“Doesn’t matter, Mrs. Stranahan. The question is, how bad do you want revenge on your ex-husband?”
“I guess that is the question,” Chloe said thoughtfully. “How about another ginger ale?”
7
Of the four plastic surgeons who had worked with Dr. Rudy Graveline at the Durkos Center, only one had remained in Miami after the clinic closed. His name was George Ginger, and Stranahan found him on a tennis court at Turnberry Isle in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Mixed doubles, naturally.
Stranahan watched the pudgy little man wheeze back and forth behind the baseline, and marveled at the atrociousness of his hairpiece. It was one of those synthetic jobs, the kind you’re supposed to be able to wear in the shower. In Dr. George Ginger’s case, the thing on his head looked a lot like a fresh road kill.
Each point in the tennis game became its own little comedy, and Stranahan wondered if this stop was a waste of time, an unconscious stall on his part. By now he knew exactly where to locate Rudy Graveline; the problem was, he didn’t know what to ask him that would produce the truth. It was a long way from Vicky Barletta to Tony the Eel, and Stranahan still hadn’t found the thread, if there was one. One way or another, Dr. Graveline was central to the mystery, and Stranahan didn’t want to spook him. For now, he wanted him safe and contented at Whispering Palms.
S tranahan strolled into the dead lane of the tennis court and said, “Dr. Ginger?”
“ Yo!” said the doctor, huffing.
Stranahan knew about guys who said yo.
“W eneedto talk.”
“Do we now?” said Dr. Ginger, missing an easy backhand. His doubles partner, a lanky, overtanned woman, shot Stranahan a dirty look.
“Just take a minute,” Stranahan said.
Dr. Ginger picked up two of the tennis balls. “Sorry, but I’m on serve.”
“No, you’re not,” Stranahan said. “And besides, that was the set.” He’d been following the match from a gazebo two courts over.
As Dr. Ginger intently bounced one of the balls between his feet, the other players picked up their monogrammed club towels and calfskin racket covers and ambled off the court.
Solemnly George Ginger said, “The tall fellow was my lawyer.”
“Every doctor should have a lawyer,” said Mick Stranahan. “Especially surgeons.”
Ginger jammed the tennis balls into the pockets of his damp white shorts. “What’s this all about?”
“ Rudy Graveline.”
“I’veheard of him.”
This was going to be fun, Stranahan thought. He loved it when they played cool.
“You worked for him at the Durkos Center,” Stranahan said to George Ginger. “Why don’t you be a nice fellow and tell me about it?”
George Ginger motioned Stranahan to follow. He picked a quiet patio table with an umbrella, not far from the pro shop.
“Who are you with?” the doctor inquired in a low voice.
“The board,” Stranahan said. Any board would do; Dr. Ginger wouldn’t press it.
After wiping his forehead for the umpteenth time, the doctor said, “There were four of us-Kelly, Greer, Shulman, and me. Graveline was the managing partner.”
“Business was good?”
“It was getting there.”
“Then why did he close the place?”
“I’m still not certain,” George Ginger said.
“But you heard rumors.”
“Yes, we heard there was a problem with a patient. The sort of problem that might bring in the state.”
“One of Rudy’s patients?”
George Ginger nodded. “A young woman is what we heard.”
“Her name?”
“I don’t know.” The doctor was quite a lousy liar.
“How bad a problem?” Stranahan went on.
“I don’t know that, either. We assumed it was a major fuckup, or else why would Graveline pull out so fast?”
“Didn’t any of you guys bother to ask?”
“Hell, no. I’ve been to court before, buddy, and it’s no damn fun. None of us wanted to get dragged down that road. Anyway, we show up for work one day and the place is empty. Later we get a certified check from Rudy with a note saying he’s sorry for the inconvenience, but good luck with our careers. Before you know it, he’s back in business at Bal Harbour-of all places-with a frigging assembly-line operation. A dozen boob jobs a day.”
Stranahan said, “Why didn’t you call him?”
“What for? Old times’ sake?”
“That certified check, it must’ve been a good one.”
“It was,” Dr. Ginger conceded, “very generous.”
Stranahan picked up the doctor’s graphite tennis racket and plucked idly at the strings. George Ginger eyed him worriedly. “Do you remember the day the police came?” Stranahan asked. “The day a young female patient disappeared from a bus bench in front of the clinic?”
“I was offthat day.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Stranahan studied him through the grid of the racket strings.
“I remember hearing about it,” George Ginger said lamely.
“That happened right before Dr. Graveline split, didn’t it?”
“I think so, yes.”
Stranahan said, “You consider yourself a bright man, Dr. Ginger? Don’t look so insulted, it’s a serious question.” He put the tennis racket down on the patio table.
“I consider myself to be intelligent, yes.”
“Well, then, didn’t you wonder about the timing? A girl gets snatched from in front of your office, and a few weeks later the boss closes up shop. Could that be the fuckup you guys heard about? What do you think?”
Sourly, George Ginger said, “I can’t imagine a connection.” He picked up his tennis racket and, with a touch of pique, zipped it into its carry case.
Stranahan stood up. “Well, the important thing is, you still got your medical license. Now, where can I find the rest of the stooges?”
Dr. Ginger wrapped the towel around his neck, a real jock gesture. “Kelly moved to Michigan. Shulman’s up in Atlanta, working for some HMO. Dr. Greer is deceased, unfortunately.”
“Do tell.”
“Don’t you guys have it in your files? I mean, when a doctor dies?”
“Not in every case,” Stranahan bluffed.
George Ginger said, “It happened maybe six months after Durkos closed. A hunting accident up around Ocala.”
“Who else was there?”
“I really don’t know,” the doctor said with an insipid shrug. “I’m afraid I’m not clear about all the details.”
“Why,” said Mick Stranahan, “am I not surprised?”
The Rudy Graveline system was brilliant in its simplicity: Sting, persuade, operate, then flatter.
On the wall of each waiting room at Whispering Palms hung a creed: vanity is beautiful. Similar maxims were posted in the hallways and examining rooms. what’s wrong with perfection? was one of Rudy’s favorites. Another: to improve one’s self, improve one’s face. This one was framed in the spa, where post-op patients relaxed in the crucial days following their plastic surgery, when they didn’t want to go out in public. Rudy had shrewdly recognized that an after-surgery spa would not only be a tremendous money-maker, it would also provide important positive feedback during recovery. Everyone there had fresh scars and bruises, so no patient was in a position to criticize another’s results.
As best as he could, Reynaldo Flemm made mental notes of Whispering Palms during his tour. He was posing as a male exotic dancer who needed a blemish removed from his right buttock. For the purpose of disguise, Flemm had dyed his hair brown and greased it straight back; that was all he could bear to do to alter his appearance. Secretly, he loved it when people stared because they recognized him from television.
As it happened, the nurse who greeted him at Whispering Palms apparently never watched In Your Face. She treated Flemm as any other prospective patient. After a quick tour of the facilities, she led him to a consultation room, turned off the lights and showed him a videotape about the wonders of cosmetic surgery. Afterwards she turned the lights back on and asked if he had any questions.
“How much will it cost?” Reynaldo Flemm said.