Neil McMahon - To The Bone

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 silence, 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.

"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."