by Robert Ellis
Lena nodded.
“Well, no one else did,” Rhodes said. “No one else knew because no one put it out there. The detectives’ hands were tied. Bad things happen to bad people—the victims probably deserved it, right? And even if they didn’t—even though the guy’s still out there—our neighborhoods are better off without them. Our lawns are greener. There’s more room on our streets for more luxury cars. If we keep quiet, the casinos won’t lose any money and people will still come to play the slots.”
Rhodes became silent, but Lena knew why he seemed so bitter. Jane Doe No. 99 counted because she was an innocent victim, but Jennifer McBride wouldn’t because she was a whore. If they worked the neighborhood, no one would care because no one would think that it had anything to do with them. The victim would be seen as irrelevant. The investigation, a needless interruption in their busy and important lives. Even worse, when the chief reviewed his list of unsolved cases and cut it against the murder rate climbing to five hundred, there was a good chance that he might reevaluate his resources and spend them somewhere else. The case might be shot down the divisional highway, then dropped altogether and put on ice.
She could feel her heart beating in her chest. The anger that came with the possibility that Jennifer McBride might not count at Parker Center if your office was on the top floor.
The phone began ringing again—another two rings before the machine picked up. Thirty seconds later, another shadowy voice filtered out of the bedroom. Another potential customer who had read McBride’s ad and anxiously awaited her spell. Another willing subject who didn’t realize that his fantasy—the hot young blonde with magic hands and a knockout body—had been dead for two days and was lying in a plastic bag at the morgue.
When the call finally ended, the silence came back. The anger. As Lena considered the evidence, she realized that they were still riding the train without a ticket. Still making their run in the dark. She looked over at Rhodes staring at the pills lined up on the coffee table. After a moment, his eyes seemed to clear and he headed for the bedroom.
Lena found him sitting on the bed by the telephone. He was holding the handset and gazing at the LED screen.
“Does it strike you as odd that she only had one phone?” he asked.
Lena shrugged. “I’m sure she had a cell. We just haven’t gotten there yet.”
“I mean here. There’s only one phone in the apartment.”
“It’s cordless. This is a small place.”
Rhodes paused to think it over. “Makes sense, I guess. Today’s the fourteenth, right?”
“What are you doing?”
“Her address book must have been in her purse. I was hoping maybe she programmed the automatic dialer, but she didn’t. When I picked up the handset, I realized that she had Caller ID.”
Lena moved closer. Rhodes had found the menu and was toggling through the caller list. He was moving backward, and she recognized her cell number and the two calls that had come in while they were here by the time and date. Some of the numbers farther down the list were blocked, and most were from area codes that she didn’t recognize. When Rhodes reached the first number with a name attached, he stopped and became very still.
“What is it?” she asked.
He turned the screen toward her so that she could get a better look. A moment passed, and the glow in her stomach returned.
The call only lasted for thirty seconds, but it was from a doctor. Lena checked the area code and zeroed in on the name. Joseph Fontaine, MD had called at 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday, December 12, from somewhere in L.A.
“We’re looking for a surgeon, right, Lena?”
She met Rhodes’s eyes and caught the sharp glint. “That’s the night she was murdered.”
Rhodes turned back to the handset and continued toggling through the Caller ID list. He didn’t have to go very far before Fontaine’s name popped up on the list again. The call had been made at 4:00 p.m. that same day and lasted another thirty seconds.
“He’s hitting the machine and hanging up,” Rhodes said. “Trying to reach her, but not leaving a message.”
Lena dug into her pocket for her notepad, found the first clean page, and wrote down the doctor’s name and number. When she finished, Rhodes clicked through the list until he reached the end. Of the thirty-six calls McBride received this month, seven belonged to Joseph Fontaine, MD. Three were hang-ups made on the day McBride was murdered. But the remaining four were spread over the previous ten days, each lasting for almost an hour.
Rhodes placed the handset on the cradle and turned. She could feel his breath on her face. The heat emanating from his skin. His eyes on her.
“You bring your computer?” he asked.
10
Lena pushed aside the lingerie and condoms, clearing a space for her laptop on the coffee table. While Rhodes logged the pills into evidence, she switched on the wireless broadband card and within a few seconds had a secure connection to the Internet. She found her bookmark for AutoTrackXP and clicked it. When she arrived at the Web site, she typed in her user name and password and the information gate to billions of current and historical records swung all the way open in a single instant.
She typed Joseph Fontaine’s name and phone number into the search windows and hit ENTER. In another instant, the man’s entire life rendered before her eyes.
“I’m up,” she said. “I’ve got him.”
“Who is he?”
This was where every background check began. Lena studied the screen, grateful that the department had an account and that she had access to such an extensive database: names, aliases, every job ever worked, every address ever used, every phone number, all registered vehicles, all property owned, his relatives, neighbors, associates, credit history, and tax records. She scanned through the list. Dr. Joseph Fontaine’s life was three and a half pages long.
“He’s got an office on Wilshire in Beverly Hills,” she said. “His house is in Westwood on South Mapleton Drive.”
“He’s got money. What kind of car does he drive?”
“Two Mercedes.”
“What about a wife?”
Lena clicked to the next page. “He’s got two of those, too. But he’s been divorced for the past ten years. Looks like his second marriage only lasted eighteen months. He’s fifty-six years old and single now. No kids. His address hasn’t changed since he was thirty-five, so the house couldn’t have been part of either settlement.”
Rhodes sealed the evidence bag. “Let’s pack up,” he said. “We need to roll.”
It was a tactical decision filled with risk. Depending on how they handled things, confronting Fontaine could tip their hand.
Lena made a left on Wilshire Boulevard and started picking out street numbers. Rhodes sat in the passenger seat, reviewing McBride’s credit history and the rental agreement that Jones had given them on the way out, and trying not to look at the glove compartment. Lena knew that there was a pack of cigarettes inside. She had found them on the drive to Venice. Rhodes called them his emergency pack and said that they had been there for three months, but remained unopened.
They were driving through Beverly Hills, about six blocks south of Cedar-Sinai Medical Center—stop and go for the past forty minutes. She checked the clock on the dash, then looked back at the traffic. It was 4:30 p.m. and already starting to get dark. The trip from Jennifer McBride’s apartment probably covered less than ten miles. But Lena didn’t mind because it had given her a chance to think.
Talking to Fontaine wasn’t the right move or even the best move. But this was a case that had been speeding into the big nowhere ever since they found McBride’s body. Talking to the doctor seemed like their only move.
She spotted a parking lot just this side of Fontaine’s building. As she pulled in, Rhodes slipped the rental agreement into her briefcase and climbed out. Five minutes later, they were in the lobby scanning the building directory. His name was listed in the center column. Joseph Fontaine, MD, leased
more than an office in one of the most exclusive business districts in Los Angeles. The Joseph Fontaine Pediatric Center occupied the entire fifth floor.
They traded looks as they stepped into the elevator and the doors closed. But when they finally reached the fifth floor, they found themselves in a reception area that didn’t seem much like a doctor’s office. Particularly a doctor who treated children. The woman behind the counter was dressed in a cool gray Armani suit and appeared too well manicured. There was too much mahogany and frosted glass, and the place was too neat and too quiet.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
Rhodes pulled out his ID. “We’d like to speak with Dr. Fontaine.”
Lena studied the receptionist’s face, guessing that she was about thirty-five. The woman glanced at the badge, then looked up as if it didn’t have any meaning. As if it might be a mere toy. Lena had never seen anyone react this way and had to remind herself that they were in Beverly Hills.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist was asking. “Is he expecting you?”
Rhodes didn’t answer the question. “We’re from Robbery-Homicide,” he said.
Lena followed his eyes to the reception area and noticed two men in dark suits sitting on the leather couch. Both held copies of The Wall Street Journal in their hands and had looked up. While the badge didn’t seem to have an effect on the receptionist, its effect on the two men staring this way was more than clear.
She reached for the phone. “Let me see if he’s in,” she said. “Who shall I say would like to speak with him?”
She had just looked at Rhodes’s ID, but either hadn’t retained the information or couldn’t help being difficult. Rhodes gave her their names and she jotted them down on a pad. After someone picked up on the other end, she turned away from the counter and lowered her voice. A few moments later, she hung up and told them that Dr. Fontaine’s assistant would be out in a minute or two. Rhodes thanked her, but didn’t offer an apology or any explanation for barging in.
Ten minutes passed before another woman wearing another Armani suit entered the lobby from the hallway beside the front desk. But this one was different. Five years older, five years smoother, and higher in the food chain—with more to lose. Lena could see the concern in her eyes as she glanced at the receptionist, then turned toward them with an outstretched hand. She introduced herself as Greta Dietrich, Fontaine’s assistant. Her smile was completely forced, but well done. And she didn’t look at or acknowledge the two men in suits still watching from the leather couch. But Lena could tell that they were preying on Dietrich’s mind by the way she and Rhodes were whisked away from the front desk and ushered down the hall.
Dietrich was a blue-eyed blonde. Educated and attractive with a hint of the street hidden beneath her makeup. Her steps were quick and choppy. Under any other circumstances, Lena would have laughed out loud. But not tonight. Not now.
“I’m sorry,” Dietrich was saying. “Dr. Fontaine is on a conference call and will be tied up for several hours. The call is terribly important. A matter of life and death. Is there anything I can help you with? Would he even know why you are here?”
They were passing office suites and conference rooms, not examination rooms. As she steered them into her office, Lena realized the jam Dietrich was in. She didn’t want two homicide detectives anywhere near the two men in the lobby, but she didn’t want them in her office, either.
Lena glanced around the room. The closed door on the far wall had to lead to Fontaine. And that light blinking on Deitrich’s telephone wasn’t attached to an outside line. She could see it from six feet away. The intercom was open. Fontaine wasn’t on a conference call, or saving anyone’s life. He was hiding in his office. He was eavesdropping.
She turned to Dietrich. She’d had enough.
“We’re working a homicide investigation,” she said. “We don’t have time for this. Tell your boss to get off the phone.”
Dietrich looked back in disbelief. Before she could say anything, the light on the phone went dark and the door at the far end of the room swung open. It was Dr. Joseph Fontaine, asking all three of them to come in. His voice was subdued and quiet and he knew exactly why they were here—Lena was certain of this the moment she set eyes on the man.
As they entered his office, she looked him over more closely. Like the women who worked for him, Fontaine was well kept. Lena noted his graying blond hair and the Rolex on his wrist. His strong arms and straight back. His eyes were almost the same shade of blue as Deitrich’s, but were less transparent and reflected the outside world like a pair of mirrored shades. As he offered them a seat and stepped around his desk, Lena traded looks with Rhodes. There was no question that the doctor was nervous.
“What can I do for you?” he said.
Lena didn’t answer the question, watching his assistant move around the desk with her boss and lean against the credenza as he sat down. They had matching tans. December tans. The kind that came from Mexico. As Lena took it in, she noticed the cut of Deitrich’s jacket. She was showing a little too much cleavage for an executive assistant. A bit too much of her black bra. For some reason Lena thought about the nurse costume Jennifer McBride kept in her duffel bag, and wondered if maybe Fontaine made his assistant wear one, too.
“I’m just curious,” Lena said, “As we walked to your office, I didn’t see any examination rooms.”
“I see patients at the hospital,” the doctor said. “But most of my work involves research. That’s what we do here.”
Fontaine turned to Rhodes, probably thinking that he would be asking the questions. Rhodes pulled out his notebook and pen without saying anything. They had made the decision as they walked from the parking lot to the building. If Rhodes could get them past the gatekeepers, Lena would handle the interview. She had an easy way of talking to people. Rhodes had more experience and wanted to watch the way Fontaine handled himself.
“What kind of research?” Lena asked.
The doctor paused. When he finally turned back to her, she could see the irritation on his face. Arrogance cut with resignation. Clearly, the doctor thought that he was the smartest one in the room.
“All kinds of research,” he said.
“Then you don’t concentrate on anything special.”
“Just pediatrics.”
“Do you write many prescriptions, Doctor?”
“Of course.”
“Do you perform surgeries?”
Fontaine turned to Rhodes, watching the detective flip the page in his notebook and continue writing.
“Where is this going?” Fontaine asked.
Rhodes stared back at the man but didn’t reply.
When Lena repeated the question, Fontaine gave her another look—colder this time—and finally said, “Yes. I perform surgeries.”
She paused a moment and made a point of looking him over. “You’re what? Fifty—”
“I’m fifty-six years old.”
“So in nineteen-seventy-two you would have been twenty.”
“This isn’t nineteen-seventy-two and I’m a very busy man. What is the point of all this?”
“Did you serve in the military, Doctor?”
His face changed as he considered the question. “Vietnam. The last two years of the war.”
“What was your role?”
“Survival. I was drafted. I was a grunt.”
“Did you see much combat?”
His eyes flooded with more irritation, his voice becoming higher pitched. “I was working at a medical station in the jungle ten miles west of the Cu Chi tunnels. Yes, I saw a lot of combat. It’s the reason I went to medical school. Now, would you please tell me why you are here?”
Lena didn’t respond, letting the silence work on the doctor’s nerves. He fit the profile. He could be the one. But Fontaine fit a lot of profiles. He could have been McBride’s drug supplier. Or, just one of the clients reveling under her spell.
“We were wondering abo
ut your relationship with a young woman living in Venice. Jennifer McBride.”
Fontaine cleared his throat. “Who?”
Lena repeated her name, then watched Fontaine think it over and shake his head. His performance was more lame than convincing. He was shooting quick looks at Rhodes, and seemed concerned that the detective was writing everything down.
“I don’t know a Jennifer McBride,” he said.
Lena crossed her legs. “Maybe you should take a moment to think it over, Doctor.”
“I don’t need a moment to think it over. I don’t know her.”
“You’re sure?”
He slapped his desk. “Absolutely. Who was she?”
Everything stopped. Fontaine had just used the past tense. Everyone in the room knew that he’d slipped up. Even Fontaine.
“She was a prostitute,” Lena said.
The doctor let out a nervous laugh that died off quickly. His eyes were jerking back and forth as if something was clicking in his head. Lena noticed the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His cheeks, a bright red. As much as she wanted to look at Dietrich and measure her reaction, she kept her gaze fixed on the doctor.
“I don’t know any prostitutes,” he managed.
“She might have called herself a massage therapist.”
“I don’t know any of them, either.”
His right hand began to quiver. When he noticed, he pulled away his arm and hid it behind his desk. The conversation was no longer beneath him. All of a sudden he was in over his head.
Lena wanted to seize the moment, amplifying the pressure with another measured dose of silence. She glanced at Rhodes in the chair by the window. As she took in the office and noted the expensive furnishings, she realized that there was only one photograph in the entire room. A picture of an older woman with white hair set in a silver frame and placed on the credenza by the phone. The resemblance between Fontaine and the old woman was striking.
