Every door and hallway reverberated with the nerve-stabbing whine of high-speed dental drills; soon Stranahan’s molars started to throb, and he began to feel claustrophobic. He enlisted a friendly janitor to lead him to the superintendent, a mammoth olive-colored woman who introduced herself as Marlee Jones.
Stranahan handed Marlee Jones a card and told her what he wanted. She glanced at the card and shrugged. “I don’t have to tell you nothing,” she said, displaying the kind of public-spirited cooperation that Stranahan had come to appreciate among the Miami citizenry.
“No, you don’t have to tell me nothing,” he said to Marlee, “but I can make it possible for a county code inspector to brighten your morning tomorrow, and the day after that, and every single day until you die of old age.” Stranahan picked up a broom and stabbed the wooden handle into the foam-tile ceiling. “Looks like pure asbestos to me,” he said. “Sure hate for the feds to find out.”
Marlee Jones scowled, exhibiting an impressive array of gold teeth: bribes, no doubt, from her tenants. She shuffled to a metal desk and opened a bottom drawer and got out a black ledger. “All right, smartass, what was that name?”
“Durkos.” Stranahan spelled it. “A medical group. They were here as of March twelfth, four years ago.”
“Well, as of April first, four years ago, they was gone.”
Marlee started to close the ledger, but Stranahan put his hand on the page. “May I look?”
“It’s just numbers, mister.”
“Aw, let me give it a whirl.” Stranahan took the ledger from Marlee Jones and ran down the columns with his forefinger. The Durkos Medical Trust, Inc., had been sole tenant of the building for two years, but had vacated within weeks after Victoria Barletta’s disappearance. The ledger showed that the company had paid its lease and security deposits through May. Stranahan thought it was peculiar that, after moving out, the medical group never got a refund.
“Maybe they didn’t ask,” Marlee Jones said.
“Doctors are the cheapest human beings alive,” Stranahan said. “For fifteen grand they don’t just ask, they hire lawyers.”
Again Marlee Jones shrugged. “Some people be in a big damn hurry.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“Who says I was here?”
“This handwriting in the ledger book—it’s the same as on these receipts.” Stranahan tapped a finger on a pile of rental coupons.
Marlee Jones appeared to be having a spell of high blood pressure.
Stranahan asked again: “So what do you remember?”
With a groan Marlee Jones heaved her bottom into the chair behind the desk. She said, “One night they cleared out. Must’ve backed up a trailer truck, who knows. I came in, the place was empty, except for a bunch of cheapo paintings on the walls. Cats with big eyes, that sorta shit.”
“Were they all surgeons?”
“Seemed like it. But they wasn’t partners.”
“Durkos the main man?”
“Was no Durkos that I heard of. Big man was a Doctor Graveyard, something like that. The other four guys worked for him. How come I know this is, the day after all the stuff is gone, a couple of the other doctors showed up dressed for work. They couldn’t believe their office was emptied.”
Graveline was the name of the surgeon who had operated on Vicky Barletta. There was no point to correcting Marlee Jones on the name. Stranahan said, “This Dr. Graveyard, he didn’t even tell the other doctors about the move?”
“This is Miami, lots of people in a big-time hurry.”
“Yeah, but not many pay in advance.”
Marlee Jones finally laughed. “You right about that.”
“Did anybody leave a forwarding address?”
“Nope.”
Stranahan handed Marlee Jones the ledger book.
“You be through with me?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For good?”
“Most likely.”
“Then can I ask who is it you’re workin’ for?”
“Myself,” said Mick Stranahan.
Since the day that the Durkos Medical Center had ceased to exist, the life of Nurse Maggie Orestes had gotten complicated. She had gone to work in the emergency room at Jackson Hospital, where one night she had met a man named Ricky Gonzalez. The reason for Ricky Gonzalez’s visit to the emergency room was that he had accidentally been run over by a turbo-charged Ferrari during the annual running of the Miami Grand Prix. Ricky was a race-car promoter, and he had been posing for pictures with Lorenzo Lamas in pit row, not paying close attention when the Ferrari had roared in and run over both his feet. Ricky broke a total of fourteen bones, while Lorenzo Lamas escaped without a scratch.