Larrabee made the call on his cell phone, while the detectives moved along the hall toward the front area of the clinic. Monks picked up immediately.
"Did you get a look at D'Anton's wristwatch?" Larrabee asked.
"A blue Rolex. You could see it from across the room."
"We just found it. There's a dead woman on an operating table. I think it's Coffee Trenette."
Monks closed his eyes. "Bad?"
"Yeah. It looks like he started cutting on her, and went crazy."
Monks remembered what Roberta Massey had said, about the gloved hands in front of her face.
"D'Anton has big hands," he said. "If there are gloves, they'll be at least a size eight."
"I can see one, in the wastebasket. I better not touch it. Wait a minute, there's a packet of them over here." Larrabee stepped cautiously to a paper envelope containing surgical gloves, lying on the counter close to the watch.
"Eight and a half," Larrabee said. "Okay, I'll keep you posted."
He clicked off the phone and was starting down the hall to follow the detectives when he heard Guido Franchi's bellow:
"Two dead."
The second body, also a woman's, lay facedown on the reception room floor, just inside the front door. Larrabee's immediate impression was that she had been running for it, and was caught from behind. There was no butchery here. The right side of her throat had been slashed with surgical neatness.
Except for that, she was still beautiful. Franchi and the two other detectives were standing over her, looking almost reverent.
Larrabee nodded curtly to Franchi. "This is Gwen Bricknell," he said.
Outside in the parking lot, Franchi got on the phone and called more backup – a SWAT team to sweep the building for anyone who might be hiding, a CSI unit, uniforms to cordon off the area. Larrabee could hear the distant sirens, already starting.
Then Franchi walked over to him and said, "D' Anton's probably trying to get out of the country right now. Call Dr. Monks again. Tell him what happened. Then let me talk to him."
When Monks answered, Larrabee said, "We found Gwen, Carroll. She's dead, too. It looks like she surprised D' Anton while he was working on Coffee. She tried to get away, but he caught her."
Monks did not say anything. Larrabee handed Franchi the phone.
"I'd like for you to go up and talk to D'Anton's wife," Franchi said to Monks. "Before a bunch of ham-fisted sheriffs come stomping in, and she calls F. Lee Bailey. Don't tell her anything about this, just say you came by to pick up your stuff. See if you can get an idea where D'Anton might be headed, another ID he might use, anything like that."
Monks said, "I'll try. She doesn't like me much."
"She likes you better than she'll like us."
The police units were starting to arrive, squad cars parking to surround the building, and a van spilling out husky young SWAT team members carrying assault rifles. A KPIX television news van came in right behind them.
"You people stay the fuck out of the crime scene," Franchi yelled at the van. He shoved the phone back at Larrabee and strode toward it.
Larrabee faded to the outskirts of the area, staying out of the way. The SWAT team started moving into the clinic, agile crouching men slipping inside like ballet dancers. Snipers were braced across squad car roofs, rifles trained on the exits. Flashing lights and the crackling of radio static filled the air like smoke.
It was a hell of an exciting show. Except that there were two dead women at the center of it.
An hour later, the SWAT team had cleared the building and it was crawling with technicians. Police higher-ups were starting to arrive, and it was rumored that the city's medical examiner himself was on his way. The newspeople were all over it, too. Franchi had long since lost his battle to keep them out.
He and Larrabee were standing together in the parking lot, when he got a call from the office that was running the NCIC checks.
"One of the names just came up," the cop in the office said. 'Todd Peploe. Looks like he's the maintenance man at D'Anton's clinic."
"What's the pop?"
"He was working at a hospital down in San Diego, back in the early nineties. Apparently, he was impersonating a doctor, molesting women. He got seven years and did two."
"Find out where he lives and get after his ass, right now" Franchi said. He turned to Larrabee, looking very unhappy. "We might be after the wrong guy. The maintenance man's got a record of playing doctor. Christ, could he be that smart, to plant that watch and gloves?"
"Just because they're crazy, it doesn't mean they're stupid," Larrabee said. "I'd better call Carroll and let him know."
Monks did not answer his cell phone. Larrabee's watch said 8:22 a.m. Monks was probably with Julia D' Anton by now.
When Monks's voice mail came on, Larrabee said, "Carroll, it's Stover. Give me a call ASAP." He left it at that, in case Julia might overhear.
Whoever the killer was, he was most likely traveling away from this area as fast as he could. There was no reason for him to go to the house where the party had been.
But Larrabee was seriously annoyed at himself for assuming too quickly that D' Anton had to be the murderer. And a little queasy about the new level of unpredictability.
"All these years we've been doing this, and we act like a couple of fucking amateurs," Franchi said morosely.
"I was just thinking the same thing," Larrabee said.
Chapter 32
Monks drove somberly along the last stretch of narrow deserted road to the D'Antons' house. He was starting to realize how much he had wanted to find out that all his suspicions about Gwen Bricknell were empty – that this nightmare would end, and maybe, just maybe, the good parts of what he had felt with her would touch him again.
He passed the eucalyptus grove where he had spent the night, and saw the Bronco's tire tracks across the field, outlined in the morning dew.
That part, at least, had been real.
He stopped at the rise that overlooked the property, as he had last night. The vista was the same – the picturesque Victorian house in its secluded valley, surrounded by wooded ravines and ridges that led down to the pale blue Pacific – but now it was quiet, with only one vehicle parked there, Julia D'Anton's white SUV. Monks had called from Larrabee's office to tell her he was coming; she had not answered, and he had left a message on the machine. But it looked like she was still here.
He reached under the seat and unlocked the metal box that held the Beretta. There was still an outside possibility that Julia D' Anton was dangerous, and he had promised himself that he would never again walk into a situation like that alone and unarmed. He made sure that the clip was full, jacked a round into the chamber, and slipped the pistol into his back pocket. Then he drove on down the hill.
As he was parking, the door of the sculpture studio opened and Julia leaned out. Monks recognized her long red-brown hair. She waved to him, beckoning him to come in, then disappeared back inside. A friendly enough reception, he thought, as he crossed the gravel drive. Apparently she'd gotten his phone message and was expecting him. Maybe she'd be willing to talk.
The studio's door was slightly ajar. Now he could hear the sound of a small engine coming from inside, a steady, low rumble like an idling motorcycle. He knocked and peered in.
"Julia?" he called.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the high-ceilinged room. It was just as he had seen it last night, with Gwen, except filled now by the ambient sunlight filtering through the old windows. The rumbling sound was coming from a small air compressor in a corner of the room, its coiled hose lying beside it on the floor. He had never thought of a compressor being used for sculpture; he supposed that she used it to operate an air hammer or blow away dust as she worked.
Monks raised his voice over the engine's noise. "Julia. Listen, I need-"