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He looked at his watch. “Nearing six, maybe getting cold-called by the cops will get them curious—or worried enough to get back to me.”
By the time I left his office at six fifteen, that hadn’t happened.
—
Tuesday morning at ten, he phoned and said, “They both just got back to me. Like it was coordinated. Demarest cried, Bowman cursed. When I asked to meet, Demarest said she’d have to check her schedule and Bowman said she’d let me know and hung up. I figured they were both putting me off but minutes later Bowman phoned and said they could both be available at twelve thirty in Demarest’s office, which is closed between noon and two. Maybe we can score some free floss. Can you make it?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
—
Dr. Lana Demarest practiced “gentle pedodontics” out of a brick-and-gray-aluminum two-story building just north and across the street from the Country Mart. Ample parking in a rear open lot. An elevator covering three floors responded to Milo’s button-push with a labored, belch-like noise. We took the stairs to Demarest’s office on the second story.
Offices on the left side of a narrow hallway, windows on the right. Three other D.D.S.’s and a dental lab. Everyone out to lunch. Demarest’s door was closed but unlocked.
A Technicolor waiting room was redolent of mint. Kids’ magazines were stacked on brightly colored tables. Sesame Street murals on the walls.
One woman sat in a peacock-blue vinyl chair. One stood by her side.
The sitter got up. “Lieutenant? Lana.” Brief handshakes. Soft skin.
Dr. Lana Demarest had left her pink nylon tunic on over gray slacks and sneakers. Barely over five feet tall, she was round-faced, freckled, and pretty under a luxuriant pile of wavy amber hair. Her voice was soft, melodic, nonthreatening. Ideal for someone probing the teeth and gums of children.
Deep-blue eyes were red-rimmed. She tried to smile past obvious grief.
Milo said, “Thanks for meeting with us, Doctor. This is Alex Delaware.”
The woman near the chair hadn’t been addressed but she was the one to respond.
“Of course we’d want to help.”
She came toward us, stopped just short of collision. Beige cashmere top, indigo stovepipe jeans, chocolate boots with two-inch heels that elevated her to five-ten.
Toni Bowman was built like a fashion model, causing the top to drape perfectly. A long bronzed face under cropped, black hair was aged hard. Once-supple wood petrified by time.
Another pair of blue eyes, lighter than Demarest’s, verging on colorless. Searching eyes, unmarked by any obvious sign of lamentation.
Toni Bowman looked angry.
I thought:That could be useful.
CHAPTER
13
The four of us convened in Demarest’s corn-yellow consulting room. Larger than Milo’s office but not by much. Demarest sat behind a small desk, the rest of us faced her. On the wall behind the desk were diplomas and certificates and a collection of color shots of her with a bald, bespectacled man and three blond, round-faced children.
Toni Bowman moved her chair as far as possible from us and angled it. Wanting a good view of the intruders.
Milo said, “Again, so sorry to have to give you such terrible news.”
“It was a shock,” said Lana Demarest. “It still is. Unbelievable.”
Toni Bowman nodded but the movement seemed to lack conviction. As if unsurprised. She said, “Do you have any idea who did it?”
“Not yet, we’re at the early stages.”
“Not yet? You’re optimistic.”
