Falls the Shadow (13 page)

“A dry socket,” said Dr. Bob. “See, the clot is gone, and now the bone of the jaw is exposed, with all its jangling nerves. I warned you, Victor. Didn’t I warn you? But apparently you were too bullheaded to listen. Now we have a problem. You were worrying the clot with your tongue, weren’t you?”

“Arrghighahoo.”

“Of course you tried not to, everyone tries not to, but some are too weak to resist. You had a soda pop, I’d wager, or a beer. Didn’t I give you explicit instructions? Even with my best efforts, the failures of others sometimes get in the way and the unexpected happens. It is hard to describe how frustrating that can be. Yet this, too, can be solved, have no fear.”

Telling me to have no fear while in a dentist chair was like telling Marley’s ghost to look alive.

“Any changes in your medical or personal situation since last we met?”

“Ayyaaw,” I said.

“Other than the pain in your jaw, of course. No? Good. So I assume that means you still are not in a fulfilling sexual relationship. I know, these things take time, but maybe I can help. Open wider. We’ll need to clean the hole before I apply the dressing. The water might tingle a bit. Yes, yes, very good. Why is your leg shaking like that? That didn’t hurt too much, did it? Stop nodding your head, please, you’re making it hard for me to see. Now, let me just dry it with a quick burst of air.”

He reached in with his air nozzle and blew dry the hole. My shoe flew against the wall.

Dr. Bob turned his head to inspect the scuff mark. “Second time that happened this week.”

He opened a small, squat jar, and the smell of cloves wafted through the room. He took a long piece of gauze off his tray with a metal forceps, dipped the whole thing in the jar. It came out smeared thickly with a brown ooze.

“Now open wide, this is sometimes a bit tricky. Yes, I’ve managed to help many of my patients find more than just a bright, shiny smile. Hold on, now, I have to pack this tightly in, section by section. The smell is rather nice, but the ointment tastes suspiciously of earwax. Tense your neck as I push down. Excellent. I’ll wipe away the tears from your cheek. It will be over very soon.”

He turned toward his tray, fiddled.

“I’ve had some success in matching up my patients. It is not something I do as a matter of course, I am not a busybody, heavens, but I do like to help. And I must admit, from my chair has dropped more than one acorn that has grown into the mighty oak of marriage.”

He leaned over me, brushing my chest as he adjusted the light. “Open up now, let me get a good look. Ah, yes. Now tense that neck.” As he worked, all ahs and ohs, my head bobbed up and down like a baseball giveaway.

“I had a patient in Baltimore with a rather unfortunate overbite who was, as one would expect with such a mouth, a rabid Republican. Whenever we talked, as I worked like an overmatched jockey to rein in his teeth, it was all politics politics politics, and always mindlessly doctrinaire. It was like having the Fox News Channel in my chair. Except for his bite, he wasn’t a bad-looking man, but needless to say he didn’t date much.”

He took out his hands, adjusted the light again, peered so closely into my mouth I could count his nose hairs.

“Nice. Okay, almost finished. Tilda,” he called, “can you come in, please?”

The hulking figure of the hygienist appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Doctor.”

“I’m almost through here. Get Mrs. Winterhurst ready, please.”

“Very good, Doctor.”

“Make sure her entire dress is covered with toweling. She’s a bleeder, and we don’t want to ruin another Givenchy. And, Tilda, I think we’ll need to paint that wall again.”

She leaned inside, observed the scuff on the wall, my shoe on the floor. She sneered at my weakness before she left.

“Open wide,” said Dr. Bob. “At the same time, I had a patient with two impacted wisdom teeth. A small woman, always angry. She, too, would constantly discuss politics, but she was a raging liberal, a bleeding-heart Democrat to the core, and incensed at everything the Republican Party had perpetrated—her word—upon the country. And she seemed very anxiety-struck about the deficit for some reason. Her calendar, too, was pathetically empty.”

“Ayaheeay,” I said.

“Absolutely. I’m not much one for politics, it all seems so grubbily self-interested. And it tends to take on the reflexive quality of rooting for a sports team, don’t you think? Democrats hate the Republican Party the way Phillies fans hate the Mets. Not much considered thought in that, is there? Although how a mere political party could be more loathsome than the Mets is beyond me.”

“Ayahee.”

“And don’t get me started on Don Young.”

“Ooh?”

“I said don’t get me started. One person’s miracle is another person’s disaster. I could hear the groaning from my backyard. But both Baltimore patients had answered question sixteen much as you did, Victor, and I could see in each, along with the loneliness, a certain overwrought sensitivity. They were, perhaps, made for each other. But how to get them together, how to get them past the blindness of their politics?”

Another press into my jaw that sent my neck into spasm.

“I think we’re pretty much done,” said Dr. Bob. “How does that feel, Victor?”

I rubbed my neck, took a deep breath, gently rested my tongue against the now dressed wound, pressed harder. “It feels fine,” I said, slightly shocked that it actually did. “The pain is gone.”

“That’s the point. It’s rather simple, really. Now, try not to disturb the dressing, though I know it might be hard for someone such as you. And under no circumstances should you eat lamb’s bladder.”

“Why? Will that hurt the wound?”

“No, but it’s disgusting, don’t you think?” He laughed, I winced. “And now, Victor, it’s time to decide how to handle the missing tooth on a more permanent basis. What I’d like to do,” said Dr. Bob, “is to drill into your jaw.”

“Oh, I bet you would,” I said.

“I would drill a hole and screw in an implant. If all goes well, the implant will graft solidly into your bone, something called osseointegration. After about three to six months, depending on the success of the integration, atop the abutment I would attach a restoration, which is that part of the implant that looks like a tooth. It is the most permanent solution. It’s also the most painful and most expensive.”

“Why am I not surprised? And it takes six months?”

“Some dentists will put the restoration on right away, but the chances of failure are higher that way.”

“What about option two?”

“A fixed bridge. It’s easier, less painful, less expensive.”

“That sounds right by me.”

“But its long-term prognosis is not quite as good.”

“Still, I find myself strangely attracted to easier, less painful, and less expensive. Am I alone in seeking in dental reconstruction the same traits I look for in a woman?”

“I noticed you don’t have dental insurance.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Still, you mustn’t think of dental work the way you think of suits, Victor. Cheaper is not always better. But okay, then. We’ll go with the bridge. Next time we’ll get started with the grinding.”

“Grinding?”

“Don’t worry, Victor, it’s relatively pain-free.”

“Relatively?”

“I’d like to take another set of X-rays to see how the bone looks without the tooth. Tilda,” he called.

She appeared quick as a ghost in the doorway, her huge hands dangling like boiled hams at her side.

“A set of bite wings and a periapical X-ray, please, Tilda. Make sure to get a good shot of the lower right.”

“Of course, Doctor,” she said. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s it, thank you,” he said, standing. He ripped off his gloves, tossed them into the container, took up my chart, and started scribbling his notes. “Victor, I’ll see you in another week.”

“Thanks for taking me on such short notice.”

“We all must do our part,” he said.

“What happened to them, the Baltimore people?”

“Married,” he said. “Two children. They’re as happy as mussels. Don’t you find the mussel a far more cheerful bivalve than the clam?”

“How did you get them together?”

“Oh, you know. I have my ways. What’s the Latin expression?
Minutus cantorum, minutus balorum, minutus carborata descendum pantorum.”

“We didn’t learn that one in law school.”

“It means: ‘A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.’ I push here, pull there, I reach in and help mold the clay of reality. It is what I do when I am not molding teeth. I slip horizontally through people’s lives and change them for the better. Check your shirt pocket, Victor.”

I patted my pocket, reached in, pulled out a slip of paper. On it was written “Carol Kingsly” in script and then a phone number.

“You saw her in the waiting room,” said Dr. Bob, “remember? She’s a lovely woman, with very refined tastes, not your normal cup of tea, I suppose, but a woman who, fortunately for you, also answered question sixteen in the new-patient questionnaire with a no. She’s waiting for your call.”

“My call?”

“Yes, your call, Victor. Do try to be pleasant, won’t you? And take my advice, dress sharp and never ever talk politics on your first date.”

As I watched him leave, Tilda stepped forward. She draped my chest with a heavy lead apron. I pulled it low enough so that it covered my groin. Tilda noticed the gesture and shook her head.

“What kind of men do you fancy, Tilda?” I said.

“Hockey players and prison guards,” she said.

“I guess I’ll have to lose a few more teeth.”

“It can be arranged, bucko. Now, open up,
ja
.”

I opened my mouth. She slipped a white piece of plastic-covered film over my teeth.

“Close.”

I closed. The edges of the plastic bladed painfully into the floor of my mouth. Tilda wrapped my face in her muscular hands and twisted my head until my neck cracked.

Inside the old YMCA building that served now as the district attorney’s offices, I pulled at my lower lip to expose the gap in my teeth. Beth, sitting next to me, grimaced at the sight. Mia Dalton leaned over her desk to get a better view.

“It’s gone, all right,” said Mia Dalton. “What’s the brown gunk in the hole?”

“A dressing. I accidentally removed the scab and exposed the bone.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It did, like someone jabbing a red-hot knife into my chops. But not anymore. My dentist took care of that.”

“He any good?” said Detective Torricelli, standing behind Dalton’s desk. “I might be in the market for a molar masher.”

Detective Torricelli was short and round, with the pug nose and swollen eyes of an angry porker. He had looked at my display with enough interest, and he was running his tongue along the inside of his cheek with enough determination to indicate that he might indeed have dental problems of his own.

“Oh, he’s terrific, Detective, absolutely,” I said, putting on my most trustworthy expression. “And painless, too.”

“Painless?”

“Oh, yes. Painless. Such gentle hands. You should give him a try.”

“Tell me why I don’t swallow the painless part, Carl?” said Torricelli.

“Because you are a cynic with an irrational fear of dentists.”

“I might be a cynic,” said Tommy Torricelli, “but ain’t nothing more rational than my fear of dentists.”

“Do you mind if we get down to business?” said Beth. “We want to know if you’ve given any consideration to a plea offer for François.”

“What are you looking for?” said Mia Dalton.

“Something that would take into account the constitutional violation that underlay his prior conviction,” said Beth, her voice stellar with righteous indignation, “that would take into account the years he spent in jail as a result of the unjust conviction only a few days ago reversed by Judge Armstrong, that would recognize the price he has paid and allow him to walk out of jail with a sentence of time served.”

“Yeah,” I added, “something like that.”

As Beth spoke, Mia Dalton began hunting around her office, as if she had misplaced an item of great importance.

“What are you searching for?” said Beth with some impatience.

“The reporters that must be hidden here. Or why else would you be giving me a speech.”

Torricelli snorted. Beth’s features collapsed with disappointment.

“You’re not going to let him plea his way out of jail?” she said.

Mia leaned back, crossed her arms. “Look at my face.”

We both did. Mia Dalton was short and stocky, with the sharp eyes of a fighter. She had worked her way up the ladder in the district attorney’s office, from municipal court bench trials to homicide, based not on her flirtatious manner, because it wasn’t, or her pleasing personality, because she was more sandpaper than silk, but instead on her sheer willpower and dogged determination to prevail. The cops all hated working for her, because she worked them as hard as she worked herself, but they still fought to have her assigned to their cases, because she would invariably give them a win. In the hard-knuckled world of criminal law, nothing succeeded like success, and Mia Dalton was still rising. She was honest and smart and generally intolerant of fools, which was why I always felt a little uncomfortable in her presence.

“Do I look like François Dubé’s fairy godmother?” she said.

“I don’t see a wand,” I said.

“Then there you go. Second-degree murder, twenty years, out in thirteen, three of which he already served. Let me know within forty-eight hours.”

I turned to Beth and raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head. “I can let you know right now. He won’t accept it. He wants out now.”

“Then I guess we’re going to try this puppy,” said Dalton, not visibly displeased. “In all the time I’ve known Victor here, we’ve never gone up against each other in front of a jury. It should be interesting.”

“We’ll need to examine the physical evidence as soon as possible,” I said. “That is, if you haven’t lost it after all these years.”

“It’s all there,” said Torricelli. “Good to go.”

“You both are welcome to examine it at your leisure,” said Dalton. “Everything that was let in in the last trial will be presented here.”

“Except for Seamus Dent,” I said, “your crucial eyewitness.”

“Not so crucial, but still, nice job on that, I must say. I was almost impressed.”

“We aim to please.”

“And, Beth, your argument was quite solid. I spoke to the boss about you. We have an opening in the law department if you’re interested.”

“And leave Victor? I couldn’t do that.”

“Silly me, I thought leaving Victor here was the main inducement of the offer.”

“Speaking of Dent,” I said. “What’s happening with Detective Gleason?”

“Nothing sweet,” said Torricelli. “You lit him up but good, Carl. They took away his gun, put him on the front desk at the auto squad until Internal Affairs finishes its investigation of the shooting. Don’t know if he’ll weather it. The dead guy’s mother just filed a civil suit against the city. Wrongful death.”

“Of course she did.”

“I was shocked when I saw the pleading,” said Mia Dalton, a smile slipping onto her face. “Shocked that your name wasn’t on it, Victor. You’re slipping. Time was, you would have been the first one knocking at her door, contingency fee agreement at the ready.”

“I’m getting old,” I said. “Or maybe I believed the detective when he said he had no choice. He tried to do something good for that kid, Dent. It didn’t work out, but still.”

“Without the eyewitness,” said Mia, “we’re going to concentrate more on the motive evidence. The prickly divorce. The fight over custody and assets. The girlfriends.”

“Excuse me?”

“Detective Torricelli has been busy. Your client had a number of affairs. It will be detailed in our trial memo.”

“You care to give us the names now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Darcy DeAngelo?” said Beth. “The girl from the restaurant?”

Dalton’s eyes widened.

“He told us about her,” said Beth. “He told us everything, including that he didn’t kill his wife.”

“Well, it won’t be the first time,” said Torricelli.

“The first time for what?” I said.

“The first time a client pulled your chain,” he said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Anything else?” said Mia Dalton.

I took a document out of my briefcase, gave it a quick scan, and then tossed it across her desk. “I have a question about this.”

She looked it over. “An inventory of what was seized during the initial search of Mr. Dubé’s apartment. The search was done with the defendant’s consent and incident to a valid arrest. What of it?”

“What happened to my client’s stuff?”

Torricelli stepped forward and took hold of the document. “Everything we wanted, we took and inventoried,” he said. “Besides the gun, the bloodied shirt, the bloodied boot, there wasn’t much else of interest. We just left it there. I assume your sleazeball client took care of it.”

“Apparently the landlord sold it off,” I said. “But some stuff appears to be missing, even in your initial notation of what you found in the apartment. There’s computer cables but no computer. There’s a full-size video camera, with a tripod and lights, but no videotapes. And there are no toys.”

“Toys?”

“Yes, toys.” Mrs. Cullen had mentioned toys outside the courtroom, but none had been found in Dubé’s apartment. Not even kid toys for the daughter.

“I don’t know about no toys,” said Torricelli. “Maybe he wasn’t a toy kind of guy. Maybe he pawned off what he had to raise biscuit for his legal beagles.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” I said, grinning. “That’s no way to prosecute a murder case.”

“What we saw, we noted,” said Torricelli, tossing the paper back onto Dalton’s desk. “What we took, we inventoried.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. We did it by the book. End of story. Don’t be making a mountain out of a dung heap, you gap-toothed worm.”

“But that’s my job.”

“Let me straighten you out on something, my friends,” said Mia Dalton. “The district attorney herself won this case before her election to be my boss. She expects me to win it again. You have never seen her when she is disappointed. Her nickname, ‘The Dragon Lady,’ is well earned. When disappointed, she eats the furniture, she flies around terrifying small dogs and grown prosecutors, she breathes a blue-hot flame. I do not intend to get a faceful of fire.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning don’t expect any favors from me on this one. You had better come into that courtroom with more than a heartfelt plea of reasonable doubt, because I have every intention of serving that murderer’s ass up to the jury on a silver platter. If you’re going to have any chance in that courtroom, you better bring your A game.”

“I don’t think I have an A game,” I said.

“That’s what cheers me in the late hours of the night,” said Mia Dalton. “I don’t think you do either.”