Jessica Andersen - Under the Microscope

Oh, hell, Max thought. What if the other dead women had mixed the drug with alcohol and there had been an adverse interaction of the molecule?

Could it be that simple?

Beside him, Raine relaxed and shook her head almost imperceptibly. He took that to mean her people had already tested the Thriller-alcohol interaction for toxicity and found nothing.

“You were both drinking jazz juice that night? Did you get the samples from the same place?” Max kept his voice low, but he was aware that their conversation was starting to attract annoyed looks from the other mourners scattered in the back of the church.

“Sure. Our plastic surgeon, Dr. Moyer.” She paused and confided, “Well, he was my plastic surgeon, though I’m not telling what he did. Denise was scheduled for breast implants in the spring. I think she canceled a couple of weeks ago, though, thanks to the jazz juice.”

Max stiffened as the connection hit him. He and Raine traded a look. Plastic surgery.

Was it a coincidence?

Or was it a risk factor?

“Why did she cancel the appointment?” Raine asked, voice casual, fingers knotted together in her lap.

The blonde shrugged and whispered, “She was kind of insecure about her body, you know? Especially after the way that one -” she indicated Doug-the-ex with a jerk of her thumb “-treated her. She thought bigger breasts would make her feel sexier. Then we got those Thriller samples and she decided she didn’t need the boobs anymore.” The blonde’s eyes darkened. “We never thought it’d kill her. There weren’t any warnings or anything. If we’d known…”

She trailed off as a sober-faced man in white robes leaned into their pew. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to either be quiet or take this conversation outside. This is a memorial service.”

“Of course. Our apologies.” Max rose and gestured for Raine to precede him. He nodded at the few people who turned and glared, and felt a beat of remorse for having brought the investigation into the church.

But he couldn’t regret the decision. They had their break.

Once they were outside, Raine grabbed his sleeve. “Cari had a tummy tuck after her C-section and wanted breast implants. Jenni had a nose job. Denise also wanted breast implants.” Then she frowned. “But unless they were all on some sort of pre-or post-op drug regimen, I can’t see how being scheduled for plastic surgery could explain why they died from taking Thriller.”

He led the way back to their rented truck, brain humming. “There’s one way to test our theory.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the disposable phone and Ike’s computer printout, and dialed a number off the paper. He paused on the sidewalk when the connection went through. “Hello? Mrs. Pawcheck? My name is Maximilian Vasek, and I’m with a pharmaceutical investigation firm on the east coast. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to ask you a quick question about your daughter, Melissa.”

There was a moment of silence before the response came. “Melissa is dead.” The woman’s voice broke on the words.

“I know and I’m very sorry, Mrs. Pawcheck. I’m one of the people involved in figuring out what happened and making sure the guilty parties are punished.”

He heard a sniffle and a gulp, then, “Ask your question.”

“Did Melissa ever have cosmetic surgery, or was she planning on having cosmetic surgery in the near future?” Max nearly crossed his fingers, waiting for the answer.

“Yes.” The woman’s voice was puzzled. “She had an endoscopic brow lift and liposuction last year. Why? Did that have something to do with her death?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Max said, sending Raine a nod. When Mrs. Pawcheck pressed for an elaboration, he ended the call, saying, “We’ll let you know as soon as we do, ma’am. Thank you so much for your help.”

He snapped the phone shut and gestured for Raine to keep walking. “Brow lift and liposuction last year.”

She pressed her lips together. “I guess that means we’re onto something.”

They just didn’t know what yet.

RAINE DROVE THE LAST LEG of their journey so Max could use his phone to touch base with Ike. The unspoken hope was that she’d already found the missing link between plastic surgery and the Thriller deaths.

As she sent the truck along I-95 into Connecticut, Raine thought how strange it felt to be in her home state again. Had it really only been two days since they’d driven to Philadelphia and seen James Summerton? It felt like so much longer.

Max cursed as he dialed Ike’s number on the disposable phone for the third time.

“Still nothing?” Raine guessed.

He shook his head. “Maybe her phone crapped out. They’re not the sturdiest things on the planet.”

But he drummed his fingers on the armrest for a moment, then dialed another number. After punch ing in a code, he sat back and made a satisfied noise. “She left a message on my home machine.”

He cranked the volume on the cell phone and held the unit out so they could both hear Ike’s voice say, “I couldn’t get through on the disposable and I’m headed off to the Cape, so here goes. The second man in the video is Dr. Frederic Forsythe, a very high-end cosmetic surgeon from-get this- Beverly Hills.” Max and Raine shared a look as the message continued. “Forsythe has a place north of Boston where he keeps a string of polo ponies and does the foxhunting thing. That might explain what he’s doing in a Boston law firm. We’ll see. My buddy’s buddy managed to unscramble some of the audio-he’s couriering it to our usual spot. I’m sending a care package as well, though there’s nothing in it that you don’t already know. I’m off for the weekend, but I’ll be on the cell if you need me. Ciao.”

The message ended with a click, leaving Max frowning through the windshield. Ahead of them, the sky was an ugly purple-gray, signaling that they were driving into the snow squalls promised by the radio news.

“A Beverly Hills plastic surgeon might fit with our hypothesis,” Raine said. “Rich. Powerful. Do you think he could be one of The Nine?”

“Maybe.” Max nodded. “Possibly.” Then he cursed. “But it’s still not enough. We need solid evidence, damn it. Without something tangible, we can’t go to the authorities.”

“There’s still the tape from the law office. Maybe the audio will give us something to go on. What did Ike mean by your ‘usual place’?”

He shot her an unreadable look. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to tell her. Then he shrugged. “Logan Airport. The bartenders at Thursday’s Restaurant know Ike, and they don’t mind stashing stuff for her to pass off to clients now and then. You sit down, order a gin and tonic with an olive, then complain when it doesn’t come with an umbrella.” He muttered under his breath, “Makes me think Ike and Charlie went to the same spy school.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They drove in silence a while longer, the miles unrolling beneath the wheels of the rented truck. When a green-and-white sign warned that the exit for New Bridge was a few miles up the road, Raine said, “Are we stopping here or heading to Boston?”

If anyone had told her a week earlier that she’d be spending Saturday night in Boston with Max Vasek, she would’ve thought they were crazy.

He glanced at her, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful half smile. “Ironic how things have come almost full circle, huh?”

“Boston it is, then.” She didn’t stop to analyze the emotions that crowded her head and her heart. She just cut the wheel, hit the gas and shot out into the passing lane.

A silver sedan did the same three cars back.