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“Around here,” Drummond said, “lots of folks. And definitely Dr. Stanley Abrams. He owns a big plastic-surgery clinic. They call him the Boob King.”
They climbed out of the unmarked cruiser into heat that was ungodly despite the proximity to the ocean.
“I thought most of the super-rich along Ocean Boulevard headed north for the summer,” the younger detective said.
“Most do,” the sergeant replied. “But guys like Abrams stay around no matter how hot it gets.”
One of the uniformed deputies showed them into the house—a castle, really, with so many hallways and rooms that Detective Johnson was soon lost. They climbed a grand staircase, passing an oil painting of a pretty woman in a ball gown, and heard the sound of a man crying.
They entered a bedroom suite and found a slight man in a hall off the bedroom sitting on a padded bench, head down.
“Dr. Abrams?” Drummond said.
The plastic surgeon looked up, revealing a smooth-featured face and a full head of hair that spoke to Johnson of multiple procedures, including hair plugs.
Drummond identified himself, told Abrams he was sorry for his loss.
“I don’t get it,” Abrams said, composing himself. “Ruth was the happiest person I know. Why would she do this to herself?”
“No inkling that she might have been thinking of suicide?” Drummond asked.
“None,” the doctor said.
“Nothing that had upset her lately?” Johnson asked.
The plastic surgeon started to shake his head, but then stopped. “Well, Lisa Martin’s death last week. They were close, ran in the same circles.”
Both detectives nodded. They’d caught that case too. But the death of Lisa Martin, another Ocean Boulevard resident, had been ruled accidental. She’d knocked a plugged-in Bose radio into the tub while she was taking a bath.
“So your wife was sad about Mrs. Martin’s death?” Drummond said.
“Yes, sad and upset,” Abrams said. “But not enough to…Ruth had everything to live for, and she loved life. My God, she’s the only person in this town, including me, who’s never been on antidepressants!”
“You found her, sir?” Johnson asked.
The surgeon’s eyes watered, and he nodded. “Ruth had given the staff the weekend off. I flew in overnight from Zurich.”
“We’re going to take a look,” Drummond said. “You touch anything?”
“I wanted to cut her down,” Abrams said, looking into his hands. “But I didn’t. I just…called you.”
He sounded lost and alone. Johnson said, “You got family, sir?”
Abrams nodded. “My daughters. Sara’s in London, and Judy’s in New York. They’re going to be…” He sighed and started to cry again.
Drummond went into the bedroom, Johnson trailing him. The detective sergeant stopped, studying the corpse in situ.
Ruth Abrams hung by a drapery cord that was suspended from a chandelier above the bed and cinched tight around her neck. She was a small-framed woman, no more than one hundred and ten pounds, and wore a black nightgown. Her face was swollen and mottled purple. Her legs and feet were a darker maroon because of the blood that had settled.
“You have a time of death?” Drummond asked the medical examiner, a young Asian woman who was making notes.
“Eighteen to twenty hours is the best I can do for now,” the ME said. “The air-conditioning throws things a bit, but it looks straightforward to me. She hung herself.”
Drummond nodded without comment, eyes on the body. He walked over to the bed and stopped about a foot away from it. Johnson did the same on the opposite side.
It looked straightforward to Johnson too. She’d apparently put an upside-down wastebasket on the bed to stand on while she got the noose around her neck and then she’d kicked it away. There it was, on the rug to the right of the bed. She’d hung herself. End of
story.
