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.
Monks started to realize that he was not alone after all. Several private cubicles at this end of the room were divided off by tasteful, Japanese-style screens. He caught glimpses of well-dressed women sitting inside them, waiting for treatment or for conferences with D' Anton. A couple of them were watching him over the tops of their magazines. He nodded uncomfortably, toward no one in particular, and moved back toward the desk. He had begun to notice that the air had a faintly cloying scent, from fresheners or perhaps a years-old accumulation of perfumes.
After another minute or so, a door at the rear of the room opened. Monks got a glimpse of an area that looked more like an actual office, with two clerks working at smaller desks.
Then another woman stepped into the doorway. She was wearing a tight short skirt and sleeveless top, with her dark hair pulled back into a chignon. Monks got the instant certainty of genuine, world-class beauty. She was in profile, with something cupped in the palm of one hand, held close to her face. A makeup compact mirror, Monks thought. Her other hand rose, forefinger lightly smoothing her lipstick at one corner of her mouth.
She snapped the compact closed and turned. The sight of Monks apparently startled her so much that she dropped it. He moved forward to pick it up, but she waved him away and stooped to get it herself, long calves flexing with taut grace.
When she stood again, she stalked to the desk, ignoring him until she had assumed her position of authority behind its center. Then she folded her arms and smiled briskly. She was tall, at least five foot ten, and about forty, with age beginning to slacken her perfection just a bit. A gold-etched placard on the desk gave her name: gwen bricknell.
By now, Monks had recognized her as the woman beckoning on the cover of D' Anton's informational pamphlet.
"And what can I do for you?" she said.
Monks handed her a business card – a real one, not one of the phonies he sometimes used for investigation work – identifying him as an M.D. and Fellow of the American College of Emergency Physicians.
"I'd like to see Dr. D'Anton," he said. "It won't take long."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
Her smile brightened fiercely. "I'm afraid it's impossible. If you'd like to fill out an application, we'll try to schedule you. But I have to warn you, our waiting list is over a year long."
Monks said, "I'm not here as a patient. I think you and I should have a word in private."
"Really?" she said skeptically.
He nodded toward the women in the waiting room, whose ears were almost visibly perked up. "Really."
Gwen Bricknell's head tilted in cool consideration. Then she stalked, with that same imperious stride, to the front entrance and out onto the stone porch. Monks followed.
"This is about one of your patients, a young woman named Eden Hale," he said. "Your office has been informed of her death."
Her face changed swiftly, eyes going wary, mouth opening a little.
"Yes?" she said.
"I work at the Emergency Room at Mercy Hospital. I attended her when she died."
"That was you?"
"That was me," Monks said.
Her gaze had turned accusing, but Monks held it. Then her head moved with a sudden little tremor, and her eyes lowered.
"It's terrible," she murmured. "How – did she die?"
"Unpleasantly," Monks said. "Her circulatory system shut down, and she bled to death."
"What on earth could have caused that?"
"I'd like to find out, Ms. Bricknell." She looked up again sharply, perhaps at his use of her name. "She had a breast surgery yesterday."
One of Gwen's hands rose to her heart, or perhaps in an unconscious gesture to protect her own breasts.
"Yes, I remember Eden," she said. "Because of her name, mainly, it's so unusual. But she was fine when she left here."
"I'm sure she was. But the death was bizarre, and it's standard procedure to check out any recent surgery. I'd like to get her history, to see if that sheds any light on it. And to talk to Dr. D'Anton."
A car came pulling into the drive, a gunmetal gray Mercedes with smoked windows. Monks could just make out the driver's chauffeur cap. Gwen glanced at the vehicle, her mouth twisting quickly.
"I'll be frank with you, Doctor," she said. "He's very upset about this. He's canceled all his afternoon appointments. I'm not sure he'd want to talk to you."
"Ms. Bricknell, he called Mercy Hospital this morning, accusing the Emergency Room of being responsible for Eden Hale's death. He doesn't know a damned thing about what actually happened. And for the record, there's a chance that she came out of the surgery with an infection that did kill her. Tell him that, will you?"
The chauffeur was opening the Mercedes' rear door. A graceful woman wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, scarf, and large sunglasses stepped out – another incognito actress or model or trophy wife.
"Someone didn't get the message," Gwen said with quiet annoyance. "Would you excuse me just a moment?" She hurried down the stone steps and met the approaching woman. Monks watched her explain that the appointment was canceled. Her body language, solicitous yet firm, made it subtly clear that the patient was all-important but that Gwen Bricknell ran this show. Sunlight and shadow played on her finely muscled golden-skinned arms as she gestured, and accentuated the hollows beneath her cheekbones as she talked and smiled. He wondered if her brittle energy was drug-induced.
The woman with the straw hat got back into the Mercedes. Gwen returned to Monks. Her eyes were cool again. Whatever control might have faltered for a moment, she had regained.
"I'll go tell him," she said. "I can't promise he'll see you." He followed her back inside. She disappeared into the rear office, closing the door behind her.
Monks walked over to the photo collage again. There was no doubt about it – several of the shots, both facial and nudes, were of a younger Gwen Bricknell, displaying her perfection in poses that walked the edge between art and erotica.