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?”
“You mean the one in the snug uniform and hooker shoes?”
I smiled. Zee seldom missed anything.
“Yes. Did you notice any of the other women in the office dressed like that?” Without waiting for her response, I continued. “Amber— that was her name—was a definite blond bombshell. Don’t you think if Brian Eddy was the Blond Bomber, he’d find easier pickings at work instead of combing Southern California for victims?”
“Not really.” Zee paused to think it over. “Killing someone so close to home would raise major suspicions. The police would definitely question all the men who knew her, including her boss.” She paused. “Do you know if any of the other victims were patients of his besides Crystal Lee?”
“Not yet, but I intend to find out, though I doubt the young girl, Gabby, was.”
“But now that you mention it,” Zee said once she’d finished eating, “none of the other women in that office that I saw were dressed like that one assistant. I’ll ask La Tanya about Amber.”
“No, Zee. I don’t want you involved.”
“What’s the harm in asking a simple question? I’m just curious. All the women in that office were drop-dead gorgeous, but only she was dressed in a provocative manner.”
I thought about that, happy that Zee had made the same observations I had but not happy with her decision to get involved. If she kept this up, I might be the one putting someone under lock and key for her own good.
“What about La Tanya? Is she gorgeous?”
Zee grinned. “Think Whitney Houston.”
“Before or after Bobby Brown?”
“Before.”
I raised my eyebrows in a silent, appreciative wow.
The chat room was hopping with meaningless banter. I looked at the notes to the right-hand side of my keyboard and confirmed that I was in the right place. On the paper were the names of three Internet chat rooms frequented by Perfect4u. The one I was currently in was the one in which she and Knotdead had met and continued to use for their online rendezvous before switching to private instant messages. Lil had told me that Knotdead was the screen name used by Brian Eddy.
Lil had agreed to not go online as Perfect4u anymore and to let me use the screen name to try and ferret out information about her son. She had given me a list with her password and the three chat rooms in which she had played as a twenty-something hottie.
I could tell she wasn’t happy that her fantasy life had come to a screeching halt, but in the end Lil realized that her double life wasn’t such a good idea. But even though she understood the serious situation her activities had created, I wondered if she would succumb to the call of the tech-age fountain of youth and create a new alter ego to continue cruising the web for excitement. Who knows, thinking the odds were in her favor that something this bizarre would never happen again—besides, she only had one son—maybe she was already playing cyber footsie somewhere under another name.
In an attempt to not throw stones at my friend, I took a moment to honestly examine myself. Internet chat didn’t particularly attract me, but what if I could convince someone I was a size four and twenty-two years old? Would I enjoy it? Would I be drawn into the double life out of unhappiness or frustration with the inevitable march of time? Hard to say.
Cupping a mug of hot tea in my hands, I sat in our home office and watched the meaningless chat scroll by, line by line, in an upward-moving waterfall of words. I took note of who was present. Or, more importantly, who was not present. Greg had taken the day shift both Monday and Tuesday, signing on as Perfect4u during the day and keeping the chat room open while he worked. He said Knotdead showed up only once, and that was this morning around ten o’clock. Unfortunately, Greg was away from the computer at the time and didn’t see the message, which contained several hellos and several pleas of talk to me and professions of love.
Greg was more amused, however, by the numerous other messages sent to Perfect4u, all from men and all obviously acquainted with her in a flirtatious and sexual way, though not in person. He’d told me over dinner tonight that some of the messages had been quite steamy. In fact, at one point, he announced that he had spent a little time conversing as Perfect4u, and the experience had given him some ideas. When my husband winked at me across the meatloaf, I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or frightened. Maybe I should be both.
Tonight it was my turn to stand guard as Perfect4u in search of contact with Knotdead. Greg had returned to Ocean Breeze Graphics to finish up a large rush project for an important customer. He was also breaking in a new assistant. Boomer, his faithful and talented right-hand man for many years, had recently gotten married and moved to Colorado with his lovely bride.
Greg had mentored Boomer, a pierced and alternative-looking teen with a minor juvenile record and bad home life, when no one else would give him a chance. But Greg had seen something special under the tattoos and Day-Glo hair. Boomer had turned out to be a talented artist and computer genius who had just needed someone to believe in him.
About fifteen years ago, Greg inherited money from his grandfather. The funds allowed him to buy and remo
del the home we live in and to start Ocean Breeze Graphics. Once his business was established, Greg had used some of the money to start a college scholarship program for his employees. Starting out as Greg’s delivery boy, Boomer had put himself through college with Greg’s assistance. Last year, he approached Greg with a business plan to expand Ocean Breeze outside of California, with him as Greg’s partner. Greg was so proud of Boomer and impressed with the plan, it didn’t take him long to say yes, especially since one of his largest clients was located in Colorado. Next month, we are all meeting in Denver to launch Mountain Breeze Graphics, with future plans for a Desert Breeze Graphics in Phoenix in another year or so. It was exciting times for all of us, and both Greg and I were so proud of Boomer.
But with Boomer gone from the mother ship, Greg had to spend more time at the shop. His new assistant was another long shot who showed promise under the right tutelage. Chris Fowler was a scrawny high-school dropout referred to Greg for part-time work a few years ago by a client. When hired, Greg insisted that part of working for him would include Chris obtaining his GED, which he did. Last September, with help from Ocean Breeze, he started community college. Though not as gifted as Boomer in the arts department, Chris was proving to be a steady hand with the mechanics of the business and a favorite with both the staff and customers, and, like Boomer, there wasn’t a machine in the shop he couldn’t fix or maintain.
Boredom with the chat room set in after only ten minutes. Picking up the novel I was currently reading, I buried my nose in it, only glancing from time to time at the ongoing chat. Seamus was curled on the small loveseat in the corner of the room, and Muffin was a ball of gray fur between the keyboard and the screen. Wainwright was with Greg.
After an hour, there was still no sign of Brian Eddy. I stood up and stretched and went to the kitchen to refresh my teacup. Muffin followed me out to the kitchen. She mewed softly and rubbed my ankles. I tossed her a couple of kitty treats while the tea kettle heated. She was so cute that a part of me hoped Lisa Luke would not want her back.
Booby Trap Page 8