To the Bone (20 page)

O
utside the windows of Larrabee's office, the sky was starting to lighten into dawn. Guido Franchi, Larrabee's detective friend from the SFPD, was sitting at the kitchen table across from Monks. Franchi was a big black-haired man with a drooping mustache, a heavily lined face, and skeptical eyes that were bleary from his being called out at five o'clock on a Saturday morning. They watched Monks steadily.

“So, let me make sure I got this right,” Franchi said. “You left there naked, after having sex with this lady? Your clothes are still there?”

Monks had his hands pressed against his face, forefingers massaging his temples.

“I know how it sounds,” he said.

“You admit you could have imagined the part about her trying to drown you? What with the drug, and all?”

“I don't think so. But it's possible.”

Franchi leaned back in his chair, turning his mug of coffee in both hands, as if trying to warm it through friction.

“That doesn't give me much to work with,” he said. “Right off, there's a jurisdiction problem. If she's still up in Marin, it's their case. If she came back to the city, I could pick her up for attempted murder. But how the fuck am I supposed to do that, when my only witness admits he was stoned out of his skull?”

Monks was still shaky, and he felt like there was grit floating around in his brain, but the drug seemed to be gone from his system now.

“I don't have any measure of how far gone I was,” he said. “Either of you ever tried it? Ecstasy?”

Franchi shook his head. “Too New Age for me.”

“Iris brought some home a couple times,” Larrabee said. “It's great for in the sack, but it does twist your head around. What I'm wondering about, Carroll, how could she have known about the scarf? Or Martine?”

Monks had been wondering that, too. More and more, he was fearing that he
had
hallucinated the whole thing.

“Sorry,” he said. “I feel like an asshole, believe me.”

“I'm not worried about
you
feeling like an asshole,” Franchi said. “I'm worried about
me
fucking around with a guy like D'Anton, and coming up empty.” He stood and poured more coffee. “You got anything to eat?” he asked Larrabee. “Sweet roll, something like that?”

“Bagels.”

“Terrific. My stomach starts acting up if I don't get something in it. Any advice, Doc?”

“Go easy on the coffee. Try Tagamet.”

“Yeah, that's pretty much what my doctor said. But I keep forgetting.” Franchi stepped to a window and stared out, scowling.

“If it's true, that Katie Bensen was killed, and Roberta Massey almost was,” Franchi said, “was Ms. Bricknell the one who did that, too?”

Monks shook his head. “I can believe she slipped something in my drink,” he said. “Tried to drown me. Maybe even poisoned Eden. But not that she cut the skin off a woman's face.”

But he knew he could be wrong.

“What about that nurse she pointed out? Who's so jealous of D'Anton?” Larrabee asked.

“She'd have the skills,” Monks said. “So would D'Anton, or other clinic people.”

“All right, we'll run NCIC checks on all those employees,” Franchi said, turning back to the room. “Eden's boyfriend, too. Somebody might have a sheet. Let's locate D'Anton, and let's pick up Gwen. You said she's got an apartment here?”

“That's what she told me,” Monks said. “I don't know the address. She might have stayed in Marin, too.”

“You call her there,” Franchi said. “Don't say the cops are in this yet; that might spook her. If she's gone, try and find out where she is. If she's there, play it like she was right, you lost your head, you want to come talk to her, some bullshit like that.”

“Tell her you want your clothes back,” Larrabee said. Both detectives looked amused. Monks was not.

The directions Gwen had given him to the party, with the house's phone number, were still in the Bronco. He went down to get them, hobbling on his scratched and bruised feet.

When he came back, Larrabee had popped bagels out of a toaster oven and put them on a plate.

“There's cream cheese,” he said. “Sorry, no lox.”

“I'll make the call first,” Monks said.

Larrabee turned the telephone's speaker on. The two detectives stood listening, chewing quietly, while Monks punched the number.

It rang several times before a woman's voice answered. She was very irritable, and she was not Gwen.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she snapped. “Who
is
this?”

“It's Dr. Monks. Mrs. D'Anton? Julia?”

“Yes?” Her tone made it clear that identifying himself had not gained him any points.

Franchi made a cutting motion across his throat with his forefinger. They did not want Julia D'Anton to know that she was on the suspect list, too.

Monks nodded. “I need to find Gwen,” he said.

“Then I suggest you call someplace she is, instead of someplace she's not.”

“Where's that?” Monks said quickly, worried that she would hang up.

“How should I know? You were her date.”

“Her apartment in San Francisco?”

“I'd say that's likely,” Julia said. “Although maybe with somebody else. Did you disappoint her?”

“How about your husband? Do you know where he is?”

“Probably in the city, too, at our house there. That's where he stays most of the time.”

“I need both those addresses and phones. Cells, too.”

“Dr. Monks, what exactly is your interest in us?” Julia said scathingly. “First, Gwen tells me you suspect that Eden was murdered. Next thing I know, you're socializing at our house, staggering around like a drunk teenager. Now you're tracking us. Are we under suspicion? Or are you just trying to screw my cousin?”

Monks looked for help to Franchi, and got none. The cop's big, weary face stayed impassive.

“I wasn't drunk, Julia,” Monks said. “Somebody drugged me. This has taken a very serious turn.”

Long seconds of silence passed. Monks felt himself being weighed. When she spoke again, her tone was still haughty, but a note of uncertainty had crept in.

“I'll have to get my address book. I don't remember the cell numbers.”

She returned to the phone a few moments later. Monks wrote down the information and gave her Larrabee's office number.

“If anybody comes back there, don't say anything about this,” he said. “Get someplace private and call me.”

He clicked the phone off and looked at his judges, wondering if he had given too much away. But Franchi did not seem displeased.

“Okay,” Franchi said. “Let's get after it.”

Monks picked at a bagel and listened while Franchi dispatched unmarked cars to Gwen Bricknell's apartment building, a Nob Hill high-rise, and to D'Anton's Pacific Heights home. While they waited, Franchi called downtown to start National Crime Information Center checks on the suspects.

It only took a few minutes to find out that nobody answered the phones, or the doors, at either Gwen's apartment or D'Anton's house. Both their vehicles were gone.

“You could try the clinic,” Monks said. “Sometimes she goes there on weekends to catch up on work.”

“The morning after she tried to off you?” Franchi said sourly.

Monks winced.

“Well, what the hell,” Franchi said. “Can't hurt to look.”

He called the cars in the field again. The three men waited.

This time, when Franchi's phone rang back, he started to look animated.

“Get some backup, make sure nobody gets out of there,” he said into the phone. “Then see if she'll come to the door. If she does, hold her till I get there. Again, that name's Gwen Bricknell. Very good-looking babe, dark hair, about forty.” He glanced at Monks, eyebrows raised, for corroboration. Monks nodded.

“And keep this off the radio,” Franchi ordered. “I don't want every fucking unit in the Taraval coming in spikes high.”

“Her car's there,” he told Monks and Larrabee. “Let's hope she lets them in. We can't just go kicking the door down.”

More minutes passed, with Franchi talking tersely to the officers on the scene. Monks could not understand all of the clipped, coded copspeak, but it did not sound promising.

Finally, Franchi confirmed that. “Nobody answers the phone inside. They've banged on the doors and windows. Nothing. I'll have to go downtown, try to get a warrant to break in. This is
really
hanging my ass out.” He was looking bleary again, but now pissed off, too. Monks was aware that police tended not to like it when technicalities got in the way, especially in the way of taking down someone genuinely dangerous.

“You want to ride along?” Franchi asked Larrabee. “Catch up on what you've been missing all these years?” Larrabee nodded. To Monks, Franchi said, “I think you ought to stay here, Doctor. If she is in there, it might not be a good idea for her to see you. You could probably use some sleep. Just keep that phone close by, in case the doctor's wife calls.”

Monks was a little hurt, like a child who had been ditched by older boys going off on an adventure too rough for him.

He finished the bagel he had been working on, then went into Larrabee's living room and stretched out on the couch. Sleep was out of the question. But it started to come home to him that he was in a warm, safe place.

That was something he had not appreciated nearly enough in his life.

I
t was just after seven
A.M.
when Larrabee and Franchi arrived at D'Anton's clinic, carrying a warrant empowering the police to enter it, by force if necessary. An unmarked car with two plainclothes detectives was waiting in front, and two black-and-white squad cars were parked to triangulate the building, watching the other exits. They had tried repeatedly to rouse anyone who might be inside, but there had been no response.

The break-in was not going to require finesse. Ordinary locks could be picked or opened with a lock gun, but the clinic was protected by high-security deadbolts. All narcotics were locked in a safe, but any place that kept them was still a prime target for burglary. The simplest way in, and easiest to repair, was to break a window. That would set off a silent alarm system connected to the Taraval District police station, but they had been alerted and would not respond.

One of the detectives was in his thirties, comparatively young and agile. At Franchi's okay, wearing gloves and goggles, he smashed a ground-floor window with a gorilla bar. They waited, listening. It was just possible that someone was inside, armed, and that the intrusion would make him—or her—desperate.

The detective cleared the shards of glass from the frame, then went in, boosted by the others, pistol in hand. A minute later, he opened the rear door. Franchi, Larrabee, and the second detective went in next, leaving the uniformed cops outside to guard.

They stepped into a utility area, with stainless-steel counters, sinks, and refrigerators. Larrabee was immediately aware of the crisp smell he associated with medical facilities. It was silent except for the faint humming of physical plant machinery.

Franchi led, his pistol also drawn. He opened a door into a hallway, with four more opposing doors opening off of it. All but one were open. They were procedure rooms, fitted with operating tables and equipment, empty of people.

Franchi stepped quietly past the closed door and pressed himself against the wall. The young detective threw the door open, jumping back and leveling his gun.

Nothing moved inside the room, but there was something on the table.

Larrabee's gut understood before his mind did that it was not just something, but someone.

Franchi turned his head and yelled back down the hallway to the cops waiting outside,
“One dead!”

The body was female, with coppery skin and long, jet black hair spilling from her head off the table's end. Her face had been largely peeled away, leaving rough, dark red crusted patches of raw tissue. The table and the floor underneath were slick with blood. There was a thick smell, not decay yet, but its precursor.

Franchi crossed himself, muttering in Italian. The young detective let his gun hand fall, his other forearm rising to cover his mouth. Larrabee had to fight the urge to hyperventilate. He had seen his share of bodies, but never one like this.

“Don't nobody touch nothing,” Franchi said roughly. “Is this Gwen?”

Larrabee shook his head. “I saw her photos on the Net. She's pure white-bread. But—that hair. Coffee Trenette has hair like that. Monks said she was at the party last night.”

Franchi took two steps into the room, his gaze moving swiftly. It was chaotic, with objects looking like they had been thrown down in haste. Surgical instruments lay in a jumble on a tray. A wastebasket was stuffed with bloody towels. The fingers of a latex glove showed among them.

Then he pointed at something with his pistol, a little flash of gold beside the sink, almost covered by another towel. He moved closer and lifted the towel away with the gun's barrel. The gold was the flex band of a wristwatch, a man's Rolex with a face of striking deep blue.

“You'd remember a watch like that,” he said. “Call Dr. Monks. Ask him if he noticed D'Anton wearing it. We'll keep looking.”

Larrabee made the call on his cell phone, while the detectives moved along the hall toward the front area of the clinic. Monks picked up immediately.

“Did you get a look at D'Anton's wristwatch?” Larrabee asked.

“A blue Rolex. You could see it from across the room.”

“We just found it. There's a dead woman on an operating table. I think it's Coffee Trenette.”

Monks closed his eyes. “Bad?”

“Yeah. It looks like he started cutting on her, and went crazy.”

Monks remembered what Roberta Massey had said, about the gloved hands in front of her face.

“D'Anton has big hands,” he said. “If there are gloves, they'll be at least a size eight.”

“I can see one, in the wastebasket. I better not touch it. Wait a minute, there's a packet of them over here.” Larrabee stepped cautiously to a paper envelope containing surgical gloves, lying on the counter close to the watch.

“Eight and a half,” Larrabee said. “Okay, I'll keep you posted.”

He clicked off the phone and was starting down the hall to follow the detectives when he heard Guido Franchi's bellow:

“Two dead.”

The second body, also a woman's, lay facedown on the reception room floor, just inside the front door. Larrabee's immediate impression was that she had been running for it, and was caught from behind. There was no butchery here. The right side of her throat had been slashed with surgical neatness.

Except for that, she was still beautiful. Franchi and the two other detectives were standing over her, looking almost reverent.

Larrabee nodded curtly to Franchi. “This is Gwen Bricknell,” he said.

 

Outside in the parking lot, Franchi got on the phone and called more backup—a SWAT team to sweep the building for anyone who might be hiding, a CSI unit, uniforms to cordon off the area. Larrabee could hear the distant sirens, already starting.

Then Franchi walked over to him and said, “D'Anton's probably trying to get out of the country right now. Call Dr. Monks again. Tell him what happened. Then let me talk to him.”

When Monks answered, Larrabee said, “We found Gwen, Carroll. She's dead, too. It looks like she surprised D'Anton while he was working on Coffee. She tried to get away, but he caught her.”

Monks did not say anything. Larrabee handed Franchi the phone.

“I'd like for you to go up and talk to D'Anton's wife,” Franchi said to Monks. “Before a bunch of ham-fisted sheriffs come stomping in, and she calls F. Lee Bailey. Don't tell her anything about this, just say you came by to pick up your stuff. See if you can get an idea where D'Anton might be headed, another ID he might use, anything like that.”

Monks said, “I'll try. She doesn't like me much.”

“She likes you better than she'll like us.”

The police units were starting to arrive, squad cars parking to surround the building, and a van spilling out husky young SWAT team members carrying assault rifles. A KPIX television news van came in right behind them.

“You people stay the fuck out of the crime scene,” Franchi yelled at the van. He shoved the phone back at Larrabee and strode toward it.

Larrabee faded to the outskirts of the area, staying out of the way. The SWAT team started moving into the clinic, agile crouching men slipping inside like ballet dancers. Snipers were braced across squad car roofs, rifles trained on the exits. Flashing lights and the crackling of radio static filled the air like smoke.

It was a hell of an exciting show. Except that there were two dead women at the center of it.

 

An hour later, the SWAT team had cleared the building and it was crawling with technicians. Police higher-ups were starting to arrive, and it was rumored that the city's medical examiner himself was on his way. The newspeople were all over it, too. Franchi had long since lost his battle to keep them out.

He and Larrabee were standing together in the parking lot, when he got a call from the office that was running the NCIC checks.

“One of the names just came up,” the cop in the office said. “Todd Peploe. Looks like he's the maintenance man at D'Anton's clinic.”

“What's the pop?”

“He was working at a hospital down in San Diego, back in the early nineties. Apparently, he was impersonating a doctor, molesting women. He got seven years and did two.”

“Find out where he lives and get after his ass, right
now
,” Franchi said. He turned to Larrabee, looking very unhappy. “We might be after the wrong guy. The maintenance man's got a record of playing doctor. Christ, could he be that smart, to plant that watch and gloves?”

“Just because they're crazy, it doesn't mean they're stupid,” Larrabee said. “I'd better call Carroll and let him know.”

Monks did not answer his cell phone. Larrabee's watch said 8:22
A.M.
Monks was probably with Julia D'Anton by now.

When Monks's voice mail came on, Larrabee said, “Carroll, it's Stover. Give me a call ASAP.” He left it at that, in case Julia might overhear.

Whoever the killer was, he was most likely traveling away from this area as fast as he could. There was no reason for him to go to the house where the party had been.

But Larrabee was seriously annoyed at himself for assuming too quickly that D'Anton had to be the murderer. And a little queasy about the new level of unpredictability.

“All these years we've been doing this, and we act like a couple of fucking amateurs,” Franchi said morosely.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Larrabee said.