Angie leaned forward. “My job is to prepare you for court, to press any weakness and see if you will break. Because if you break here and now, the chances are good you’ll break in the courtroom.”
“I doubt any judge can dish out anything worse than what you did during the Dixon trial.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Lulu’s fingers tightened on the chair arms. “What else could the judge ask?”
“Dixon paid you extra so he could brutalize you. What kind of decent mother does that?”
Her gaze thinned. “I needed a hit and the money to buy it. The drugs made me desperate. No more drugs. No more desperation.”
“You’re sure?” Her own struggles had shown her that sobriety could be as fragile as crystal. One slip and it all shattered. “Raising a kid can be stressful.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You sound glib.”
“Just determined.” She sat back in her chair and ran fingers through blond, spiked hair. “You’re hoping to find a flaw.”
“It’s my job to find and fix the flaws.”
“Yeah, but you’re really hoping you can find some reason to ditch me.”
The observation hit near to the truth. “I told Eva I’d help and I will.”
The mention of Eva’s name softened Lulu’s anger a fraction. “She’s good people.”
“Yeah.” Angie shoved out a sigh. She had told Eva she’d help Lulu. “I have a friend who owns a dress shop. I want you to stop by. I’ll call her and let her know you are coming to borrow a dress.”
Lulu frowned and glanced down at what she was wearing. “I thought this was the kind of outfit the judge would want to see.”
“It’s a real improvement,” Angie conceded. “I can see you’ve done a lot of work on yourself. But the right dress will just take it up another notch.” She scribbled the address on a pad. “I’m also writing down the name of my hairdresser. Again, use my name. She’ll know what to do.”
“My hair is wrong?”
“Wrong for the kind of impression I want to make for the judge. Perception is everything, Lulu.” She tore the paper off and handed it to her.
Lulu frowned and glanced at the addresses. “These are in the nice part of town.”
“I know.”
“A dress shop in this area is going to be expensive,” she said without shame.
“The owner, Molly, owes me. Like I said, she’ll let you borrow a dress.”
“Will she even let me through her front door?”
“I’ll let her know you’re coming. She’ll take care of you.”
Lulu folded the piece of paper and creased the fold with her fingernails. “Okay.”
“I called the courthouse this morning to double-check the time of your hearing. It’s Thursday at noon.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“You miss that day, and it’s over.”
“I know.”
“I want you at the courthouse at eleven.”
“Why?”
“I want us to have time to review some of the questions your mother’s attorney will ask. Normally, I take more time with my clients, but we are in a time crunch so we’ll do the best we can.”
“Can I get my boy back?”
Angie offered a tentative smile. “You do your part, Lulu, and I’ll do mine.”
Lulu stood and held out her hand. “I promise, Ms. Carlson. I won’t let you down.”
“It’s not me who’s counting on you. It’s David.”
With the information supplied by the medical examiner, Malcolm and Garrison wanted to talk to Dixon. His priors plus his association with the victim made him a suspect in their minds.
Malcolm had to double-check his address for Dixon. The office space he’d had two years ago had been huge. Glittering glass, polished chrome in a high-rise on Duke Street. He remembered the view from the reception area. It had looked out over the Potomac past the Wilson Bridge toward the meandering landscape that had once been home to centuries-old plantations like Mount Vernon and Gunston Hall.
However, Dixon’s newer offices were more than a few steps down. The small suite off of Van Dorn Street had a cramped reception area furnished with bamboo furniture that looked as if it belonged on a patio. Even his receptionist had changed. Gone was the tall, sleek blonde with the perky breasts and tight rear end. In her place sat a fiftysomething woman with graying hair and a sour expression. There were no patients in the waiting room.
The publicity from Dixon’s murder trial had taken a toll. Clearly, it had chased off the Washington elite searching for a private nip or tuck. Malcolm should have gotten some satisfaction knowing the doctor had been knocked off his lofty pedestal, but he didn’t. Dixon belonged behind bars.
Shoving aside frustration, Malcolm strode up to the glass window and held up his badge. The receptionist’s blank gaze didn’t waver as she pushed open the window. “What can I do for you, officers?”
“Is the doctor in?”
“He’s in his office.”
“Let him know Detectives Kier and Garrison are here.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“He’ll want to see us.”
“All right.” The receptionist rose, moving down a short hallway and vanishing.
Through the entire trial, Malcolm had sensed that Dixon loved their cat-and-mouse game. The doctor’s ego had fed on the attention. As negative and destructive as it had been, the doctor had maintained a smirk, as if he knew a secret no one else would ever discover. The expression had irritated Garrison, but it had chipped away at Malcolm’s temper. There’d been times in the courtroom Malcolm had mustered all his control to keep from leaping forward and throttling the monster that pretended to be human.
And when Dixon had walked, he’d risen from the defendant’s chair, tugged the vest of his expensive dark suit down, and strode out of the courtroom. The doctor had all but glowed when he’d talked to the press. He’d spoken of justice winning out, of returning to his life and the devoted friends and patients that meant so much to him. He planned, in fact, to hold office hours that very afternoon.
As Malcolm glanced at the faded green carpet satisfaction did flicker. “How far the mighty do fall.”
Garrison smiled, but his eyes shone with anger. “Not far enough.”
“It’s only a matter of time.”
“You’re optimistic.”
“Shit, no. I’m determined. He’ll end up in jail. That’s a promise.”
Garrison shrugged. “Don’t drive yourself insane over what can’t always be controlled.”
“There is a lot in this world I can’t control, but putting Dixon behind bars is one thing I can.”
The receptionist reappeared. Her sour expression held a hint of worry. “The doctor will see you.”
Malcolm and Garrison moved down a narrow hallway lined with photos of Dixon at many different black-tie events. Senators, congressmen, and lobbyists all stood by him, their smiles as frozen as ice.
There were also framed diplomas. He’d graduated top of his class from top-fleet medical schools. Not bad for a guy
who’d come from a poor family. They’d never determined how he’d gotten the money for medical school.
If you talked to any of his patients as Malcolm and Garrison had done two years ago, you’d hear nothing but praise. A genius. Masterful skills. An artist. No one doubted that Dixon was a skilled surgeon. It was his after-hours hobbies that Malcolm found vile.
When they reached the threshold they found Dixon sitting behind his hand-carved mahogany desk. The desk was a holdover from his old life. Judging by the small room, it was about all that remained of the old life.
The doctor’s dark hair was slicked back, and he had a tan that suggested a recent holiday or visit to a tanning bed. His red tie was fastened in his trademark Windsor knot, and he still took extra starch in his shirts.
The office was small but as impeccably neat as the fancy uptown space he’d vacated. Every paper on his desk was in a neat stack. His pencils lined the top right corner like soldiers, and the books on the bookshelves were still kept in alphabetical order.
Malcolm refused to knock or clear his throat. Instead he waited for the doctor to raise his gaze from the paper in front of him. The doctor appeared in no rush, and their silent war raged for several seconds until Dixon looked up.
He didn’t appear shocked or troubled by the visit. Instead, his eyes danced with the excitement of a child ready to play a new game. He stood, tugged his vest over his narrow belly, and nodded. “Detectives Kier and Garrison. What’s it been, a year or two since we last spoke? Time does fly.”
A primitive urge demanded Malcolm grab the doctor by the lapels and smack his head against the desk. Not only would that kind of stunt bring Internal Affairs and a lawsuit down on him, but also it wouldn’t find Sierra Day’s murderer.
“It does,” Malcolm said. The natural rasp of his voice made anything he said sound harsh so he tossed in a smile to give the doctor a relaxed impression.
“So what do I owe the honor of this visit, gentlemen?”
“Official business,” Garrison said. “Concerning one of your patients.”