by Neil Mcmahon
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.
D' Anton ignored her for the rest of the week. Then he surprised her again, by asking her to meet with him privately – to stay late, on a Friday evening, after everyone else had gone home.
He ushered her into one of the operating rooms and closed the door behind, even though the building was empty. There was a cold intensity to him that frightened her. She had violated his strict policy of clinic confidentiality, he told her; she was being dismissed. If she agreed, without argument, he would give her an excellent recommendation and three months' severance pay. Otherwise, she would get neither.
She moved to Southern California soon afterward and found a new job.
"I should have gone to the police and told them," she said to Larrabee. "I'm not proud of it." Then she added, defensively, "But – you know. I was a nurse, a woman. He was the great surgeon. He'd have gotten rid of me anyway, with a bad recommendation and no money."
"Why do you suppose he got so upset, Margaret?" Larrabee asked.
He waited through her long s
ilence, aware that this was the question that must have gnawed at her through the years.
"All I can think," she finally said, "is that he didn't want anybody to connect him, or his wife, to a girl who'd gone missing."
Tina arrived at Larrabee's right on schedule. She was wearing blue jean cutoffs, a tank top, and sandals. Her legs, he realized, were really pretty good. She handed him a sheet of paper, a computer printout. It read:
Case file # 3184-E 06: entry # 14 on this document
Opened: 7/25/98
Insured: D. Welles D' Anton, M.D. Complainant: Roberta E. Massey / 1632 Paloma Ct / RC
Allegation: Professional misconduct Status: No further action taken by complainant. Statute of limitations expired: 7/25/99
The reference was to an actual file, the kind kept in a folder in a cabinet, in the insurance company's offices. It would contain specific information about the case – but getting to it, at least legally, was next to impossible. Professional misconduct could mean many things, and it was possible that the claim was frivolous and had just gone away.
But D' Anton might have paid somebody off, as he had Margaret Pendergast. Apparently, the matter either had been dropped or settled informally – directly between the complainant and the physician, with no action from the insurance company. "You're a gem, Tina. What do I owe you?"
"Call it three hundred. It didn't take long." He gave her three one-hundred-dollar bills. She folded her arms. With the cutoffs and purse slung over her shoulder, she looked like a hooker from the neck down. But her face, with the cat's-eye glasses, still belonged in the world of fluorescent-lit offices.
"So?" she said. "You want me to do you?"
Larrabee hesitated, touched by something like superstition at disrespect to this serious business. But it wasn't tough to shake off. He glanced at the clock. Monks wasn't due for another hour.
"Well – sure, if you're sure," he said. You worried it'll fuck up our professional relationship?"
"Not from my side. You're not using me as leverage to break up with Bev, nothing like that?"
"Nope. We're tight. It's just something she can't give me."
"I feel a little funny about it being one way."
"That's okay. This way, I'm not really cheating." Tina unslung her purse and set it on a table, swinging into business mode.
"How do you like to, uh, operate?" Larrabee asked.
"You go sit on the couch."
He did as he was told. It was like being under the watchful gaze of a nurse.
She took a small tape recorder from her purse and clicked it on. Then she got beside him on the couch and curled herself over his lap, like a cat. She was a good warm weight, with perfume that suggested lilacs.
The tape started playing, the strumming of a folksy guitar, then a husky male voice talking. Larrabee realized, with some surprise, that it was an old episode of Prairie Home Companion.
"We used to listen to it in the joint," she said. "His voice turns me on. Wow, I haven't done this in a long time."
"I imagine it's like riding a bicycle."
"You can touch my breasts."
He slipped his hand inside her top. They barely existed, palm-sized areas of soft flesh, but the nipples were surprisingly large.
"That's nice," she said. "Maybe next time I'll bring my vibrator."
She went to work with that same businesslike competence, still wearing her glasses, occasionally raising her head to giggle at a joke from the tape. It was the first time Larrabee had ever heard her laugh.
The deep voice in the background was unsettling, like having another man in the room, and from time to time other voices chimed in. With the vibrator, it would be a full-fledged chorus.
But then, you could get used to just about anything.
Chapter 24
"She sounds batshit," Larrabee said. He was speaking of Gwen Bricknell. Monks had told him about the phone conversation last night.
"I hate it when you sugarcoat things, Stover."
"She got some bad vibes from somebody, so she thinks they killed Eden?"
"That's what she said. I don't know." In the gray light of day, what had seemed eerily intense last night now seemed improbable, even silly.
Monks poured half a cup of coffee. It wouldn't quell his hangover, but it shoved it around some.
They were in Larrabee's kitchen, which, like the rest of his apartment, was technically not supposed to be in his office-only building. That showed. There was a single small counter with a stainless sink, a minimalist refrigerator and stove, and a few prefab cabinets hung on the walls. An over-under washer and dryer completed the utilitarian effect. But as with most kitchens, a lot of living got done there, and for Monks and Larrabee, a lot of their work. Two large windows let in north light and breeze, and the big old oak table was good for spreading out papers.
"You better go to that party – excuse me, event – and check it out," Larrabee said.
"I intend to."
"You just might be in for some very high-class affection. Soft spot, huh?" Larrabee grinned.
"Christ, she's not interested in somebody like me."
"Oh, no? She made a point of telling you she was almost naked."
"That wasn't quite how she put it."
"It's what she meant?'
"It was hot, that's all," Monks said.
"What, she can't afford air-conditioning?"
"She probably talks to every man like that. Maybe it's a model thing."
"Jesus, Carroll, give yourself a break. A lot of women would think you're a pretty good catch."
"There's one who doesn't."
Larrabee's face got serious. "Trouble on that front, huh?" Monks exhaled. "You know how it is. You take a turn somewhere back there. Somebody comes along who wants you to untake it, but there's no way."
"Martine's a very smart woman. Let her go shake loose a while; she'll come around. Face it, you've ruined her for anybody else."
"It'll help if I still have a job."
"If she really loves you, she'll support you," Larrabee declared. "Meantime, you don't have to be talking about a walk down the aisle with this Gwen babe. I'd guess she just wants a workout. She doesn't seem to be hooked up with anybody. She's through modeling, and she probably doesn't meet many guys at that clinic. Along you come. You're interesting. You're not bad looking, if the lights aren't up too high."
"You're a regular Dear Abby this morning."
"It's just one of those days when love's in the air, old buddy," Larrabee said expansively. "It's giving me a kinder, gentler feeling about the fact that we might be talking about more than one murder."
The phone number of the insurance complainant, Roberta Massey, had changed several times over the years, although the address, a trailer court in Redwood City, was the same. That usually meant a series of disconnects, for nonpayment of bills. The woman who answered had the husky voice of a smoker and a hopeful tone, as if every call might be the one about the winning lottery ticket.
"I'm calling for Roberta," Monks said.
"She's working, at the church. You want to leave a message?"
"I'm a doctor, Ms.-?"
"I'm Bobbie's mother," she said, sounding worried now. "I didn't know she'd been to a doctor."
"This is about something that happened a long time ago," Monks said. "With Dr. D'Anton. I'd like to know about the complaint Roberta filed against him."
Monks waited.
"She's tried to forget about that," Mrs. Massey eventually said.
"A young woman died in my care, Mrs. Massey. She'd been a patient of Dr. D'Anton's, too."
"Well, I'm sorry. But what's that got to do with us?"
"If he's been involved in any wrongdoing, your information could be very important."
"I wouldn't mind seeing somebody go after that Dr. D'Anton," she said, sounding tougher now. "He should at least pay Bobbie something, after what he did to her."
"You mean, he hurt her?" Monks said.
"Yeah," sh
e said harshly. "And then weaseled out of it. The bastard."
Monks glanced at Larrabee, who was listening intently on the speakerphone. Larrabee gave him a nod.
"I can't promise anything, Mrs. Massey," Monks said. "But there is the possibility of legal action. I need to hear Roberta's story. When would be a good time?"
"She gets home about three. But I have to tell you, she might not want to talk about it. She's worked very hard on forgiving."
"I respect that," Monks said. "But she might be able to keep somebody else from getting hurt. Ask her to think about that, will you, Mrs. Massey?"
He thanked her and ended the connection. Larrabee sat back.
"Sounds like Roberta might be thinking about Jesus, but Mom's thinking about money," Larrabee said. "My guess is, you're going to get the story."
Redwood City was about a half-hour drive from San Francisco, down the peninsula. That left almost three hours to fill. Larrabee went into his office to take care of other business. Monks got a pack of index cards and returned to the kitchen table. Years ago, he had discovered a technique that was a great help in malpractice investigations. It worked well for criminal cases, too. It was a little bit like reading tarot cards, except that it was based on facts.
He started by writing down the major pieces of information they had so far, one point on each card, concentrating on what had started all this – Eden Hale's death.
Eden Hale dies in ER of DIC Roman Kasmarek suggests possibility of toxin Ray Dreyer propositioned by Coffee night of Eden's death
Then he started shifting the cards around, looking at different combinations, trying to read the past. Questions, contradictions, and lapses would stand out, and a part of his brain beneath the surface of consciousness would worry at them. Often – and often during sleep – the knots would start to dissolve.
He worked at it for more than an hour, stopped for a sandwich of cold cuts from Larrabee's refrigerator, then returned to put the information into a concise summary in his head.
