Criss Cross

Chapter 73

When I exited a rental car early the following afternoon in a parking lot in a slightly seedy neighborhood in North Miami Beach, the air was so hot and humid, it reminded me of Washington DC in mid-August, meaning that it was kind of like sticking your head in a panting dog’s mouth.

Sweat burst out of every pore as I walked toward a two-story, faded green office building that had seen better days. The grass and shrubs were shabbily tended. The glass front door needed cleaning.

The directory on the wall inside said the two suites on the first floor were occupied by law offices that specialized in DUI defense. One of the suites upstairs was for lease, and the other was occupied by Cana Medical Arts.

I climbed the stairs to the suite of Cana Medical Arts to find a handwritten sign on the door that said Clinic Hours 9:00 to 12:00 and 2:30 to 5:00, Monday through Friday.

It was ten minutes to two, forty minutes until the clinic reopened, but I was there, so I tried the doorknob. It turned and I stepped into an empty, dimly lit reception area.

The front desk was unmanned, and the area behind it equally dim. I was about to call out when I heard snoring from down the hallway.

I followed the sound of the snoring and reached an office lit by a single lamp sitting on a large wooden desk. Behind the desk, a heavyset man in a rumpled blue shirt and jeans was sleeping in his chair, bare feet up on the desk.

His toes were positioned right under the lamp, as if he’d put them there for warmth. Unfortunately, the light revealed toenails that were long, abnormally thick, and yellowish with dark streaks, as if they were infected with something fungal.

I curled a lip at that distasteful sight but got out my ID, walked in, sat in the chair opposite him, and knocked on his desk. He didn’t stir, so I knocked louder.

He woke mid-snort, flailed, and almost fell over backward, then he heaved his feet off the desk and lurched forward in his chair, looking befuddled. He had a jowly face, wrinkled, tobacco-colored skin, and bloodshot eyes and he appeared to be in his late sixties, though I knew for a fact he was only fifty-one.

The man’s eyes widened and focused on me. He leaned back in alarm. “What is this?” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m a detective, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Dr. Julius Bombay got angry and started sputtering. “Will this never end? I have paid my fines and endured the penalties and indignities. Enough already!”

“I’m not here about you losing your license to perform surgery, Dr. Bombay,” I said. “I’m here about an old client of yours.”

The disgraced plastic surgeon’s entire demeanor changed. He quieted and studied me closely. “Who do you work for?” he asked. “I sense you’re not real law enforcement.”

“Try me. I’m here about Kyle Craig.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he said, taking his eyes off me and opening a desk drawer.

“He knew you. He told me you gave him a whole new face. This was back when you were operating at night and under the radar to fund your gambling addiction.”

Dr. Bombay came up with a pistol and aimed it at my chest.