Booby Trap (9 page)

“What part of
no
don’t you understand?” I glared at her, my frustration swelling like bad water retention.

One hand went to her hip. “And what part of
I’m coming with you
don’t
you
understand?” She put on her sunglasses and peered at me over the top rim. “You leave without me, Odelia, and I’ll call La Tanya and tell her you can’t make it. See how far you get trying to make another appointment with Dr. Eddy on your own.” She paused. “Three weeks is a long time.”

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I stomped out of the elevator, and she let the doors close. She made her way to her car, and I followed with a face so sour lemons seemed sweet by comparison.

“So,” I said to Zee’s back, “Pastor Hill teaching blackmail from the pulpit these days, or is this a little something you picked up on your own?”

Dr. Eddy’s office was
decorated to the nines. Little wonder with his wife being the talented Jane Sharp. It reminded me of an elegant day spa instead of a doctor’s office. Everything was a modern mix of cool colors and glass, with interesting sculptures and paintings of the human body, mostly female.

The receptionist, a young woman who looked like she belonged on a runway in Paris, handed me the usual medical history forms to fill out. I sank into a buttery leather chair and got to work. Zee sat in a chair next to me, reading a magazine. Actually, she was doing more fidgeting than reading. I could tell she was about to come unglued with curiosity as to why we were in Brian Eddy’s office and why I needed to speak to the god of plastic surgeons. She only knew it had something to do with the Blond Bomber. It was driving her insane that I was keeping my mouth shut and enjoying every delicious moment of her madness. That will teach her to tag along where she’s not wanted. I knew that if I told Zee that someone—the man’s mother, no less—suspected Dr. Eddy of being the Blond Bomber, she would have marched me out of there, across her back if need be.

In short order, I found myself led to an examination room by another gorgeous young woman. My guess was that she was in her late twenties or very early thirties. She had long blond hair worn in a French braid, a flawless face, and a pinup girl figure. The name tag on her uniform said
Amber,
but something was out of kilter with the lovely Amber.

I had noticed as I walked through the office that all of Brian Eddy’s employees were dressed the same in shapeless pants and tunics the color of raspberry sherbet. Amber wore the same uniform, but I’d bet my next carton of Ben & Jerry’s she’d done some tailoring to show off her spectacular figure. In addition, Amber had accessorized her uniform with high heels. Not just ordinary high heels, but upscale hooker shoes. On her feet were quality leather pumps just a shade or two darker than her uniform, with five-inch heels.

My comfort-focused mind thought:
How in the world can she work all day in those ?
Followed by:
How inappropriate for a doctor’s office.

As Amber took my blood pressure, I made a mental note to check out the shoes of the other women. Maybe it was all part of Dr. Eddy’s glamorous image. But if that were the case, instead of the tunic-style uniforms, he might have picked something from Frederick’s of Hollywood to show off his staff’s assets.

A few minutes after Amber clickety-clacked her way out of the examination room, Dr. Brian Eddy entered. By now, I was stripped to my waist, wearing a paper poncho that barely covered half of my upper torso. Doctor or not, I felt uncomfortable being half naked in front of this man. I didn’t have this problem in front of my usual doctor, but then, Dr. Greenfield was a thousand years old, not the son of a friend, and not a suspected serial killer. On top of that, my breasts were being exposed under false pretense, pressed into service just so I could meet this man. And further on top of that, I was pretty sure my insurance was not going to cover this consultation. Sitting in the cool room with my girls hanging out, I suddenly wished I had rigged a fender bender instead. But even that would have cost me financially. At least this way, I was getting a checkup.

“Good morning, Ms. Grey, I’m Dr. Eddy.” He stuck his hand out, and we shook. In his other, he held my chart. He scanned the details and looked up at me. “I see you’re here to consult about a breast reduction.”

“Um, that’s right.”

Dr. Eddy bore a striking resemblance to his mother. He had the same crystal blue eyes, slender face, and aristocratic nose. His mouth was different, though. Instead of a full, smiling mouth, Dr. Eddy’s mouth was thin lipped and tight, appearing cruel and disapproving. His build was tall and lean, with wide shoulders. Combined with his salt-and-pepper, beautifully styled hair, he was attractive in a country club, appearance-is-everything sort of way. Not at all what I would expect from someone who murdered women as a hobby. But then again, I’ve never met a serial killer, so what did I know?

“Are you having any back pain?”

“Excuse me?”

“Back pain?” he repeated without emotion. “Most women who seek a breast reduction have severe back pain.”

“Um, no. No back pain.”

Like a ninny, in using breast reduction as an excuse to get into Dr. Eddy’s office, I hadn’t thought it through properly. Of course he would ask about back pain. And I probably should have lied and said yes. I had to think fast. I’m good at thinking fast. I’m just not good at thinking fast with clarity and quality.

“Um, I just think they’re too big.”

The doctor consulted my chart again. “And what does your husband think?”

I blushed as I remembered Greg burying his soapy face in my cleavage. “He thinks they’re just fine. But he doesn’t have to cart them around all day, does he?”

Without a glimmer of amusement or any kind of emotion, Dr. Eddy quickly turned and placed my chart on a nearby counter. When he turned around, he was putting on surgical gloves.

“If you don’t mind, Ms. Grey, I’d like to examine you before I give my opinion on the pros and cons of a reduction.”

“Are you going to
tell me what’s going on with Dr. Eddy, or do I have to beat it out of you like candy from a piñata?”

Geez, Zee was beginning to sound like me. Not good.

I looked across the table at her. “Start beating.”

Following my visit with Dr. Eddy, Zee suggested that we go to lunch. At first, all I could think about was heading back to the office and burying myself headfirst into those waiting boxes of documents. Well, that’s not true. That was the second thing I thought about. The first thing was to head straight home and bury myself under the covers of our bed, safe and sound. If I’d been driving and alone, I would have tossed a coin: heads—home; tails—the office. But the more I considered it, lunch with Zee would be a nice way to detox from the creepy thought that maybe a serial killer had just touched me.

We were at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Mi Casa on Seventeenth Street in Costa Mesa, which was pretty close to Dr. Eddy’s office. We’d just placed our orders and were sipping our drinks—iced tea for me, lemonade for Zee. It was a little past noon, and the usual lunch crowd was just starting to filter in. Before sitting down, I’d called the office from my cell phone and told the receptionist I’d be back immediately after lunch.

Dr. Eddy had been gentle and professional, albeit coldly professional. The whole examination and consultation had taken less than twenty minutes and was very mechanical. My gut told me the doctor was a cold fish and uptight. But it also told me he couldn’t be the Blond Bomber. But then my gut also advised me to order the Grande Burrito instead of something light. In about an hour, I would be comatose at my desk—thanks to my gut.

Zee rolled her big browns at me. “Come on, Odelia. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. What a silly thing to say. I’d trust you and Seth both with my life, you know that. I’m just not so sure you should trust me with yours, especially since I keep finding myself on the receiving end of violence.”

“Did the doctor tell you anything about that murdered patient?”

“No, because I didn’t ask.” I took a sip of tea. “But he did advise me against having a breast reduction. Said smaller boobs would make me look out of proportion. Said if I wanted smaller ones, to start by losing some weight. After I lost the weight, he said he would be happy to consult with me again.”

I power-chomped through a half-dozen tortilla chips.

“That’s it?” Zee seemed disappointed. “But what about the murder-victim patient?”

I shrugged and stuffed a few more chips into my mouth to stall. Zee waited, knowing I had to stop chewing sometime. She crossed her arms across her chest and looked at me. It was the stance in a sitting position. She could and would stay like that forever. Usually, I can fight off the stance, but today I was in a weakened state.

I took a drink of tea to wash down the chips. “If I tell you about Dr. Eddy, you have to promise not to go ballistic.”

Zee rolled her eyes. “Just when do I go ballistic?”

The waitress brought our food. Zee calmly started her usual food ritual of arranging everything just so in preparation of her first bite. At Mi Casa, the ritual included dumping her sour cream and guacamole onto my plate.

“Geez, I don’t know, Zee, like maybe yesterday morning in my office?”

“That wasn’t ballistic, that was concern.” She snatched her first bite of enchilada off her fork and chewed with annoyance.

I finished the bite of burrito I was working on and swallowed. “I see, then how about you promise me not to get
concerned
over what I’m about to tell you.”

She gave me another dose of her sitting-down stance. “I’ll get concerned over whatever I please.”

“See? That’s why I don’t want to tell you. I can’t have you getting all riled up over something that may not be true. People’s lives are involved.”

“And you’re one of those people, Odelia.” She took a drink of lemonade. “You’ve put more gray hair on my head than both my children combined.”

Her words were a two-edged sword, making me feel warm and fuzzy and guilty at the same time. “I’m sorry if I give you so much to worry about, Zee. It’s not intentional.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes, during which time I made a decision.

“Okay,” I began in a whisper. “I’ll tell you what’s up with Dr. Eddy. But you have to promise not to tell anyone or to get involved any more than taking me to his office.”

“Don’t worry about me, Odelia. Your job is getting into trouble. My job is praying for your safety.”

I was thankful someone was.

While we ate, I filled her in on Lil, Dr. Eddy, Gordon and Crystal Lee Harper, Laurie and Lisa Luke, and even Muffin. When I was done, her mouth hung open like a gaping cave. While she sorted through all the information, I cut off another bite-size piece of my burrito with the edge of my fork and shoveled it into my mouth. I followed that with one last bite before pushing away my half-eaten burrito. My nerves were telling me to devour the whole thing, lock, stock, and guacamole, but my better judgment won out for a change, and I decided to save the rest for lunch the next day.

I hadn’t asked Dr. Eddy about Crystal Lee Harper, but I did ask him if he knew Laurie Luke. After all, she did work at the hospital where he saw most of his surgical patients. I had let the question slip out during the hands-on exam of my breasts, hoping he would think it was simply nervous babble. My investigation intent aside, it
was
nervous babble.

The doctor commented about the murder being a tragedy but said he hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing Laurie Luke personally. As far as I could tell, his response seemed truthful and sincere.

“His
own mother
thinks he’s the Blond Bomber?” Zee had put down her fork and was staring at me.

I nodded, pretty sure she was thinking about her son, Jacob, and whether or not she could ever think such a thing about him.

“His
own
mother
,” she repeated, struggling to keep her voice quiet. “And what do you think?”

“My intuition is telling me he’s not the serial killer, in spite of some of the coincidences. But that’s all I have to go on.” Our waitress came by with our check, and I asked her to box up the remainder of the burrito. “There’s no hard evidence that he is the killer, but there’s nothing yet to prove he’s not.”

“What about motive?”

“Do serial killers need a motive?” I paused. “I mean, it’s not like they kill because of vengeance or greed. From what little I know about it from TV or the newspapers, it seems like they have a pattern and choose their victims based on some internal reasoning that makes sense only to them. But then again, I’m getting most of my information from TV, which is hardly known for its accuracy.”

“Too bad you can’t pick Dev’s brain without raising red flags.”

I laughed. “Red flags? If I mention anything to Dev Frye about serial killers or the Blond Bomber, he’ll have me thrown in jail and guard it himself. There really isn’t a nonchalant way for me to ask him about crime in any way without his antennae vibrating.”

Zee nodded in agreement.

“By the way, did you notice the woman who took me back to the examining room?”