Doc in the Box (10 page)

I didn’t want to disturb her, but she waved me over to her desk. “I’m working on the Doc in the Box murder,” she said.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Not in the
Gazette
. It’s a physician slaying. But that’s what everyone called the Wellhaven Medical Arts Building, and one of its docs is now in a different box—a coffin. Besides, we can’t refer to one murder as a massacre,” she said matter-of-factly. “I heard you were talking to a chemo nurse about Dr. Brentmoor. Find out anything useful?”

“Interesting, yes,” I said. “Useful, no. The doc’s heart could be used for dry ice. The man was cold. Is that your reading?”

“Amen, sister. The police were interviewing everyone in the waiting room, and they asked one patient about Dr. Brentmoor. ‘I’m sorry he’s dead,’ the patient said, ‘but you practically had to put a gun to his head to get him to take your pain seriously.’ ”

“Good quote. How’d you get it? Don’t they keep the press away from those interviews?”

“A uniform cop told me,” she said. Tina had a remarkable record of coaxing information out of the police and other balky sources. “Too bad the
Gazette
won’t let me use it. We don’t speak ill of the dead, especially after Babe drooled over him in his gossip columns. So I have the hospital spokesman’s canned quote and one from his partner, Dr. Partland, expressing his ‘profound regret.’ The best I could get from his patients was, ‘Nobody should have to die like that.’ ”

“Not exactly overcome with grief, were they? What about his wife, Stephanie? Did she show up?”

“Rushed right over from their house in Ladue. Snippy little blond bag of bones. But she didn’t talk to me.”

“Too distraught?”

“Too busy demanding that his paycheck be cut immediately. She also wanted to know when his next incentive check was due and how soon his death benefits would be paid.”

“Sounds like Babe’s ‘newsome twosome’ were well-matched for coldness. How did the doctor die, by the way? ”

“The police think the killer somehow got into the doctor’s private office. He could have been a patient. But the office’s back door was not locked in the daytime, so anyone could have slipped in. The killer could have been dressed as a UPS delivery person. One was seen running from the building at the time of the shooting.”

“Any description of the UPS driver?”

“One woman said he was wearing shorts, had tanned, muscular legs, and tight buns. Never got to his face.”

“Reverse sexism. I love it.”

Tina laughed and then quoted from her notes: “Dr. Brentmoor saw patients that morning until twelve-fifteen. Then he went into his office and was shot five times. A nurse heard the doctor begging for his life, then saw someone running for the fire stairs. She thought the shooter was male, but ‘he’ might have been a tall woman. A witness saw someone running out the fire-stairs door wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a blue work shirt. He or she ran toward the hospital parking garage, disappearing into the heavy lunchtime traffic. That’s all we know. It’s not much to go on. Police are checking out reports of both suspects, the UPS man and the jeans person.”

She glanced at the newsroom clock. “Gotta go, Francesca. This is due in less than an hour.”

I could tell which reporters weren’t working on the Brentmoor murder. They were clustered around Endora’s desk. She’s our society reporter. The horse-faced Endora belonged to a well-connected St. Louis family, which was how she got the
Gazette
job in the first place.

“Hey, Vierling,” she called in a loud voice. Why did women who went to expensive schools always yell? “Want to join the tornado pool? We’re betting on how many wire service articles about tornadoes contain the phrase, ‘sounded like a freight train’ for the next four weeks.”

“Including tornado features?”

“No, news stories only. If there’s a tie, you have to estimate the number of houses and businesses without power during the four-week period. It starts today with this AP article about a tornado that wiped out a new subdivision in Marshalltown, Iowa. The
tornado hit a house when a workman was inside. He said, ‘The sky turned black, and all of a sudden …’ ” 

“I heard a noise that sounded like a freight train,”
we chorused. We lived in Tornado Alley. People used that phrase again and again because it was absolutely accurate, but we sure got tired of the quote. I picked my numbers and put down five bucks.

It was seven o’clock before I could leave the office and head over to Illinois and the Heart’s Desire. Its tacky liveliness was appealing after the hospital grimness. The secondhand smoke and stale beer smells were a healthy change from Moorton Hospital’s refrigerated sickness. There weren’t quite as many women in the audience, and their screams weren’t as frenzied as they were for Leo, but Officer Friendly had plenty of enthusiastic fans. In fact, if I hadn’t seen the crowds for Leo, I’d say he was a hit. One chubby brunette kept stuffing five-dollar bills in his G-string like it was a craft project. I watched him dance for a while. He knew the moves, and he was handsomer than Leo in a more conventional way, but he didn’t have what my grandmother would call sex appeal. The wild, unpredictable streak that made a woman want to forget herself wasn’t there. He really was Officer Friendly.

I didn’t have any plan. I wanted to sit and watch for a while, and see if I saw anything interesting. I took a table at the back of the room and ordered club soda from a topless young man wearing only a black bow tie and Speedos. I knew this getup was supposed to be sexy, but I kept wondering if he’d get one of his chest hairs in my drink. I sucked down three club
sodas, and by break time, I was looking for a restroom. I made a wrong turn in the hall and caught a glimpse of Officer Friendly being very friendly in the wings with a smashing young blonde who had platinum hair down to her waist. He had his hand down her red hip huggers and was kissing her deeply. She had her arms around his muscular shoulders and was enthusiastically returning the kiss. Pretty young women were an indulgence in his business. He should be chatting up the chubby brunette who passed out fives like fliers for the VFW picnic. When I came out of the restroom, the blonde was gone, and Officer Friendly was waiting to go back onstage. I waved to him, and he came over. “Good crowd,” I said.

“Not bad,” he shrugged. “I have some fans.”

“So I saw. That blonde was definitely demonstrating her appreciation.”

“She was just a friend,” he said, but I saw the fear. “Gotta go.”

If she was just a friend, I’d like to see him with someone he knew well. I swilled club soda through the last show, then waited till the crowd thinned. Twenty minutes later, I blended in with a group of giggling women heading for the parking lot. When they went to their cars, I turned toward the distant employees’ lot, and stood in the shadows by the Dumpsters. I could hear something small rustling through the smelly ooze inside, and hoped it was a hungry cat. But with the chemical plants belching their unnatural yellow smoke, even that probably had two heads.

About half an hour after the show Office Friendly came out the backstage door, looked around to see if
anyone was watching, then ran for a blue Miata. As soon as he opened the passenger door, it took off, leaving a white rooster tail of rock dust in the parking lot. The bright security lights caught a long flash of frosty white and blood red inside the car. The platinum blonde in the red outfit was driving, and she kept her car’s headlights off until they were on the highway. Officer Friendly had something to hide.

I could see the Miata was heading toward Belleville, an old German community on the East Side that was like my neighborhood in south St. Louis, only more so. More little red brick houses and more appreciation of order and sameness. There weren’t too many cars on the road at that hour. I floored my Jaguar and quickly caught up with the Miata, then followed at a sedate pace behind. Soon we were on Belleville’s main street, which was called Main Street, until the Miata turned off into a brick apartment complex. I watched them park, noted which door they unlocked, then went home. It was one-thirty in the morning.

The next morning I was back in my usual routine, having breakfast at Uncle Bob’s. I was glad I got custody of Uncle Bob’s when Lyle and I split. That’s what happened when a couple broke up: they divided up their old stomping grounds, like they divvied up their other joint property. Lyle got the Central West End, where he lived, and I got the South Side, my natural territory. It wasn’t as bad for us as some couples. I had one woman friend who lost a dry cleaner, a shoe repair shop, and her favorite supermarket in the divorce. The husband was no big loss, but those were irreplaceable.

I’d settled comfortably into my booth with my breakfast when a shadow loomed over me, blocking my light. Oh, god, it was Warren. I wasn’t ready for Warren before I had my coffee. Warren was a paunchy fifty-five-year-old car salesman who fancied himself a ladies’ man. He used to pat Marlene accidentally on the bosom and buns, until she accidentally dropped a pitcher of ice water on his head. He wore a brown polyester jacket, yellow knit shirt open to reveal silver chest hair, self-belted tan polyester pants, and mustard yellow socks with brown clocks to tie the color scheme together. He had a clunky fake Rolex, an imitation diamond ring, and an insincere smile.

“I saw Lyle yesterday,” he said. Funny, my real friends never saw Lyle. Just people like Warren.

“Oh,” I said cautiously.

“He was at that place you used to hang out together, O’Connell’s. Looked like he was waiting for someone. I didn’t see her arrive, though. I had to go.” That little knife twist. Her.

“Then how did you know it was a woman he was waiting for?”

“An educated guess. A guy like Lyle won’t be sitting around getting lonesome after you’ve thrown him out. Of course, if you’re ever feeling lonesome yourself, you can always look me up.” He grinned flirtatiously, showing yellow teeth.

“Warren, if I spent six months in a lighthouse, I wouldn’t call you.”

“You don’t have to get nasty,” he said. “You ain’t getting any younger, Francesca. It pays to be nice, you know.” But he left in a huff. I hoped he was really
mad and wouldn’t speak to me ever again, but I knew I’d have no such luck.

“Want me to dump this pot of decaf on him?” Marlene asked.

“I wished he’d soak his head,” I said. “What a jerk.”

“Get anywhere with the dancer story?” she said, pouring me another cup. I told her how it was going, then mentioned that Georgia’s doctor was a partner with the murdered Dr. Brentmoor.

“ ‘Better Sell’ Brentmoor,” she said. “I’m surprised someone didn’t shoot him long ago.”

“You knew him?”

“I knew about him. A lot of ER nurses eat here. One of his colon cancer patients was brought to the Emergency Room one afternoon with a possible bowel blockage. The ER doctor called Brentmoor in for a consultation—he was in his office at the Doc in the Box building. The patient was writhing in pain, and the ER was waiting for Brentmoor’s opinion on the X rays, when he looked at the clock, saw it was three forty-five, and said he had to make an emergency phone call. He grabbed his cell phone and went into an empty consultation room. One of the nurses needed some supplies in that room, and heard what the big emergency was. He was calling his broker. ‘The market’s still dropping?’ the great healer said. ‘Better sell.’

“After that, he was known in the ER as Better Sell Brentmoor.”

“Jeez,” I said, “no wonder his patients didn’t want to talk to the police.”

Marlene went off with the coffeepot to top off diners’ cups, and came back from her rounds excited. “Something’s going on in the back room,” she said. “I
think it may be the Doc in the Box case. A bunch of police brass are back there, all guys, who think they’re so sharp they’ll cut themselves if they rub their hands together.”

“If they were really sharp, they’d tip you,” I said.

“Oh, I’m just a dumb waitress,” she said. “What do I know?”

Marlene knew everything that went on at Uncle Bob’s and a lot that happened in City Hall. The back room was semiprivate, and a lot of city skulduggery went on there. The men who used it generally tipped Marlene as if each dollar was stripped off their hide, and ordered her around like they were little kings. Marlene got her revenge by reporting their conversations to me.

“I’m really busy today,” she said. “I can’t hang around back there and listen.”

“Think I’ll use the back bathroom,” I said.

“It was open last time I checked,” she said. “Lock the door, and I’ll put up the sign. And make sure the boys in the back room don’t see you going in there.”

I walked down the back hall next to the kitchen where the waitresses and dishwashers sneaked cigarettes and caught a glimpse of the knotty-pine paneled back room. Two younger-looking men were listening to a fit silver-haired type as if he was promising them eternal salvation. The younger men had that short-haired scrubbed-clean look of very good yes-men. I didn’t know them, but I knew the older guy. He was Major Gideon Davis, high-ranking brass in the St. Louis Police Department. Davis was the first person to get his mug on camera whenever there was a high-profile case, and he often served as a police spokesman. If the case was solved, he never gave
credit to the detectives who did the work, but somehow managed to imply that he cracked the case himself, without actually saying that. The three sat at a long table covered with paper placemats, coffee cups, and legal pads, deep in conversation. No one looked up.

I slid quietly into the back bathroom and locked the door. I heard a clunk on the outside. Marlene had hung the Out of Order sign on the doorknob. I kicked off my shoes. If I stood on the toilet seat, which had a tendency to wobble, I could hear some of their conversation through the vent near the ceiling. I held on to the top of the scratched beige metal divider with one hand, and put my other hand flat against the tile wall, and listened at the vent. I caught “…  the hospital lawyers are going to refuse us … mumble … we have to make a formal request anyway … mumble … be denied access to patient records … ask our in-house counsel to file an appeal in circuit court …”