He turned back toward the desk and stopped abruptly, startled. A nurse was standing right behind him, close enough to touch. He had not heard her make a sound approaching – had had no idea that she was there. Her name tag said phyllis quires, rn. She was sturdily built, with a Dutchboy haircut and not much expression, except for an accusing element in her gaze. He realized that she had caught him red-handed, leering at the photos. He was a voyeur, defiling a sanctuary that was not for men.
"I'm waiting for Ms. Bricknell," he said.
She looked dissatisfied with his explanation, but said, "I'm sure you'll be more comfortable in here, then." She ushered him to one of the screened-off cubicles.
The space contained two leather-upholstered office chairs and a glossy black lacquered table, with a large oval mirror and several photo albums arranged in a tasteful spread. Monks flipped through them. They were filled with before and after photos, not artful like the collage on the wall outside, but a more down-to-earth look at what clients might expect – reshaped noses, vanished wrinkles, enhanced and desagged breasts, tightened buttocks, bee-stung lips. It was another powerful advertisement for cosmetic surgery. The results were remarkable.
Out in the parking lot, a car door slammed. Monks glanced through a window and saw a woman getting out of a white SUV. She hurried toward the clinic's door, then across the reception room. She looked distraught. He assumed she was another patient who had not received a cancellation notice, perhaps agitated because she was late. But he saw with surprise that she went straight to the rear office door and pushed it open.
He could not hear exactly what she said, but he caught the name "Eden." Her voice was urgent, shaking.
Gwen Bricknell appeared in the doorway, reaching out to grip the newcomer's shoulder. It was not a comforting gesture – more like a shake. She made a harsh shh sound.
Then she looked over at Monks and said, in a louder, formal voice, "Dr. Monks? He'll see you now."
Monks walked to them, deciding to push it.
"I couldn't help overhearing," he said to the second woman. "I tended Eden Hale in the Emergency Room. Did you know her?"
Her mouth opened in surprise, or even shock. But whatever she might have said was cut off by Gwen's quick words.
"Like I told you, Doctor, Eden was just another patient. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that to sound harsh, but it's true. Julia's concerned because this might reflect on Dr. D'Anton. She's his wife."
Monks sharpened his appraisal of Julia D' Anton. She was in her mid-forties, with a bohemian look – her long thick red-brown hair was pulled back in a careless braid, and she was wearing baggy pants and a blue work shirt with rolled-up sleeves, as if she had been gardening. But she had the same indefinable air of superiority as the other women he had seen here, and her huge diamond wedding and engagement rings stood out from across the room. She was handsome rather than beautiful, with a big-boned frame, large strong hands, and a face that D'Anton had obviously not reshaped. Right now, it looked very unhappy.
'There's no reflection on Dr. D'Anton," Monks said, and thought, at least yet. "I just came to straighten out a misunderstanding."
Gwen's smile looked brittle to the breaking point. She touched Julia's shoulder again, easing her away from the door.
"We don't want to keep Dr. Monks," she said. "He must be very busy."
Gwen led him down a hallway that had several doors opening into procedure rooms. They passed a maintenance man, with dozens of keys on a belt ring and a box of tools on the floor beside him, taking the cover off a thermostat.
'Todd, you do know we're closing early," Gwen said.
"Yes, ma'am," he said cheerfully. 'That'll give me a chance to check out the air-conditioning."
The door at the hallway's end led into the clinic proper – the sanctum sanctorum, domain of the high priest. Most plastic surgeons worked in partnerships, but D'Anton worked alone. Gwen pointed to the door with exaggerated politeness, then turned on her heel and walked away.
Monks stepped inside. Here, the walls were sterile white, lined with cabinets of medical supplies. A container of clear liquid, kept on ice, sat on one table, with a box of sterile-wrapped syringes beside it – Botox, probably.
D'Anton was waiting. He was in his late forties, of medium height, trim, and very dapper. His hands were perfectly manicured, but they were surprisingly heavy and thick-knuckled-working-class hands. His left wrist was encircled by a gold Rolex with a cerulean blue face. He wore a tailored white lab coat and expensive wool slacks with knife-edge creases, cuffs breaking perfectly over tasseled leather shoes. He looked pale, but his manner was precise, assured, and impatient. He did not offer a handshake. That was fine with Monks.
"You ought to have some facts in hand before you go slinging accusations, Doctor," Monks said.
"Eden Hale left here in perfect health," D'Anton said, in a tone bordering on outrage. "Less than twenty-four hours later, in your care, she was dead."
"And she came into my care too far gone to have a chance. She died of DIC. Are you familiar with it?"
D'Anton hesitated. "An abnormality in blood clotting, isn't it? I don't remember the details."
"It causes severe circulatory depression, and bleeding everywhere. It takes hours to develop. Whatever started it happened to her beforehand. Were you aware of anything that could have contributed? Low blood count? Carcinoma? Complications?"
"None of those." The sharpness was back in D'Anton's voice. "Of course I'd checked her history – she was pristine. The procedure was a simple one. I've done thousands of them. It went like clockwork and she came out in tiptop shape."
"Then let's talk about what might have happened in between."
"There was supposed to be someone with her for at least twenty-four hours," D'Anton said. "Her fiancé, I believe."
"I talked to him. He had other plans last night."
"He left her alone?" D'Anton said incredulously.
Monks nodded.
"That's – criminal."
"We tried to call you, too."
"If I took night calls from every neurotic woman I treated, I'd never sleep. Besides, by that time she was 'too far gone,' isn't that what you're saying?"
This guy is Teflon, Monks thought. "Yes."
"Whereas her fiancé made a commitment to care for someone recovering from surgery."
"I've got a feeling that Mr. Dreyer's definition of 'making a commitment' is different from the medical community's," Monks said. "There's no help there now, anyway. What time was her procedure?"
"Late morning."
"That makes it roughly eighteen hours before I saw her. There are a couple of possibilities. Traumatic injury, but there was no obvious sign of it. Massive infection, as from the surgery-" Monks paused, watching with grim satisfaction as D'Anton's face flushed with indignation.
"Impossible." D'Anton almost spat the word.
"Or something unknown."
"You're groping for a diagnosis. That's pathetic."
"I'd appreciate a look at her records," Monks said.
"Certainly not, unless you're here in official capacity, Doctor – I'm sorry, your name's slipped my mind."
"Monks. No."
"What are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to have a consultation with another professional," Monks said. "For Christ's sake, you knew her. I'd think you'd want to help find out why she died." Monks shook his head and turned to go, angry at D'Anton, but at himself, too, for falling into this schoolboy exchange of finger-pointing.