The very next day Maggie Gonzalez took a cab to the office of Dr. Leonard Leaper on the corner of 50th Street and Lexington. Dr. Leaper was a nationally renowned and internationally published plastic surgeon; Maggie had read up on him in the journals. “You have a decent reputation,” she told Dr. Leaper. “I hope it’s not just hype.” Her experiences in Dr. Rudy Graveline’s surgical suite had taught her to be exceedingly careful when choosing a physician.
Neutrally Dr. Leaper said, “What can I do for you, young lady?”
“The works,” Maggie replied.
“The works?”
“I want a bleph, a lift, and I want the hump taken out of this nose. Also, I want you to trim the septum so it looks like this.” With a finger she repositioned the tip of her nose at a perky, Sandy Duncan-type angle. “See?”
Dr. Leaper nodded.
“I’m a nurse,” Maggie .said. “I used to work for a plastic surgeon.”
“I figured something like that,” Dr. Leaper said. “Why do you want these operations?”
“None of your business.”
Dr. Leaper said, “Miss Gonzalez, if indeed you worked for a surgeon then you understand I’ve got to ask some personal questions. There are good reasons for elective cosmetic surgery and bad reasons, good candidates and poor candidates. Some patients believe it will solve all their problems, and of course it won’t—”
“Cut the crap,” Maggie said, “and take my word: Surgery will definitely solve my problem.”
“Which is?”
“None of your business.”
Dr. Leaper stood up. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help.”
“You guys are all alike,” Maggie complained.
“No, we’re not,” Dr. Leaper said. “That’s why you’re here. You wanted somebody good.”
His composure was maddening. Maggie said, “All right—will you do the surgery if I tell you the reason?”
“If it’s a good one,” the doctor replied.
She said, “I need a new face.”
“Why?”
“Because I am about to … testily against someone.”
Dr. Leaper said, “Can you tell me more?”
“It’s a serious matter, and I expect he’ll send someone to find me before it’s over. I don’t want to be found.”
Dr. Leaper said, “But surgery can only do so much—”
“Look, I’ve seen hundreds of cases, and I know good results from bad results. I also know the limitations of the procedures. You just do the nose, the neck, the eyes, maybe a plastic implant in the chin … and let me and Lady Clairol do the rest. I guarantee the bastard won’t recognize me.”
Dr. Leaper locked his hands. In a grave voice he said, “Let me understand: You’re a witness in a criminal matter?”
“Undoubtedly,” Maggie said. “A homicide, to be exact.”
“Oh, dear.”
“And I must testify, Doctor.” The word testify was a stretch, but it wasn’t far from the truth. “It’s the right thing for me to do,” Maggie asserted.
“Yes,” said Dr. Leaper, without conviction.
“So, you see why I need your help.”
The surgeon sighed. “Why should I believe you?”
Maggie said, “Why should I lie? If it weren’t an emergency, don’t you think I would have had this done a long time ago, when I could’ve got a deal on the fees?”
“I suppose so.”
“Please, Doctor. It’s not vanity, it’s survival. Do my face, you’ll be saving a life.”
Dr. Leaper opened his schedule book. “I’ve got a lipo tomorrow at two, but I’m going to bump him for you. Don’t eat or drink anything after midnight—”
“I know the routine,” Maggie Gonzalez said ebulliently. “Thank you very much.”
“It’s all right.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?” said Dr. Leaper, cocking one gray eyebrow.
“I was wondering if there’s any chance of a professional discount? I mean, since I am nurse.”
Mick Stranahan stood on the curb outside LaGuardia Airport and watched Reynaldo Flemm climb into a long black limousine. The limo driver, holding the door, eyed Reynaldo’s new hair and looked to Christina Marks for a clue. She said something quietly to the driver, then waved good-bye to Reynaldo in the backseat. Through the smoked gray window Stranahan thought he saw Flemm shoot him a bitter look as the limo pulled away.
“I don’t like this place,” Stranahan muttered, his breath frosty.