by Mary Burton
Dixon frowned. “That sounds ominous. Please have a seat.” He motioned to the two club chairs in front of his desk and waited until the detectives had sat before he retook his seat. He closed the file on his desk and laid the folder on a neat pile to his right. “Which one of my patients?”
The low, too-soft chair tried to swallow up Malcolm. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. If his dad could see him now he’d have a good laugh. How many years had his old man begged him to pay attention to the details? The devil is in the details, boy. He’ll hang your ass if you miss the wrong one.
“Sierra Day’s body was found yesterday in a local park,” Malcolm said.
Dixon’s raised dark eyebrows showed real anguish. “Are you sure it’s Sierra?”
“We are.”
Dixon shoved out a breath and for a moment seemed lost in thought. “That’s just awful. I am so sorry to hear that. I just saw her about two weeks ago.”
The son of a bitch had managed just the right blend of surprise and remorse. “Can you tell us about your routine for the last few days?”
“Why?” He raised a hand. “Never mind. I know why. Our unfortunate history. I wonder when I will finally escape it.”
“We must do our due diligence,” Garrison said easily.
“I should be offended, but I know you are trying to find Sierra’s killer. Damn, but she was such a sweet girl.”
Malcolm tried to put himself in Dixon’s place. If he’d been falsely accused of attempted murder and acquitted, he’d be damned pissed if the cops showed up on his doorstep. “When exactly is the last time you saw Ms. Day?”
He turned to his appointment book and flipped slowly through several pages. “Ah, here it is. I saw Ms. Day eleven days ago. She had a nine a.m. appointment.”
“Did you see her often?”
“That was her second appointment.” Carefully, he closed the book. “That was our last consultation before surgery.”
“What was she planning to have done?”
He hesitated. “She’s dead, so I suppose there is no doctor–patient relationship to violate. She was going to have breast augmentation. Like many young women she wanted larger breasts. She’d planned to go from a B to a double D. And she wanted me to liposuction her buttocks and abdomen. She was looking for a model-perfect body, as most actresses today want. She’d planned on having her surgery next week. She was very excited.”
“That was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Yes.” Dixon sat back in his chair. “I still can’t believe she is dead. I just can’t believe it.”
“Really?”
Dixon was a master liar and manipulator. “You do believe me, don’t you, Detective?”
Malcolm met the doctor’s earnest eyes with a dead-panned expression. “Do I have reason not to?”
“As I mentioned, we do have a history, Detective.”
“I’m here with no agenda, Dr. Dixon, other than to recreate Ms. Day’s last days.”
“Do you always interview your victim’s doctors?”
“I interview anyone and everyone when I’m investigating a murder.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “What can you tell me about Ms. Day?”
Dr. Dixon hesitated. “She was a very excitable young woman. Prone to drama, you know? But it fit her vocation. Who would want to watch an actress who didn’t have a flair for drama?”
“Did you ever see her in a play?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. I went to see her over the summer when she was in Twelfth Night. I’m a contributor to the West End Theater, and the actors awarded us with a special viewing of their summer show. I met her afterwards. She pulled me aside during the party and told me of her desire for plastic surgery. I gave her my card and left it at that.”
“And you didn’t see her during the summer?”
“No. I did not.”
When he questioned friends and family, he’d be sure to bring up Dixon’s name. It had been his experience that no matter how careful people could be, someone somewhere had seen them or heard about them. “Is there anyone who might like to hurt Ms. Day?”
“All I know is that I did not kill this woman, Detective. I liked Ms. Day. She was a stunning woman whom I’d planned to make even more beautiful.”
“Like Lulu Sweet?” Malcolm tossed her name out to Dixon like bait on a hook. He wasn’t sure what he’d catch, but he was willing to take a chance.
Dixon twisted his cuff link. “So this is related to the old charges you could never prove?”
“Your attorney won your acquittal fair and square.” Carlson might be a bloodsucker, but she had followed the law to a T.
“Oh, come on. This visit is about getting a pound of my flesh. It wasn’t enough that you shattered my reputation—now you are going to try and pin a murder on me.”
Malcolm felt the tug on his fishing line and gave it a little slack. “No, sir, not at all.”
Dixon leaned forward. “I’ve been practicing in this hovel for nearly two years, barely scraping by with patients like Sierra Day who can’t afford a top-of-the-line surgeon.”
The line had grown tight, and Malcolm reeled it in. “It made you angry that you weren’t serving the cream of the crop anymore.”
“Of course it bothered me. I resent the fact that a penny whore I hired freaked out on drugs and nearly ruined my reputation. I resent that my partners dropped me from the practice, and I resent that my patients abandoned me. But that doesn’t mean that I killed Ms. Day.”
“I never said you did.”
“But I’ll bet money that you’ll do your best to pin it on me.”
“I’m looking for a killer, not a pound of flesh.”
“Humans search for the information that supports their opinion. And we are more likely to reject what doesn’t fit our worldview. And your tiny worldview paints me as a villain.”
“Did you kill her?” Garrison asked.
“I can’t believe you asked me that question.”
“Did you murder Sierra Day?” Garrison’s voice had more force.
“I should call your supervisor and demand you be reprimanded.”
“Did you kill her?”
Dixon faced Malcolm directly. “No.”
For a long, tense moment Malcolm stared at Dixon. He knew in his bones that the doctor was connected to this. And he feared it was only a matter of time before another woman fell prey to him. “Thank you for your time.”
Dixon rose. “That’s it?”
“For now, yes.”
“Should I get an attorney?”
“That is totally up to you.”
The detectives left the office, moving carefully and slowly as if it were business as usual. But when they got in the car, Malcolm gripped the steering wheel, wishing he could snap it. “That son of a bitch is evil. I know he’s connected to Sierra Day’s death.”
“Knowing and proving are two different things.”
Malcolm was silent for a moment. “It’s a gut feeling.”
“Let’s dig into his recent activities. We need more than your gut.”
Malcolm fired up the engine. “I want to put a tail on him.”
“As much as I’d like to, we don’t have just cause.”
Malcolm backed out of the parking spot and punched the gas. “Then we better find it.”
Chapter 7
Wednesday, October 5, 5 P.M.
Malcolm and Garrison arrived at the Springfield Theatre in Annandale just after five in search of Marty Gold, Sierra’s ex-lover. They’d called ahead and discovered today’s play practice focused on their upcoming production of Hamlet. Marty was expected.
This theater was markedly different than the West End Theater. It was smaller, housed in the end space of a strip mall, and its main entrance was just yards from a drug store. Still, the owners had gone to lengths to blacken the windows and display posters of upcoming productions.
The detectives pushed through the glass doors and entered a s
mall lobbylike area created by a black curtain that partitioned off the front section from the back. A tented opening connected the two. A display counter exhibited a collection of Springfield Theatre! T-shirts that were for sale.
A slim, tall woman with black hair slicked back into a bun stood behind the counter. She had pale skin and wore the leotard of a dancer under a black skirt. “May I help you?”
“We’re here to see Marty Gold.”
A slim, neatly plucked eyebrow raised in judgment. “He’s in practice.”
Malcolm did his best to smile, but found his patience wearing thin. He’d been up nearly twenty-four hours, and a dull headache throbbed in the back of his head. He pulled out his badge. “Police.”
The woman didn’t bother to glance at the badge. “You can find him on stage now. He’s the one holding the skull.”
“Skull?”
“It’s a prop. He’s Hamlet. The skull is supposed to belong to his dead father.”
“Charming.”
They pushed through the curtains and entered the theater section. The floor, ceiling, and walls were painted black with silver flecks. Dark metal chairs created a semicircle around a simple wooden stage that rose up a foot off the ground. “Not as fancy as the West End.”
“Everybody’s got to start somewhere,” Garrison said.
“Yeah.” Malcolm held up his badge and in a loud voice said, “We’re with Alexandria Police. We’re here to see Marty Gold.” His gaze settled on the guy with the skull, who glanced at them with a deer-in-the-headlights look. He was short with thinning blond hair. Dark tights and a tunic accentuated a stocky build. “You Marty?”
“Yeah, I’m Marty.”
Malcolm crooked his finger. “Got a minute?”
The guy grinned as if to say he had no idea what was going on and crossed the stage. He hopped down and moved toward them. “What can I do for you?”
Gold wasn’t a handsome guy like Humphrey. His nose hooked to the left slightly as if it had been broken a few times, and his dark eyes were wide set. His build was more muscular and his hands large as if accustomed to manual labor. He was definitely rougher around the edges than Humphrey.
“Sierra Day. We want to ask you about her.”
His gaze turned guarded. “What is she saying about me? I did not take her car if that’s what she’s saying. She said that I could use it. And I did not put the ding in the back bumper. She did that herself.” He still held the skull in his hand, but his grip tightened considerably.
“She’s not complaining about you, Mr. Gold.”
He relaxed a fraction. “What did she do?”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“A week ago. We hooked up.”
“We’d heard you two broke up,” Malcolm said.
“We did, but that didn’t get in the way of some good clean fun.”
“A week ago would be last Wednesday?”
“Yeah. We were at an impromptu cast party. We had a great time.” His eyes narrowed. “I can promise you that the sex was consensual.”
“No doubt.”
“If she’s not complaining, then why the visit?”
Instead of answering, Malcolm countered with another question. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work construction,” Gold said.
“Where?”
“The job site is out in Fairfax.”
“Missed any work lately?”
“No. You can ask my boss. I’ve been working overtime for the last couple of weeks so I could have time off for play practice.” He supplied his boss’s name and number.
Malcolm wrote it down. “And you come here right after work?”
Gold’s frown deepened. “Ask anyone. I just about live here. What’s this about?”
“We’ve found Sierra’s body. We’re trying to retrace her steps,” Malcolm said.
That undercut Gold’s bravado. “Oh. That’s rough.”
“Yeah. Rough. So the last time you saw her was at the party?”
“Yeah, and she was alive and kicking. After we did our thing, she said she had a better dude waiting for her. He was rich. She took off to see him.”
“This dude got a name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Anyone show great interest in her that you were aware of?”
“Sierra attracted attention like honey does bees. She knew how to work a room, and when she wanted to she’d light it up. If you could get Sierra at your party, she made it fun. And for the record, I didn’t send her those notes.”
“What notes?”
“The ones that said she was pretty.”
“Where did she find these notes?”
“Front door. Car. Dressing table. The guy even gave her an ivory pendant.”
“Who would have the notes and jewelry?”
“Zoe, I guess.”
“That Zoe Morgan her roommate?” Garrison said.
“Yeah.”
They’d put calls into Ms. Morgan but hadn’t connected with her.
“Go see Zoe,” Gold said. “Knowing Sierra, all her crap is still piled high in Zoe’s spare room.”
* * *
Zoe Morgan’s third-floor walk-up was located in Old Town over a dress shop that had GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE signs in the front window. The racks in the store looked picked over, and only a few half-interested women milled around inside.
They climbed the stairs. On the second floor the distinct scent of roasting chicken wafted out from one of the apartments. The sound of a television and a woman talking loudly leaked out from behind another door.
Police work was hardly the glamorous stuff he saw on television. It was a lot of mundane legwork that produced too much information that had to be sorted through for the few nuggets of gold. But to give in to the mundane was dangerous. In a blink the routine could explode in violence.
The stairs that led to the third floor narrowed. They found her apartment and knocked. Zoe answered her door on the third knock.
Dressed in a dark suit and a white silk shirt, the woman who greeted them looked as if she’d just gotten home from the office. A tight ponytail held back brown hair and accentuated a high slash of cheekbones and a peaches-and-cream complexion that needed no makeup.
“Can I help you?” the woman said.
Garrison pulled out his badge. “We’re with Alexandria Police. Are you Zoe Morgan?”
Her shoulders edged back just a fraction. “That’s right. What’s the problem?”
“May we come in?” Malcolm prompted.
“First tell me what this is about.”
“Your roommate,” Malcolm said. “Her body was found yesterday.”
Zoe’s lips parted in surprise, and the muscles in her face tightened. She stepped aside. “Come in.”
The place was neatly arranged. A floral couch, two chairs, a flat-screen television, a built-in shelf loaded with books, and a large window that allowed the fading afternoon light to flood into the apartment. On several walls were framed posters of ballet productions: Giselle, Swan Lake, and The Nutcracker.
Malcolm made no effort to disguise his appraisal of the room. He’d discovered living spaces said a great deal about people. “How long was Sierra Day your roommate?”
She folded her arms over her chest. “About a month. It was only supposed to be for a few days, but I should have known better with Sierra. Once she’s in a place it’s hard to get rid of her.”
“You two were friends?”
“I wouldn’t say friends. We were acquaintances. I’m the marketing director for the Washington Ballet. She worked at most of the theaters in the metro area. We ran in the same circles. When she asked me if she could stay for a few nights it seemed the nice thing to do.”
“How did you two meet?”
“She was my understudy in a play a few years ago.”
“You the actress that suddenly got sick just before opening night?”
Dark brows creased. “How did you know?”
“Grapevine says that Sierra gave you a little something that made you sick so she could step into your role.”
Zoe frowned. “That’s not true.”
“What was wrong with you?”
She hesitated. “Food poisoning.”
“That’s a bad break.”
Zoe was cool, controlled. “Not really. I was trying to act when I could no longer dance. Acting was not a good fit for me. I landed the ballet marketing job a few weeks after that play shut down.”
“Why’d you let Sierra move into your place?”
“She needed a place to crash. That play stuff was water under the bridge.”
“Okay.”
Zoe folded her arms over her chest. “So where did you find her?”
“She was found at Angel Park.”
She arched a brow. “Really?”
“That means something?” Malcolm said.
“Her last reviewer called her an ‘angel on stage.’ She liked the description and repeated it a lot.”
“A lot of people heard it?” Garrison said.
“Knowing Sierra, yes. She was no shrinking violet. How did she die?”
Malcolm would bet that Zoe was no shrinking violet either. “We’re still trying to figure all that out. Did she pay you rent?”
A smile tipped the edge of Zoe’s lips. “Not a dime. But then it was just supposed to be a few days.”
“How long has it been since you last saw her?”
A crease formed on her smooth forehead. “Ten or eleven days. A Wednesday, I think.”
“It didn’t surprise you that she didn’t come home for so long?” Garrison said.
“No. She’s been coming and going like that since day one. Last Friday night I paused and wondered if she’d come home. I peeked in her room, but couldn’t tell if she’d been through or not. It’s always a wreck. I left early on Saturday for a seminar and just got back today.”
“Where was the seminar?”
“New York. It was a medical convention focused on healing injuries.”
“You want to dance again?” Malcolm said.
Her fingers tightened very slightly around her forearms. “Yes, I do. I used to be a very talented dancer. A car accident changed all that. I’d hoped the seminar would show me new healing techniques to strengthen my right ankle.”
