Synopsis

What would you do if you found your dentist dead in his chair when you arrived for an appointment? Detective Clifton Rodriquez convinces Dr. Dan Trix that the answer is simple: find out who done it. The trail leads Trix and Lester to the beer halls of Lima, Peru and the colorful markets of Otavalo, Ecuador where they find well-guarded streets and closely guarded secrets. When people close to a Florida State agency are soon found dead, the suspicion is that all these deaths are not a coincidence. How are they related? Who did it? Can it be stopped? Trix, Elaine and Lester are racing against an invisible clock. Will they be in time?

Chapter 1.

There was someone dead in the dentist’s chair.

A patient? Maybe. Sometimes when I hear the drill and see vaporized enamel erupt from my mouth, I do a full body isometric sufficient to stop my heart.

A dental assistant? Doubtful. People don’t hate them. They are little more than the devil’s disciples. They tend the molten pitchforks and the sizzling needles that dentists stab into the delicate nerve bundles cuddled under our gums. Like good soldiers, they just follow orders. They sleep well.

The custodian found the key to the medicine cabinet and discovered too late he was intolerant to Novocain? Low probability there.

Best guess, it was the dentist. If it was the dentist, he was a man too busy to buy decent clothes.

My father was mostly blind. When I would visit him I’d throw away bundles of shirts with holes burned by cigarette ashes and pants stained by desserts, replaced by shiny new work pants and shirts on sale. He knew his clothes felt different. I told him it was a new miracle ingredient in the detergent.

Put a bag over the head of the guy in the chair and he could have been my dad. Except for the blood. Dad nicked himself occasionally while shaving. But that didn’t lead to a bloodstain the size of a waffle over his left shirt pocket.

My forte as a management consultant is assessing the cause of imbalances between cash inflows and outflows, proposing reorganizational initiatives, recommending acquisition strategies, cautioning about the perils of integrating disparate corporate cultures.

I do not pause quietly, peruse the crime scene, consider options, deduce meaning from miasma then conclude it was the butler in the kitchen with the candlestick.

I tried to exit quickly and quietly. I didn’t make it.

One of the dental hygienists arrived as I was executing my escape. I had made it to the waiting area where patients read how to make a fifteen-minute chicken-chili casserole the whole family will enjoy. She was disconcerted when I stood firmly in front of the door leading to the dental area. So was the hygienist who arrived seconds later apologizing and complaining about the idiots who text and drive.

“Dr. Trix, but what are you doing?” Rosalita said. The few times I had been there I had been playful with the hygienists, some might say flirty. This was not the flirty me.

“I’m protecting you,” I said.

“This is not funny. We need to prepare, right now. I’m sure you know how irritated people get when their appointment is delayed,” Rosalita said.

“I myself am a role model for how to be righteously irritated when my appointment is delayed.”

“Dr. Trix, please,” Rosalita said as she moved to step around me, followed closely by Tristy. I put my arm firmly on the doorframe.

“Describe Dr. Kovich,” I said.

“He’s shorter than you. A little overweight. Dark brown hair with a receding hairline.”

“Dresses like a slob?

“When he wears his lab coat, it’s not noticeable. Why are you asking these questions?” Rosalita said.

“Ladies, would you sit for a moment, please?”

They did. Trying to not to be nervous is like trying to not be thirsty. Doesn’t make any difference what you do, you still are. They were.

“Dr. Kovich is dead. It’s messy. I promise you, you do not want to have that image tattooed on your brain. I’m going to call the police and we are going to sit here, calmly, until they arrive. Then you can get hysterical if you’d like. I wouldn’t recommend it. Police tend to respond physically to hysterics.”

“How do you know he’s dead? What were you doing back there?” Tristy said. She was bouncing on her chair. Freckles that were dormant under normal conditions emerged on her cheeks, complimenting her strawberry blonde ponytail. The flirty me noticed that.

“I believe arriving early for an appointment is arriving on time. If the party starts at ten o’clock, I’m there by nine,” I said.

“You’re not answering the questions. You had something to do with this,” Tristy said. Not only was she bouncing, she was clenching and unclenching her fists.

“Tristy, give me your hands.”

She recoiled.

I knelt, grabbed them and held them firmly. The back of her chair kept her from pushing herself out the window.

“No one was at check-in. I rang the little bell. I called out. No response. I went through the door. I found the doctor. I was going outside to call the police when you two arrived. Lousy reception back there. Now if you can sit here calmly, both of you, I’ll make that call.” I passed along one of Tristy’s hands to Rosalita, who patted it gently, an understanding, nervous older sister.

When an ostensibly law-abiding management consultant has a detective in the Crimes Against Persons unit of the Sarasota Police Department on speed dial, frankly, it’s a damn sad state of affairs.

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