To The Bone

Chapter 15

The clinic's parking lot was almost empty this morning, but the front door was unlocked. When Monks pushed it open, Gwen Bricknell was busy at her desk – exactly as he had last seen her yesterday, except that she was wearing an eggshell-colored dress of light, fine cotton. Monks was not much of a judge of women's clothing, or men's for that matter, but he had a feeling that it was the kind of simple attire that was very expensive. The room was otherwise deserted. When he walked to the desk he caught the scent of her perfume, very faint, musky rather than sweet.

He did not expect her to be friendly, and he was surprised when she smiled and said, "Good morning, Dr. Monks."

He murmured hello, struck again by her sheer beauty. If there was any flaw, it was flawlessness – as if, when D' Anton had sculpted her face, he had razored off the imperfections that lent humanness.

But her eyes, dark like olives, were alive – wary, but not hard with hostility. If anything, she seemed a little frightened. The shock of Eden Hale's death had had time to sink in, he thought. This was not the ER; losing a patient was not something that happened with inevitable regularity.

"We're closed, officially," she said. "I'm just rescheduling appointments."

"Dr. D'Anton was going to leave some records for me. Sorry if this is bad timing."

"No, no, it's fine. Welles – Dr. D'Anton – is taking a couple of days off. He asked me to make you at home. He apologizes for being abrasive yesterday. He was very upset."

"Understandable, of course," Monks said.

"I know this is awkward, Doctor," she said, surprising him again. "I don't mean for it to be."

"I appreciate that, Ms. Bricknell," he said. "I don't like it either. But I need to find out what happened to that young woman."

For the next couple of seconds, Monks had the eerie sensation that whoever was behind Gwen Bricknell's eyes had gone – that he was looking at an absolutely still body whose owner was someplace else. By the time he was aware of it, she was back.

"I'll get the records," she said. She stood and opened the door into the rear office, started to step through, and stopped abruptly.

Monks realized that the nurse, Phyllis, was walking past, just on the other side of the door.

Gwen's shoulders sagged in exasperation. "Phyllis, you are everywhere I turn."

"I cover a lot of ground," Phyllis said crisply. "Somebody has to."

"There's really no need for you to be here today."

"There's always a need for me to be here." Phyllis marched swiftly on, a squarish, formidable presence. Gwen glanced back at Monks, rolling her eyes.

"She surprised me, too, yesterday," he said.

"She's incredibly competent. She does most of the low-level procedures. It's almost like having another doctor. But sometimes she decides she's in charge, especially when Welles isn't around."

Gwen went on into the office, leaving the door open. Monks glimpsed another figure, down the hallway that opened onto the procedure rooms. It was the maintenance man, Todd, apparently still at work on the air-conditioning. He raised a hand in cheerful greeting. Monks returned it.

Gwen came back a minute later, with a manila folder clasped in her hands. Her fingers were long and slender, tipped by crimson ovals. She did not wear a wedding ring.

"I wish I had such devoted staff," Monks said. "Coming to work when the clinic's closed."

"Todd's a gem," she said. "He can fix anything. That's how we found him. He was working at Bayview Hospital, and Welles came out one day and his Jaguar wouldn't start. Todd just happened to be there and got it going. Now we can't do without him. He's like that character on M*A*S*H, what's his name? Who always knows what everybody needs ahead of time?"

"Radar," Monks said.

"Well, that's Todd."

She walked ahead of him to one of the screened-off waiting rooms. Her dress was almost translucent, clearly outlining her body. It was an odd sensation, following her past the nude photos of herself on the wall. They had obviously been taken years ago, but she did not seem to have changed much. Eden Hale must have coveted those breasts, Monks thought. They were peach-sized, high and firm. No doubt, they, too, had been enhanced by D' Anton's touch.

At the waiting room's door, Gwen turned to him and offered him the folder. But she held on to it for just a second, so that there was a curious little tug of war between them before she let go.

Monks was reevaluating fast. Apparently, she did not hold grudges.

He sat in one of the comfortable chairs and opened the folder. It contained a standard sheaf of medical records. He paged through Eden Hale's history. It was clean, as they tended to be with young affluent patients; even things like chickenpox and measles rarely appeared these days. She had had persistent ear infections, requiring occasional draining and antibiotic treatment, until age eleven. There were no allergies or adverse reactions to drugs, no operations or broken bones. Her blood work showed her to be O positive, with no diseases, and white cell count well within the normal range.

A copy of D' Anton's chart from the breast procedure confirmed that it was an augmentation, using saline-filled implants, inserted through endoscopic incisions in the armpits. Most of the chart was a checklist, in technical jargon and abbreviations. Monks was not familiar with all the terms, but D'Anton's terse, handwritten notes at the bottom confirmed that the procedure had been routine and had gone smoothly. All in all, the records were thorough and excellent, the work of a top-notch professional.

There was a copy of her discharge form, the same form that the paramedics had found in her purse. It contained postoperative instructions – no strenuous activity, sponge baths only for five to seven days, sexual relations permitted to resume after that time provided the breasts were treated gently – and it stipulated that the patient must be cared for by a competent adult for at least twenty-four hours afterward. This was signed underneath with a scrawl that Monks was able to read only because he already knew the name: Raymond L. Dreyer.

Finally, there were photographs – several of her face, both full on and in profile, others of her nude upper body, and a few close-ups of her breasts. Another set of images, computer-generated, appeared to be the projected results. These showed the breasts enlarged, shapely, prominent. They also showed a modified face, with nose and cheekbones sculpted into graceful lines – eliminating the hint of coarseness Monks had noticed.

It seemed that the planned makeover on Eden Hale had only started.

He looked again at the discharge form, under method of payment. It was checked CASH.

Monks stacked the sheets and put them back into the folder. There was no suggestion of anything other than that Eden had left here healthy. He hadn't really expected there to be. Any possibility that the records had been altered was extremely unlikely.

He walked back to the desk and gave Gwen the file.

"I'm sure you get told this a lot," he said. "I've seen your face many times. TV, magazines."

She raised a hand and pointed, with a voila gesture, at the room's photo display of nudes.

"Yes?" she said, with just a hint of a smile now – a model advertising something intimate. "It seems like you've gotten a pretty good look at the rest of me, too."

"I'm an admirer of beauty," Monks said.

Her expression changed subtly, with a flicker of pleasure passing across her eyes before they lowered. It was a shameless thing to say, Monks knew. But, even calculated, it gave him a pleasant shot of electricity.

He'd spent a fair amount of time last night, during those sleepless hours, remembering his clear sense that Julia D' Anton had known Eden Hale, and that Gwen had wanted to hide it.

He did not want to confront her. It was probably nothing, and he would probably never see her again. But just in case there turned out to be some little scratch on D'Anton's Teflon surface after all, Monks wanted to keep Gwen Bricknell friendly, willing to talk.

"I'm glad we were able to help you, Dr. Monks," she said, her gaze returning to meet his own. "If there's anything more I can do, let me know."