Zack waves a hand toward the break room. The pots fresh.
I pick up his empty cup, then find my own buried under another stack of old cases and head for the break room.
I return with two steaming mugs.
Zack accepts his and then holds up the page hes been perusing. Good work. He takes a tentative sip. You remembered how I take my coffee? Im impressed.
Dont be. Im a trained observer. I remember lots of things.
Zack grins and turns back to the file. This was an excellent idealisting Amys appointments for the last month. If we work backward
We might be able to better pinpoint the exact time of her disappearance.
The cell sitting on his desk rings. Armstrong. He listens intently, then scribbles something on a bright pink sticky note. When he hangs up, he looks at me, eyes shining. Armstrong: two for two, he says. There was blood mixed in with the paint scrapings from the floor of the studio. It will take a little longer to determine whose, but its a good guess it will be Amys. And we have a hit on the fingerprint from the paintbrush.
He sits down, and seconds later theres an old arrest record on the screen.
I look over his shoulder. Michael Dexter. He was arrested for a DUI five years ago. Anything since?
Zack shakes his head. Not even a parking ticket. He turns to look at me. What do you think?
I think we question him. I make a mental note of his current address. Ill drive.
Michael Dexter lives on Crown Point Drive in Pacific Beach. The street is wide and lined with palm trees. Every other house is a newly constructed two-story minimansion squeezed into a lot sized for the Craftsman bungalows originally built here. Most have been scrapped to pay homage to the god of greed. It breaks my heart because I remember what the neighborhood was like when it was new. In the nineteen thirtiesI didnt live here then, but I had a friend who did. That friend, like so many others, is long dead. I struggle for a moment, trying to remember the details of her face, the sound of her voice. Theyre lost to me now. Peggy? Patsy? Penelope. I called her Penny. We met at the opening of the San Diego Yacht Club in twenty-eight and shared a love for sunset sails, bathtub gin, and a man named Jacobin another life.
Looks like Dexters place is up there on the left. The one with the red Prius in the driveway, says Zack.
I pull in behind it. We both climb out of the Suburban and head for the front door. Turns out Dexter lives in one of the original cottages, a block away from Pennys old place. The architecture is almost identical. Memories long buried threaten to stay my hand, but I push them down and ring the bell. After a short wait, I ring again. No one comes to answer.
Zack backs down the steps. Sounds like theres a compressor running in the back.
I hadnt noticed initially. Now I hear a low, rhythmic hum. We follow the brick walkway to the side of the house, where a wooden gate set in a stucco wall stands open.
Hello? I call out.
I see a man, his back to me, covered in a leather apron, welders mask down over his face, working on what looks like a free-form bronze sculpture. Its while I watch him that I realize I recognize his work. I know who he is. Ive seen his sculptures in galleries both downtown and in La Jolla, read about him in the Arts section of the local paper. Michael Dexter is a young artist of some local renown, his works commanding five and six figures.
I circle to approach him from the front. Dont want to startle someone with a blowtorch in his hand. It takes a moment, but he does finally see me. The blowtorch is extinguished. The welders mask is pushed up and back.
Can I help you?
Agent Emma Monroe. I flash my badge and introduce myself. This is my partner, Agent Armstrong. We have a few questions about Amy Patterson.
Amy? Why on earth would the FBI be interested in Amy? he asks.
Zack doesnt answer. Instead he asks another question. We need to know about the last time you saw her in as much detail as you can remember.
Dexter sets the blowtorch hes been using on a stand, removes the mask, pulls off his gloves and apron. That would have been a couple weeks ago. He squints up at the sun. Its hot. Mind if we go inside?
I bet its even hotter under that mask, I say.
He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. Usually the climate is perfect for this kind of work. Today its been torture. Honestly, I wouldnt be working this afternoon if I wasnt under deadline.
Dexter leads us through a pair of ornate wrought-iron doors. I finger the intricate pattern of leaves and vines. Did you make these? Theyre beautiful.
He nods, pausing again to wipe his forehead before climbing the steps to the cottage. I did. Thanks. Can I get either of you some iced tea? I could sure use some.
That would be terrific, Zack says.
We follow as he crosses a living room and dining room complete with what looks like the original Craftsman sideboards, built-ins of mahogany against buttercream walls. The furnishings, elegant Arts and Crafts pieces, and even the artwork, watercolor landscapes, reflect the period.
Whos the Craftsman expert? I ask Dexter.
He smiles. Too much?
Not at all. I wish everyone who bought into this neighborhood appreciated the beauty of these bungalows the way you obviously do.
Dexter frowns. Yeah. Youve noticed some of the monstrosities that have gone up.
Hard not to.
He pushes through a door and its like being thrust from the past back into the twenty-first century. Granite countertops, slate flooring, and stainless steel, luxury appliances that would do a small restaurant proud.
He reads my expression and laughs. Had to make some concessions to modern living.
Dexters tall, over six feet, and thirty years old, according to the police report. On a better day I would have described him as handsome in a bohemian waylong, dark hair worn in a ponytail, full lips, eyes a pale blue, hooded and intense. But something seems off and Im starting to realize its more than just the long hours and the warmth of the day. He runs cold water in the sink and cups his hands under the stream. Theyre shaking.
He splashes his face, washes his hands, then leans on the counter. Sorry. Im feeling a little light-headed. Could I impose on one of you to serve the tea? Theres a pitcher in the fridge. Glasses in that cabinet. He nods toward the one to the right of the sink.
Maybe you should sit down, suggests Zack, who moves with concern to Dexters side.
I pull the pitcher from the refrigerator and pour the tea. By that time Zacks helped Dexter into the living room. I spy a tray on the counter and use it to carry in filled glasses. The two men are sitting next to each other on a well-worn overstuffed sofa, speaking in hushed tones. Their voices quiet the moment I enter.
Do you mind switching on the ceiling fan? He points to the controller on the far wall. I set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, then oblige. The hum of the fans motor and the thwack, thwack, thwack of its unbalanced blades fill the momentary silence. I take a chair opposite the sofa.
Michael was just telling me this will likely be his last piece, says Zack, his expression grave. Hes extremely ill.
Liver failure, he adds with a worn half smile. Ill tell you what I can about my visit to Amys. Im afraid thoughts, details, well . . . theyre slipping my mind these days.
Do you recall what day it was that you last saw her? I ask.
He pauses, thinks for a minute. The twenty-eighth of March? Maybe the twenty-ninth. I think it was a Tuesday. We could probably check my phone. I rang her before going over. She didnt answer at first, but then she returned the call. Left a voice mail. I went right over to her studio. Took a cab. I dont drive myself anymore. Id guess I was there within thirty, forty minutes of getting her voice mail.
Remembering that SDPDs check of local taxi and car services showed no record of a pickup at Amys address, I follow up with Did you return by taxi as well?
Dexter nods. I had the driver wait for me. We made a couple stops on the way back. The pharmacy. Then the corner market for some ice cream. Im eating whatever I want for dinner these days. I figure Im dying, so fuck it. He pauses. Whats this about?
Amy has been reported missing, I reveal.
A shadow crosses his face but quickly passes. He shakes his head. She has a showing in New York. I think it started two days ago. Theres an invitation on the desk over there. He gestures toward an old rolltop in the corner. Have you spoken with her manager?
Obviously Dexter hasnt seen the news in the last couple of days.
Before I have a chance to respond, Zack fires off another question. Can you tell us what happened when you went to see Amy?
Dexter leans forward, his expression earnest. Sure. Sure. She said on the voice mail shed be in the studio, to let myself in. So I did.
Did she often leave her apartment unlocked? I ask.
He shrugs. I couldnt tell you. It was that day. Amy was trying to finish a major piece for the show. Shed been up all night working on it, and was running on pure adrenaline. Music was blaring in the studio. Im afraid I scared the shit out of her. I wasnt there long. There just wasnt any way she could do what I asked. I understood. I left. Wished her luck with the show.
As unlikely as it is that someone in Dexters condition would overpower a healthy woman on his own, get rid of the body, and tidy up a crime scene, that doesnt explain how his fingerprints got on the brush.
What is it you wanted? Zack takes a sip of his tea.
Ive finished mine and set the glass on the coffee table between us on a coaster.
The piece Im working on out back is for charity. I was hoping she might be able to donate something for the same auction. Id contacted her gallery manager a week or so prior. Haskell suggested I speak with Amy directly. It was a few days before I felt up to calling her. It turned out everything in her studio was spoken for. We chatted for a few minutes. He sits back, sinking into the sofa. She was excited about some new techniques she was experimenting with. She was planning a series incorporating gouache.
Whats that? Zack asks him.
He points to a painting on the wall. Think watercolor, only far more vibrant, bright. Shed just purchased a few series seven Kolinsky sable brushes, very expensive.
Zack pulls out his phone. Is this one of them? He shares the image from evidence with Dexter.
For the first time hes hesitant. I think so.
You handled it? I ask.
Yes. Should I call a lawyer? Am I under suspicion again?
Again? Zack and I glance at each other.
When I first saw you, I thought maybe you had news of Isabella, Dexter says.
Zack asks Dexter the question thats sprung to both of our minds. Who is Isabella?
Dexter looks confused. So youre not here because you think my knowing two missing women was too much of a coincidence? His eyes are drawn to a photograph on the end table next to where hes sitting. Its of an attractive brunette. Shes barefoot on the beach, hair blowing in the breeze, smile radiant. He reaches out and touches the frame. Isabella Mancini, I reported her missing about two months ago. Im afraid the police have given up on her.
Zack pulls out his notepad and pen. What is the relationship between you and Isabella? He writes something down.
She lived here. Weve known each other since we were kids. Grew up in the same neighborhood.
Where was that?
Central Los Angeles. Times were tough back then, for both of us. I got lucky. After graduation, I went to art school in New York on a scholarship.
And Isabella?
He smiles. That girls a fighter. For seven years she worked nights and attended classes during the day. It took her a while to get her psychology degree, but she stuck with it. When she got accepted to grad school at San Diego State, she was so excited. It was a dream come true. I had room for her here in the house, so I invited her to move in.
He stops to draw a ragged breath. Is it too much to hope you could look into her case, too? The police arent doing a damned thing. Im beginning to think the PI I have on retainer isnt, either.
Well definitely be looking into Isabellas case. Whats the PIs name? Zack asks.
Dexter opens a drawer to the end table and withdraws a card. His card.
Zack jots the name and number in his notebook and returns it and the pen to his inside pocket. Will you tell us what you told the police?
Absolutely. Ill be happy to go over it again, anything to help you. Dexter takes a moment to compose himself. The night before Isabella disappeared, everything seemed normal. She came home after finishing her shift at the detox center. We had dinner, watched a movie. When I woke the following morning she was already gone, presumably to class. But that night she didnt come home.
She was employed at a detox center? Zack asks.
The questioning is taking its toll on Dexter. He looks utterly exhausted.
Do you want to take a break? I ask.
He shakes his head. No. Im fine. Isabella was doing her internship at the Alcohol Detoxification Center on Island Street for part of her masters program. Thats over now. They said they couldnt hold the position open any longer.
Im familiar with the place. Tough neighborhood and tougher population. The downtown facility has been the location of the county detoxification center for decades. It mostly houses chronic alcoholics who have been picked up by the police. Did she ever have a run-in with any of the patients?
Not that she mentioned, he says.
What about any of the teachers at State? Another student perhaps? I ask.
Dexter smiles. When I said she was a fighter, I didnt mean it literally. Isabella wasnt dealt an easy hand in life. Her father left when she was a kid. Her mother climbed into the bottle. She had dreams. We both did. But, despite a boatload of hard knocks, Isabella never quit.
Zack puts his glass down on the coffee table.
Michael leans forward and not so discreetly slips a coaster under it; then he chuckles. Its strange, the things I worry about. I may eat ice cream for dinner these days, but my boyfriends a neat freak, so I still worry about rings on the table. Its new. We just bought it a week ago.
The reference to a boyfriend catches me off guard. You and Isabella werent involved?
Now Dexter laughs in earnest. God, no. She knew I was gay before I did.
Did your boyfriend live here the same time as Isabella?
No. He moved in about a month ago. He met her once or twice before . . . He pauses, closes his eyes an instant. Before she disappeared.
Do you know if Isabella knew Amy?
He considers my question for a long moment. No. I dont think so. At least I dont recall ever introducing them. Amy and I werent all that close. She kept mostly to herself.
Can we ask you to check your cell? See if we can nail down the time and date you went to see her? I ask.
Of course. Dexter stands with effort, then slowly walks over to the desk where the phone is. A few touches later he answers, It was the twenty-eighth. She called me around four. Id guess I was there by four thirty, four forty-five.
Zacks followed him, looks over his shoulder and verifies. Do you have the number of the taxi service?
Theres a nod from Dexter. It would be the very next one.
Zack pulls the notebook back out and makes another quick note.
I pull out one of my cards and join them.
Im tempted to ask to see Isabellas room, to ask if its been disturbed. This revelation has my head spinning as a thousand follow-up questions take form in my mind. Before we jump in further, I want to pull the case files, look at them side by side, and consider the possibilities.
Call me if you think of anything else that might help us, I say, offering Dexter my card.
He takes it, his expression hopeful. Youll really look into Isabellas case?
We will, I promise.
Dexter shows us to the door, holds out his hand. Zack grasps it first, then me. Thank you, he says.
I leave with the usual stock reassurances that I will stay in touch. After all this time, it would be a miracle if we found Isabella alive, or Amy for that matter.
We came here looking for information on one missing woman. Now suddenly we have two, and I cant shake the feeling theyre somehow connected.
Now what? Zack asks as I pull out of the driveway.
I say we head back to the office and pull Isabella Mancinis file.
I call ahead and request Isabellas case file from the SDPD. By the time we get to the office, its waiting on my desk along with another. The second is for a twenty-three-year-old male named Adam Markham.
Someone waiting for the Markham file? I call out.
Garner, one of the older agents, raises his hand. That would be me.
I stroll over and drop it on his desk. Another homeless person?
He nods. His conservator says he hasnt cashed his check for three months. Who knows how long hes been gone? This one makes eleven. Hows your case coming?
I hold up Isabellas file. Im hoping for a break.
By the time I return to my desk, Zacks perusing the information I put together on Amy. He runs his finger down the list of appointments Id prepared. I dont see an appointment with Dexter on the list.
No, but . . .
He looks up, catching my hesitation. What?
Another connection. I remove a sheet of paper from Isabellas file and hand it to him. Check this out.
What am I looking at?
There. Middle of the page. The transcript of Isabella Mancinis voice mail messages.
His eyes scan the page, then go back to the list of Amys appointments. Dr. Alexander Barakov. Amy had an appointment scheduled with Barakov five days before she went missing. He looks again at the sheet I handed him. And Isabella had an appointment reminder from the same Barakov. For the day she disappeared.
Thats quite a coincidence.
Zack continues to read from Isabellas police report. According to this, she never made it. Barakov was questioned but not considered a person of interest.
Until now. The excitement of the chase starts to build. I dont know about you, but I just became very interested. I think we should pay Barakov a visit. I wonder why Dexter didnt mention Barakov. Think thats odd?
Zack shrugs. Maybe he didnt know about it? The voice mail came from her cell phone dump. My guess is the police didnt share the information with him. Zack picks up his desk phone and dials, then listens. The office is closed for the next hour for lunch. Lets grab some ourselves.
Hes already reaching for his keys.
I grab my purse. Its your pick. Where are we going?
Hodads. Theres one on Tenth Avenue, not far from Barakovs.
I raise my eyebrows. How do you know about Hodads? Youve been in town less than a week.
He glances in my direction as we wait for the elevator. Are you kidding? Ive been on a quest for the perfect burger since I was nine. Red meat and I have enjoyed a long and deeply satisfying relationship. My last partner was a vegetarian. After the first week we decided to split up for lunch. He couldnt be within ten feet of meat without unleashing a lecture. Dont get me wrong, I have nothing against veggies but
Youre a carnivore to the core, huh? I say. It takes me a second to realize how true that statement is. Zack doesnt seem to catch any hidden meaning. Why would he? He doesnt know that I know of his other nature.
He checks the time on his cell. Its going to be crowded this time of day and I bet parking is hell downtown. Ill drop you so you can order. Id like to try to catch Barakov before he starts seeing his afternoon patients.
What do you want? I ask. We step into the elevator. The doors close.
Order me a double bacon cheeseburger, rare.
Double bacon cheeseburger? Rare?
Oh yeah. Carnivore.
CHAPTER 5
As Zack feared, theres a line in front of Hodads when he lets me out. Thankfully, most are employees from nearby offices who have come for to-go orders. The wait for a table turns out to be much shorter than I expected. In fact, it takes Zack longer to find a parking spot. Ive just finished ordering when he finally walks in. He spots me and heads for the table.
Have you ordered?
Service at Hodads is quickthe faster you get your food, the faster the table turns over. Before I have a chance to answer, a waitress appears with our drinks, a combo basket of fries and rings, and a beaming smile.
Can I get you anything else? she asks, turning up the wattage even further for Zack.
Just the burgers, he says.
Right!
Lets see how these compare to yesterdays pitiful offering, Zack says, reaching for an onion ring.
If the expression on Zacks face is any indication, hes in nirvana.
Well? I pick up a fry and dip it in ketchup.
We might need more of these.
Zack continues to work on the onion rings.
I venture a question. So, when did you live in San Diego?
Zack doesnt acknowledge me or the question.
Zack? I persist, determined to get an answer out of him. You never mentioned living in San Diego when we worked together in Charleston.
He continues dipping onion rings in ketchup as if that stalling tactic is going to work. Persistence is my middle name. I fix him with a laser beam stare. But when he finally looks up, its to watch the approaching waitress, who arrives, burgers in hand. Zacks is so big its almost embarrassing to be seen with it. He attacks it with both the zealousness of the true believer and the relief of a condemned man granted a reprieve.
Oh my God. Zacks eyes roll toward the heavens.
I show a little more restraint eating my burger. But I do have to admit, in San Diego, Hodads is by far the best burger joint. I decide to let him eat in peace before I launch the attack again. Gives me a chance to enjoy my burger, too.
We finish up and wipe the evidence from our faces. Zack relaxes back on the bench and gives his stomach a satisfied rub. Now, that was good.
How could you tell? You inhaled that burger.
He laughs. And you didnt?
Mine was a tiny baby burger compared to your monstrosity. I stir my Coke with my straw and glance at my watch. Now that we have a few minutes, you can tell me about your stay in San Diego. How do you know the city so well? And how come you never mentioned living here?
Zack looks away, across the restaurant, toward the door, down at the table. Everywhere but at me. That same flash of sadnessof regretthat I felt in the elevator yesterday is back again. I fight a completely inappropriate impulse to reach for his hand.
Seems like a lifetime ago, he says at last. One Id rather not revisit.
I can relate to that. Its not the same with me, of course. With me, it has literally been one new life after the other. It isnt easy to resist the urge to press. Im crazy with curiosity to know his story. And to learn more about the woman in the parking lot, Sarah. But I know how to be patient, to wait till the time is right.
Zack crushes his napkin, tosses it onto the table. If we want to catch the good doctor before he starts on his afternoon schedule, wed better head out. He catches the eye of a nearby waitress. Check please?
I watch Zack take care of the bill, head to the car without looking back to see if I was following him or not.
Ive obviously touched a nerve.
Dr. Alexander Barakov, a board-certified plastic surgeon, has his office on the third floor of a recently renovated building overlooking Petco Park downtown. When the ballpark was built, the stadium initiated a wave of regentrification in the neighborhood, but Zack and I still have to step over and around the sleeping bags and carts stored under the parking lot portico awaiting the return of the street people who make this area their home. The day is unusually hot for this time of year, and those who havent already headed downtown to panhandle are clustered together in the shade. I feel their eyes on us as we walk past, feel a myriad of emotions in their glances. Sadness, jealousy, hunger, desperation. It casts a pall on my own emotions.
Its a relief to enter the dim coolness of Barakovs building. The foyer directory sends us to Suite 301.
The office is luxurious. The waiting area looks more like someones living room than a holding tank for patients. There are elegantly upholstered sofas and chairs and glass cases containing fine art pieces, but not one visible patient. A woman is standing behind a desk of polished mahogany. She has a headset in her ear and looks up at us in polite interest as we approach.
Can I help you?
Her tone is friendly but professional. It matches the carefully coiffed hair, subtle makeup, and understated jewelry. Her features are even and without flaw, and her outfit seems designed to accentuate her perfectly symmetrical Barbie doll figureformfitting blouse, pencil skirt. I suspect shes a walking advertisement for her employer.
There is a nameplate on the desk that reads SILVIA BARTON. Zack flashes his badge. Wed like a moment of Dr. Barakovs time, Ms. Barton.
Barton barely spares the badge or me a glance. Her eyes linger a little longer on Zack before she sits. Let me check the doctors schedule for you, Agent . . .
Armstrong. This is Special Agent Monroe.
She consults a screen on the computer next to her. Hes in consultation now, but he will have a few moments between appointments. Would you care to wait?
Absolutely, I say.
Before we can take seats, she asks, Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?
Zack requests coffee, cream, two sugars.
A bottle of water would be nice. From me.
Barton disappears behind a door. She returns in a moment with a tray. On it theres coffee for Zack in a china cup and water for mein a glass.
I take the glass, a little surprised. Except in restaurants, almost everyone uses bottled water these days. Or disposable cups. The thought must telegraph itself through my expression, because Barton smiles.
Dr. Barakov is a committed environmentalist, she says. No plastic bottles.
Ive lifted the glass to my lips, but my hand stops in midair. A plastic surgeon who doesnt believe in plastic?
Barton doesnt see the irony. She frowns at me. No plastic. No unnecessary paper products. In fact, were almost completely paperless here.
Admirable, I say, rolling my eyes at Zack over the rim of the glass.
Zack raises his eyebrows at me and takes his coffee over to the windows that span the far wall of the waiting room. Theres a clear view of the baseball field. It looks like the doctors got the best seats in the house. I assume hes a Padres fan? Before Barton can answer the question, he turns to her and shoots off another. Is it my imagination or is the tint on this window changing?
Theyre 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.