The call only lasted for thirty seconds, but it was from a doctor. Lena checked the area code and zeroed in on the name. Joseph Fontaine, MD had called at 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday, December 12, from somewhere in L.A.
“We’re looking for a surgeon, right, Lena?”
She met Rhodes’s eyes and caught the sharp glint. “That’s the night she was murdered.”
Rhodes turned back to the handset and continued toggling through the Caller ID list. He didn’t have to go very far before Fontaine’s name popped up on the list again. The call had been made at 4:00 p.m. that same day and lasted another thirty seconds.
“He’s hitting the machine and hanging up,” Rhodes said. “Trying to reach her, but not leaving a message.”
Lena dug into her pocket for her notepad, found the first clean page, and wrote down the doctor’s name and number. When she finished, Rhodes clicked through the list until he reached the end. Of the thirty-six calls McBride received this month, seven belonged to Joseph Fontaine, MD. Three were hang-ups made on the day McBride was murdered. But the remaining four were spread over the previous ten days, each lasting for almost an hour.
Rhodes placed the handset on the cradle and turned. She could feel his breath on her face. The heat emanating from his skin. His eyes on her.
“You bring your computer?” he asked.
10
Lena pushed aside the lingerie and condoms, clearing a space for her laptop on the coffee table. While Rhodes logged the pills into evidence, she switched on the wireless broadband card and within a few seconds had a secure connection to the Internet. She found her bookmark for AutoTrackXP and clicked it. When she arrived at the Web site, she typed in her user name and password and the information gate to billions of current and historical records swung all the way open in a single instant.
She typed Joseph Fontaine’s name and phone number into the search windows and hit ENTER. In another instant, the man’s entire life rendered before her eyes.
“I’m up,” she said. “I’ve got him.”
“Who is he?”
This was where every background check began. Lena studied the screen, grateful that the department had an account and that she had access to such an extensive database: names, aliases, every job ever worked, every address ever used, every phone number, all registered vehicles, all property owned, his relatives, neighbors, associates, credit history, and tax records. She scanned through the list. Dr. Joseph Fontaine’s life was three and a half pages long.
“He’s got an office on Wilshire in Beverly Hills,” she said. “His house is in Westwood on South Mapleton Drive.”
“He’s got money. What kind of car does he drive?”
“Two Mercedes.”
“What about a wife?”
Lena clicked to the next page. “He’s got two of those, too. But he’s been divorced for the past ten years. Looks like his second marriage only lasted eighteen months. He’s fifty-six years old and single now. No kids. His address hasn’t changed since he was thirty-five, so the house couldn’t have been part of either settlement.”
Rhodes sealed the evidence bag. “Let’s pack up,” he said. “We need to roll.”
It was a tactical decision filled with risk. Depending on how they handled things, confronting Fontaine could tip their hand.
Lena made a left on Wilshire Boulevard and started picking out street numbers. Rhodes sat in the passenger seat, reviewing McBride’s credit history and the rental agreement that Jones had given them on the way out, and trying not to look at the glove compartment. Lena knew that there was a pack of cigarettes inside. She had found them on the drive to Venice. Rhodes called them his emergency pack and said that they had been there for three months, but remained unopened.
They were driving through Beverly Hills, about six blocks south of Cedar-Sinai Medical Center-stop and go for the past forty minutes. She checked the clock on the dash, then looked back at the traffic. It was 4:30 p.m. and already starting to get dark. The trip from Jennifer McBride’s apartment probably covered less than ten miles. But Lena didn’t mind because it had given her a chance to think.
Talking to Fontaine wasn’t the right move or even the best move. But this was a case that had been speeding into the big nowhere ever since they found McBride’s body. Talking to the doctor seemed like their only move.
She spotted a parking lot just this side of Fontaine’s building. As she pulled in, Rhodes slipped the rental agreement into her briefcase and climbed out. Five minutes later, they were in the lobby scanning the building directory. His name was listed in the center column. Joseph Fontaine, MD, leased more than an office in one of the most exclusive business districts in Los Angeles. The Joseph Fontaine Pediatric Center occupied the entire fifth floor.
They traded looks as they stepped into the elevator and the doors closed. But when they finally reached the fifth floor, they found themselves in a reception area that didn’t seem much like a doctor’s office. Particularly a doctor who treated children. The woman behind the counter was dressed in a cool gray Armani suit and appeared too well manicured. There was too much mahogany and frosted glass, and the place was too neat and too quiet.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
Rhodes pulled out his ID. “We’d like to speak with Dr. Fontaine.”
Lena studied the receptionist’s face, guessing that she was about thirty-five. The woman glanced at the badge, then looked up as if it didn’t have any meaning. As if it might be a mere toy. Lena had never seen anyone react this way and had to remind herself that they were in Beverly Hills.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist was asking. “Is he expecting you?”
Rhodes didn’t answer the question. “We’re from Robbery-Homicide,” he said.
Lena followed his eyes to the reception area and noticed two men in dark suits sitting on the leather couch. Both held copies of The Wall Street Journal in their hands and had looked up. While the badge didn’t seem to have an effect on the receptionist, its effect on the two men staring this way was more than clear.
She reached for the phone. “Let me see if he’s in,” she said. “Who shall I say would like to speak with him?”
She had just looked at Rhodes’s ID, but either hadn’t retained the information or couldn’t help being difficult. Rhodes gave her their names and she jotted them down on a pad. After someone picked up on the other end, she turned away from the counter and lowered her voice. A few moments later, she hung up and told them that Dr. Fontaine’s assistant would be out in a minute or two. Rhodes thanked her, but didn’t offer an apology or any explanation for barging in.
Ten minutes passed before another woman wearing another Armani suit entered the lobby from the hallway beside the front desk. But this one was different. Five years older, five years smoother, and higher in the food chain-with more to lose. Lena could see the concern in her eyes as she glanced at the receptionist, then turned toward them with an outstretched hand. She introduced herself as Greta Dietrich, Fontaine’s assistant. Her smile was completely forced, but well done. And she didn’t look at or acknowledge the two men in suits still watching from the leather couch. But Lena could tell that they were preying on Dietrich’s mind by the way she and Rhodes were whisked away from the front desk and ushered down the hall.
Dietrich was a blue-eyed blonde. Educated and attractive with a hint of the street hidden beneath her makeup. Her steps were quick and choppy. Under any other circumstances, Lena would have laughed out loud. But not tonight. Not now.
“I’m sorry,” Dietrich was saying. “Dr. Fontaine is on a conference call and will be tied up for several hours. The call is terribly important. A matter of life and death. Is there anything I can help you with? Would he even know why you are here?”