Skin Tight (38 page)

“Protected?” Rudy said feebly.

“From quacks and such. Don't you agree?”

Rudy thought: The whole world has turned upside down.

“Most clinics won't have anything to worry about,” Roberto said brightly, “once they're brought up to county standards.”

“Bobby, you're a bastard.”

After Rudy Graveline slammed down the phone, his hand was shaking. It wouldn't stop.

AT
the breakfast table, Heather stared at Rudy's trembling fingers and said, “I sure don't like the looks of that.”

“Muscle spasms,” he said. “It'll go away.”

“My surgery is tomorrow,” Heather said.

“I'm aware of that, darling.”

They had spent the better part of the morning discussing breast implants. Heather had collected testimonials from all her Hollywood actress friends who ever had boob jobs. Some of them favored the Porex line of soft silicone implants, others liked the McGhan Biocell 100, and still others swore by the Replicon. Heather herself was leaning toward the Silastic II Teardrop model, because they came with a five-year written warranty.

“Maybe I better check with my agent,” she said.

“Why?” Rudy asked peevishly.

“This is my body we're talking about. My career.”

“All right,” Rudy said. “Call your agent. What do I know? I'm just the surgeon.” He took the newspaper to the bathroom and sat down on the john. Ten minutes later, Heather knocked lightly on the door.

“It's too early on the coast,” she said. “Melody's not in the office.”

“Thanks for the bulletin.”

“But a man called for you.”

Rudy folded the newspaper across his lap and braced his chin in his hands. “Who was it, Heather?”

“He didn't give his name. Just said he was a patient.”

“That certainly narrows it down.”

“He said he came up with a number. I think he was talking about money.”

Crazy Chemo. It had to be. “What did you tell him?” Rudy asked through the door.

“I told him you were unavailable at the moment. He didn't sound like he believed me.”

“Gee. I can't imagine,” said Rudy.

“He said he'll come by the clinic later.”

“Splendid.” He could hear her breathing at the door. “Heather, is there something else?”

“Yes, there was a man out front. A process server from the courthouse.”

Rudy felt himself pucker at both ends.

Heather said, “He rang the bell about a dozen times, but I wouldn't open the door. Finally he went away.”

“Good girl,” Rudy said. He sprang off the toilet, elated. He flung open the bathroom door, carried Heather into the shower, and turned on the water, steamy hot. Then he got down on his bare knees and began kissing her silky, perfect thighs.

“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 Roberto 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.

MICK
Stranahan asked Al García 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 list,” 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. Afterward 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 García 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?”

García 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.

García said, “This is a friend of your brother's.”

“I don't think so.”

“No?” García 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.”

George Graveline said, “Me neither.” He turned on the radio and twirled the tuner knob back and forth, pretending to look for his favorite country station. García could sense the guy was about to wet his pants.

The detective said, “I'm not the first homicide man you ever met, am I?”

“Sure. What do you mean?”

“Hell, it was four years ago,” García said. “You probably don't even remember. It was outside your brother's office, the place he had before he moved over to the beach.”

With a fat brown finger George Graveline scratched his neck. He scrunched his eyebrows, as if trying to recall.

García said: “Detective's name was Timmy Gavigan. Skinny Irish guy, red hair, about so big. He stopped to chat with you for a couple minutes.”

“No, I surely don't remember,” George said, guardedly.

“I'll tell you exactly when it was—it was right after that college girl disappeared,” García said. “Victoria Barletta was her name. Surely you remember. There must've been cops all over the place.”

“Oh yeah.” Slowly it was coming back to George; that's what he wanted the cop to think.

“She was one of your brother's patients, the Barletta girl.”

“Right,” said George Graveline, nodding. “I remember how upset Rudolph was.”

“But you don't remember talking to Detective Gavigan?”

“I talked to lots of people.”

García said, “The reason I mention it, Timmy remembered you.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You know, he never solved that damn case. The Barletta girl, after all these years. And now he's dead, Timmy is.” García stepped to the rear of the truck. Casually he put one foot on the bumper, near the hitch of the wood chipper. George Graveline opened the door of the truck and leaned out to keep an eye on the Cuban detective.