Chapter 22
Late, after midnight, you find yourself driving toward the clinic. In the past you've returned to the operating room – to linger, to replay the event, moment by frozen moment, in your mind.
But tonight, you drive past. Things have gone very wrong: the word murder has been spoken. It's not about last night, or even the other times. It's what they think might have happened to Eden Hale.
That Monks is prying, and that will bring the wrong kind of attention around. The thought of this – of him – sets off the old fear. You realize you've been grinding your teeth.
You pull over to the curb and close your eyes. Concentrate.
It starts to come to you. What to do, how to set things up, so they'll look at someone else.
You think about who might fit.
Chapter 23
Monks slept a surprising ten hours, a sign that he had been exhausted as well as drunk. He awoke hungover, no doubt about that, with his senses operating through a grainy screen. But the sleep made him feel a hell of a lot better than he otherwise would have.
Herded by cats darting between his ankles, he walked down the hall to the kitchen. He put out fresh food for them, started water heating for coffee, then checked the blinking light on his phone machine.
The message was from Larrabee. "I've got something good. Come on down here as soon as you can."
The call had come last night, and it was still early, not yet seven a.m. Monks decided there was time for breakfast. He scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, browned half a can of corned beef hash, topped it all liberally with jalapeño sauce, and washed it down with strong black French roast. By the time he shaved and showered, it was just eight a.m.
Monks called Mercy Hospital to see if Dick Speidel, the Quality Assurance chairman, had come in yet. He had.
"I looked the case over last night, Carroll," Speidel said. "Personally, I lean toward your side, but I'm going to recommend that it go to committee. It's so unusual, and she did die."
"Fair enough."
"The bottom line is, it seems pretty clear that she was beyond help when she came in. You took a wild swing. I'd probably have done the same, if I'd even thought of it. But you're going to be up against some purists who might consider it an inappropriate procedure."
"I already am," Monks said.
"Well, you won't have long to wait. I've sent out copies to everyone. You're on the docket for Monday."
"I appreciate it, Dick."
"See you then. Good luck."
Monks put down the phone, feeling better than when he had picked it up.
His guns were still on the deck, glistening with dew, a silent accusation of last night's excesses. He dried them, wiped them down with an oily rag, and put each one away, where it belonged.
The fog that had been hovering offshore had moved in during the night, shielding him, at least for a few hours, from the hammering sun. Grateful for its cover, he got into the Bronco and drove down to the city again.
Stover Larrabee was just getting out of the shower when the phone rang, a little after eight a.m. He was groggy, not used to the hours. He usually stayed up late and slept late.
The caller was Tina Bauer. "I found something," she said. "Just a reference to a file, but the complainant's name's on it."
"I'll come get it. When's good?"
"I could bring it over, if you want."
"Well – if you're sure it's no trouble, Tina."
"I've got to run some errands anyway. Half an hour?"
"I'll be here."
While he dressed, he replayed the tape he had made last night, on the phone to Margaret Pendergast – D'Anton's former nurse. Strictly speaking, it was illegal to tape a conversation without the other party's permission, but sometimes expediency outweighed everything else.
It had taken some time to get her going, but Larrabee was a professional sympathetic listener, and Margaret, like a lot of people who hold on to a troubling secret for a long time, was glad for a chance to unburden herself at last.
"I don't think I did anything illegal," Margaret's recorded voice said nervously. "Not really, anyway. But what if I did? Would you turn me over to the police?"
"I don't have any reason to, Margaret. I'm just trying to get information that might help my client. I mean, you didn't do any bodily harm? Rob somebody, nothing like that?"
"Certainly not! I just – knew something I didn't tell. I don't even know for sure it was important."
"In that case, I seriously doubt it's an issue," Larrabee said. "How about this? You tell me what happened. I'll give you my professional opinion on whether you broke the law. If there's any problem, we can discuss it."
He heard her sigh, a thin, spinsterish sound. "It's not just the police," she said. "I was very disturbed. But-" The sentence lingered, unfinished.
"But it's time to make peace with it, huh?"
"I would like to get it settled," she said.
"Margaret, I do this all the time, and I can promise you, a lot of people it wouldn't bother. But you, I can tell you've got a real conscience. Believe me, you'll feel much better."
She sighed again, then started remembering out loud.
Margaret had worked for D'Anton for about two years, from 1995 to 1997. She had been in her forties then, never married, a highly competent nurse with a great deal of administrative experience. She had been wooed to D' Anton via a head-hunting agency. Her stay had by and large been a smooth one. She didn't have much personal contact with D'Anton – he tended to be brusque, and mainly ignored his support staff. His anger could be ferocious. The clinic was not a relaxed or friendly place, but it was run at a high level of competence, and pay and prestige were excellent.
She remembered the girl who had disappeared, Katie Bensen, because street-smart Katie had been very much out of place among D'Anton's other, affluent patients. But the staff did not ask questions. Katie's procedures had been simple, a couple of light skin peels to remove traces of adolescent acne.
About two months later, a plainclothes SFPD detective came in. Margaret was handling the desk. He showed her a photo of Katie and asked if they had a current address for her. He was polite, apologetic for bothering the august Dr. D'Anton, and it was clear that he did not really expect any help – this was just a space that needed to be filled in on a report.
Margaret looked up Katie's records. Her address was the same one the detective had, an apartment in San Francisco. To make sure, Margaret checked the billing records. There she found something surprising. Katie's bill had, in fact, been sent to a different address – D'Anton's Marin County house.
Margaret thought it must be a mistake. The billing was done by a separate office, an independent contractor that handled many other physicians. Someone there must have been looking at D'Anton's address for another reason and carelessly typed it in.
She told the detective that the clinic had the same address for Katie that the police did. He thanked her and left.
Then, wanting to correct the mistake, Margaret went to D' Anton and told him what had happened.
She had never seen him get flustered before. He stammered out an explanation – Katie had modeled for his wife, Julia, and the procedures were partial payment for that.
Then he got angry. The police had no right to come around casting aspersions on him. And Margaret had no business giving out information without a subpoena.
She was taken aback. It was nothing medical, or confidential, she pointed out – just confirming the address the police already had. D'Anton barked a few more sharp words about loyalty and priorities, then turned his back and stalked away.