S. Harper - Cursed

“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.”