Malloy chuckled. "We confiscated his socks, in case you're worried about him pulling a Westmoreland."
I stopped. "Teeth fixed?" I asked.
"Like new."
"You get any kind of guarantee — in case they get fucked up again?"
"No cursing," Hancock grinned. She picked up the open folder. "Kevin's done a bit of work to redeem himself." She passed it to me.
The name
WEMBLEY, MICHAEL
was typed on the folder's tab. A couple sheets of paper were fastened inside. I read the paragraph scrawled on the first page:
Michael Wembley is a 51-year-old white man who looks older than his stated age. He has significant skin duplication under both eyes, as well as skin folds on the upper lids. He states that these imperfections cause him considerable distress and that he wishes to undergo bilateral blepharoplasty.
I knew what I was reading, but I was having trouble believing it could be true. I looked up at Hancock.
"Three for three," she said. "They were all Lucas’ patients. Johnston, Monique, Wembley." She nodded at the folder. "Keep going. It gets better."
I read on:
I have explained the procedure, along with all attendant risks, including lid lag, nerve damage, infection, allergy to medication or anesthesia, injury to the orbit or eye, chronic pain, paresthesias, blindness and death.
I have informed Mr. Wembley of the fee of $5,750, payable by bank check or cash, 48 hours prior to scheduled OR time. The fee is nonrefundable. No portion will be returned in the event of a cancellation or no-show.
The note was signed "T. Lucas, M.D." and dated six days earlier. A short entry followed, detailing Wembley's vital signs during the procedure and his progress in the recovery room.
"At least the good doctor listed death as a side effect," Hancock said. "Can't say Wembley wasn't warned."
"You always list death as a possibility," I said. "It limits liability."
"Not the patient's," Hancock said.
I turned the page to a sketch of Wembley's eyes, complete with the incisions Lucas planned. At the bottom of the sheet were two-inch, before-and-after Polaroids. If the
after
shot Wembley looked like he was wearing mascara, but I knew the lines were actually rows of stitches. The precise placement of tiny sutures is the hallmark of a cosmetic surgeon. "How'd we get the chart?" I asked.
"Judge Barton gave us a search warrant for Lucas’ office," Malloy said. "It was sitting in a pile on his desk." He turned to Hancock. "What an office. It's all done up like Rome, or something. Columns everywhere. There's even an oil painting in the lobby of Lucas riding a horse. I almost forgot I was in Lynn."
I closed the folder and shook my head.
"What's wrong?" Hancock asked.
"Why would somebody about to kill a man leave his surgical chart lying around on his desk? Why not at least hide it?"
"Maybe he was running out of places," Malloy said. He picked up the other two folders and held them out. "These were jammed behind the top drawer of the main patient file."
I took the folders from him. One was labeled
PELETIER, MONIQUE
. The other was labeled
JOHNSTON, SARAH
. I opened the Peletier chart, then paused and looked up at Hancock. I felt uncomfortable, stomping around in her niece's life.
Her eyes met mine. "I want you to see it," she said. "She's with the Lord now."
I lowered myself into a chair near Hancock's desk and started to read:
Monique Peletier is an eighteen-year-old white female who presents for augmentation mammoplasty. Her chest measures 33 inches, and she fills only an A cup. Her torso can accommodate a 36 C/D. Her nipples are adequate, but would require resiting. All risks of the procedure have been reviewed, including, but not limited to: infection, implant rupture, allergy, subjective dissatisfaction, scarring, disfigurement, sexual dysfunction, inability to nurse and death. The patient wishes to proceed. As she cannot afford the $9,500 charge, the standard ‘sliding ’ fee scale will be applied.
Sliding fee
. I shook my head. Lucas had probably enjoyed the play on words.
"There's a drawing in there, too," Hancock said.
A brief OR note followed Lucas’ first entry. I turned the page, expecting a sketch of Monique's breasts, but instead found a diagram of her upper thighs and vagina. The lips were apart, revealing the clitoris, pierced by a tiny ring. Lucas’ scrawl in the margin read:
Placement of decorative ring. Risks, including anorgasmia and pain on intercourse, reviewed. Patient wishes to proceed. Fee to be negotiated.
"He put the ring in," I whispered. I closed the folder and handed all three files back to Malloy.
"The Johnston chart is more of the same," Hancock said. She fished a pack of Merit cigarettes out of her top drawer, took one out and lighted it. "I think Levitsky's pathologist friend in Revere is wrong. I think the time of death on Wembley is off. My guess is Lucas murdered him, then drove right over here and turned himself in."
"His fingerprints were in the Lexus," Malloy added.
I wasn't surprised anymore that Lucas’ prints would turn up around his patients. "He acted like he didn't know the details of the last murder, or didn't remember them," I said. "Part of me believed him."
Hancock squinted at me. "Tell me you're not thinking of injecting him with Amytal."
"It's a quick way to—"
"To lose the case," she interrupted. "Anything he said would be inadmissible, probably even if he kept saying it after he was off that crap."
I nodded.
"So I don't have to worry about you sneaking around here with a syringe. Right?"
"If you say not to, I won't use it."
"OK.
Don't use it
." She glared at her cigarette. "Like sucking air," she said. She broke off the filter and took another drag.
"What about the fact that he doesn't want a lawyer? You don't think that's odd?"
"Like I said, the man's an egomaniac."
"We're talking about someone worth millions, Emma. Why would he just roll over?"
"Because that way he stays on top. We didn't get him. He got himself. It's textbook."
"Maybe. But it doesn't feel good," I said.
Hancock started clicking her nails.
"Something's not right."
"Then try your other hand," Malloy said. "You're just jerking yourself off anyhow. Half of what you—"
"Shut up," Hancock said. She was staring at me, but her words were directed at Malloy. "I want you to forget we've got Lucas. Follow every lead, even if it points in another direction.
Especially
if it points in another direction." She paused. "I hope you're worrying about nothing, Frank. But I'm not taking that chance again."
* * *
I made it to the Lynx Club in time for last call. Before I opened the door, I could hear Rod Stewart's voice confessing
the attraction
was
purely physical
.
I went inside. Pulses of purple light greeted me. A black dancer wearing nothing but silver bracelets up her arms was standing in front of a man in denim overalls who was eyeing her crotch and guzzling a beer at the same time. He ran the lip of the bottle up her thigh, then leaned back for another swallow. She knelt down, cradled one of her breasts in the palm of her hand and used the nipple to brush his dollar bill off the railing.
I scanned the room, looking for Rachel, but didn't see her.
"Hey!" a voice barked.
I turned and saw Max behind the bar. He was waddling my way. I walked over and grabbed a seat.
He took a second to catch his breath. "Tiffany — I mean Rachel — ain't here," he said. "She wanted I should tell you, if you stopped in, she's working over at Red Lace Lingerie."
"Who buys lingerie at this hour?"
"Nobody exactly buys it," he coughed. "They pay for it, but they don't take it home."
"Huh?"
"They get to see the girl of their choice model it, you know? Whatever they pick out. In a private room. Fifty bucks."
"Why would someone pay fifty dollars to watch a girl dancing in underwear?"
"They got more than underwear. They got everything from evening gowns to squaw outfits. They put ’em on and they strip. And you're alone with them."
"Even so," I said.
He made a fist and shook it up and down in the air. "You get to beat off while you watch."
"Now I get it."
"I don't. It's not like you can touch ’em or anything. And they don't touch you. At least that's the rule. I hear some of the girls cut side deals. A quick hand job or something." He coughed again.
"Sick?" I asked him.
"I got this asbestos kicking up. Doctor says it's like tiny pins shredding my lungs."
"When were you exposed?"
"
Exposed?
I never got into nothing like that."
"I mean, exposed to asbestos. When were you around it?"
"Oh, I hear you." He nodded. "Navy. I worked the boiler room on a carrier."
"What shit luck. I'm sorry."
"What am I gonna do? Cry over it?" He stared at me.
I felt Max reaching out, even if he didn't realize it himself. My scalp tightened. "Have you?" I asked.
"Have I
what?
"
"Broken down. Cried over it."
"What are you talkin’..."
I added an edge to my voice to temper the softness of what I had said. "I mean, who the fuck wouldn’t? Right? Fucking lungs torn up? You'd have to be crazy not to lose it."
He looked over at the girl dancing. I looked, too. She was on all fours, moving like she was having sex doggie style.
"Must suck," I said, "being sick."
He kept his eyes on the dancer. "Terrible." His voice broke at the end of the word. He cleared his throat.
I reached into my pocket, took out a ten-dollar bill and laid it on the bar. "Thanks for the message from Rachel."
He glanced at the money. "On the house," he said. He took a deep breath, coughed and turned back to me. "Does she have an ass, or am I a monkey's uncle?"
I wasn't sure whether he meant the dancer, or Rachel? But it didn't matter. It was just his way of regrouping. "She's got a great ass," I said. I got up. "So where's Red Lace?"
"Three blocks down from here, on Broadway, in back of Perky's used-car lot. Look for the red lights in the windows."
I left the bar and headed for Red Lace Lingerie, the top floor of a drab, four-story building. There was no signage visible from the street, and the window shades were drawn, but the red glow Max had mentioned was seeping from behind them. I walked into the building and took the stairs past a hair salon, a tanning studio and, of all things, a chiropractor's office. Those guys turn up in the strangest places.
The shop was arranged like a discount clothing store — a dozen or so circular chrome racks up front, and a counter with a cash register at the back. I didn't see Rachel, so I took my time flipping through the merchandise — hanger after hanger of crotchless panties, rubber vests with steel zippers, thongs, dresses fashioned entirely of chain, a bridal gown, a maid's outfit, even a police uniform. I imagined a customer requesting the fantasy:
You act like you're giving me a speeding ticket, then I whip it out, and you act shocked, but then you like what you see and you decide you want it, so you get in the car and start taking off your clothes
. I chuckled.
"Did you need help with something?" a young woman two racks over asked. She flipped her long, dirty blond hair and smiled.
I was taken by her pale blue eyes. "Yes," I said finally. "I'm looking for Tiffany."
"Tiffany's with a client. She won't be available for ten minutes or so."
"Is it alright if I wait?"
"Of course. Let's get you rung up." She walked toward the counter.
I followed her. An array of sexual aids were displayed under the glass. There were French ticklers, dildos, glow-in-the-dark condoms. I started to wonder whether modeling and the occasional hand job were the only things for sale at Red Lace.
"Have you shopped here before?" the girl asked me.
"First time."
She was filling in blanks on some sort of intake form. "And who recommended us?"
"Max at the Lynx Club."
She wrote the name down. "Will you be paying with a Visa card or cash?"
"Cash."
"That's fifty dollars for three outfits, unless one is a fantasy outfit, which counts as two."
"Fantasy outfit?"
"Like the Nazi helmet or the Girl Scout uniform."
"Naturally." I couldn’t help looking at the points her nipples made where they pressed against her cotton T-shirt.
She nodded at the door behind her. "Tiffany could run over a few minutes. Did you want to see me?"
I thought about the idea, but not for long. "Another time," I said.
"Suit yourself. Fifty dollars, please."
I counted out the fifty and gave it to her, then walked back into the racks. I picked out a one-piece black lace body suit and a teddy made of tiny rhinestones.
The girl had been watching me from the counter. "That counts as two," she said.
I held it out toward her and squinted like I was imagining her wearing it. "OK," I said.
"That's cheating." She winked.
The door to the back opened, and a rotund, bald man with horn-rim glasses stepped out. He was wearing a gray suit. He looked like an attorney or a broker. There was a wedding band on his finger. He glanced around the store before walking out. Rachel came through the door after he was gone. She was wearing Levi's and a pink sweatshirt.