Neil McMahon - To The Bone

Who also had vanished, and D' Anton had been upset enough to get rid of the nurse who knew.

Interstate 280 was a pretty road along this stretch, if you ignored the fact that it ran right on top of the San Andreas fault. The area was hilly and wooded, with a miles-long wildlife refuge on the coastal side. Traffic was relatively light going north, with the thickening commuter momentum from San Francisco coming the other way.

Monks reached Burlingame within a few minutes, and then he did something he had promised himself he would not. He took the Trousdale exit toward Martine Rostanov's house. He wanted badly to see her, to be in her presence – to inhale the warmth from her skin and help take away the chill that had settled under his own.

He approached her driveway slowly and started to turn in. Then he stopped. Another car was parked in the drive behind hers – a handsome black Saab.

Monks drove on past and went back to the freeway, berating himself. He should have called first. He was acting like a teenager. It was insane to assume that the Saab might belong to a lover, and he had no right to expect otherwise, anyway.

The urge was upon him to pick up where he had left off last night – to check into one of the Union Square hotels near John's Grill, with its great portrait of Dashiell Hammett, and spend the evening at that fine bar. It was another thing he had not done in a long time.

But he kept the Bronco pointed north, up Nineteenth Avenue, through the greenery-laced Presidio, into the mist that had settled over the Golden Gate Bridge. The party that he was invited to tonight was at D' Anton's Marin County house – the same house where Roberta claimed to have been abducted. It would be good to get the feel of the place.

Monks started to realize that something in his mind was calling attention to itself – something Roberta had said that he hadn't paid much attention to at the time.

She had not been able to describe the person who had led her to the couch where she passed out. But she was certain that it had been a woman.

Monks arrived at D'Anton's Marin County house – the event site – just at dusk. He had driven the last few miles on a narrow asphalt road in the coastal mountains, north of Mount Tamalpais. The road followed a ravine, a creek bed that was dry like most this time of year, until it opened into a small secluded valley. He stopped at the top of the rise.

The air had the feel of the sea and the fragrance of the surrounding eucalyptus groves. The Pacific was another two or three miles west, glimmering with the day's last light, a hazy sheen of reflection and mirage streaked by the wakes of passing ships. The gray band of fog on the horizon would probably move in again tonight, then burn off by midday. Like the peninsula to the south, it was sunny here most of the year, and rarely too hot or cold.

The place looked like it originally had been a farm, with a barn and several outbuildings. The house was an ornate Victorian, replete with finely proportioned bay windows and intersecting roof-lines, and a veranda that wrapped around two sides. It was built against a cliff, a natural rock formation, and it was huge. It must have cost a fortune, like the real estate itself.

Lights showed through the windows and around the grounds, with sconces marking a pathway from the parking area. That was filled with cars, thirty or forty, a canopy of expensive burnished metal. A few people were strolling toward the house. It was a picture of affluence, luxury, the leisure of the upper class.

And it was the place where Eden Hale, Katie Bensen, and Roberta Massey had all been guests.

Monks drove down to join the party.

He parked, and was walking toward the house, when someone called, "Hey, how's it going?"

Monks turned and recognized Todd, the maintenance man from the clinic, unlocking the door of an older-looking cinder-block building. Monks glimpsed inside and realized it was a wine cellar, with hundreds of bottles in racks and cases stacked up against the walls.

"This is my third run in the last hour," Todd said. "They're going through it fast." If he was surprised to see Monks here, it didn't show.

"Gwen told me you're the man they can't do without. Are you the bartender, too?"

"Naw, I just help take care of the place. When they have a party, I set up tables, keep the supplies coming, all that."

D'Anton's devoted staff, Monks thought.

"This your first one of these?" Todd asked.

"Yes."

"Knock yourself out. There's a lot going on." Todd stepped into the wine cellar and picked up one of the cases, tucking it under a muscular arm. He was wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans, still in surfer mode. He was handsome, vital, and it occurred to Monks that Todd might attract a fair amount of attention from D'Anton's female clientele. And that he probably knew a lot about what was going on behind the scenes at the clinic.

"You've been with Dr. D'Anton several years now?" Monks asked.

"Going on six. Why?"

"You get to meet the movie stars, all that?"

"I'm not a toy boy." The words came out suddenly and sharply, with a hostile glance.

Monks was taken aback. "I wasn't suggesting anything like that. Just – you know. It must be interesting," he finished lamely.

"I've got my own interests," Todd said. He heaved the case of wine up onto his shoulder and turned his back, heading toward the party.

Monks followed more slowly. Flattery was usually an effective way to start probing for information, but apparently he had hit a nerve.

He nodded sociably to other guests, but no one offered introductions, which was fine with him. There was the sense that they all knew each other. The dress was informal but elegant, Armani jackets and open shirts for the men, summer dresses for the women, with a lot of jewelry on display. He had put on his one decent sport coat, a Harris tweed – hardly in this style range and a little warm for the weather, but serviceable.

He reached the house and stepped to a window, to see if Gwen Bricknell was inside. This was evidently the party's center, a large old-fashioned drawing room. White-clothed tables set with liquor, wine, and hors d'oeuvres lined the walls. The room was crowded with figures who looked posed in a tableau. Those at the periphery stood in pairs or small groups, talking, drinking, eating.

But at the center, a man and a woman presided, like a high priest and his acolyte at the altar. The man was Dr. D'Anton. The woman was the nurse, Phyllis, whom Monks had encountered at the clinic.

He realized that there was a gradient of the sexes in the room – mostly men at the periphery, more women closer to the center. He guessed that many of them were D' Anton's patients. Most were in their forties, or older, but their beauty was almost surreally enhanced. There was a lot of collagen and silicone walking around in that room.

Phyllis was preparing something with her hands. She turned to D'Anton, presenting the glimmering object to him solemnly. He lifted it to the light and inspected it, as if offering a chalice. Now Monks realized what it was – a syringe.

D' Anton leaned over a woman who was sitting in a chair, with her head tilted back. His hands, holding the syringe, moved to her face.

Botox, Monks thought. Party favors.

He stared, thinking about Roberta Massey. I remember those hands, real specifically.

D' Anton finished the injections and returned the syringe to Phyllis. The woman in the chair rose, and another postulant took her place, leaning back to receive D' Anton's blessing.

Monks moved on, looking for Gwen.

He could see another cluster of guests, outside, toward the far end of the house. The area was a large flagstone patio, discreetly lit, with more tables of food and drink. Monks heard splashing and realized that there must be a swimming pool there. He started toward it.