On the shelves above a desk, a collection of weapons made Paul stiffen. He moved closer.
Hoisting himself up onto the battered metal desk, LeBlanc scratched a bulging gut. He turned to the shelf and lifted an object up, holding it out for Paul to see. “This one’s an atomic pistol from
Buck Rogers
. Recognize it?”
Dimly recognizing the title of a movie he had seen as a child, Paul said, “Not really.”
“Used to have a ray gun from
Forbidden Planet
but I sold it to a guy who lives in Boston. That one’s bigger. Long. Maybe two feet long.”
Paul took the ray gun from him and shot it out the window. Heavy. Real metal. But nothing happened, no buzzing, no red light, no disintegration. “These all from movies?”
“Yep. No point in living down here if you can’t take advantage. Sometimes the studios have auctions. Sometimes, I pick ’em up in warehouse sales, collectors’ markets.”
“You have quite a collection.”
“Over a hundred. A lot of vintage fifties.”
So the Darth Vader look must have been intentional, although a little out of his preferred era. The guy was a sci-fi movie freak. “Any of them work?”
LeBlanc laughed, turning his face into the warren of lines that showed a hard-living past. “I wish.”
“Ever sit up here and pick off people going by down in the yard?” asked Paul, looking out the window.
“Tempting, isn’t it?” he asked. “Beats therapy.”
“Mmm,” said Paul, handing it back.
Setting the ray gun lovingly back on the shelf, LeBlanc reached into a drawer, and offered Paul a fruit drink in a collapsible aluminum packet.
“No, thanks. Too early for me,” said Paul.
LeBlanc chuckled. “Funny man.” He was in an incongruously fine mood for someone who had lost a friend. He raised his eyebrows at Paul, smiling, stuck a straw into a hole in the packet and made sucking noises. He stopped, wiped his mouth and said, “Ah. That hit the spot.”
“What are you working on?” Paul asked.
LeBlanc nodded toward the room they had just left. “That’s a Cessna, single engine. Needs a complete overhaul and the owner wants it yesterday. The usual horseshit.”
“I’ve always wondered. Why would anyone choose to fly a single-engine plane? Isn’t a twin-engine plane safer?”
“Now that’s a typical beginner’s mistake,” LeBlanc said. “Actually, there are more fatal accidents in twin engines. See, with a single engine, something goes wrong, you head instantly for the nearest open stretch of land and get on down. With two engines, it fools you. You think, hey, I’ve got one more engine. I can make it home: increases your risk because you already took one more risk than you should have. You start with a minor mistake and end up smacking into a mountainside like old Skip.”
The callous way he dismissed Connie Bailey’s husband didn’t sit well with Paul. “You been doing this work for long?” he said.
“Must be more ’n twenty years now. Whew. Time flies when you’re having supercharged fun.”
“All that time with Bailey?”
“Not at first. Skip had a regular job for a while. So it’s been more like the past ten with him.” LeBlanc dug around in his drawer again, coming up with a fistful of airplane peanut packets. “Want some?”
“No, thanks,” said Paul.
“How’s Connie making out?”
“She’s holding up.”
“That’s good,” he said, breaking open the plastic on the packaging with his teeth. “I’m glad to hear it, even though I don’t know her too well. She and I never really hit it off.”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know why. I like her fine.”
“How about you and Bailey?”
“Skip and I got along. He treated that plane like a baby.”
“So people say.”
He crunched his peanuts, looking thoughtful. “Except maybe not the NTSB,” he said. “I got a visit. I mean, aren’t they saying he blew it up there? Me and Skip go way back. I don’t like hearing them say things like that about him. Draggin’ up that old business about how he fell asleep at the wheel. It isn’t right. Let the dead rest in peace.”
“Buddies, huh?”
“Damn right, buddies.”
“Wasn’t it you who told the NTSB about Skip’s old problem?”
LeBlanc’s face screwed up into an exaggerated expression of innocence.
Paul reached over beside him and picked up a plastic packet. Ripping it open, he asked, “How long were you in?”
“How’d you know about that? Connie tell you? Because I think maybe she holds that against me sometimes.”
“Lucky guess.”
LeBlanc cocked his head and a new look entered his eyes. He began shaking his head, smiling. “I shoulda known right away. You’re an ex-cop, aren’t you? Well, I’m an ex-con, so we’re even. It’s no secret. I did five years. Shot a guy in a bar fight. Didn’t kill him, though I sure wanted to at the time. Bastard screwed my woman. That was a long time ago, early seventies. Right after I got out of ’Nam. Did a lot of drugs back then, lots of alcohol. I don’t do that stuff no more. I’m a changed man.”
“With guns that don’t have bullets.”
“That’s right. I sublimate.”
“Glad to hear it. That where you met Skip? Inside?”
He laughed raucously. “He’ll be turning in his grave, hearing you suggest any such thing. No, ol’ Skip was straight-arrow all the way. We were both Air Force.”
“You worked with him?”
“For him, you might say. Just like here.”
“He took pity on you. Hired you when no one else would.”
“I’m a damn good mechanic. If ol’ Skip had come to me all high and mighty I wouldn’t have worked for him. He knew he had the best plane mechanic in California. What’s that word that comes between sympathetic and copacetic? Both gettin’ something out of the deal?”
“Symbiotic?”
“Right. I have a way with machines. Skip knew how good I was. And I needed a job. It worked out good.”
“The plane he flew. A single-engine Beechcraft Model 18. That’s a pretty old plane, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Built in the sixties. But let me tell you a little secret. Most planes you fly in were built twenty, thirty years ago. They stuff in a coupla new seat covers, out with the orange and in with the mauve or whatever the hell else color people are painting their living room walls, and call ’em refurbished. That plane was as good as you’ll find top to bottom, and I’m not talking upholstery.” He crumpled the trash of four snack packets and two drinks and dropped them on the floor. “I gotta get moving,” he said. “Time’s money for us wage slaves.”
“Tell me about the last day,” Paul said. “What did the Beechcraft need done?”
“The usual checklist. Want a copy?”
“Sure.”
He rustled through a pile of paperwork on the desk and pulled out a folder. “I keep good records. Skip liked that about me, praised me for it many a time.”
“Tell me about that last flight. Were you here?”
“I split after we went through the check. He was a little skittish, new passenger and all. Thought she might act up, maybe.”
“She? I thought the passenger was male.”
Either he was holding back a laugh or was about to be sick. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to confuse you. You know, we always called the plane ‘she.’ I know it was a boy that went down with him, of course.”
“Was there anything iffy about that plane the day it came down? Anything in need of attention? Anything at all?”
“Not a damn thing. She was in perfect condition for a nice easy ride up to the mountains.”
“Ever been up there yourself?” Paul said casually.
“Where?”
“Tahoe, Reno, that area.”
“Nah.” No more smiling, and when he wasn’t smiling, you noticed the heavy-lidded eyes and the hard thin mouth.
“Ever met Christopher Sykes?”
“Who?” He had tensed. He knew they were at the heart of the discussion.
“The kid who was the passenger.”
“I never saw him. Never met him. Too bad about him. Yeah.” LeBlanc shook his head over Chris Sykes, and Paul thought he actually did look sorry.
On the off chance, Paul said, “I’ll be talking to Jan Sapitto tomorrow.”
He looked blank.
“You know, Jan. Lives here in LA. Old friend of Beth Sykes.”
“In case you’re wondering,” LeBlanc said, “I don’t know the lady. I don’t know these people, and I’m just a mechanic and I don’t want to be hassled because Skip took a header. It’s too bad, and not only because he’s dead. Lawyers and cops are coming out of their holes in the ground to make my life miserable. I had enough of that a long time ago.”
Paul gave him his card. “Call me if you forgot to tell me anything,” he said. “I don’t have anything against you. I’m just trying to find out what happened to that plane.”
“Keep your card,” LeBlanc said, handing it back. “I told you all I know. If I see you down there in the yard again”—he whipped a red plastic spacegun off the wall and aimed it at Paul—“I might just pick you off.” He shot a dot of blue light directly into Paul’s heart, threw back his head, and laughed.
CHAPTER 7
NINA HAD READ about a plastic surgery arrest in San Jose the week before. The Vietnamese doctor, catering to a primarily Vietnamese clientele, operated out of the back room of a beauty shop. He performed liposuction, face-lifts, and breast implants and apparently had only a passing acquaintance with anesthesiology. The problem was, anyone with an M.D. could do it. Plastic surgery was a tremendously lucrative specialty, and the market was growing as the baby boomers entered their fifties demanding to remain in their thirties.
William Sykes’s Re-Creation Clinic on Saddle Road appeared to be on the other side of the universe from San Jose, instead of just a few hundred miles away.
Sited close to the center of town on a slope below Heavenly, from the engraved brass sign to the custom Murano glass light that hung above the doorway, the clinic was a study in discretion and class. Nina parked in a small lot secluded behind tall trees and buzzed for entry. A soft voice preceded an almost ceremonial opening of the double doors leading inside. The sleek receptionist, whose desk sat in front of one of the largest picture windows overlooking the lake Nina had ever seen, practically wall-sized, led her immediately into another room. There, a capable-looking nurse in whites expressed her sorrow at the passing of Dr. Sykes, seeming quite sincere in her praise of the dead doctor, and invited Nina to wait in a chair that faced yet another incredible view.
While she waited, she helped herself to some of the glossy albums lying around, featuring before and after shots of patients who were identified only by number. Some she recognized from the advertisements on television. Others were new. All showed spectacular improvements.
“We don’t put them all in there,” a young man said, and she jumped. She closed the album she had been looking at and set it down. “Believe it or not, some clients don’t want their surgery shouted from the rooftops.” He extended his hand and Nina took it.
“I’m Dylan Brett,” said the best-looking man Nina could remember meeting in her entire life. “Bill’s partner here at the clinic.”
“Nina Reilly,” she said. While she was recovering from touching someone who looked like Pierce Brosnan and Gabriel Byrne rolled into one throbbing mass of maleness, she forced herself to remember who she was and why she was there. He sat down across a table from her, muscles tensed as if ready to run a race, a man who, by his mere presence, created an atmosphere as vibrant as sunlight in the room. Holy cow, she thought foolishly, observing him as she spoke. How the women must swoon.
“Bill’s death is a terrible blow,” he said. “He was a really special surgeon. In addition to his gift for surgery, he had a gift for dealing with people. He knew how to set them at ease. Most people come here feeling uncertain and even frightened at the prospect of surgery, but Bill could get the most panicky patients wishing they had decided to do it years ago.” A memory flitted over his face and as he laughed and shook his head, an unruly lock of dark hair fell down over his forehead, just like in the movies. “Anyone who came in here less than committed left a visit with Dr. Bill ready to mortgage the house.”
“Will the clinic continue without him?”
“Oh, yes. Chris . . . his son, showed no interest in practicing medicine, to his father’s great disappointment, although I’m sure he never told Chris that. Chris was interested in graphic arts and communications, so maybe he would have ended up doing some marketing for us eventually, but Bill was grooming me to be his successor here. He was considering retirement. We had discussed how we would handle things when that time came, so I’m prepared to take over without even having to close the clinic temporarily. I’ve already got an associate lined up who will start next month.”
“Another surgeon?”
“Yes. Board-certified, of course. He comes highly recommended. And it was my impression from meeting him that he is more like Bill than I am.”
“You mean a better salesman?”
“That’s right. I’m a surgeon and not much good for anything else.”
Oh, Nina doubted that very much. But the sensible part of her put her tongue on hold while she consulted her notes.
“Did you know Christopher well?”
“He grew up hanging around the clinic with his dad. A great kid. Funny. Close to both his parents. Quiet and smart.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“He dated now and then, but no. He didn’t settle on anyone. He was only nineteen. Told me once he had to sow his wild oats until he was at least twenty-two.” Brett sighed. “What a waste. And, of course, I can hardly believe the police would arrest Nikki. I remember her coming into the clinic with Chris a number of years ago. The whole story—the knife wounds and so on—it just doesn’t make any sense. I’d like to help any way I can.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that and I’ll tell Nikki. What about Beth Sykes? How well do you know her?”
“How is she doing?”
“She’s having a hard time.”
“Yes, I imagine she is.” He stared out the window for a minute, cleared his throat, and said, “We knew each other, of course. Got together socially. My wife and she were both active in the Friends of the Library group.”
For the first time, Nina saw the gold ring around his finger. He was married. Good for him. Bad for the women of the world.
“Tell me your impressions of the marriage.”
He shrugged. “We were all on good behavior when we got together.”
“Did he talk about their relationship?”
“Sometimes. Bill was old-fashioned. Devoted. Protective. Of course, he was older than Beth. The role fit.”
“What about signs of friction between them? Ever witness any?”
Only a slight quiver of his heavy lashes betrayed him. “No.”
“Dr. Brett, your partner was murdered.”
“Don’t tell me you’re trying to blame Beth?”
“I’m merely asking you if . . .”
“Look. In my business, as in yours, discretion is a religion. I don’t like talking about other people.”
“I understand. And you must understand that we are just trying to find out exactly what happened . . .”
“No, you’re trying to figure out a way to save your client. And that’s fine. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be wasting my time looking at Beth. She was in LA, wasn’t she?”
“It’s not just Beth,” Nina said. “It’s Dr. Sykes. I need to understand him. I need to understand his relationships.”
Looking disturbed, Brett stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a white lightweight coat over an open-at-the-collar cotton dress shirt and soft olive-colored chinos. “Some years ago, they had a falling out of some kind. I don’t know any details, I just know he was very upset. There was a phone call . . .”
“What kind of phone call?”
“He was talking with Beth. He told her he had decided not to leave her. He would forgive her anything, do anything to keep them together. Actually, it was sweet,” he said firmly. “And since then, things have settled down to normal. That’s all I know.”
“Do you think she was having an affair?”
“No idea. I just know there was a lot of emotion tossing around for a while. I was glad when they got through that phase. It was a long time ago. Couldn’t have anything to do with Bill’s death.”
Nina thought she was beginning to understand Brett better. Messy emotions got those long, lean muscles of his up and running. His comfort zone, she imagined, was basically sterile and predictable, and he liked his toys laid out on a tray, sharp and in order. “You had an equal business partnership?” Nina asked.
Looking relieved, Brett launched into an explanation of their business agreements which revealed a sophisticated grasp of legal matters and boiled down to an equal partnership. He would have to buy Beth out now, and the details of how that would come about were already spelled out in written agreements.
Brett had no obvious motive for wanting his partner out of the way. Apparently, these agreements had been in place for many years, and Sykes had been considering retirement. That sounded more like a good reason for Brett to hold tight and watch the clinic become his in the natural course of events.
“Tell me a little about your practice.”
Now, relaxed, he flashed a smile, and she held on to the table edge to keep from melting into a puddle. “Between us, we performed about fifteen minor procedures and twenty more major procedures in a week.”
“Impressive,” Nina said, really impressed and not just working to keep him feeling loose. “Thirty-five patients a week?”
“Roughly,” he said, holding on to his smile. “Some take only a few minutes, you know. We don’t run people in and out like cattle. We want enough time to make the experience here extraordinary. We want to be available to hold our patients’ hands when they need it.”
She bet they enjoyed the extraordinary experience of holding Dr. Brett’s large hand. “Did the two of you specialize in one type . . . I mean, did you do mainly faces, for example?” She resisted the urge to run her hand over her cheek at the thought.
“No, we do everything, although Bill took on the more traditional work when he had a choice. He didn’t go in for some of the newer techniques. Face and neck rejuvenation, body reshaping through liposuction, endoscopic brow lifts, breast enhancements, reductions, and reconstructions, laser skin resurfacing and chemical peels, tummy tucks, thigh lifts, batwing removal . . .”
“Batwing removal?”
“Sorry. Some of our patients refer to it that way. That’s slang for removing excess skin from the upper arm. Rhinoplasty . . .”
“Do you cater mostly to wealthy people?”
“Not at all,” he said emphatically. “We have clients who save for years for these procedures, or, as I said, take out loans. There’s no reason everyone can’t look wonderful nowadays.”
Hoping he was not looking at her so intently with an eye toward improvement, she forged on. “Excuse me, but . . . have you . . .?”
“Lantern jaw,” he said, touching his cleft chin. “Two miles longer than Jay Leno’s. Ears that stuck out. I had those reoriented. Hooded lids . . . Bill did the work. The operations were difficult and he did a good job. The pain and long healing process put him high on my shit list, especially after he broke my jaw. After I finally recovered, I realized that Bill had changed my entire life. Having those experiences made me a better surgeon. I’ll never be as good as Bill was with his patients, but I think I do have empathy, and my patients respond to that.”
So he had not always been Bondian. Inside he was normal. “Are all your patients pleased with their results?”
“There’s a lot of subjectivity in this business. Naturally, opinions vary about outcomes,” he said smoothly.
“Were there any unhappy clients in particular who stand out in your mind?”
“You’re suggesting one of our patients killed him?” The idea seemed to make him both outraged and nervous.
“It does happen, doesn’t it, and not that infrequently in your business. I’ve been looking into it. Last year a plastic surgeon in Seattle was killed by a patient . . .”
“In that particular case, your information is incorrect,” he said. “He was killed by a person who consulted him and who he deemed unsuitable for surgery, who reportedly killed him because he refused to operate.”
“And I’m sure the clinic has had a few of those. Come on, Dr. Brett. Not everyone walks away happy. And I’m sure you are as concerned as I am about the slashing of Dr. Sykes’s face. Pretty obvious symbolism, it seems to me.”
“Yes, I did think about that. There is one man I thought about,” he said grudgingly. “He got through his psychological evaluations with flying colors. It was only much later we realized he was body dysmorphic.”
“Body . . . what?”
“It’s a word used to describe people who have major delusions about the way they look. Nothing you do will satisfy them.”
“Can you tell me this patient’s name?”
“Stan Foster. It’s in the public record. He had six major surgical procedures and several minor ones, only no matter how well things went, he was chronically displeased. Once we identified his real problem, Bill told him he couldn’t in good conscience do any more surgery. The man went berserk. We had to inform the police about him after he made threats. He sued us for medical malpractice. Eventually, after we paid a lot of lawyers a lot of money, the suit was dismissed. I assume the records would be in the county clerk’s office. But don’t bother to write his name down there,” he said, pointing to her notepad.
“Why not?” She stopped writing.
“He was killed in a car crash in March.”
“Hmm.” That made him an unlikely suspect for a murder that happened in May. “Any others?” she asked.
“Of course, there were occasional difficulties with patients, but we did our best to alleviate any bad situations. When a patient isn’t satisfied, we generally do whatever it takes to make them happy. It isn’t good for business to have a dissatisfied clientele.”
“Any other surgeries that stand out in light of Dr. Sykes’s murder?”
“One other that I—I regret. A young woman named Robin Littlebear who died of a previously un-diagnosed lung ailment. She never recovered from the general anesthesia. Bill handled the surgery. He was very broken up about it. She was the only patient he ever lost. The family sued everybody, of course. Bill was cleared, but I believe he settled a small amount on the family anyway. All of that should be on file, too.”
“Oh, yes,” Nina said. “I’ve heard about that,” thanks to Sandy, who was setting up a time for her to talk to Robin Littlebear’s mother, Linda.
“What about Dr. Sykes? The autopsy report showed he had undergone extensive surgery through the years. Who performed that?”
The smile left him. His surgery was one thing. Other people’s surgery he had a hardcore habit of keeping under lock and key. So intrusive, his eyes said. Not a lady at all. “I did the most recent work.”
“Would you say he was abnormally concerned about his looks?” Nina asked.
“Certainly not,” he said, narrowing his devastating gray eyes. “You have to see this from his point of view. Patients come in here wanting to look great. He had to look good, or he would lose patients. End of story.”