The implication was clear. Not everybody would.
Baird turned back to him with a gaze that was softened, even sympathetic. This disturbed Monks.
"How many shifts did you work this week?" Baird asked.
"Three. Why?"
"Busy as hell, weren't they?"
"They usually are." Monks was puzzled, frustrated by fatigue, unable to grasp where this was going.
Then he got it. Anger rose with a rush of blood to his face.
"You can't be serious, Baird."
"Take it easy. I'm trying to think like a lawyer. If somebody decides to cause trouble about this, we stand to get stomped. Lots of money, bad publicity. On top of everything else, it turns out she was an actress. Not big-time, but the papers are still going to eat it up."
"What happened to that trust in my judgment?"
Baird ignored the question. "Her parents have been notified. They're on their way here from Sacramento."
"I'll be available to talk to them."
"I don't know if that's a good idea or not. But her fiancé's here now, waiting in one of the conference rooms. He wants to talk to you. With a hard-on, in case you're wondering."
"Thanks for the warning."
"Go home and get some sleep."
"I doubt it," Monks said. "I'll have my cell phone. Give me a call if you want to meet." He paused at the doorway. "She did not die because of anything that did or didn't happen in the ER, Baird. She was dying when she came in, and we couldn't reverse it. There's a big difference."
Monks was sure of that, as sure as it was possible for him to be. But he admitted that he would feel a hell of a lot better if he knew what had caused the DIC – knew beyond question that there was no other pathway he could have taken that might have headed off its attack and saved her life.
Passing through the outer office, Monks said to Baird's secretary: "There's someone waiting to see me?"
"Conference room three, Doctor."
He stepped into the hall, trying to brace himself for the encounter. But there was no time. A man was waiting right there, pacing. He was in his early thirties, good-looking, with a deep suntan and dark moussed hair, wearing baggy slacks and a Hawaiian shirt. He seemed ill at ease, carrying himself with a sort of aggressive slouch. His eyes were angry, and it struck Monks that his refusal to wait in the conference room was a statement of defiance. But there was petulance in them, too.
Monks cleared his throat. "Are you here about Eden Hale?"
His gaze snapped swiftly to Monks. "Yeah."
"I'm Dr. Monks."
"Can you tell me – what-the-hell – happened!" The words were spaced apart and emphasized.
Monks's hands tightened again. He made them relax.
"She was in very bad shape when she came in. Mister-"
He hesitated, as if his name was information he was not sure he should release. "Dreyer. Ray."
"I'm very sorry," Monks said. "We did everything we could."
"I leave her home, perfectly fine, then boom, she's dead?"
"You were with her last night?" Monks asked, his interest sharpened.
Dreyer's eyes narrowed warily. It seemed that he did not like answering questions, period. Perhaps with good reason.
"Yeah."
"When did you leave her?"
"I don't know, about seven. I had business."
Eden Hale had been alone when the ambulance got her, at about three-thirty a.m. Dreyer's business had kept him out all night.
"She was all right then?" Monks asked.
"Well, her tits were sore. But yeah. She took some Valium and went to sleep."
"Did you talk to her after that?"
"No. I came back to her apartment this morning. She was gone. The building super told me the ambulance was there. Hey, is this important?"
"It would help if we could pinpoint when the sickness started," Monks said.
"Help how?" Dreyer said, abruptly assertive, as if he was trying to gain back what he had given away. "You done asking questions? Because you still haven't answered mine. What happened to her?"
"The short answer is, I don't know," Monks said wearily. "Maybe the coroner's report will tell us."
"If you'd known what it was, could you have saved her?"
"That's impossible to answer."
"Is it something you should have known?" Dreyer's voice was rising, his chin thrusting forward. "That another doctor would have?"
Monks shook his head. "I'm very sorry," he said again, and turned to go.
"I put years into her career," Dreyer yelled after him. "She was just taking off, and now she's fucking dead."
Monks stopped walking, turned back, and almost gave in to the urge to drop his daypack and punch Dreyer in the face.
Instead, he said, "I hope that business that kept you out all night was important, Ray. Because if she'd gotten to the ER a few hours earlier, she'd have made it."
Dreyer's belligerent stare shifted away – just for a second, but it was enough.
This time, Monks took the stairs, walking the six flights down to ground level with even, unhurried steps – an absurd attempt to regain control of a situation that was rapidly slipping out of hand.
Chapter 5
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.