Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“Sounds like you knew her pretty well.”

“As well as you can know anyone in this setting,” she said. “Except for kids, we mostly treat a transient population. But DeMaura was pretty regular about her appointments.”

She checked the chart again. “She’s been coming in for three years. For the first six months she saw Dr. Chan. He retired and I picked her up.”

“The patients get regular dentists?”

“When the workload permits, we try to make it as much like a private practice as possible. For DeMaura that was easy because all she needed were cleanings-oh, yes, and one replaced amalgam right at the beginning.”

“Why would she need to be a regular just for cleanings?”

“She had some tendency to build up plaque, but nothing extreme.” She played with the chart. “Dr. Chan had been seeing her twice a year but I put her on every three months. To keep tabs on her, not just dentally, for overall health. I felt the only way she’d get regular medical care was if I referred her.”

“She trusted you.”

“I took the time to listen. Truth is, I enjoyed talking to her. She could be funny. Unfortunately, she stopped coming in…” Flipping a page. “… fifteen months ago. When did she die?”

“Possibly around then.”

“I should’ve known something was up, she was always so dependable. But the phone number she left was inactive and I had no way to contact her.”

“I found it surprising that she’d held on to her teeth.”

“She had super-long roots, lots of room for error,” said Faye Martin. “She’d been told that by another dentist, years ago, and it became a point of pride for her. So did her name. ‘Mon touthe, it’s karma, Doc, I’m the Chomper Queen.’ And she didn’t have too many points of pride, healthwise.”

“What physical problems did she have?”

“You name it,” said Faye Martin. “Arthritis, bursitis, acute bouts of pancreatitis, liver issues, at least one episode of Hep A I’m aware of, the usual STDs. She wasn’t HIV-positive, at least she’d avoided that. Not that it matters anymore.”

“Where’d you refer her for those issues?”

“The Marina Free Clinic. I called over there once to find out if she’d followed through. She only came in to get her prescriptions, no follow-up.”

I said, “No one she trusted there.”

Faye Martin’s long-lashed brown eyes locked in to mine. Her cheeks were pink. “Guess I practiced your profession without a license.”

“Good thing. You’re the first person we’ve found who knows anything about her. We haven’t been able to turn up any relatives or friends.”

“That’s because she had no friends. Or so she claimed. She said she didn’t like people, was happiest just walking around by herself. She called herself a lonely bad girl. Disowned by family back when she still lived in Canada.”

“Where in Canada?”

“ Alberta.”

I laughed. “We were told Alabama.”

“Hey, an A’s an A,” said Faye Martin.

“Why was she disowned?”

“They were farmers, religious fundamentalists. DeMaura really didn’t give out the details. She came in to have her teeth cleaned, would talk and I’d listen. That happens here more than you think.” She brushed hair from her face. “I didn’t get much psych training in dental school, sure could use some.”

“Is there anything in the chart that could help us know her better?”

“The official record’s just teeth and gums, anything else DeMaura told me stayed in Vegas. But I’ll make you a copy. If your forensic odontologist has time, he or she can make the official match. If not, send me what you’ve got and I’ll do it.”

“Appreciate it. What stayed in Vegas?”

“What she did for a living. She wanted me to know right at the out-set that she was a ‘bad girl.’ Made love only for money-that’s not the terminology she used. But I don’t want to imply that was a big part of our conversations. For the most part, it was just silly chat. She’d come in, kind of goofy, start laughing about some joke she heard on the street, try to retell it, mangle it, and we’d both crack up. For a moment I’d forget what-who she was-and it would be like hanging with a friend, chick-talk. But her last visit, fifteen months ago, was different. First of all, she looked better. Nice makeup, not the crazy stuff she wore for work. Decent clothes and her hair was clean and combed out. Nothing could erase all those years of hard living, but that day I caught a glimpse of what she might’ve looked like if things had turned out differently.”

I said, “The only picture I’ve seen was a mug shot.”

Faye Martin frowned. “One thing I know is facial structure and DeMaura’s was well proportioned and symmetrical. She had the under-pinnings of a good-looking woman, Dr. Delaware. That day, it shone through. I told her how pretty she looked, asked if she was going somewhere special. She claimed she had a date with her boyfriend. That surprised me, she’d never talked about men except as customers.”

“She claimed. You had your doubts?”

“Even with her teeth and fixed up, DeMaura was far from ravishing. And the man she described was younger and good-looking.”

“How much younger?”

“She didn’t specify but she called him a kid. ‘Gorgeous kid, I could be his momma but he likes ’ em mature.’ Honestly, I thought she was making it up. Or, at the least, exaggerating. After I finished doing her teeth and my assistant left the room, she started talking about the sexual side of their relationship and for the first time I saw a hint of… I guess it would have to be arousal. As if she could still feel. So maybe this guy, whoever he was-if he existed-maybe he turned her on. Though I also wondered if DeMaura had been the victim of some cruel joke. Misconstruing one of her business relationships as personal.”

“Crush on a client,” I said.

“What she told me next made it the wrong type of client. She said he liked to hurt her. And that she liked to be hurt.”

“Hurt how?”

“I didn’t ask. The prurient details didn’t interest me, just the opposite-to be truthful, I was repulsed. I did warn her to be careful but she said they were just playing games.”

“She used that word?”

“Yes, games. Then she placed her hands around her neck and stuck out her tongue and wobbled her head. As if she was being strangled.”

Dark eyes narrowed. “Is that how she died?”

“There’s evidence of strangulation, but all that was left of her were bones.”

“My God,” she said. “It wasn’t her fantasy, it happened.”

“What else did she say about this boyfriend?”

“Let me think back.” Massaging the smooth space between shaped eyebrows. “She said… now I’m sorry that I didn’t press for details… okay, she said she liked rubbing his head, he was her good-luck charm. It was one of the games they played, she’d rub his head and he’d do what he wanted-her words, he does what he wants, whatever he wants. She said she loved his head, how smooth it was. ‘Like a baby’s ass.’ So I guess he was bald.” Frowning. “I gave her a new toothbrush and a pick and some Colgate Total.”

She sprang up. “Let me copy this for you.”

I said, “This has been helpful. You’ve got nothing to regret.”

She turned, smiled. “At least someone has psych training.”

Assistant District Attorney John Nguyen rubbed a baseball.

Pristine Dodger ball decorated with lots of signatures. Three other orbs in plastic cases shared shelf space with law books and case folders. Nguyen was senior enough to get a corner-view office on the seventeenth floor of the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. Foltz had been the first woman lawyer on the West Coast. I wondered what she’d think of the soulless, twenty-story fridge that bore her name.