Diva Las Vegas (8 page)

Outside, Randy came up from behind and grabbed my arm. I yanked it away and turned on him.

“If you touch me, I’ll start screaming.”

He backed off, putting his hands up.

“Look,” he said, “obviously this is a bad time.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked. “Or are you just stupid?”

“Look, Alex,” Randy said, “take it easy. I’m just tryin’ to get back into my little girl’s life—”

“That’s not going to happen, Randy,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re not getting back into her life or mine.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped. “I don’t want you; only her. I’m filing for joint custody. I already have a lawyer, and he says I have a good shot.”

“What kind of a lawyer would tell you that?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell him that you stole my money, left us with nothing?”

“I didn’t steal—”

“You stole money from me and from your clients,” I said. “You should be in jail.”

“I haven’t been convicted of anything, Alex,” he said. “And I didn’t steal money from you. That was our joint account.”

“Did you have joint accounts with all your clients, too?”

“They were covered by insurance,” he said. “They all got their money back. Nobody pressed charges.”

“Really? We’ll just see about that,” I said.

“You can’t do anything to hurt me, Alex,” he said. “I’m filing for joint custody. You can make it easy or you can make it hard, but it’s gonna happen.”

“Over my dead body.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to hit me, and just as quickly I thought he was going to cry.

“Why are you doin’ this to me, Alex?”

“W-why am I . . . doing this . . . to you?” I stammered. I was so flabbergasted, I couldn’t speak clearly. “My God, Randy . . . you tried to kill me.”

“That again?” he snapped. “Stop sayin’ that. I did no such thing!”

I backed away from his anger, which seemed so genuine, I was stunned.

“I’ve had enough,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “I just wanted to tell you what I was doin’. You’ll hear from my lawyer.”

He turned and stormed away. What right did he have to storm anywhere? I watched him get into a new convertible and drive away. A new car? How the hell did he get a new car?

Surely, there had to be some legal way for me to stop him.

I turned to go back to my car when I remembered why I was there. I went back inside and found my shopping cart untouched. I exchanged the ice cream for a container fresh from the freezer, and then went to the checkout line. I did my best to ignore the looks I was getting from everyone.

I got home from the store with nothing other than pistachio ice cream to serve for dinner. I looked in the cabinets, but was so flustered that I couldn’t think straight. I actually liked to cook—it was sort of a creative outlet for me—but I needed to be somewhat focused. And I definitely wasn’t. So I decided to call a restaurant on the corner that delivered.

I didn’t know the number, so I dialed 411. But I screwed up. When I heard the lady say “911. What is your emergency?” I remembered what Freud said about mistakes. You know that there really aren’t any. And I realized I was in trouble. Apologizing profusely, I hung up.

Dinner was going to have to wait. I grabbed an open bottle of red wine and a coffee cup and walked out the back French doors to the dock. The best thing about my home was that it opened up onto a Venice Beach canal. I sat down and just let myself cry as I watched the ducks float by. I’m not sure how long I was out there, but Jakes came crashing out the back door, clearly upset.

“What are you doing? I was shouting your name. I thought something happened to you.” He looked at me, and seeing I was not okay, asked, “What is it? Is Sarah okay?”

I pulled him down next to me and shook my head. “Sarah’s fine. Just hold me.” He said nothing, but held my head against his chest and stroked my hair. Not pushing or pressuring me, just letting the lapping of the water on the dock calm me down.

I finally looked at him, and his eyes were so sweet, so open. I smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck and kissed him. He tasted like peppermint. It quickly began to build into something else, and before we knew it, he was gently lifting my shirt over my head. I fumbled with his pants zipper. We made love in a gentle yet frenetic way, right there on the wooden dock in broad daylight. It was as if it was our first time, and in many ways it was. I had never been so available to him, maybe because I felt so vulnerable. He brushed the tears from my cheeks and kissed my eyes and mouth.

“What happened?” he whispered.

I replied simply, “Randy happened.”

“What? Randy? That asshole—did he hurt you?”

“No,” I said, “not physically. He wants shared custody. I can’t deal with that. I can’t!” I grabbed my clothes and walked into the house. I was putting on my jeans when he came up behind me.

“It’s going to be okay, Alex. One way or another. We’ll get through this.” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me around. “I’m here. You’re not alone in this.” He made a point of looking at me. He meant it, and I got it. I wasn’t alone in this. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Damn. I was really messed up. Like a Gloria Steinem experiment gone horribly wrong. I was so sick of myself. I mean, really sick of myself.

Okay. So I’d been hurt in my life. Who hadn’t been? Who? So I shut the fuck up and just said, “Thank you.” It took a second, but I managed to squeeze out a timid but sincere, “I need you.” I thought he was going to fall over, but he had great composure and just shrugged.

“I mean it,” he said. “Now tell me what happened.”

“I’m hungry. I didn’t get groceries,” I said as I looked around the bare kitchen. “Are you okay with Cheerios and bananas?” He nodded, and we grabbed the cereal and milk while I filled him in on Randy.

“Interesting perspective your ex has, Alex. I’m not sure if he’s a hundred percent correct in his assumptions, but we’ll find out.” His whole demeanor made me feel better. I guess it wasn’t the end of the world. We’d figure it out, right?

We moved to the living room, spreading our dinner out on the coffee table.

“As if my day wasn’t full enough . . .” And I told him about what I had discovered in Barry’s dressing room.

“You actually broke into his drawers? You’re very gutsy, Alex. That’s against the law.”

“It was worth it. Look.” I retrieved the prescription bottles from my purse and put them on the coffee table in front of us.

“Do you know what this stuff is?” he asked, lifting the bottles to read the labels.

“Yeah. I have people, too. And she confirmed they’re used primarily after surgeries, to prevent pain, infection and swelling. The bottles were both in Shana’s name and Barry’s.”

“Barry Stern has already been questioned by phone. He has an alibi for the night of the murder, but I still need to speak to him in person. I need to look into his eyes as he answers questions.”

“I found out he’s not scheduled to work for a couple of weeks. He’s probably at his Vegas home.”

“And this doctor? Have you looked him up in the phone book?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But my consultant is positive he’s not local.”

“Consultant? Look at you.” His eyes twinkled as he grinned at me.

“I take this seriously.” I jabbed him in the arm.

“Okay, well, let’s get a phone book and make sure of that.”

I got the yellow pages. We looked through the general MDs, even though I was pretty certain he was a plastic surgeon. Then went on to other specialties.

“Nothing,” Jakes said. He picked up the bottles again. “Local pharmacy, but maybe not a local doctor. Some pharmacies are open twenty-four hours. Let’s see.”

He dialed, got a message telling him the hours of the pharmacy.

“I’ll have to check with them tomorrow,” he said, breaking the connection.

“But where else do we look now?”

He thought a moment, and then looked at me. We both said, “Google.”

We took out my laptop, put it on the coffee table and sat on the sofa with our knees touching. We got online, went to Google and waited.

“There’s got to be a database of doctors,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is find it and put his name in.”

I typed in
doctor data base
. Google corrected me and asked if I meant
doctor database
. I clicked on the correction and we got quite a few AMA listings. I just clicked on the first one and was immediately directed to something called Doctorseeker Usage Verification. Underneath it were some squiggly letters and numbers in a box.

“What’s that?” Jakes asked.

“Kind of a code,” I said. “They want us to copy it over, and if it’s right, they’ll let us in.”

“Why? If this service is available, why make it harder for people?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I understand computers just enough to know I have to type these letters into this box.” Which I did, then clicked on the SUBMIT button.

The screen blinked and reappeared with this message in red—
Error: The characters did not match the image. Please try again!

“What did you do?” Jakes asked, annoyed.

“I don’t know,” I said, just as annoyed. “I put the numbers in right, but it’s telling me I didn’t.”

“Now what?”

“They want me to try again with these numbers.”

“Well, make sure you type them in right this time.”

“I typed them in right last time.”

“Just be careful,” he said.

I carefully typed the numbers in.

“See them?” I asked.

“Yeah, they’re right.”

I hit SUBMIT. We were directed to the Doctorseeker page.

“Looks like a lot of ads,” Jakes said.

“Yes, but here it says SEARCH,” I said, pointing to the top right-hand corner. “All we have to do is type in the doctor’s name and click on GO.” I put the cursor on GO and right-clicked my mouse.

Eugene Reynolds
generated 179 matches.

“That many?” Jakes said.

“Yes. But see, it says fifty-four percent match, fifty-three percent match. These here are results for gene-splicing experiments, gene patenting, and gene therapy. It’s only these seven top matches we have to be concerned with.”

“Oh, okay. Seven’s not too bad.” He leaned forward. “I don’t see any addresses.”

“Don’t you use computers at work?” I asked him.

“Yes, and I have people who run them for me.”

“So now I’m your people?”

He leaned over and kissed me. “You better be.”

“Move over,” I said. “We just have to click on the names.”

I put the cursor on the first
Eugene Reynolds
and the name turned red. I clicked.

“Wait, wait,” Jakes said, taking out his notebook. We clicked on all seven doctors, and he wrote down each addresses.

“We got Chicago, San Francisco and Nashville,” he said. “Boston, Las Vegas, Seattle and . . .” I grabbed his arm.

“Wait! Las Vegas? Barry has a home there. And Barry’s name is on some of the bottles! That has to be it!”

“Las Vegas, huh?” He flipped through his notebook.

I looked at the kitchen clock.

“I have to pick up Sarah. . . .”

“’Nuff said.” He got up. “Remember, I have people. In fact, one of those people is waiting for me now.”

“What’s her name?” I asked, trying to be funny.

“Len. We’ve got some work to do. And, by the way, you did well today! I’m impressed.”

“You’re pretty impressive, too. In so many ways.” I pulled him toward me. “Thanks again.”

“I meant what I said. It will be okay. I’ll make sure of it.” He kissed me, and I teared up.

I had my very own knight in shining armor! And he had a nice butt, too. We both headed out the door and into our respective vehicles.

“I’ll call you later!” he yelled over to me.

I blew him a kiss. Corny, but I was feeling it. We drove off in opposite directions.

 

Sarah and my mom were both safely tucked in. But I couldn’t sleep, so a few hours after I went to bed, I got up, made a cup of tea and carried it into the living room. The laptop was still on the coffee table, so I got on the Web. I did a search for Dr. Eugene Reynolds in Las Vegas, Nevada, and found his Web site. There are two kinds of plastic surgery: aesthetic and reconstructive. His specialty, aesthetic, comprised plastic and cosmetic surgery. That meant noses and breasts, butts, lipo. Since we were dealing with a former Playmate and an actor, that seemed logical.

I seemed to have gone as far as I could, so I turned off the computer, finished my tea, put the cup in the sink and went back to bed.

After thinking of all the ways Randy should die, and then feeling guilty for my not-so-enlightened fantasies, I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.

I woke up early, ready to take on anything that came my way. Since I had done scenes from three different episodes yesterday, I was off work for a whole week. I made Sarah breakfast and took her to school. I promised I’d be the one picking her up later.

As she ran into school with the other kids, I told my Bluetooth, “Jakes!” Amazingly, it got it right the first time.

“Jakes,” he said.

“Did you check with the pharmacy yet?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I haven’t had time.”

“What about the gift basket the stalker gave Shana? Any news?”

“Not yet. They’re still processing it. Slow down. These things take time.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m feeling kind of antsy. I found out last night that Dr. Reynolds is an aesthetic plastic surgeon—you know boobs, nose jobs, et cetera. He’s got to be the one.”

“I’ll check with the pharmacist and let you know what happens.”

“But what do I do now?” Silence. “Oh, c’mon! Jakes! Sarah’s at school; I’m not working. Give me something to do!”