Monks was not surprised to find the offices and clinic of Dr. D. Welles D' Anton located in a premium area of the city, on the eastern edge of St. Francis Wood. The building looked like it had once been a gracious residence – three stories of post-Victorian architecture, with a sandstone exterior, red-tiled roof, and a large private yard that included a eucalyptus grove and a flowing fountain. The maintenance was pristine. There was no sign, and no indication that the place was a medical facility.
The freshly asphalted parking lot held a dozen vehicles, most of them luxury class: BMW, Mercedes, Lexus, and – in a space separated from the rest, like a stall for a prized stallion – one burnished gold Jaguar XJS, with a personalized license plate that read: rodin. That would be D' Anton's.
His nurse had never called the hospital back about Eden Hale's records. Presumably, everything was fine. But Monks wanted to check for himself.
He parked his poor-relation '74 Ford Bronco and walked up the stone steps. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and jeans, his usual ER outfit. He pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside.
Most of the original architecture was intact here, too. The fifteen-foot ceiling was ornate plaster, supported by groined pilasters, and the many-paned windows reached from the floor almost to the room's full height. There was a huge chandelier, although the actual lighting was concealed and had a pinkish cast, flattering to complexions. The carpet was thick enough to give his feet the feel of sinking in. Monks guessed that there had once been a ceremonious curved staircase with a balustrade, and probably a grand piano. Now the room's central feature was a large admissions desk that looked to be of genuine polished ebony. There was no one behind it at the moment.
The room had another striking addition that would not have been found in its century-old elegance – an eye-level collage of photographs along one wall, stretching roughly twenty feet. Monks walked closer and studied the images with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were at a museum. They were all of beautiful women, and all of top professional quality. Some were close-ups of faces. Others were full-body, with the models artfully draped in diaphanous costumes or nude.
He had seen some of those faces; they belonged to well-known actresses and models. Presumably, all of them had been patients of D' Anton. The display was a brilliant tactic, a fabulous advertisement to the women who came here craving beauty. Look! it shouted. This is what you can become.
But Monks got the impression that it was more than that. It was a shrine, lavished with devotional images of the lovely sylphs who were sculpted to perfection by their medical Pygmalion. D'Anton considered himself an artist – the rodin license plate said it all – who made attractive women beautiful and beautiful women sublime. He curved noses, lifted faces, injected Botox, rejuvenated skin, and shaped breasts that begged to be cupped by adoring hands. But he did not do tummy tucks or major liposuction. If you were fat, you went to somebody else.
Monks started to realize that he was not alone after all. Several private cubicles at this end of the room were divided off by tasteful, Japanese-style screens. He caught glimpses of well-dressed women sitting inside them, waiting for treatment or for conferences with D' Anton. A couple of them were watching him over the tops of their magazines. He nodded uncomfortably, toward no one in particular, and moved back toward the desk. He had begun to notice that the air had a faintly cloying scent, from fresheners or perhaps a years-old accumulation of perfumes.
After another minute or so, a door at the rear of the room opened. Monks got a glimpse of an area that looked more like an actual office, with two clerks working at smaller desks.
Then another woman stepped into the doorway. She was wearing a tight short skirt and sleeveless top, with her dark hair pulled back into a chignon. Monks got the instant certainty of genuine, world-class beauty. She was in profile, with something cupped in the palm of one hand, held close to her face. A makeup compact mirror, Monks thought. Her other hand rose, forefinger lightly smoothing her lipstick at one corner of her mouth.
She snapped the compact closed and turned. The sight of Monks apparently startled her so much that she dropped it. He moved forward to pick it up, but she waved him away and stooped to get it herself, long calves flexing with taut grace.
When she stood again, she stalked to the desk, ignoring him until she had assumed her position of authority behind its center. Then she folded her arms and smiled briskly. She was tall, at least five foot ten, and about forty, with age beginning to slacken her perfection just a bit. A gold-etched placard on the desk gave her name: gwen bricknell.
By now, Monks had recognized her as the woman beckoning on the cover of D' Anton's informational pamphlet.
"And what can I do for you?" she said.
Monks handed her a business card – a real one, not one of the phonies he sometimes used for investigation work – identifying him as an M.D. and Fellow of the American College of Emergency Physicians.
"I'd like to see Dr. D'Anton," he said. "It won't take long."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
Her smile brightened fiercely. "I'm afraid it's impossible. If you'd like to fill out an application, we'll try to schedule you. But I have to warn you, our waiting list is over a year long."
Monks said, "I'm not here as a patient. I think you and I should have a word in private."
"Really?" she said skeptically.
He nodded toward the women in the waiting room, whose ears were almost visibly perked up. "Really."
Gwen Bricknell's head tilted in cool consideration. Then she stalked, with that same imperious stride, to the front entrance and out onto the stone porch. Monks followed.
"This is about one of your patients, a young woman named Eden Hale," he said. "Your office has been informed of her death."
Her face changed swiftly, eyes going wary, mouth opening a little.
"Yes?" she said.
"I work at the Emergency Room at Mercy Hospital. I attended her when she died."
"That was you?"
"That was me," Monks said.
Her gaze had turned accusing, but Monks held it. Then her head moved with a sudden little tremor, and her eyes lowered.
"It's terrible," she murmured. "How – did she die?"
"Unpleasantly," Monks said. "Her circulatory system shut down, and she bled to death."
"What on earth could have caused that?"
"I'd like to find out, Ms. Bricknell." She looked up again sharply, perhaps at his use of her name. "She had a breast surgery yesterday."
One of Gwen's hands rose to her heart, or perhaps in an unconscious gesture to protect her own breasts.
"Yes, I remember Eden," she said. "Because of her name, mainly, it's so unusual. But she was fine when she left here."
"I'm sure she was. But the death was bizarre, and it's standard procedure to check out any recent surgery. I'd like to get her history, to see if that sheds any light on it. And to talk to Dr. D'Anton."
A car came pulling into the drive, a gunmetal gray Mercedes with smoked windows. Monks could just make out the driver's chauffeur cap. Gwen glanced at the vehicle, her mouth twisting quickly.
"I'll be frank with you, Doctor," she said. "He's very upset about this. He's canceled all his afternoon appointments. I'm not sure he'd want to talk to you."
"Ms. Bricknell, he called Mercy Hospital this morning, accusing the Emergency Room of being responsible for Eden Hale's death. He doesn't know a damned thing about what actually happened. And for the record, there's a chance that she came out of the surgery with an infection that did kill her. Tell him that, will you?"
The chauffeur was opening the Mercedes' rear door. A graceful woman wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, scarf, and large sunglasses stepped out – another incognito actress or model or trophy wife.
"Someone didn't get the message," Gwen said with quiet annoyance. "Would you excuse me just a moment?" She hurried down the stone steps and met the approaching woman. Monks watched her explain that the appointment was canceled. Her body language, solicitous yet firm, made it subtly clear that the patient was all-important but that Gwen Bricknell ran this show. Sunlight and shadow played on her finely muscled golden-skinned arms as she gestured, and accentuated the hollows beneath her cheekbones as she talked and smiled. He wondered if her brittle energy was drug-induced.
The woman with the straw hat got back into the Mercedes. Gwen returned to Monks. Her eyes were cool again. Whatever control might have faltered for a moment, she had regained.
"I'll go tell him," she said. "I can't promise he'll see you." He followed her back inside. She disappeared into the rear office, closing the door behind her.
Monks walked over to the photo collage again. There was no doubt about it – several of the shots, both facial and nudes, were of a younger Gwen Bricknell, displaying her perfection in poses that walked the edge between art and erotica.
He turned back toward the desk and stopped abruptly, startled. A nurse was standing right behind him, close enough to touch. He had not heard her make a sound approaching – had had no idea that she was there. Her name tag said phyllis quires, rn. She was sturdily built, with a Dutchboy haircut and not much expression, except for an accusing element in her gaze. He realized that she had caught him red-handed, leering at the photos. He was a voyeur, defiling a sanctuary that was not for men.
"I'm waiting for Ms. Bricknell," he said.
She looked dissatisfied with his explanation, but said, "I'm sure you'll be more comfortable in here, then." She ushered him to one of the screened-off cubicles.
The space contained two leather-upholstered office chairs and a glossy black lacquered table, with a large oval mirror and several photo albums arranged in a tasteful spread. Monks flipped through them. They were filled with before and after photos, not artful like the collage on the wall outside, but a more down-to-earth look at what clients might expect – reshaped noses, vanished wrinkles, enhanced and desagged breasts, tightened buttocks, bee-stung lips. It was another powerful advertisement for cosmetic surgery. The results were remarkable.
Out in the parking lot, a car door slammed. Monks glanced through a window and saw a woman getting out of a white SUV. She hurried toward the clinic's door, then across the reception room. She looked distraught. He assumed she was another patient who had not received a cancellation notice, perhaps agitated because she was late. But he saw with surprise that she went straight to the rear office door and pushed it open.
He could not hear exactly what she said, but he caught the name "Eden." Her voice was urgent, shaking.
Gwen Bricknell appeared in the doorway, reaching out to grip the newcomer's shoulder. It was not a comforting gesture – more like a shake. She made a harsh shh sound.
Then she looked over at Monks and said, in a louder, formal voice, "Dr. Monks? He'll see you now."
Monks walked to them, deciding to push it.
"I couldn't help overhearing," he said to the second woman. "I tended Eden Hale in the Emergency Room. Did you know her?"
Her mouth opened in surprise, or even shock. But whatever she might have said was cut off by Gwen's quick words.
"Like I told you, Doctor, Eden was just another patient. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that to sound harsh, but it's true. Julia's concerned because this might reflect on Dr. D'Anton. She's his wife."
Monks sharpened his appraisal of Julia D' Anton. She was in her mid-forties, with a bohemian look – her long thick red-brown hair was pulled back in a careless braid, and she was wearing baggy pants and a blue work shirt with rolled-up sleeves, as if she had been gardening. But she had the same indefinable air of superiority as the other women he had seen here, and her huge diamond wedding and engagement rings stood out from across the room. She was handsome rather than beautiful, with a big-boned frame, large strong hands, and a face that D'Anton had obviously not reshaped. Right now, it looked very unhappy.
'There's no reflection on Dr. D'Anton," Monks said, and thought, at least yet. "I just came to straighten out a misunderstanding."
Gwen's smile looked brittle to the breaking point. She touched Julia's shoulder again, easing her away from the door.
"We don't want to keep Dr. Monks," she said. "He must be very busy."
Gwen led him down a hallway that had several doors opening into procedure rooms. They passed a maintenance man, with dozens of keys on a belt ring and a box of tools on the floor beside him, taking the cover off a thermostat.
'Todd, you do know we're closing early," Gwen said.
"Yes, ma'am," he said cheerfully. 'That'll give me a chance to check out the air-conditioning."
The door at the hallway's end led into the clinic proper – the sanctum sanctorum, domain of the high priest. Most plastic surgeons worked in partnerships, but D'Anton worked alone. Gwen pointed to the door with exaggerated politeness, then turned on her heel and walked away.
Monks stepped inside. Here, the walls were sterile white, lined with cabinets of medical supplies. A container of clear liquid, kept on ice, sat on one table, with a box of sterile-wrapped syringes beside it – Botox, probably.
D'Anton was waiting. He was in his late forties, of medium height, trim, and very dapper. His hands were perfectly manicured, but they were surprisingly heavy and thick-knuckled-working-class hands. His left wrist was encircled by a gold Rolex with a cerulean blue face. He wore a tailored white lab coat and expensive wool slacks with knife-edge creases, cuffs breaking perfectly over tasseled leather shoes. He looked pale, but his manner was precise, assured, and impatient. He did not offer a handshake. That was fine with Monks.
"You ought to have some facts in hand before you go slinging accusations, Doctor," Monks said.
"Eden Hale left here in perfect health," D'Anton said, in a tone bordering on outrage. "Less than twenty-four hours later, in your care, she was dead."
"And she came into my care too far gone to have a chance. She died of DIC. Are you familiar with it?"
D'Anton hesitated. "An abnormality in blood clotting, isn't it? I don't remember the details."
"It causes severe circulatory depression, and bleeding everywhere. It takes hours to develop. Whatever started it happened to her beforehand. Were you aware of anything that could have contributed? Low blood count? Carcinoma? Complications?"
"None of those." The sharpness was back in D'Anton's voice. "Of course I'd checked her history – she was pristine. The procedure was a simple one. I've done thousands of them. It went like clockwork and she came out in tiptop shape."
"Then let's talk about what might have happened in between."
"There was supposed to be someone with her for at least twenty-four hours," D'Anton said. "Her fiancé, I believe."
"I talked to him. He had other plans last night."
"He left her alone?" D'Anton said incredulously.
Monks nodded.
"That's – criminal."
"We tried to call you, too."
"If I took night calls from every neurotic woman I treated, I'd never sleep. Besides, by that time she was 'too far gone,' isn't that what you're saying?"
This guy is Teflon, Monks thought. "Yes."
"Whereas her fiancé made a commitment to care for someone recovering from surgery."
"I've got a feeling that Mr. Dreyer's definition of 'making a commitment' is different from the medical community's," Monks said. "There's no help there now, anyway. What time was her procedure?"
"Late morning."
"That makes it roughly eighteen hours before I saw her. There are a couple of possibilities. Traumatic injury, but there was no obvious sign of it. Massive infection, as from the surgery-" Monks paused, watching with grim satisfaction as D'Anton's face flushed with indignation.
"Impossible." D'Anton almost spat the word.
"Or something unknown."
"You're groping for a diagnosis. That's pathetic."
"I'd appreciate a look at her records," Monks said.
"Certainly not, unless you're here in official capacity, Doctor – I'm sorry, your name's slipped my mind."
"Monks. No."
"What are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to have a consultation with another professional," Monks said. "For Christ's sake, you knew her. I'd think you'd want to help find out why she died." Monks shook his head and turned to go, angry at D'Anton, but at himself, too, for falling into this schoolboy exchange of finger-pointing.
"I'm distraught about it, of course," D'Anton said, stepping after him. "It's hard to believe. She was so vibrant."
The words had the feel of a clumsy attempt to cover his callousness, and Monks did not go for it.
"I guess I'm lucky there," Monks said. "I never saw her like that."
D'Anton bristled visibly. "I can't imagine how you must feel."
"In emergency medicine, people are going to die," Monks said. "It's not Rodeo Drive."
Julia D'Anton had left the reception room when Monks walked back through it. Gwen Bricknell was working busily at her desk. She did not look up.
So much for making a good impression, Monks thought.
Outside, the heat and bright sunlight hit him hard. He could already feel the day's grit on his skin beneath his clothes. Julia D'Anton's SUV was still parked in the lot, the only vehicle besides his own that did not fit here – a Toyota 4Runner, nondescript white, several years old, and a little down-at-heels. It seemed an odd choice in this glitzy world. The rear compartment was thick with dust and chips of stone. Monks remembered her work clothes and wondered if she was landscaping or redecorating.
He opened the Bronco's door and started to get in.
'That's yours, huh?" a man's voice said. "What is it, a seventy-five?" The tone was friendly – the first positive thing Monks had heard today. He turned. It was the maintenance man, Todd, walking toward D'Anton's Jaguar, carrying a towel and Windex.
"Seventy-four," Monks said.
"She's in great shape." Todd started polishing the Jag's glass, keeping his body carefully away, so that his belt buckle and keys would not scratch its finish. He was in his early thirties, good-looking, wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt that showed off a well-muscled torso. A floppy, dark blond haircut completed the look of a '60s-era Southern California surfer. But there was nothing laid-back about him. He exuded brisk competence.
"I know I should get something more sensible," Monks said. "She's like an old dog I can't bear to part with."
"Hey, I hear you. I had a seventy-five. I've been kicking myself ever since I sold it." He patted the Jaguar's hood. "Although I've got to admit, I wouldn't mind having one of these."
"It's a beautiful machine," Monks agreed.
"Only for the rich and famous. I try to take care of it for the doc. Especially, like now. He's pretty bummed out."
"So I've gathered."
"Yeah," Todd said, and this time Monks imagined accusation in his tone. He wondered if Todd had overheard his conversation with D'Anton, and – like everyone else – blamed Monks for troubling the great man; if his seeming friendliness had only been a setup to take a shot.
But then, Monks thought, he was imagining all kinds of things by now. He waved good-bye to Todd anyway.
Monks started the engine, sorting through his impressions. It seemed clear that Gwen Bricknell and Julia D' Anton knew each other well. Not many physicians' receptionists would feel comfortable shaking and scolding their boss's wife.
And it seemed that Eden Hale had been more than just another patient, whom Gwen remembered only because of her unusual name. The way that Julia had blurted it out, with Gwen picking up on it instantly and hushing her, suggested familiarity there, too. Monks had intended to lead the conversation in that direction, to see what he might uncover. But Gwen had headed that off.
Monks remembered the tattoo on Eden's rump, and Ray Dreyer's sleazy persona. These did not jibe with the elegant world of women like Gwen and Julia. He wondered what relationship they might have had with her.
Wondered why Gwen Bricknell had lied about it.
D' Anton stepped into an empty procedure room and slumped back against the wall with his face in his hands. It was the room where he had operated, yesterday, on Eden Hale. A few more sessions of sculpting her face, and the perfection within her would have shone forth.
He knew female flesh as very few people ever had-by sight, by scent, and, above all, by touch. He knew the strength and tone of the muscles under his fingertips, the suppleness of the skin. How best to enhance them, and how long that would last. Most of his patients were attractive, and many were beautiful.
But Eden was far beyond that.
To the uneducated eye, she had been nothing really special. But D'Anton had seen deeper the instant he first had noticed her. She had an ideal bone structure, a superb musculature, and a quality to her flesh that was the closest to perfection he had ever found – precisely the right combination of firmness and yielding, seeming to give off an energy of its own that spread through his hands and made touching her almost hypnotic.
He would never feel that warmth again.
He pushed away from the wall and strode to a conference room where Gwen Bricknell and his wife, Julia, were talking in low, urgent tones. At the sound of the opening door, both swiveled to look at him.
'That scum of a boyfriend left Eden alone last night," D'Anton said to Gwen. "Why the hell did you let her go with him?"
Gwen's eyes went fierce in return. "It's not up to me to make that judgment, Doctor. She chose him. He's a competent adult."
"He's neither of those things!"
"Then from now on, you can vet them yourself." She tossed her head defiantly.
"Blame yourself, Welles," Julia cut in. She was glaring, too, her earlier shock turning to rage, her voice trembling. "If you'd left Eden alone, none of this would have happened."
D'Anton stifled the urge to snap back at her. There were other pressing worries to be dealt with, and the most immediate one was Monks. D'Anton had gone through the charade of not remembering the name, but in fact he knew perfectly damned well who Monks was.
"Call that Dr. Monks," D'Anton said to Gwen. "Tell him I apologize for being rude. Stress, all that. He's welcome to look at Eden's records. We'll have them ready if he cares to drop by."
Gwen's eyebrows rose. "Mind if I ask why the sudden chumminess?"
"Because he's got a reputation for causing trouble. I want him to know I have nothing to hide. To leave me the hell alone." He looked at his watch. It was 9:47 a.m., a time when he would normally be brimming with energy, even excited, lost in the full swing of the morning's work. "How many more appointments?"
"Three."
"Send in the next one," he said. "Let's get this day over with."
Monks drove toward nowhere, heading west out of a vague wish to get near the ocean, as if that would ease the constriction he felt around him. He kept turning on unfamiliar streets, working his way farther from the city, until he topped the bluffs that crested the coastline to the south. He was not familiar with the area; it was somewhere in Pacifica.
He found a place to pull off the road and got out of the Bronco, leaning across the hood on his forearms. He watched the long white-capped breakers roll in, remembering some thirty years ago, when he had shipped out to tend the wounded in Vietnam, and come home with his own inglorious million-dollar wound, delivered by the tiny saber of an anopheles mosquito.
To the east, the traffic on Interstate 280 streamed nonstop down the long depression of the San Andreas Fault, an endless speeding line of hot little bumper cars darting in and out of clusters of eighteen-wheelers, sleek luxury European sedans, RVs towing boats or second vehicles. They all had one thing in common, the one thing that, right now, looked better than just about anything in the world. They were all on their way to someplace else.
There were plenty of things bothering him about Eden Hale's death, but now he pinned down an elusive one that had been growing underneath the others. Several different people had weighed in so far, all with their own very different perspectives. Most of their interests were self-oriented – Baird Necker's in protecting the hospital; Gwen Bricknell's, the plastic surgery clinic; D'Anton's, his reputation. Ray Dreyer seemed mainly concerned about the marketable commodity he had lost. And a lot of what was driving Monks himself, he admitted, was a desire to justify his own actions in the ER.
But in this shuffle, Eden had gotten lost. She was the seed that had started it all, but then she had been pushed aside, ignored, while the players squared off to pursue their own aims.
Monks got behind the Bronco's wheel and punched a number on his cell phone. While it rang, his gaze fixed on a welded patch on the opposite door panel, where on a rainy evening last fall, a 9-millimeter bullet had exited while he lay huddled on the floor, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other frantically jamming down on the accelerator, trying to escape the ambush he had driven into.
After four rings, he got the answering machine of Stover Larrabee, a private detective and Monks's partner in insurance investigations.
"I need a favor, Stover," Monks said. 'There's a young actress named Eden Hale. It looks like she's going to figure into my life, so I'd like to know more about hers."
Monks paused. "Did I say 'There is'? I should have said 'was.'"