by S. J. Harper
“They’re called smart windows,” she answers, giving him her full attention. “A firm that specializes in green architecture renovated the building before we moved in two years ago. Special insulation, roofing, and those windows that tint automatically to control the temperature and ensure privacy.”
Like Amy’s shades, I think. Going green has become a mantra in Southern California.
A door opens somewhere down the hall and Barton moves back to the desk. She pushes a button and speaks a few words into her headset before looking up.
“Dr. Barakov will see you now.”
She moves ahead of us, walking gracefully down the long corridor. The sounds of her stilettos on the wooden flooring announce our approach. We pass several closed doors before she stops at one near the end of the hall and holds it open.
Barakov is seated behind another mahogany desk—this one bigger and more ornate than his receptionist’s. He rises at our entrance and comes to meet us. The doctor is impeccably dressed in a well-tailored suit, most probably custom made, given that he’s shorter than I am, and well-polished loafers. Carefully cut hair accents a perfectly oval face and smooth, high forehead. His stature, hair, and finely chiseled features remind me of Nero. I wonder what else he might have in common with the ruthless tyrant who foolishly burned down nearly half of Rome.
Barakov takes our proffered hands and urges us to sit.
Zack tells him why we’re here. Gives me a chance to scope the place out. The office is at the front of the building. There’s lots of glass here, too, but it’s just as coolly comfortable as the reception area. Besides the desk and wall of windows, there are bookcases lining two walls. A couch is positioned in front of one, along with a coffee table with a fan of current news magazines. Behind the desk is the largest ego wall I’ve ever seen. There are well over a dozen diplomas and certificates, not to mention framed magazine articles about Barakov’s work, and an impressive array of signed celebrity photos. On the desk Barakov has a computer with a flat-screen monitor, an in-box with two or three stacked files, and a set for holding clips, pens, and pencils.
There is also a door in the back of the office. For the confidentiality of patients, I presume. A way for them to discreetly come and go, avoiding the reception area.
When Barakov hears Amy Patterson’s name, a concerned frown darkens his face. “I was shocked when I read about Amy in the papers yesterday. I don’t see how I can help you, though. There is an issue of privacy in terms of my consultations with her, and I certainly don’t think I know anything that could shed light on her disappearance.”
Zack is frowning, too. His frown doesn’t reflect concern. It’s deliberate, with a touch of menace thrown in. It’s the disapproving frown of a hard-nosed cop, the stereotypical “bad cop” who doesn’t like the answer he’s getting. Or, in this case, the answer he’s not getting. Zack clearly thinks Barakov is stonewalling. “We aren’t asking you to break doctor/patient confidentiality,” he says, his tone clipped, sharp. “We’re asking if she kept her appointment.”
Apparently it’s time for Basic Interrogation 101. I assume my role of “good cop,” keeping my voice soft, suppliant. “You may have been the last person to see Amy. You must understand how important it is that we establish a timeline. Any help you give us brings us one step closer to finding her.”
Barakov fastens his gaze on my more sympathetic face. After a few seconds, his expression softens. “Very well.”
“We really appreciate it.”
I shoot Zack a subtle approving glance. He meets my eyes and winks.
Barakov has turned to his computer. He punches a few keys, and then scrolls up and down the screen. “Yes,” he says finally. “She kept her appointment. She left at eleven a.m.” He narrows his eyes at Zack. “That’s all I can tell you.”
Zack has produced a small notebook and pen from his jacket and makes a notation. Then, without the least bit of hesitation, he casually asks, “And what about Isabella Mancini?”
“Isabella Mancini?” Barakov asks, eyebrows furrowing.
I expected the same kind of rebuff we initially received when mentioning Amy, but Barakov’s demeanor is decidedly different.
“Another patient,” Zack replies. “You saw her about two months ago?”
The shift to irritation doesn’t happen. His expression is merely perplexed. He leans back, casually, in his chair. “I’m quite good with names. I don’t recognize that one.”
“She’s another young woman whose disappearance we’re looking into,” I explain. “And according to her records, she had an appointment with you, too.” I gesture to the computer. “Would you mind checking your records?”
Barakov’s fingers work the keyboard. “Yes,” he says at last. “Here it is. Isabella Mancini made an appointment by telephone for an initial consultation.” He looks at Zack and me in turn. “But she never kept the appointment. That’s why the name didn’t ring a bell. I never met her.”
“Do you know why she wanted to see you?”
“I would assume it had something to do with my line of work, cosmetic surgery. Other than that, I have no idea.”
His answers flow freely, without hesitation, yet I sense an uneasiness creeping into his manner. I am tempted to dial up my powers and press him to find out why, but at what cost? Zack would get caught in the wake. Demeter, were she to find out, would see it as reckless. Two problems I don’t need.
“It’s quite a coincidence,” Zack says, “you having a connection to two missing women.” Perhaps he feels the shift in Barakov’s manner, too.
“I’d hardly call it a connection.”
No missing the shift this time. Barakov is indignant. “Do you have any idea how large my practice is? How many women have plastic surgery these days? They feel the need to tweak this, enhance that, always striving for perfection. I have one of the busiest practices in Southern California. The busiest practice in San Diego.” He leans forward. “When a woman decides to have work done, she wants the best. She wants me.”
Then, in an instant, the annoyance is gone. He’s turned his gaze on me. “For example, Agent Monroe, have you ever thought of getting that bump on your nose fixed?”
Suddenly both men are looking at me. Reflexively, I touch my nose, then curse myself for doing it.
Barakov laughs. “Of course, it’s not a terribly noticeable flaw, but without it . . . well, we all strive for perfection.”
“Not all,” Zack says, his voice tight. “Some might say perfection is boring.”
Barakov peers at Zack as if tallying a score, then waves a dismissive hand. “Spoken like someone who has no obvious physical flaws.”
Zack’s shoulders bunch. “We all have flaws, Doctor.”
“Of course. That’s why I made the distinction and said physical flaws.”
The tension in the room is building and I doubt we’ll get anything else from Barakov. Especially with Zack looking as though he wants to add a bump or two of his own to Barakov’s perfect nose. I rise and extend my hand. “Thank you for your time.”
Zack jumps to his feet. He’s as anxious to get out of the doctor’s office as a racehorse chafing to leave the starting gate.
Barakov motions to the door behind his desk. “You can leave this way. I hope you find Amy. She is a beautiful young woman, so vibrant.”
After the door closes behind us, Zack lets out a breath. It echoes in the stairway like an explosion. “I don’t like that guy.”
“Really? It didn’t show. He seemed quite fond of you.”
Zack shakes his head. “I can’t put my finger on it. There’s something not right about him. I don’t care how famous a plastic surgeon he is, it’s too much of a coincidence that two missing women are among his patients.”
“Amy was his patient,” I correct. “He said he never met Isabella.”
“Yeah. That’s what
he said. I’m going back three to six months, look through some unsolved cases. I’ll start with women over eighteen and see if his name comes up.”
I raise an eyebrow. “He also said Amy is a beautiful young woman, not was.”
He concedes the point with a shrug. “Just means he’s clever enough to weigh his words around cops.”
I follow Zack down to the car, glancing once to look up at Barakov’s office window. It’s decided. If the investigation stalls, I’ll come back and pay the doctor a return visit.
Without my partner.
We’re pulling out of the parking lot when Zack points to a traffic camera at a stoplight across from Barakov’s office.
“See that?” he asks.
“The traffic cam?”
“When we get back to the office, I’m going to get the tape from the day Isabella went missing so we can review it. The image might not be clear enough to definitively identify Isabella, but it’ll be clear enough to see if a car of her model, make, and color was in the area at the time of the appointment. The one she didn’t keep.”
His sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast. I ignore it. I’m too busy reading a text that just came in from Johnson. Apparently the district attorney is already bugging him for an update on the case. He wants me to swing by his office before the end of the day. I hate these command performances. “The DA wants to see me. How about you check the tapes? I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished downtown.”
CHAPTER 6
The last two hours have been a complete waste of time. Not only did District Attorney Derek Walker keep me waiting outside his office for an hour before seeing me, once I was in his office, Walker took no fewer than three phone calls. After the last, he had the gall to hit on me, suggesting we continue our debriefing over a drink. Next time he needs a debrief, I’m sending Zack.
Once back on Highway 8, I call to check in. Hopefully he’s had a more productive afternoon than I did.
Zack answers with a cheery hello.
“Sounds like you had a better afternoon than I did,” I grumble. “What have you got?”
“A couple of baked potatoes, a thick-cut London broil, a twelve-pack of Negro Modelo, and—wait for it—confirmation that a red 2003 PT Cruiser went through the intersection of Tenth and J fifteen minutes before Isabella’s scheduled appointment.” He pauses. “The one the troll said she never kept. Score one for Armstrong!”
His enthusiasm makes me smile.
“How sure are you that it’s Isabella’s?”
“The photo of the driver’s a little fuzzy, but I could make out the license plate clear as day.” He rattles off an address. “Come over. Join me for an early dinner.”
Dinner at his place, just the two of us? The last time we had dinner together, we ended up in bed. Alarm bells go off. Best I hold the line. “I appreciate the offer, but when I told you to find a girlfriend earlier, I didn’t mean me. I don’t date my partners, Zack.”
“My mother will be relieved. She thinks it’s unseemly for a woman to carry a big gun. She wants me to marry Betty Crocker.”
“There is no Betty Crocker. Besides, maybe I have a date.”
A chuckle rolls out. “With that hideous bump on your nose? On a Wednesday night? Unlikely.”
“Screw you.”
I bite my lip. If I could have taken back that last response, I would have. Thankfully, Zack is still prattling on.
“Besides, this isn’t a date. I have something you’ll want to see.”
His voice is low and lilting. It does things to me it shouldn’t, conjuring images of a night I’d be better off forgetting. Zack seems to have done so. He’s been nothing but professional.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What have you got?” I reach for the iced tea in my cup holder and take a sip.
“The security tapes from the lobby of Barakov’s building.”
The cup slips out of my hand, spilling all over the passenger seat. I completely miss the turnoff to the 163.
“Shit!”
“Not the reaction I was expecting.”
“I just spilled my tea. You expect me to believe Barakov just called you up and volunteered the security tapes?”
There’s a pause. “Not exactly. I remembered seeing cameras inside the lobby. The videos were just sitting there . . . on a secure server.”
“You know how to hack into a server?”
“I can be handy that way.”
My head is spinning. He sounds jubilant, talking as if he’s oblivious of the implications of his actions. He has to know we’ll never be able to use something illegally obtained against Barakov. I watched Zack skirt the edge when we worked together, but he never crossed the line. This most definitely crosses the line. This is major. My jaw tightens.
“You coming or aren’t you?” he asks.
Damn it. “Yes.”
“Are you coming now?” Again, there’s an almost imperceptible lowering of his voice. I tell myself I’m reading something into it, that I should chalk it up to Southern-boy charm.
“I’m ten, maybe fifteen minutes away,” I tell him before signing off and pulling onto 8 West.
The traffic is horrendous, as I get closer to the beach. I have more time than I thought to consider what to say to Zack when I see him. I understand temptation. I also understand that giving in to temptation always comes at a cost. What he did was stupid, plain and simple. We could have gotten that security footage the right way, the legal way.
Just when I think I have what I’m going to say to him all figured out, the address he gave me comes into view.
Every thought in my head flies out the window.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
I pull into the drive behind Zack’s SUV, the one identical to mine. I’d assumed when Zack gave me the address that he lived in an apartment building. Or that perhaps he was renting a condo. Either of which would be pricey enough at the beach. But this is neither. It’s a house. Two stories of oceanfront property.
I grab my phone and search for the address. A recent MLS listing pops up. Escrow just closed. I pull up the details. The house sold for over five million. Dollars. Five million.
Now, there are really only a few ways for an agent just over thirty to get his hands on that kind of money: marriage, inheritance, winning the lottery, or he’s done something very, very wrong. Zack’s cavalier attitude about getting the security tapes from Barakov’s building plays over and over in my head. Maybe Zack is comfortable cutting corners, comfortable living large and taking risks. I haven’t worked with him long enough to know.
But I do know I’m not.
Doing something that could jeopardize a case? That could end up shining an unwanted light on me? Definitely not something I’m comfortable with. Zack may be a liability I can ill afford.
What kind of man is Zack Armstrong really? There is one sure way to find out. This has become a matter of self-preservation.
I climb out of the SUV and pocket my cell on the way to Zack’s door. I don’t bother to knock. I barely even bother to take in my surroundings. The living room, dining area, and kitchen flow into one another. Zack’s behind the counter, knife in hand. He’s wearing a pair of red board shorts, nothing else. No shoes, no shirt. There’s a towel draped around his neck and his hair is damp, as if he just came in from a swim. I remove the gun from my clip and slam it down on the cutting board alongside the sliced cucumber.
Zack jumps. The knife in his hand slips. “Crap. I almost sliced my finger off.” He sets down the knife, yanks the towel from around his neck, and wraps it around his finger. “What’s the matter with you?”
“For the past twenty minutes I’ve been thinking about what you said. The more I think about it, the more pissed off I’m getting. I figure we should not be armed for this conversation.”
Zack checks his wound. Not su
rprisingly, the small cut has already mended itself. The bleeding has stopped. The towel is tossed aside. “I’m not armed. Talk to me.” He raises both of his hands, taking a step back.
“What are you up to, Zack?”
He gestures toward the counter. “I’m making salad. Is this about your nose? You’re upset because I called your bump hideous. In my own defense, I was joking. You know that, right?”
“This. Is. Not. About. My. Nose.” I emphasize each and every word with a finger poke to his chest.
Zack and I are toe-to-toe. Suddenly I’m acutely aware of everything about him, his size, his strength, his power, and his almost complete lack of clothing. I try to pull away, but he reaches out for my hand and holds fast.
“What’s happened?”
“I take my job seriously, Zack.”
“So do I. You know that. You know me.”
“Look, I thought I knew what kind of guy you are. But maybe I don’t. Normally I’d say your personal life, the decisions you make are your own. I’d focus on the case, then the next one, then the one after that. I’d just go on living my quiet little life. But we’re partners and that means if a shit storm comes raining down on you, I’m likely to get crap all over me. I’m clean. I want to stay that way.”
He releases my hand. “And you think I’m not? You think I’m dirty?”
“Look around. Unless your mother’s maiden name is Rockefeller, yes.”
He looks surprised, hurt, confused. He could be all of those things. He could be none of them. One way to find out.
I lean in, lock Zack’s eyes in mine, let go. This is how it begins, allowing a tiny crack in the armor that contains my powers. “You broke the law by hacking into Barakov’s server. This house is worth a fortune. Your SF-86 is nowhere to be found. You agreed to no contact. Yet here you are.”
As the power builds, the air around us warms, stirring an almost imperceptible perfumed breeze.
