’s all there.”
Stranahan remained standing while he read the lawsuit. “This is very impressive,” he said, halfway down the second page. “Maybe Katie’s right, maybe you do have some genuine talent.”
Kipper Garth accepted the compliment with a cocky no-sweat shrug. Stranahan resisted the impulse to inquire which bright young paralegal had composed the document, since the author could not possibly be his brother-in-law.
“This really happened?” Stranahan asked. “The man lost an eye to a… “
“Hooter,” Kipper Garth said. “His wife’s hooter, fortunately. Means we can automatically double the pain-and-suffering.”
Stranahan was trying to imagine a jury’s reaction to such a mishap. The case would never get that far, but it was still fun to think about.
“Has Dr. Graveline been served?”
“Not yet,” Kipper Garth reported. “He’s ducked us so far, but that’s fine. We’ve got a guy staking out the medical clinic, he’ll grab him on the way in or out. The lawsuit’s bad enough, but your man will go ape when he finds out we’ve got a depo scheduled already.”
“Excellent,” Stranahan said.
“He’ll get it postponed, of course.”
“It doesn’t matter. The whole idea is to keep the heat on. That’s why I brought this.” Stranahan handed Kipper Garth a page of nine names, neatly typed.
“The witness li st,” Stranahan explained. “I want you to file it with the court as soon as possible.”
Skimming it, Kipper Garth said, “This is highly unusual.”
“How would you know?”
“It is, dammit. Nobody gives up their witnesses so early in the case.”
“You do,” said Mick Stranahan. “As of now.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Heat, Jocko, remember? Send one of the clerks down to the courthouse and put this list in the Nordstrom file. You might even courier a copy over to Graveline’s place, just for laughs.”
Kipper Garth noticed that all but one of the names on the witness list belonged to other doctors-specifically, plastic and reconstructive surgeons: experts who would presumably testify to Rudy Graveline’s shocking incompetence in the post-op treatment of Mrs. Nordstrom’s encapsulated breast implants.
“Not bad,” said Kipper Garth, “but who’s this one?” With a glossy fingernail he tapped the last name on the list.
“That’s a former nurse,” Stranahan said.
“Disgruntled?”
“You might say that.”
“And about what,” said Kipper Garth, “is she prepared to testify?”
“The defendant’s competence,” Stranahan replied, “or lack thereof.”
Kipper Garth stroked a chromium sideburn. “Witness-wise, I think we’re better off sticking with these hotshot surgeons.”
“ Graveline won’t give a shit about them. The nurse’s name is what will get his attention. Trust me.”
With feigned authority, the lawyer remarked that testimony from an embittered ex-employee wouldn’t carry much weight in court.
“We’re not going to court,” Stranahan reminded him. “Not for malpractice, anyway. Maybe for a murder.”
“You’re losing me again,” Kipper Garth admitted.
“Stay lost,” said Stranahan.
George Graveline’s tree-trimming truck was parked off Crandon Boulevard in a lush tropical hammock. Buttonwoods, gumbo limbo, and mahogany trees-plenty of shade for George Graveline’s truck. The county had hired him to rip out the old trees to make space for some tennis courts. Before long a restaurant would spring up next to the tennis courts and, after that, a major resort hotel. The people who would run the restaurant and the hotel would receive the use of the public property for practically nothing, thanks to their pals on the county commission. In return, the commissioners would receive a certain secret percentage of the refreshment concessions. And the voters would have brand-new tennis courts, whether they wanted them or not.
George Graveline’s role in this civic endeavor was small, but he went at it with uncharacteristic zest. In the first two hours he and his men cleared two full acres of virgin woods. Afterwards George Graveline sat down in the truck cab to rest, while his workers tossed the uprooted trees one at a time into the automatic wood chipper.
All at once the noise died away. George Graveline opened his eyes. He could hear his foreman talking to an unfamiliar voice behind the truck. George stuck his head out the window and saw a stocky Cuban guy in a brown suit. The Cuban guy had a thick mustache and a fat unlit cigar in one corner of his mouth.
“What can I do for you?” George Graveline asked.
The Cuban guy reached in his coat and pulled out a gold police badge. As he walked up to the truck, he could see George Graveline’s Adam’s apple sliding up and down.
Al Garcia introduced himself and said he wanted to ask a few questions.
George Graveline said, “You got a warrant?”
The detective smiled. “I don’t need a warrant, chico.”
“You don’t?”
Garcia shook his head. “Nope. Here, take a look at this.” He showed George Graveline the police composite of Blondell Wayne Tatum, the man known as Chemo. “Ever see this bird before?”
“No, sir,” said the tree trimmer, but his expression gave it away. He looked away too quickly from the drawing; anyone else would have stared.
Garcia said, “This is a friend of your brother’s.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?” Garcia shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Well, that’s good to know. Because this man’s a killer, and I can’t think of one good reason why he’d be hanging out with a famous plastic surgeon.”