Leo took the flyer from his pocket, showed it to Dr.Comb-over. “This woman,” Leo said.
The dentist declined to look at the image. Instead, he met the eyes of Leo, then Kjel, and said, “Why don’t you get to the point, gentlemen? I’m a busy man.”
“Just want to know if you fixed her teeth, and who paid for it,” Leo said.
Dr.Jacques lowered his gaze momentarily to the flyer, his features unreadable, then he checked his watch. “Look, forgive my irritation, but you of all people, detectives, should know that I cannot discuss patients, nor give out financial information. Now, if you will excuse me.”
But Kjel and Leo remained unmoving. “She’s a homicide victim, Doc. Anything you can tell us would aid in the investigation.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that. But—”
“This woman,” Kjel said, taking two fast steps toward the doc, who, up close, smelled of cologne, “came off the streets with a meth-mouth, and you know it. You don’t forget a mouth like that. Just tell us who paid yous for the nice pearly whites, Doc, and we’ll be out of your ... uh, hair?”
The doc flashed a quick and feral smile with his own straight, pearly whites while his eyes turned flat and cold. “Like I said, patient information is confidential.”
“Maybe we’ll just come back with a warrant.”
“Then you do that. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
Kjel and Leo exited Dr.Jacques’s practice through the waiting area, the doc’s patients ogling them with brazen curiosity.
As they walked out into the street and rain, Kjel said, “That guy gives me the jeebies.”
“But it looks like we got our dentist,” Leo said. “And an ex-meth-head ho sure as hell can’t pay cash for an apartment as well as afford the likes of Dr.Jon Jacques—not unless she’s turning some seriously upmarket tricks.”
“A pimp coulda footed the bill—had her cleaned up. Put her out to work the cost off. I mean, from that more recent photo at Harbor House, Hocking actually cleaned up pretty darn good.”
Leo glanced up at him and cocked a brow. “Johns paying big bucks to put their dicks into that fanged Medusa mouth? Now there’s a thought.”
As they reached their vehicle, Kjel beeped the lock and said, “Well, we ain’t gonna gets us a warrant for Dr.Comb-over’s financial and billing records without some probable grounds.”
“Then we find grounds.” Leo opened the passenger door. “Because someone paid for those teeth, and I bet my ass Jacques knows who.”
By the time Angie and Maddocks arrived at the Oak Bay Country Club, the afternoon was darkening—the hours ticking down to the shortest day of the year—and the white indoor tennis domes glowed with light like alien space pods in the winter gloom.
“They’re not going to spill member details without a warrant,” Angie said as they entered the big glass doors. The reception area was tiled, and soft piped music was punctuated by the rhythmicthwockof tennis balls meeting taut rackets. A statuesque, bronzed blonde working the reception desk looked up and smiled with a perfectly straight row of whitened teeth. Angie guessed her tan came courtesy of the club’s tanning beds.
While Maddocks went up to ask Miss Sweden about John Jacks, Angie gravitated to the sound of the balls.
“Hey.” She smiled, greeting a coach who was coming out of one of the court enclosures with a group of young teens. He looked to be in his late thirties with the ripped body of a tanned Adonis, designer sports duds, brown hair streaked surfer blond. She checked out the nametag on his shirt. “Serge Radikoff. Good to meet you—I hear you coach Rick Butler.”
He ran his eyes up and down the length of her and smiled, the directness of his gaze brazen. She’d guessed right. Serge was a ladies’ man. “He’s very talented, one of my special ones.” His accent was Eastern European.
“I hear that he’s your protégé, that you’re sponsoring him.”
He wiped his face with the end of the white towel hooked around his neck, drank from his water bottle. “Rick has talent. He’s going places with his game, and he’d never afford this place and my lessons otherwise.”
Angie took a few steps up to the fence and watched some young guys taking turns with the ball machine. “So you’d make a name for yourself with Rick. And John Jacks—” She turned to face him. “You coach him, too?”
Radikoff was silent for a beat, just the hollowthwocksof the balls. One slammed into the fence right near her face, and she tensed with the surprise.
“I’m the club coach,” he said, caution entering in his eyes. “I’m paid to teach whoever wants lessons.” Another pause. “Who wants to know?”
“Angie Pallorino,” she said, deepening her smile and extending her hand. “Metro Victoria police. I hear Jacks played with Butler.”
He glanced quickly over his shoulder. “What is this about?”
“Jacks dated Butler’s ex-girlfriend, Gracie Drummond. Gracie was murdered, and we’re trying to figure out her movements in the weeks preceding her death.”
