Neil McMahon - To The Bone

Gwen Bricknell appeared in the doorway, reaching out to grip the newcomer's shoulder. It was not a comforting gesture – more like a shake. She made a harsh shh sound.

Then she looked over at Monks and said, in a louder, formal voice, "Dr. Monks? He'll see you now."

Monks walked to them, deciding to push it.

"I couldn't help overhearing," he said to the second woman. "I tended Eden Hale in the Emergency Room. Did you know her?"

Her mouth opened in surprise, or even shock. But whatever she might have said was cut off by Gwen's quick words.

"Like I told you, Doctor, Eden was just another patient. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that to sound harsh, but it's true. Julia's concerned because this might reflect on Dr. D'Anton. She's his wife."

Monks sharpened his appraisal of Julia D' Anton. She was in her mid-forties, with a bohemian look – her long thick red-brown hair was pulled back in a careless braid, and she was wearing baggy pants and a blue work shirt with rolled-up sleeves, as if she had been gardening. But she had the same indefinable air of superiority as the other women he had seen here, and her huge diamond wedding and engagement rings stood out from across the room. She was handsome rather than beautiful, with a big-boned frame, large strong hands, and a face that D'Anton had obviously not reshaped. Right now, it looked very unhappy.

'There's no reflection on Dr. D'Anton," Monks said, and thought, at least yet. "I just came to straighten out a misunderstanding."

Gwen's smile looked brittle to the breaking point. She touched Julia's shoulder again, easing her away from the door.

"We don't want to keep Dr. Monks," she said. "He must be very busy."

Gwen led him down a hallway that had several doors opening into procedure rooms. They passed a maintenance man, with dozens of keys on a belt ring and a box of tools on the floor beside him, taking the cover off a thermostat.

'Todd, you do know we're closing early," Gwen said.

"Yes, ma'am," he said cheerfully. 'That'll give me a chance to check out the air-conditioning."

The door at the hallway's end led into the clinic proper – the sanctum sanctorum, domain of the high priest. Most plastic surgeons worked in partnerships, but D'Anton worked alone. Gwen pointed to the door with exaggerated politeness, then turned on her heel and walked away.

Monks stepped inside. Here, the walls were sterile white, lined with cabinets of medical supplies. A container of clear liquid, kept on ice, sat on one table, with a box of sterile-wrapped syringes beside it – Botox, probably.

D'Anton was waiting. He was in his late forties, of medium height, trim, and very dapper. His hands were perfectly manicured, but they were surprisingly heavy and thick-knuckled-working-class hands. His left wrist was encircled by a gold Rolex with a cerulean blue face. He wore a tailored white lab coat and expensive wool slacks with knife-edge creases, cuffs breaking perfectly over tasseled leather shoes. He looked pale, but his manner was precise, assured, and impatient. He did not offer a handshake. That was fine with Monks.

"You ought to have some facts in hand before you go slinging accusations, Doctor," Monks said.

"Eden Hale left here in perfect health," D'Anton said, in a tone bordering on outrage. "Less than twenty-four hours later, in your care, she was dead."

"And she came into my care too far gone to have a chance. She died of DIC. Are you familiar with it?"

D'Anton hesitated. "An abnormality in blood clotting, isn't it? I don't remember the details."

"It causes severe circulatory depression, and bleeding everywhere. It takes hours to develop. Whatever started it happened to her beforehand. Were you aware of anything that could have contributed? Low blood count? Carcinoma? Complications?"

"None of those." The sharpness was back in D'Anton's voice. "Of course I'd checked her history – she was pristine. The procedure was a simple one. I've done thousands of them. It went like clockwork and she came out in tiptop shape."

"Then let's talk about what might have happened in between."

"There was supposed to be someone with her for at least twenty-four hours," D'Anton said. "Her fiancé, I believe."

"I talked to him. He had other plans last night."

"He left her alone?" D'Anton said incredulously.

Monks nodded.

" That's – criminal."

"We tried to call you, too."

"If I took night calls from every neurotic woman I treated, I'd never sleep. Besides, by that time she was 'too far gone,' isn't that what you're saying?"

This guy is Teflon, Monks thought. "Yes."

"Whereas her fiancé made a commitment to care for someone recovering from surgery."

"I've got a feeling that Mr. Dreyer's definition of 'making a commitment' is different from the medical community's," Monks said. "There's no help there now, anyway. What time was her procedure?"

"Late morning."

"That makes it roughly eighteen hours before I saw her. There are a couple of possibilities. Traumatic injury, but there was no obvious sign of it. Massive infection, as from the surgery-" Monks paused, watching with grim satisfaction as D'Anton's face flushed with indignation.

"Impossible." D'Anton almost spat the word.

"Or something unknown."

"You're groping for a diagnosis. That's pathetic."

"I'd appreciate a look at her records," Monks said.

"Certainly not, unless you're here in official capacity, Doctor – I'm sorry, your name's slipped my mind."

"Monks. No."

"What are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to have a consultation with another professional," Monks said. "For Christ's sake, you knew her. I'd think you'd want to help find out why she died." Monks shook his head and turned to go, angry at D'Anton, but at himself, too, for falling into this schoolboy exchange of finger-pointing.

"I'm distraught about it, of course," D'Anton said, stepping after him. "It's hard to believe. She was so vibrant."

The words had the feel of a clumsy attempt to cover his callousness, and Monks did not go for it.

"I guess I'm lucky there," Monks said. "I never saw her like that."

D'Anton bristled visibly. "I can't imagine how you must feel."

"In emergency medicine, people are going to die," Monks said. "It's not Rodeo Drive."

Julia D'Anton had left the reception room when Monks walked back through it. Gwen Bricknell was working busily at her desk. She did not look up.

So much for making a good impression, Monks thought.

Outside, the heat and bright sunlight hit him hard. He could already feel the day's grit on his skin beneath his clothes. Julia D'Anton's SUV was still parked in the lot, the only vehicle besides his own that did not fit here – a Toyota 4Runner, nondescript white, several years old, and a little down-at-heels. It seemed an odd choice in this glitzy world. The rear compartment was thick with dust and chips of stone. Monks remembered her work clothes and wondered if she was landscaping or redecorating.

He opened the Bronco's door and started to get in.

'That's yours, huh?" a man's voice said. "What is it, a seventy-five?" The tone was friendly – the first positive thing Monks had heard today. He turned. It was the maintenance man, Todd, walking toward D'Anton's Jaguar, carrying a towel and Windex.

"Seventy-four," Monks said.

"She's in great shape." Todd started polishing the Jag's glass, keeping his body carefully away, so that his belt buckle and keys would not scratch its finish. He was in his early thirties, good-looking, wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt that showed off a well-muscled torso. A floppy, dark blond haircut completed the look of a '60s-era Southern California surfer. But there was nothing laid-back about him. He exuded brisk competence.