“Yes, although I hate to think of my boys and girls doing such a thing.”
“But there’s still something wrong with this whole picture. The Mayan laborers were indentured servants. All their meager earnings went to pay off their slave masters—um—creditors. So where did they get the money for the weapons they were shipping back home?”
“And then there is that other sheet of paper that Gladys gave to Eulalia,” the contessa said. “What could the Isis Women’s Comprehensive Health and Fertility Clinic possibly have to do with any of this?”
“I have no idea. But here’s one thing: that ‘UD’ preceding Gladys’s name on the medical chart? It was probably originally ‘IUD,’ since the left margin was torn off. Gladys had probably gotten an intrauterine device at the Isis Clinic.”
“Well, so what?” the contessa asked. “Why was she compelled to give the record of this to Eulalia? We know IUDs are fairly notorious for complications, but what could this have to do with Gladys’s death by strangulation?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’ll sure as hell find out. I’m going to head out there now.”
THE RIDE INTO town was uneventful, aside from the usual blind Stupid User Vehicle drivers cutting me off and a couple young self-styled studs on crotch rockets—Kawasakis and such—trying to challenge me to a drag race. Please. I outgrew the need to prove anything to anybody the day I ended my Boca Babe life.
I pulled up to the Isis Clinic. It was located just off Mizner Park, the chichi little shopping plaza that is the place to see and be seen in Boca. This wasn’t migrant farmworker territory. So what could Gladys have been doing here?
I took off my leathers and helmet and stashed them in my saddlebags. I proceeded to the entrance, where discreet silver block lettering read “Isis Women’s Comprehensive Health And Fertility Clinic—We Treat You Like The Goddess You Are.”
Oh-kay. I took a deep, cleansing breath, focused on my third eye chakra, and tried to summon the goddess within. A little yoga exercise left over from my Boca days. However, She seemed to be on strike. I still felt like the same mere mortal that I had woken up as that morning.
I opened the door and entered a plush waiting room, decorated in shades of pink and white. It was occupied by two Boca Babes, who briefly looked up from their copies of Town & Country and Condé Nast Traveler to check out the newcomer. It was also occupied by a school of exotic fish in a large, built-in aquarium, but they didn’t bother checking me out.
I crossed the room to a tall counter topped with a sliding frosted-glass window. The window slid open, and a receptionist looked out. She was a carbon copy of the one I’d encountered at Tricia Weinstein’s office the day before. I swear, sometimes I think there’s a factory somewhere in Boca that stamps them out in bulk—long blond hair, fake boobs, bony butts.
The receptionist handed me a clipboard and said, “Please sign in and give us your insurance card.”
“I’m not a patient.” I handed her my business card. “I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of a woman who may have been a patient here.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I can neither confirm nor deny whether anyone has ever been a patient here. And even if she had been a patient, we couldn’t tell you anything about her. We observe patient confidentiality strictly.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “My client, the Contessa von Phul, will be most distressed to hear that.”
The woman’s face blanched. “I’ll see if the clinic director is available,” she said quickly.
“Great! Thanks so much,” I replied.
In Boca, it was all about knowing what leverage to use with whom. Whereas mention of the police had worked wonders with Miguel yesterday, that would never cut the mustard on this side of town. One or two rounds on the golf course with the right people would easily rectify any little problem posed by the police. A different incentive was needed here, and the contessa was it. Like I said before, you don’t mess with the contessa.
The receptionist rose, and I watched her stride down a hallway. Have you ever noticed how those fake-boob women always walk as if they have broomsticks up their asses, thrusting their prized assets out there for all the world to admire? “These Tits are Made for Walkin”’ seems to be their theme song.
Just as I sat down, the front door opened. I looked up to see a blast from my past—a former friend from my former life. Brigitta Larsen O’Malley was one of the reigning Babes of Boca. She was a six-foot-tall blond bombshell who had been Miss Denmark and third runner-up for Miss Universe back in the mid-eighties. Soon thereafter, she’d married now eighty-year-old Lapidus O’Malley and started her post-pageant life, which consisted of bearing Lapidus’s offspring (his third set), spending his money, and being Boca’s most sought-after aerobics instructor. Lapidus was the senior partner in the law firm that my husband had been in, which is how our paths had crossed.
I always felt awkward whenever I ran into old friends like this. Mainly because their own awkwardness at encountering me was so evident. They wished I didn’t exist. I had exposed one of the dark secrets of the Boca Babes’ seemingly perfect world. Not that all of them were beaten by their husbands, but for more than a few there was that ugly truth beneath the beauty. I had broken the code of silence, and to them that made me a traitor. However, they’d deserted me when I really could have used some support, so who had betrayed whom?
But I decided to take the high road at this moment.
“Hey, Gitta,” I said.
She glanced up. “Oh! Harriet!”
Her hand shot up, and she nervously fingered her necklace, a thick silver link chain with a nameplate boldly stamped Tiffany & Co. Her bust was stamped Versace and her bag, Vuitton. God, she was a walking billboard. Why not just hang a big sign saying For Sale around her neck?
Her pale blue eyes slid past me to the two Babes.
“Heather! Laurel!” She walked past me, and a flurry of air-kissing ensued among the trio.
“Love your Jimmy Choos,” Heather/Laurel said to her.
“Thank yooouuu!” Brigitta squealed. “I got them in the city when we were up there this weekend.”
“Oh, we were just there, too. You know we just got a new penthouse on Park Avenue,” the other Heather/Laurel said.
Brigitta sniffed, then pulled out a tissue from her bag and blew her red-tipped nose. I recognized the signs. Miss Copenhagen was now Miss Cokehead.
They continued their insipid conversation. I had become invisible. There was my former life before my eyes, displayed in its near entirety for my viewing horror. Nothing but shopping and schmoozing, schmoozing and shopping. Some might say that for me it was Shopping Paradise Lost. But I say it’s Hog Heaven Gained.
In a few minutes, the door leading to the inner sanctum opened, and Miss Tits, the receptionist, announced, “Ms. Horowitz, the doctor will see you now.”
She ushered me down a hallway where various medical personnel were milling around. We passed some examination rooms, where I caught sight of those metal stirrups—you know the ones I’m talking about. Ugh! Is there any other piece of medical equipment that bears a greater resemblance to a medieval torture device? Okay, a dentist’s drill, maybe. But it’s close.
We entered an office, where a man was seated behind a large oak desk. He was your typical GQ Man of Style. In his forties, tall, with dark hair and that oh-so-distinguished gray at the temples matching perfectly with his slate-colored eyes. Immaculate grooming and attire. Crisp shirt cuffs with gold links extended just the right distance beneath his white lab coat. He must have been a real hot item around town. Boca Babe wannabes were always on the lookout for Dr. Right.
He smiled, displaying a nice set of porcelain veneers, and reached out a hand. “Hello, Ms. Horowitz. I’m Dr. Steve Farber, the clinic director,” he said.
Framed dip
lomas on the wall behind him identified him as a graduate of the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, a board-certified member of the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, blah, blah, blah. Okay, so I guess he wasn’t a total quack. I shook his hand.
“Please have a seat,” he said, and I did. Miss Tits left.
“Candi tells me that you are investigating the murder of a possible patient on behalf of the contessa. Naturally, we are eager to help in any way we can. Normally, of course, we do not release patient information, but in view of the tragic circumstances, that changes things. If indeed the victim was a patient here and we can help bring her killer to justice, it’s the least we could do. Now, what is the woman’s name, and what makes you think she may have been one of our patients?”
“Gladys Gutierrez. I have acquired what looks like part of her medical chart. Of course, I’m not at liberty to say where I got it, as I’m sure you understand,” I put in before he could ask.
“Absolutely, no problem,” he said. “May I see the record?” I handed it to him. “Yes, it does look like it’s from one of our charts. Let’s find out.” He pushed an intercom button and said, “Candi, will you please see if we have a file on a Ms. Gladys Gutierrez?”
“Yes, Doctor,” a disembodied voice replied.
“Perhaps while we wait, I can tell you a little about our clinic,” he offered. It was the salesman in him talking, I could tell.
“Sure,” I said. You never knew what useful information could come from people running off at the mouth.
“We are proud to be one of the leading women’s health and fertility clinics in the nation,” he began. “We provide a comprehensive array of services for women of all ages. We offer everything from basic exams to a full range of contraceptives, prenatal care, labor and delivery, and outpatient surgery. We have a complete surgical suite on site and a full operating room staff, so we’re able to do almost any gynecological procedure and send the patient back to the comfort of her own home the same day. We also provide a full spectrum of gynecological reconstructive and cosmetic procedures, including vaginal retightening, hymen reconstruction, and labia reduction.”
“Oh, really?” I said. “Can you restring my guitar, too?”
He stopped a moment, then continued. “As I’m sure you can imagine, Ms. Horowitz, these are not laughing matters to many women. Take hymen reconstruction, for instance. As you know, here in South Florida our community is greatly enriched by having a diverse, multicultural population. But, as you may be aware, in some cultures the men will only marry virgins. So, if a young lady has had premarital relations, should that condemn her for life? We like to think not. With a hymen reconstruction, she can restore her virginity and go on to live a fulfilling life as a wife and mother. We take substantial pride in our culturally sensitive practice in this regard.
“Or, let’s take labia reduction. With the proliferation of nudity in the media these days, many women feel that their genitalia just don’t measure up to the ones their husbands or boyfriends are looking at in Playboy or on the Internet or whatnot. So with a little nip and tuck, that problem is easily corrected. And then, of course, there’s vaginal retightening. Naturally, the birth canal stretches during delivery, and it doesn’t spring right back, so to speak, afterward. So, many women fear that they won’t be able to please their husbands in the same way as before. So again, that problem can be easily corrected.
“In essence, Ms. Horowitz, here at the Isis Clinic, we promote a woman’s sense of her divine womanhood. These fairly minor surgical procedures make radical transformations in the patient’s self-esteem, life satisfaction and empowerment.”
Okay, I got it—pussy power. When did feminism get co-opted by the medical establishment?
“Furthermore,” the good doctor went on, oblivious to my internal lament, “our greatest point of pride is our fertility program. We offer the very latest in assisted reproductive technology—all the enhancements of in vitro fertilization, including intracytoplasmic sperm injection, assisted hatching, and zygote intrafallopian transfer. And of course we take a holistic approach that treats the mind, body, and soul. We offer counseling, meditation, and all the Eastern approaches. Our success rate is one of the highest in the country—in the world, for that matter.”
“Well, it sounds like you’ve got a pretty good gig going here,” I said amiably.
At that moment, Candi walked in with a green manila file folder under her arm. “Here is the patient chart you requested, Doctor,” she said.
“Thank you, Candi.” She left, and he looked at me. “So, Ms. Gutierrez was indeed a patient here.” He opened the file and leafed through it. “Okay, I see where the missing sheet belongs, but I can’t imagine how it got out of this file. That ‘UD’ that’s on that sheet of paper? It was originally IUD, intrauterine device.”
Of course, I already knew that, ace detective that I am.
He went on, “She was fitted with an IUD here about two years ago. She came back a month later for a follow-up, and there were no problems noted. That was her last visit. She would have been due back a year later.”
“That would be about the time she was murdered. Is there anything else in there about her? At this stage of my investigation, any information—no matter how irrelevant it might seem—could turn out to be important.”
He leafed through the chart some more. “Well, she didn’t know her date of birth, or even the year, so we judged her to be in her early twenties. Her physical exam showed no remarkable findings. Her vital signs were all within normal ranges. She didn’t complain of any problems. Basically, she was just seeking a reliable method of contraception, so we recommended the IUD. It’s long-term and doesn’t require any action on the part of the patient. Plus, the male partner need not be aware of its use. In some cultures, the men believe that a woman who is using contraception must be ‘loose.’ So, the IUD puts the woman in control of her own body, without upsetting the traditional gender roles or inciting domestic violence. So that’s about it. Gladys was basically a healthy young woman. What a tragic loss of life.”
“Dr. Farber,” I said, “let me be blunt.” As if I was ever anything but. “At the time she came here, Gladys Gutierrez was an illegal immigrant working in the tomato fields. Health insurance was not part of her ‘employee benefits package.’ Your clinic would appear to serve an entirely different class of clientele. How is it that Gladys came to this clinic?”
“Ms. Horowitz., with all due respect, I fear you may have misjudged us. We here at the Isis Clinic firmly believe that health care is every woman’s right. We are strongly committed to providing health care access for all populations, and so we do some pro bono work. We employ a part-time health educator who does outreach to the migrant farmworkers.”
“Cool,” I said. There didn’t seem to be anything more for me to ask. “All right, thanks for your time. The contessa will be most grateful.”
“I was happy to help,” he said. “I only wish I had more information to give you. To tell you the truth, I’m disappointed myself. I was hoping there would be a major clue in this file, but it doesn’t seem like it.”
“Well, you never know what might become significant later,” I said, and got up to leave.
“Ms. Horowitz, it has been a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Should you or any of your family and friends ever be in need of women’s health care, I hope you’ll keep us in mind.” He handed me his business card. “Have you had your annual pelvic exam?” he asked.
“Um, I might be a couple years overdue,” I admitted. Well, I hadn’t seen any action down there in about that long, so why bother?
“Well, as I’m sure you know, prevention and early detection are the keys to good health. Take care of your body, and it will take care of you. You really should make an appointment with us.”
“All right, I will,” I said. As if.
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br /> I STOPPED BY the laundromat on my way home and threw my tomato-infused clothes into the washing machine. I missed having my laundry picked up and delivered to my door. As a Boca Babe, my idea of dirty laundry was kibitzing about the neighbors.
I sat there and watched the clothes spin around and around, the water turning redder and redder. The circular motion was like a mandala, putting me into a meditative frame of mind—almost like riding my Hog, but not quite.
It was in that half trance that it suddenly struck me.
Eureka! I’d found it—the secret Boca Babe factory that I’d long suspected of existing! The Isis Clinic. Think about it. They were on the cutting edge fertility technology. There was only one inescapable conclusion: the Isis Clinic was producing clones! Boca Babe clones, to be exact. Not that this epiphany got me any closer to finding Gladys’s killer.
Chapter 10
I SAT ON the porch, drank my Hennessy, and expounded my Boca Babe Clone Theory to Lana. She opened her jaws wide, drew back her lips to expose her deadly weapons, then slowly closed her trap again. Had I just witnessed a gator yawn? Okay, I got the message. She wasn’t too impressed with my theory.
Yeah, so maybe I had jumped the gun a little. On reconsideration, it may have been a little far-fetched. After all, a human clone had never been produced, notwithstanding the claims of that wacko cult a while back. Anyway, clones didn’t just materialize in full adult form. If Boca was populated by Babe clones now, they would had to have been created at least twenty years ago. Not a likely possibility, I had to admit.
Just then the phone rang.
“Harriet, you will not believe—I’ve met the most wonderful man!”
Damn! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. My mother was incapable of spending a couple weeks alone without casting out the nets to see what she could catch.
“So, tell me about him,” I said through gritted teeth.
“He is completely charming, thoughtful, intelligent. We spent the day on Saint Lucia together and had a marvelous time. And guess what? He lives right in Boca. Sergei says—”
Dirty Harriet Page 6