Mitchell Krochek took the news hard. The main reason, of course, was that no matter what kind of legal strategies his lawyer indulged in, he would lose half of his assets in a divorce settlement. And be forced to make restitution for the debts his wife had run up on Rebecca Weaver’s credit cards, and to shoulder responsibility for any civil claims that might be brought by her estate. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d have to suffer the negative publicity the murder trial would bring. Yet I had the sense that under his selfish, rutting-male exterior, he genuinely cared for Janice Stanley Krochek-even now, after all she’d done and was about to do to him. Love’s a funny thing. Sometimes, no matter how much two people beat the living hell out of it, it never quite dies.
It was late Friday evening that I talked to him. He called me at home, after the Oakland police finally contacted him. He seemed to need to talk. Kept thanking me for helping him, for “getting to the bottom of things”- saving his ass, he meant. Volunteered the information that he intended to put the house on the market right away because he “couldn’t stand to live there now, after what she did to Becky in the kitchen. I’d have nightmares every goddamn night.” He’d move in with Deanne, he said, until the house was sold and the trial was over and he could start living a normal life again. After that, well, maybe he’d marry Deanne. She loved him and she wasn’t crazy like Janice and his first wife-“first woman I’ve ever been with who wasn’t batshit in one way or another.”
I liked Deanne Goldman and I wished her well, so I hoped he was right about her mental health. If so, she not only wouldn’t marry him, she’d throw him out and change all the locks on her doors.
O n Saturday morning, early, I called Tamara at home to fill her in on Friday’s events. She had a few questions; when I’d answered them, she said, “Some Friday. For you and for Jake, too. Our first pro bono and it turned out crazy, blew up in a murder-suicide.”
“The hell it did. What happened? He didn’t get caught up in it, did he?”
“Found the bodies, that’s all,” she said, and provided details. “Weird, huh?”
“Very. Sometimes I think this agency is cursed. We get the damnedest cases.”
“Always come out okay, though, don’t we?”
“So far,” I said. “One thing for sure after yesterday: I’ve had it up to here with gamblers and gambling. If there’s even a hint of either one in a future inquiry, we turn the case down flat. In fact, do me a favor and don’t even mention gambling to me anymore.”
She let me hear one of her saucy little chuckles. “I won’t,” she said. “You can bet the house on it.”
S unday night, in bed, Kerry said, “I’ve made a decision.”
“Good for you. About what?”
“The way I look.”
“You look fine. Kind of sexy tonight, as a matter of fact. Is that a new nightie?”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I didn’t know I was. Since when is a compliment changing the subject?”
“I’m talking about cosmetic surgery,” she said.
Uh-oh. “You’re not serious?”
“Oh yes, I am. Very serious.”
“My God, not one of those bizarre surgeries you and Tamara were talking about the other night…”
“No. Only my face.”
“Nice face. I like it just as it is.”
“You don’t have to look at it in the mirror every day.”
“I look at it every day straight on. Same thing.”
“No. Not from my perspective. Lines, wrinkles, eyebags… on my best days I look my age. On my worst… bleah.”
“Come on,” I said, “you worry too much about things like that. Doesn’t matter. You still think and act young, you’re still sexy as all get-out-that’s what’s important.”
“To you. Not necessarily to me.”
“Vanity,” I said.
“Call it what you want,” she said with a little snap in her voice. Then, “What’s wrong with a little vanity?”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it-”
“Men can be just as vain as women. More. It’s human nature.”
I sighed. “All right. So what is it you want to change?”
“Everything.”
“A whole new face? Like Bogart in Dark Passage.”
“If I had my druthers,” she said. “But I’ll settle for a complete makeover. Get rid of the lines around my mouth, the eyebags and wrinkles. I’ve seen and talked to a few women who’ve had the procedure. They all look years younger. Just as important, they all feel years younger.”
“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “that kind of surgery doesn’t work out the way it’s supposed to. I mean, there can be complications. Some face-lifts don’t heal right and the person ends up disfigured-”
“Oh, bosh. There’s a tiny risk, yes, but there’s a tiny risk in just about everything we do in our lives. Surgeons have all sorts of new methods that make the procedure perfectly safe.”
“Famous last words.”
“Will you please stop arguing with me?”
“I wasn’t arguing, I was only-”
“I’ve made an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon,” she said. “Dr. Hamadi. He’s in the same building as my oncologist downtown.”
“… Appointment for when?”
“Next Thursday afternoon.”
“You mean you’re having it done that soon?”
“No. It’s just a preliminary examination to make sure I’m healthy enough to go ahead with the procedure.”
“Healthy enough? So even if this doctor says you are, there could still be complications…”
“You’re acting like I’m going to apply for a heart transplant. It’s a simple operation, done thousands of times every day with no complications whatsoever.”
“We’re not talking about thousands of women, we’re talking about you.”
Her mouth pursed. Stubborn, determined. “I’m doing this for me, not for you or anybody else. After all I’ve been through this past year, I think I’m entitled-whether you agree or not. A face-lift is safe, it’s affordable, and I’m going to have it done and that’s all there is to it.”
I wilted a little. “How long is the recuperation?”
“Not long. A few days until the last of the bandages come off. I’ll be housebound for a week or so, but I’ll take some vacation days and then work from home. I’ll be all healed in about six weeks.”
“What about scars?” I said, thinking of the little tattoos on her chest to mark where the cancer radiation machine hookup had been applied.
“Tiny ones, hidden inside my hairline. You’ll never even notice them once the incisions have healed.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Stop looking so gloomy,” she said. “When you see the new me, you’ll wonder why you put up such a fuss.” She leaned over to slide gentle fingers over the bandage that covered my scratched cheek, then started chewing on my ear. “Think of the benefits. It’ll be like going to bed with a younger, more attractive babe.”
“I don’t want an attractive babe, I want you.”
That ended the ear-chewing. “Thanks a lot,” she said.
“I didn’t mean-”
“Good night,” and she rolled over and turned off the bedside light.
I lay there in the dark, for maybe the thousandth time pondering the differences between men and women. The only conclusion I reached was that in this particular case, Kerry was right. The risk in a face-lift was minimal, and she’d been through so much. If she had her heart set on it, she was not only entitled to have it but entitled to my full support. Okay, then. She’d have it.
Besides, as she’d pointed out, there were benefits for me, too. Now that I considered it, a younger-looking, even sexier Kerry was a pretty juicy prospect…
