There was a brief silence before Jillian said, “She does have a point, Doc. If we want to pull this off we really should go in as a team.”
“Not just a team, as a couple,” Junie corrected. “A rich couple with a husband who wants his trophy wife to get some buffing up. Ninety percent of the women who have plastic surgery don’t need it, so that won’t be an issue. Don’t you think, Reggie?”
She gave a light tap on the leg of Reggie’s chair, startling the teenager, who actually jumped a bit.
“Oh yeah,” he stammered. “Absolutely. You should definitely be a couple, for sure. But you gotta be the part if you’re gonna play the part.”
“What are you getting at, Reggie?” Nick asked, shooting the teen a reproachful look.
“I mean you guys better like, you know, be all coupley—kiss and all that to make it real, you know.”
“Oh, that’s good thinking, Reggie,” Junie said, scooping up the baton. “The lad’s right. If you two can’t convince us you’re a couple, you’re certainly not going to convince the plastic surgeon that your intentions are real.”
Nick glared at Junie, who in turn just smiled and gave him an impish wave of her fingers. Then he glanced over to Jillian, who was shifting her weight from foot to foot with nervous energy. But she also made no attempt to put the suggestions to bed.
“You guys are ridiculous,” Nick said. “Just ridiculous. We don’t need any practice to—”
Without warning, even to himself, he took Jillian by the waist, bent his knees, and dipped her backward toward the floor, ballroom style. Then he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. For a moment, Jillian’s eyes were open wide. Then, slowly, they closed as the kiss gained momentum. Her lips parted just a bit and his opened in response. He slid one hand up her back and supported her head. Her hair felt like silk between his fingers. Two seconds, ten, a minute—Nick would never know how long that kiss lasted. He did know that any sense of self-consciousness vanished in the first instant. With some reluctance, he eased Jillian upright, and with his arm still set around her waist, he turned to Junie.
“There. Was that believable enough for you?” he asked.
“It was for me,” Jillian said, brushing her hair from her forehead and regaining her breath.
“Look,” Reggie said, with no regard for the subject he was changing, “they have a virtual tour of the building on the Web site. The place seems pretty fancy.”
Junie took a close look at the panoramic photomontage of the Singh Center lobby that Reggie had put up on both monitors. It was a massive sparkling white marble foyer, with a working fountain in the center and several gold-framed pieces of art hanging on the walls, including a large portrait of Singh himself.
“Just in case they’re watching,” Nick said, “we’ll probably need to pull up in some sort of high-end auto, certainly not the junker I drive.”
“There are rentals,” Junie said. “It’ll be my treat.”
“First, we need to make an appointment,” Nick said.
Jillian fished her phone out of her purse and dialed the main number. She put the cell on speaker and brought her finger to her lips to remind the others to remain quiet. A woman answered on the third ring. She had an educated British accent.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for calling the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center. This is Daintry Calnan speaking. How may I be of service?”
“Yes, hello. My name is Collins, Mrs. . . . Jefferson Collins,” Jillian said. “I’m planning to have some plastic surgery and I’m calling to schedule a tour of your facility and hopefully to arrange to meet Dr. Singh.”
“Referring physician?” Daintry asked.
“Oh, a doctor I met at a cocktail party at my friends the Bronsteins’,” Jillian replied, now comfortably in touch with her skill at improvisation. “I can’t for the life of me remember his name. When I told him what my husband—I mean what I wanted, he told me your spa was the only place to go.”
“Few would argue with that,” the receptionist replied. “We do have availability for a consultation with Dr. Singh in three weeks. That would include a tour of our facility.”
“Oh, three weeks is simply too far away for us. I’m afraid that won’t do. I was hoping to see your surgical center tomorrow, actually. It’s the only time that works for my schedule. I do a great deal of volunteer work at the children’s hospital, you know. If not tomorrow, then I’m afraid I’ll simply have to look elsewhere.”
“As your doctor friend at the Bronsteins’ said, this is the top-of-the-line facility for any sort of plastic surgery. Would you mind my asking what specific procedure you were thinking of having done?”
“Well, several of them,” Jillian said.
“Several?”
“Yes. I’m considering some extensive work. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”
“Mrs. Collins, you are aware that plastic procedures done here usually cost tens of thousands of dollars, none of which is likely to be covered by your insurance? Plus there’s a week or so of residence in our very exclusive spa hotel.”
“Yes, I’m quite aware of the cost. I would expect nothing less from a facility with your reputation. This is a gift from my husband. He invents software, you know, then builds a company, then sells it, then builds another one. This next sale will be the fifth—no, no, the sixth time he’s done it.”
Silence.
“Um . . . well, then, in that case, hold a moment, please.”
Classical music piped out from Jillian’s cell phone speaker. She put a finger to her lips again to remind everybody to stay quiet. Fifteen seconds later, Daintry came back on the line.
“Well, I have some good news,” she announced. “It appears we had a schedule cancellation that wasn’t in our computer system yet. Tomorrow afternoon will work just fine. Shall we say three?”
“We shall say that,” Jillian replied, giving her audience a thumbs-up.
She clicked her cell phone shut after finalizing the tour time and getting specific directions from McLean, Virginia, where she lied about living. The three standing around her looked at one another in stunned disbelief.
“You were incredible,” Nick said finally. “Absolutely incredible.”
“I was Blanche in our school production of Streetcar. Reggie, please write down ‘Jillian and Jefferson Collins’ so we don’t forget our names.”
“You can borrow my wedding band,” Junie said.
CHAPTER 25
Franz Koller’s mood brightened as soon as the surgeon began to stir. The gamma-hydroxybutyrate, one of the newer of the so-called date-rape drugs, was wearing off. It had been easier than he expected—much easier—to orchestrate her non-kill. The main problem he needed to overcome was that except for her surgical practice and teaching obligations, Dr. Abigail Spielmann lived a virtually monastic existence.
He had followed her for five days and had entered her East Side brownstone three times, each time easily disabling the antiquated security system. He had rigged up microcameras in her second-floor study and her third-floor bedroom, searching for any secret life—any deviance—on which he could build his kill. What he found was a dull woman of fifty, unmarried and, as far as he could tell, asexual. She returned home every evening at about nine, poured a large glass of a high-priced Syrah, and went to her study to write. At ten, having finished the wine, she repaired to her bedroom, read for ten or fifteen minutes—currently an Indira Gandhi biography—and drifted off to sleep. Somewhere in the early morning she awoke briefly, went to the bathroom, and then turned off the bedside light.
Dull. Unbelievably dull.
And soon, dead.
On his second visit, inspecting her kitchen, Koller hit pay dirt. A corked half-filled bottle of the Syrah on the counter, and a bee-sting kit with an epinephrine auto-injector in the refrigerator.
World-famous Abigail Spielmann, the foremost authority on surgery involving cardiac tumors, had an Achilles’ heel.
Koller w
ondered if he had made some sort of error in his calculations of the amount of GHB he had dropped into her wine. The half-life of the magnificent drug was just half an hour. It was a Friday evening, and she wouldn’t be discovered until there was nothing in her body left to detect. But by his estimate she should have been lucid an hour ago. Koller was confident the delay would not derail his plans any. The bees in his mason jar were doing just fine.
Spielmann could not sit up, although she was trying now. Koller had lashed his mark’s ankles and wrists to the posts of her mahogany bed frame using his beloved Velcro restraints. He had carefully inserted his little red ball into the woman’s mouth before she could scream. He found the confusion and fear exploding in her eyes intoxicating.
“Good evening, Doctor,” he began. “My name is Koller. Franz Koller. It’s a pleasure to meet such a distinguished physician.”
Spielmann’s attempt to talk, or scream, came out a muted, choked sob.
Once the security system was disabled, handling the lock on her front door was child’s play—for a very experienced, creative child. When he first started his research, while seated behind her in the vast hospital cafeteria, Koller slipped her key ring out from her purse, made clay impressions, and dropped it back. Later, using the molds, he created duplicates of the keys from flattened soda cans and used a tension wrench to insert and turn them. He had learned the trick years ago from a locksmith friend, who suggested that bringing a clay impression to a locksmith was asking for a report to the police.
The doctor kept up her struggle against the restraints, valiantly but without success. Koller, dressed in his surgical garb, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder to calm her. Clutched in his other hand was the bee-sting kit he had just taken from her purse. He made certain that she saw it.
“You know what this is, Dr. Spielmann,” Koller said in his calmest voice. “The kit, itself, isn’t at all frightening. This, however, would be worthy of a scream if you could.”
Koller leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved the mason jar containing eight large honeybees. Spielmann’s body shook violently. Beads of sweat formed on her brow then dripped into her eyes. Each bee had a white thread tied neatly around its body. The threads dangled down the outside of the mason jar like octopus arms. Holding one thread, Koller opened the top of the jar, extracting one of the bees, then quickly sealed the jar before any others could escape.
“Have you ever seen a man fly a bee before, Dr. Spielmann? A funny little sight, isn’t it. It’s blessedly simple to do, actually. You place the bee inside a film canister, then freeze it for about ten minutes. The cold knocks the little fella unconscious, allowing its keeper—me—to tie the string around its little body without getting stung myself, though that would only hurt me.
“You, of course, are a different story altogether.
“Without your EpiPen, this guy would kill you.”
Spielmann thrashed against her restraints. Koller pulled down on the thread, guiding the buzzing bee hovering above his head onto the exposed skin of Spielmann’s right arm.
“I wouldn’t struggle much if I were you,” Koller said. “Might piss him off. And you’d best not scream when I take out that ball. Bad things might happen.”
As usual, Koller was careful to avoid her teeth as he plucked the red ball from her mouth. The bee, perhaps tired from its brief flight, walked in a circle on her arm. Abigail’s respirations were labored, close to hyperventilation.
“What . . . what . . . do you want?” she breathed.
“I want to talk a moment,” Koller said. “But if you try to scream, the ball goes in, followed by the stinger. Understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. “What do you want from me? I have money.”
“I’m well paid to be here,” Koller said. “But thank you anyway. First, I want you to know just how truly impressed I am with you and your accomplishments, Doctor.”
Abigail stammered, “I . . . I don’t understand. . . .”
“You’ve pioneered techniques for robotic surgery that I am certain will be a lasting legacy. You’re going to be well remembered, Dr. Spielmann. I do hope you know that.”
The bee floated off her arm and danced erratically above her head before coming to a rest on the comforter. Spielmann traced the insect’s path with frightened eyes as it slowly crawled up her shoulder, inching across her neck then onto her face before taking flight again.
“Please . . . stop . . .”
“See, we have a lot in common, you and I,” Koller continued. “Our life is our work. Neither of us has any children. We’ve never bothered with marriage. No, our passion has been our careers and you’ve done a marvelous job with yours.”
“I’ll pay you to leave,” Abigail sobbed. Her tears rolled unabated down her cheeks.
“Our work, I guess, is our children. Our labor of love. Isn’t it, Doctor? But have you ever stopped to truly appreciate each moment of your day? I mean, when you’re cutting out those nasty cardiac tumors with that robot of yours, have you ever asked yourself if this could be the last surgery you’ll perform? If you knew it was to be the last, would you treat that procedure any different from the others? Savor each cut and stitch in a way you never had before?”
“Why are you asking me this?” Her voice was weak and shaky. The bee was airborne again. This time it landed on Koller, who didn’t even flinch.
“You see, I think about these things,” Koller continued. “I constantly ask myself, is this the last time I’ll ever do this again? Most parents can’t remember the last night they carried their tired little munchkin off to beddy-bye, but sure as sunrise and sunset, that night does come. It’s a shame when such a monumental moment passes without proper acknowledgment. I won’t let that happen to me.”
Koller slipped the ball back into her mouth. Using the thread, he guided the bee onto Spielmann’s arm, then pinned the insect onto her flesh with his thumb and index finger. Despite trying to be gentle, he used too much force and crushed the bee before it could sting.
“Dang,” Koller said, wiping up the small mess with a tissue. “Good thing I have some backups with me.”
Koller retrieved a second bee from the mason jar, marveling a moment at the artful way the thread traced the bee’s erratic flight path.
“I mean, I have killed surgeons before—a couple of times, in fact. But I don’t know if I’m ever going to be hired to kill another surgeon again,” Koller continued. “Think about it, that would mean you would be the last surgeon I ever kill.” The assassin paused a moment, clearly deep in thought. “I have to really, really embrace this moment. You can’t record these feelings, the smell of your apartment, your fear. But if you believe it might be the very last time you do something, it’s best to approach it with deserved reverence. You might not be the last surgeon, but then again, you might.”
Koller pulled the string tied around the honeybee until the insect came to a rest on the fleshy anterior triangle of Spielmann’s neck. She tried frantically to flick it away by tilting her head and flexing the muscles of her neck, but Koller held the bee in place. He agitated it. The wings were a blur of motion. Its legs marched helplessly as it tried to free itself.
Then, probably fearing for its life, the honeybee stung.
To escape, it tore away part of its abdomen, leaving behind its stinger and deadly venom sac, where the medical examiner would certainly find it. Koller knew the muscles of the sting apparatus continued to pulsate, injecting more venom deeper into Spielmann’s skin.
A three-inch swollen welt materialized almost instantaneously on Spielmann’s neck. Her eyes were the size of silver dollars. Within seconds, more hivelike bumps started popping up all over her face, arms, and legs. It was what Koller expected would occur in a systemic allergic reaction. Her lips and eyelids began to swell too and it was clear to Koller that the ball in her mouth wasn’t helping her breathing any. He waited a few minutes before taking it out. By then her airway had swollen closed, enough to m
ake screaming impossible. Next, he undid her restraints. Then he watched as she rolled off the bed and landed hard on the Oriental rug. She was crawling on her hands and knees in a desperate attempt to get to the stairs leading to her kitchen.
“I wish I was a betting man,” Koller said, smiling down at her. “Because I would bet when you get to your refrigerator you won’t find your prescription allergy kit there. Then again, maybe you will.”
With her strength failing rapidly, Abigail Spielmann reached the head of the stairs. Then she fell, tumbling over and over before coming to rest twenty feet from her gourmet kitchen. Incredibly, she still managed to get to her hands and knees again. Inch by inch, as her body continued to swell and redden, she made it to her refrigerator. Pulling open the door required a Herculean effort. Her eyes were swollen shut now. Her breaths came in sporadic, wheezing fits.
Koller watched unblinking, absorbing her every move. There were no glass jars to crash on the floor and disturb the neighbors. Koller had already removed them and would break a few in a plastic bag to scatter about the kitchen floor before leaving. The only items to spill out in her frantic search for the kit, were those he put within her reach; a head of lettuce, a plastic bottle of ketchup, and two sticks of butter.
Spielmann collapsed face-first onto the cold tile floor, the cool air from the open refrigerator bathing her now lifeless body. Koller placed the prescription allergy kit a foot away.
Nicely done.
“Any moment can be our last, dear doctor,” he said. “Sadly, this is yours.”
CHAPTER 26
Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson Collins arrived at the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center at precisely three. Earlier in the day, Daintry Calnan had called with the news that Dr. Paresh Singh had been called out of town for an emergency consultation. She tried to reschedule their appointment, but Jillian told her that for the time being, it would suffice if they were able to tour the facility.
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