They were passing office suites and conference rooms, not examination rooms. As she steered them into her office, Lena realized the jam Dietrich was in. She didn’t want two homicide detectives anywhere near the two men in the lobby, but she didn’t want them in her office, either.
Lena glanced around the room. The closed door on the far wall had to lead to Fontaine. And that light blinking on Deitrich’s telephone wasn’t attached to an outside line. She could see it from six feet away. The intercom was open. Fontaine wasn’t on a conference call, or saving anyone’s life. He was hiding in his office. He was eavesdropping.
She turned to Dietrich. She’d had enough.
“We’re working a homicide investigation,” she said. “We don’t have time for this. Tell your boss to get off the phone.”
Dietrich looked back in disbelief. Before she could say anything, the light on the phone went dark and the door at the far end of the room swung open. It was Dr. Joseph Fontaine, asking all three of them to come in. His voice was subdued and quiet and he knew exactly why they were here-Lena was certain of this the moment she set eyes on the man.
As they entered his office, she looked him over more closely. Like the women who worked for him, Fontaine was well kept. Lena noted his graying blond hair and the Rolex on his wrist. His strong arms and straight back. His eyes were almost the same shade of blue as Deitrich’s, but were less transparent and reflected the outside world like a pair of mirrored shades. As he offered them a seat and stepped around his desk, Lena traded looks with Rhodes. There was no question that the doctor was nervous.
“What can I do for you?” he said.
Lena didn’t answer the question, watching his assistant move around the desk with her boss and lean against the credenza as he sat down. They had matching tans. December tans. The kind that came from Mexico. As Lena took it in, she noticed the cut of Deitrich’s jacket. She was showing a little too much cleavage for an executive assistant. A bit too much of her black bra. For some reason Lena thought about the nurse costume Jennifer McBride kept in her duffel bag, and wondered if maybe Fontaine made his assistant wear one, too.
“I’m just curious,” Lena said, “As we walked to your office, I didn’t see any examination rooms.”
“I see patients at the hospital,” the doctor said. “But most of my work involves research. That’s what we do here.”
Fontaine turned to Rhodes, probably thinking that he would be asking the questions. Rhodes pulled out his notebook and pen without saying anything. They had made the decision as they walked from the parking lot to the building. If Rhodes could get them past the gatekeepers, Lena would handle the interview. She had an easy way of talking to people. Rhodes had more experience and wanted to watch the way Fontaine handled himself.
“What kind of research?” Lena asked.
The doctor paused. When he finally turned back to her, she could see the irritation on his face. Arrogance cut with resignation. Clearly, the doctor thought that he was the smartest one in the room.
“All kinds of research,” he said.
“Then you don’t concentrate on anything special.”
“Just pediatrics.”
“Do you write many prescriptions, Doctor?”
“Of course.”
“Do you perform surgeries?”
Fontaine turned to Rhodes, watching the detective flip the page in his notebook and continue writing.
“Where is this going?” Fontaine asked.
Rhodes stared back at the man but didn’t reply.
When Lena repeated the question, Fontaine gave her another look-colder this time-and finally said, “Yes. I perform surgeries.”
She paused a moment and made a point of looking him over. “You’re what? Fifty-”
“I’m fifty-six years old.”
“So in nineteen-seventy-two you would have been twenty.”
“This isn’t nineteen-seventy-two and I’m a very busy man. What is the point of all this?”
“Did you serve in the military, Doctor?”
His face changed as he considered the question. “Vietnam. The last two years of the war.”
“What was your role?”
“Survival. I was drafted. I was a grunt.”
“Did you see much combat?”
His eyes flooded with more irritation, his voice becoming higher pitched. “I was working at a medical station in the jungle ten miles west of the Cu Chi tunnels. Yes, I saw a lot of combat. It’s the reason I went to medical school. Now, would you please tell me why you are here?”
Lena didn’t respond, letting the silence work on the doctor’s nerves. He fit the profile. He could be the one. But Fontaine fit a lot of profiles. He could have been McBride’s drug supplier. Or, just one of the clients reveling under her spell.
“We were wondering about your relationship with a young woman living in Venice. Jennifer McBride.”
Fontaine cleared his throat. “Who?”
Lena repeated her name, then watched Fontaine think it over and shake his head. His performance was more lame than convincing. He was shooting quick looks at Rhodes, and seemed concerned that the detective was writing everything down.
“I don’t know a Jennifer McBride,” he said.
Lena crossed her legs. “Maybe you should take a moment to think it over, Doctor.”
“I don’t need a moment to think it over. I don’t know her.”
“You’re sure?”
He slapped his desk. “Absolutely. Who was she?”
Everything stopped. Fontaine had just used the past tense. Everyone in the room knew that he’d slipped up. Even Fontaine.
“She was a prostitute,” Lena said.
The doctor let out a nervous laugh that died off quickly. His eyes were jerking back and forth as if something was clicking in his head. Lena noticed the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His cheeks, a bright red. As much as she wanted to look at Dietrich and measure her reaction, she kept her gaze fixed on the doctor.
“I don’t know any prostitutes,” he managed.
“She might have called herself a massage therapist.”
“I don’t know any of them, either.”
His right hand began to quiver. When he noticed, he pulled away his arm and hid it behind his desk. The conversation was no longer beneath him. All of a sudden he was in over his head.
Lena wanted to seize the moment, amplifying the pressure with another measured dose of silence. She glanced at Rhodes in the chair by the window. As she took in the office and noted the expensive furnishings, she realized that there was only one photograph in the entire room. A picture of an older woman with white hair set in a silver frame and placed on the credenza by the phone. The resemblance between Fontaine and the old woman was striking.
She lowered her voice. “You need to be careful, Doctor. You’re speaking to two police officers. And you’ve got a lot to lose.”
“I know who I’m talking to.”
“We have phone records,” she said. “I never asked if you knew Jennifer McBride because we already knew that you did. All I asked was how you knew her.”
“Maybe you should think about who you’re talking to,” he said. “You’ve made a mistake, Detective. Your records are wrong. I never called her because I didn’t know her.”
Lena met the doctor’s eyes. “Then how did you know that she was dead?”
A beat went by. Thirty seconds of empty air billowing into the room. He glanced at his assistant without answering the question. Lena kept her eyes on the man.
“You called her three times on the day she was murdered, Doctor.”
The strong man with the athletic body wilted in his chair, still staring at Greta Dietrich for help.
“Where were you two nights ago?” Lena asked.
He looked confused, anxious. When he didn’t respond, Dietrich cut in.
“He was at the Biltmore,” she said. “A reception and dinner. The invitation’s still on my desk.”
“Dinners like that are usually over by nine or ten. What time did it end?”