“It’s a real improvement,” Angie conceded. “I can see you’ve done a lot of work on yourself. But the right dress will just take it up another notch.” She scribbled the address on a pad. “I’m also writing down the name
of my hairdresser. Again, use my name. She’ll know what to do.”
“My hair is wrong?”
“Wrong for the kind of impression I want to make for the judge. Perception is everything, Lulu.” She tore the paper off and handed it to her.
Lulu frowned and glanced at the addresses. “These are in the nice part of town.”
“I know.”
“A dress shop in this area is going to be expensive,” she said without shame.
“The owner, Molly, owes me. Like I said, she’ll let you borrow a dress.”
“Will she even let me through her front door?”
“I’ll let her know you’re coming. She’ll take care of you.”
Lulu folded the piece of paper and creased the fold with her fingernails. “Okay.”
“I called the courthouse this morning to double-check the time of your hearing. It’s Thursday at noon.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“You miss that day, and it’s over.”
“I know.”
“I want you at the courthouse at eleven.”
“Why?”
“I want us to have time to review some of the questions your mother’s attorney will ask. Normally, I take more time with my clients, but we are in a time crunch so we’ll do the best we can.”
“Can I get my boy back?”
Angie offered a tentative smile. “You do your part, Lulu, and I’ll do mine.”
Lulu stood and held out her hand. “I promise, Ms. Carlson. I won’t let you down.”
“It’s not me who’s counting on you. It’s David.”
With the information supplied by the medical examiner, Malcolm and Garrison wanted to talk to Dixon. His priors plus his association with the victim made him a suspect in their minds.
Malcolm had to double-check his address for Dixon. The office space he’d had two years ago had been huge. Glittering glass, polished chrome in a high-rise on Duke Street. He remembered the view from the reception area. It had looked out over the Potomac past the Wilson Bridge toward the meandering landscape that had once been home to centuries-old plantations like Mount Vernon and Gunston Hall.
However, Dixon’s newer offices were more than a few steps down. The small suite off of Van Dorn Street had a cramped reception area furnished with bamboo furniture that looked as if it belonged on a patio. Even his receptionist had changed. Gone was the tall, sleek blonde with the perky breasts and tight rear end. In her place sat a fiftysomething woman with graying hair and a sour expression. There were no patients in the waiting room.
The publicity from Dixon’s murder trial had taken a toll. Clearly, it had chased off the Washington elite searching for a private nip or tuck. Malcolm should have gotten some satisfaction knowing the doctor had been knocked off his lofty pedestal, but he didn’t. Dixon belonged behind bars.
Shoving aside frustration, Malcolm strode up to the glass window and held up his badge. The receptionist’s
blank gaze didn’t waver as she pushed open the window. “What can I do for you, officers?”
“Is the doctor in?”
“He’s in his office.”
“Let him know Detectives Kier and Garrison are here.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“He’ll want to see us.”
“All right.” The receptionist rose, moving down a short hallway and vanishing.
Through the entire trial, Malcolm had sensed that Dixon loved their cat-and-mouse game. The doctor’s ego had fed on the attention. As negative and destructive as it had been, the doctor had maintained a smirk, as if he knew a secret no one else would ever discover. The expression had irritated Garrison, but it had chipped away at Malcolm’s temper. There’d been times in the courtroom Malcolm had mustered all his control to keep from leaping forward and throttling the monster that pretended to be human.
And when Dixon had walked, he’d risen from the defendant’s chair, tugged the vest of his expensive dark suit down, and strode out of the courtroom. The doctor had all but glowed when he’d talked to the press. He’d spoken of justice winning out, of returning to his life and the devoted friends and patients that meant so much to him. He planned, in fact, to hold office hours that very afternoon.
As Malcolm glanced at the faded green carpet satisfaction did flicker. “How far the mighty do fall.”
Garrison smiled, but his eyes shone with anger. “Not far enough.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
“You’re optimistic.”
“Shit, no. I’m determined. He’ll end up in jail. That’s a promise.”
Garrison shrugged. “Don’t drive yourself insane over what can’t always be controlled.”
“There is a lot in this world I can’t control, but putting Dixon behind bars is one thing I can.”
The receptionist reappeared. Her sour expression held a hint of worry. “The doctor will see you.”
Malcolm and Garrison moved down a narrow hallway lined with photos of Dixon at many different black-tie events. Senators, congressmen, and lobbyists all stood by him, their smiles as frozen as ice.
There were also framed diplomas. He’d graduated top of his class from top-fleet medical schools. Not bad for a guy who’d come from a poor family. They’d never determined how he’d gotten the money for medical school.
If you talked to any of his patients as Malcolm and Garrison had done two years ago, you’d hear nothing but praise.
A genius. Masterful skills. An artist.
No one doubted that Dixon was a skilled surgeon. It was his after-hours hobbies that Malcolm found vile.
When they reached the threshold they found Dixon sitting behind his hand-carved mahogany desk. The desk was a holdover from his old life. Judging by the small room, it was about all that remained of the old life.
The doctor’s dark hair was slicked back, and he had a tan that suggested a recent holiday or visit to a tanning bed. His red tie was fastened in his trademark Windsor knot, and he still took extra starch in his shirts.
The office was small but as impeccably neat as the fancy uptown space he’d vacated. Every paper on his
desk was in a neat stack. His pencils lined the top right corner like soldiers, and the books on the bookshelves were still kept in alphabetical order.
Malcolm refused to knock or clear his throat. Instead he waited for the doctor to raise his gaze from the paper in front of him. The doctor appeared in no rush, and their silent war raged for several seconds until Dixon looked up.
He didn’t appear shocked or troubled by the visit. Instead, his eyes danced with the excitement of a child ready to play a new game. He stood, tugged his vest over his narrow belly, and nodded. “Detectives Kier and Garrison. What’s it been, a year or two since we last spoke? Time does fly.”
A primitive urge demanded Malcolm grab the doctor by the lapels and smack his head against the desk. Not only would that kind of stunt bring Internal Affairs and a lawsuit down on him, but also it wouldn’t find Sierra Day’s murderer.
“It does,” Malcolm said. The natural rasp of his voice made anything he said sound harsh so he tossed in a smile to give the doctor a relaxed impression.
“So what do I owe the honor of this visit, gentlemen?”
“Official business,” Garrison said. “Concerning one of your patients.”
Dixon frowned. “That sounds ominous. Please have a seat.” He motioned to the two club chairs in front of his desk and waited until the detectives had sat before he retook his seat. He closed the file on his desk and laid the folder on a neat pile to his right. “Which one of my patients?”
The low, too-soft chair tried to swallow up Malcolm. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. If his dad could see him now he’d have a good laugh. How many years had his old man begged him to pay attention to the details?
The devil is in the details, boy. He’ll hang your ass if you miss the wrong one.
“Sierra Day’s body was found yesterday in a local park,” Malcolm said.
Dixon’s raised dark eyebrows showed real anguish. “Are you sure it’s Sierra?”
“We are.”
Dixon shoved out a breath and for a moment seemed lost in thought. “That’s just awful. I am so sorry to hear that. I just saw her about two weeks ago.”
The son of a bitch had managed just the right blend of surprise and remorse. “Can you tell us about your routine for the last few days?”
“Why?” He raised a hand. “Never mind. I know why. Our unfortunate history. I wonder when I will finally escape it.”
“We must do our due diligence,” Garrison said easily.
“I should be offended, but I know you are trying to find Sierra’s killer. Damn, but she was such a sweet girl.”
Malcolm tried to put himself in Dixon’s place. If he’d been falsely accused of attempted murder and acquitted, he’d be damned pissed if the cops showed up on his doorstep. “When exactly is the last time you saw Ms. Day?”
He turned to his appointment book and flipped slowly through several pages. “Ah, here it is. I saw Ms. Day eleven days ago. She had a nine a.m. appointment.”
“Did you see her often?”
“That was her second appointment.” Carefully, he
closed the book. “That was our last consultation before surgery.”
“What was she planning to have done?”
He hesitated. “She’s dead, so I suppose there is no doctor–patient relationship to violate. She was going to have breast augmentation. Like many young women she wanted larger breasts. She’d planned to go from a B to a double D. And she wanted me to liposuction her buttocks and abdomen. She was looking for a model-perfect body, as most actresses today want. She’d planned on having her surgery next week. She was very excited.”
“That was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Yes.” Dixon sat back in his chair. “I still can’t believe she is dead. I just can’t believe it.”
“Really?”
Dixon was a master liar and manipulator. “You do believe me, don’t you, Detective?”
Malcolm met the doctor’s earnest eyes with a dead-panned expression. “Do I have reason not to?”
“As I mentioned, we do have a history, Detective.”
“I’m here with no agenda, Dr. Dixon, other than to recreate Ms. Day’s last days.”
“Do you always interview your victim’s doctors?”
“I interview anyone and everyone when I’m investigating a murder.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “What can you tell me about Ms. Day?”
Dr. Dixon hesitated. “She was a very excitable young woman. Prone to drama, you know? But it fit her vocation. Who would want to watch an actress who didn’t have a flair for drama?”
“Did you ever see her in a play?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. I went to see her over the summer when she was in
Twelfth Night
. I’m a contributor
to the West End Theater, and the actors awarded us with a special viewing of their summer show. I met her afterwards. She pulled me aside during the party and told me of her desire for plastic surgery. I gave her my card and left it at that.”
“And you didn’t see her during the summer?”
“No. I did not.”
When he questioned friends and family, he’d be sure to bring up Dixon’s name. It had been his experience that no matter how careful people could be, someone somewhere had seen them or heard about them. “Is there anyone who might like to hurt Ms. Day?”
“All I know is that I did not kill this woman, Detective. I liked Ms. Day. She was a stunning woman whom I’d planned to make even more beautiful.”
“Like Lulu Sweet?” Malcolm tossed her name out to Dixon like bait on a hook. He wasn’t sure what he’d catch, but he was willing to take a chance.
Dixon twisted his cuff link. “So this is related to the old charges you could never prove?”
“Your attorney won your acquittal fair and square.” Carlson might be a bloodsucker, but she had followed the law to a T.
“Oh, come on. This visit is about getting a pound of my flesh. It wasn’t enough that you shattered my reputation—now you are going to try and pin a murder on me.”
Malcolm felt the tug on his fishing line and gave it a little slack. “No, sir, not at all.”
Dixon leaned forward. “I’ve been practicing in this hovel for nearly two years, barely scraping by with patients like Sierra Day who can’t afford a top-of-the-line surgeon.”
The line had grown tight, and Malcolm reeled it in.
“It made you angry that you weren’t serving the cream of the crop anymore.”
“Of course it bothered me. I resent the fact that a penny whore I hired freaked out on drugs and nearly ruined my reputation. I resent that my partners dropped me from the practice, and I resent that my patients abandoned me. But that doesn’t mean that I killed Ms. Day.”
“I never said you did.”
“But I’ll bet money that you’ll do your best to pin it on me.”
“I’m looking for a killer, not a pound of flesh.”
“Humans search for the information that supports their opinion. And we are more likely to reject what doesn’t fit our worldview. And your tiny worldview paints me as a villain.”
“Did you kill her?” Garrison asked.
“I can’t believe you asked me that question.”
“Did you murder Sierra Day?” Garrison’s voice had more force.
“I should call your supervisor and demand you be reprimanded.”
“Did you kill her?”
Dixon faced Malcolm directly. “No.”
For a long, tense moment Malcolm stared at Dixon. He knew in his bones that the doctor was connected to this. And he feared it was only a matter of time before another woman fell prey to him. “Thank you for your time.”
Dixon rose. “That’s it?”
“For now, yes.”
“Should I get an attorney?”
“That is totally up to you.”
The detectives left the office, moving carefully and slowly as if it were business as usual. But when they got
in the car, Malcolm gripped the steering wheel, wishing he could snap it. “That son of a bitch is evil. I know he’s connected to Sierra Day’s death.”
“Knowing and proving are two different things.”
Malcolm was silent for a moment. “It’s a gut feeling.”
“Let’s dig into his recent activities. We need more than your gut.”