Our eyes meet for one long moment. Zack seems about to say something, but then simply walks into the kitchen and picks up the salad bowl. When are you going to tell me? he asks without turning around.
Tell you what?
Your secret. I know you have one.
I fling it back at him. You tell me yours first. How can you afford a house, like this, on the beach? And whats the deal with your SF-86? Why is your application to the Academy missing? The only thing I can think of is that you were part of some unacknowledged Special Access Program. But youve been in the Bureau what, two years? That seems unlikely.
You have been busy. He turns to face me. To get that far into my file? Well, you managed to gain access to some highly classified records.
I feel the color creep up my neck. His implication is clear. Ive just admitted cutting a few corners of my own. Point taken, though I wouldnt do anything to jeopardize a case were working on.
Neither would I. He smiles. Still, gaining unauthorized access to my records? You continue to surprise me, Agent Monroe.
Zack, if our partnership is going to work, you need to come clean with me. I dont want to go digging into your past. I want to be able to trust you.
Zack puts the bowl down, then stares into it. A full minute passes before he speaks. Before I worked for the Bureau, I worked as a kind of government mercenary. Black ops, off the books.
There cant be more than fifteen feet separating us, but the distance in his eyes makes it seem like miles. Hes someplace else, reliving the past hes trying so hard to escape.
What department?
He shakes his head.
You cant tell me. Or wont. How long?
Too long. I spent too many years on my own, in situations where rules dont count and being morally flexible can do more than give you an advantage. It can keep you alive. Zack finishes his beer, then sets the empty bottle on the counter. Id like to keep the past dead and buried. It would be dangerous not to.
Dangerous for whom?
For a lot of people, Emma. Let it go.
He goes back to the fridge. This time he pulls out a plastic bag. Inside is a huge London broil, soaking in marinade. Im gonna light the grill.
I can tell he wants to leave it at that. I open the sliding doors and follow him out. While he fires up the grill, I lean my arms on the wall and survey the beach. Its the middle of the week, early evening, but there are still a few surfers and sunbathers out. Zack joins me. He notices my beer is empty.
Want another?
Sure.
Hes gone for less than a minute.
I wont press you about this, I say when he returns. The beer is ice cold and it goes down easy.
Zack takes up the position Ive left at the wall. I appreciate that. Ive done things Im not proud of. Things Id rather forget. Not just for the government.
We stare out at the ocean. I understand what its like, having to live with monumental regret. It wasnt my intention to dredge up bad memories.
You were worried about the money for this. He waves a hand. Whether I came by it honestly.
Yes.
Theres a long pause. I wait while he struggles to find the words. Finally he does.
I spent more than a decade in constant danger, putting my life on the line every day. He shakes his head as if ridding himself of an unwanted memory. What I did paid obscenely well. Ive struggled with what to do with the money. Admittedly, this place is an extravagance. But it reminds me of a life I once had. He pauses. Did I come by the money honestly? At the time, I thought what I was doing was legitfor the greater good.
Now?
Now . . . I think some of it wasnt. I know some of it wasnt.
Thats how you paid for the house.
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Yes. Thats how I paid for the house.
I draw a breath, too. I can taste the salt in the air. When I open my eyes again, Zack is watching me. I look out toward the ocean. You couldnt ask for a more beautiful view.
I love the ocean. I grew up in Hilton Head. My family had a place right on the beach.
I remember Sarah was born and raised in Hilton Head. Perhaps they have even more of a past than I thought.
Do your parents still live there?
His shoulders tense. No. They died some years ago.
Yet he spoke of his mother in the present earlier. My mother will be relieved. . . .
Zack turns his back to me, attending to the grill, a not so subtle way to close the subject.
I walk over to the wall, giving him time and space. I want to ask about his mother. I want to ask about Sarah. But its clear hes already revealed far more to me than he ever intended to. Instead I back off, drink my beer, and watch the waves. In a moment he joins me and we stand in companionable silence, gazing out at the ocean.
The crashing of the waves lulls me at night, he confesses. Without it, I dont sleep.
A sense of melancholy settles over me. I, too, spend sleepless nights, being chased by past demons.
He leans in and bumps my shoulder. Ive told you my secret. Quid pro quo. You gonna come clean now and tell me yours?
The playful tone and gesture lifts my spirits.
It doesnt, however, change how I answer. Probably not in this lifetime.
What happened to partners not having secrets?
I return the shoulder bump. Now, you and I both know youve yet to spill all of your deep, dark secrets. You just threw me a little ol bone.
He doesnt reply. Doesnt push.
Instead he returns to his post at the grill. But the message in the look he sends back over his shoulder is clear.
Ive been granted a reprieve, all right. But its only temporary.
CHAPTER 7
More steak?
I lean back in my chair and shake my head. Im stuffed. I take another sip of wine and watch Zack as he refills his own glass. Dinner was far more comfortable than lunch. Zack filled me in on what was happening with the Mason prosecution and I filled him in on his new colleagues.
I gesture toward the now empty plates. Everything was great. Do you cook like this often?
Zack shrugs. When I can. You know how it is, crazy hours. Most days I grab something on the way to work in the morning, stop someplace for a quick lunch, and then its dinner alone at a restaurant or takeout.
Ive got a delivery service on speed dial. Hector is probably filing a missing persons report as we speak because he didnt hear from me tonight.
Zack smiles. Hector? Youre on a first-name basis with the delivery boy? Please tell me the two of you dont have a thing going.
A thing? You, my friend, are watching too much porn.
Can a guy watch too much porn? Zack checks his watch.
He tries to be subtle, but I noticetrained observer that I am. I glance at mine, too. We probably have a little over an hour before the moon rises and our evening has to come to an end.
I stand up and start to clear the table. Ill do the dishes.
Zack follows me into the kitchen with the salad bowl and bottle of dressing in hand. Just leave them. Ill throw them in the dishwasher later. Weve got about thirty minutes of tape to review.
Mind if I make some coffee?
Zack is already on his way over to the flat-screen. Help yourself. Beans are in the container next to the coffeemaker. Itll take me a few minutes to hook this up.
I make short order of grinding the beans and within a minute or two the kitchen fills with the aroma of a dark French roast. Zack has hooked his laptop up to the flat-screen television. The display shows eight labeled views of Barakovs offices divided into blocks: Lobby, OR, Recovery, Reception, Elevator, Stairs, Break Room, Hallway.
Mugs? I ask.
Next to the sink.
I pour two cups, adding the requisite cream and two sugars to Zacks, then join him on the sofa.
All set?
I have this paused close to the time Isabella Mancinis car went through that light. This way we wont miss her.
I nod. Hit it.
Zack presses PLAY and the various blocks on the screen begin to change. People walk in and out of the lobby. The OR and recovery room remain empty. We watch Silvia Barton move from her post in reception to the break room and back. Barakov walks down the hallway into what I guess is an exam room. A minute or two later he emerges and goes into his office. A woman comes out maybe a minute after him and then joins him. Her face isnt visible, but her stature and hair color are wrong for Isabella. There are two elevators, and the block showing those images alternate between the two.
Theres no view inside Barakovs office or the exam rooms, I point out.
Zack has been quietly sipping his coffee. No. But weve got the stairwell and the hallway. If anyone were to go in or out, wed know. Keep watching. Ill be right back.
Zack gets up suddenly and heads for a door at the far end of the living room, past the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him go through it. I reach for the mouse on the coffee table in front of me and pause the video.
What are you doing? I ask.
Zack is already on his way back, a set of rolled-up papers in his hand. I picked these up from the city. They were filed at the time of the renovation of Barakovs office.
He spreads the plans out next to the laptop. Unless youre Spider-Man, theres only two points of entry. The way we came in and the way we went out.
So if we dont catch Isabella in the stairwell or lobby . . .
She didnt enter the building, Zack finishes.
We resume play. Ten minutes go by, then another ten. Its past Isabellas appointment time.
What about the parking garage below? Any cameras there?
No. I swung by there after picking up the plans. There are no cameras on or in the garage, so no visual records. But theres also street parking and several nearby lots.
I reach over and click the mouse to fast-forward. Within a few minutes, the video comes to an end.
I set my cup down on the coffee table. How do we know she wasnt late? Or maybe Barton or the doctor did something to the footage?
Im the one who stipulated the start and stop times. The file was emailed to me within minutes. That kind of seamless editing would have taken longer to pull off. But I think youre onto something about the parking. Where did she park and what the hell happened to the car?
The police must have run the plates.
Zacks eyebrows rise, expressing his lack of confidence. Im gonna check myself. He looks at his watch, then gazes out at the darkening night sky.
He stands up, a flush of concern flashing in his eyes. I have to go, he tells me. I have an appointment.
I know what it is, so I make it easy on him. Its the second night of the full moon.
And I should get home before I turn into a pumpkin. Thanks for dinner.
Anytime.
I wonder where he spends those three nights a month when the beast emerges. Its curiosity, though, not alarm. I make no comment, just gather my stuff and go. Relief replaces the concern in his eyes as he shows me to the door.
I pause on the way out. I have to ask, Do you still feel were on the right track with Barakov?
I get the shrug. The dots dont seem to be connecting. And he did volunteer the security footage. Still, where theres smoke . . .
Theres usually fire, I finish. You check on the plates and keep going through the evidence weve got. Im going to do a little more digging into Barakov. Lets touch base tomorrow after lunch.
Zack agrees and I leave. I wish I had a stronger sense of whether Barakov is or isnt involved in the disappearances of Amy Patterson and Isabella Mancini. For the moment, Im sitting squarely on the fence.
I back out of Zacks driveway and onto the road. In my rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of a car parked down the street. Sarahs silver BMW is unmistakable. Is she here to seek refuge during the full moon or to finish her earlier conversation with Zack? Perhaps shes his appointment and hes expecting her. Somehow I dont believe that. Maybe I dont want to believe it.
Zack may consider Sarah an ex. He might consider whatever the two of them had casual. I doubt its the same for Sarah.
By the time I get home, the sun has set. The moon, full and bright, shines down from the night sky and spills into the garden. After patrolling the house and the grounds, I perform my evening ritual: set up the coffeepot for tomorrow morning, go through the mail I picked up on the way in, pour myself a glass of wine. The wine I take with me into the bedroom, where I slip into one of a dozen Chinese silk sleeping gowns that I own. I take my hair down and shake it out, letting it fall about my shoulders and flow free. I contemplate a long soak in the bath, but Im tired and decide against it.
Instead I wander out onto the deck. The night air is cool, but my skin is warm, my face flush. Im tired, yet restless. I curl up in the old porch swing. Its rocking motion, like always, comforts me. I lean back, sip my wine, and breathe in the fragrant night-blooming jasmine. The motion of the swing lulls me. My thoughts drift to Zack.
I think about what might have happened if Id let things in the kitchen continue just a few seconds longer. I think about the way he moved, the way his body felt pressed against mine. I remember the way my body responded. How my breasts felt heavy. How my nipples peaked and hardened.
I couldnt ride the sensation then, couldnt give in to it. But here, alone in the dark, theres nothing to stop me. I sense a familiar wetness between my legs.
I gulp my wine and squeeze my thighs together.
I tell myself its been too long since Ive had sex. Its release I need, plain and simple, not Zack. Anyone will do. Anyone can scratch this itch. Anyone.
I set my glass down on the deck and stretch out, letting my head fall back. I drop the walls, letting the glamour fall away, releasing my power. The air stirs around me, rustling the nearby leaves. My already warm skin becomes even more heated. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting the fragrance of the garden flowers fill my lungs. It triggers a memory of another place, another timea time when everything was possible. When life was uncomplicated and pleasures existed without bounds. If I listen hard enough, I can almost hear the faraway ocean, taste the salt in the air, feel the hands on my body, strong and sure.
CHAPTER 8
Day Three: Thursday, April 12
Id had a restless night, drifting in and out of sleep. Now as I lie in bed watching the sun filter through the windows lining the front of the carriage house, I know any possibility for real sleep is over. Stifling a yawn, I brace myself and throw back the covers. A run is the last thing I want, but my body knows its just what I need. Within minutes Ive changed into my workout clothes and am out the door heading down Sunset.
The fog is thick and the streets are wet with dew. It feels more like fall than spring. The wide, palm-lined street is silent save for the sound of my running shoes slapping against the pavement. This is one of the oldest neighborhoods in San Diego, and unlike Michael Dexters, most of the Craftsman-style homes with their low-pitched rooflines, overhanging eaves, tapered support columns, and generous front porches have been carefully maintained. They were built in the early nineteen hundreds when I was in another town, living under another name. But I can appreciate their beauty now.
I take my normal route, merging onto Fort Stockton, then going left onto Hawk before taking another left onto West Lewis. I run past the Historic Business Center. A small coffee shop is in the process of opening. All of the other shops are still shut up tight. Back onto Fort Stockton, I continue on to Presidio Park. I wind my way through a series of paths while keeping an eye out for the homeless that sometimes occupy the area. Although I know how to defend myself, my powers dont extend to superstrength or superspeed. Ive often wished they did. Hell, I dont even have superhealing, not like a vampire or a Were. Demeter didnt want to make it that easy on me. Ill heal from anything, but I do it the old-fashioned way, like a human, with time and pain.
By the time I get back to the house, the fog has lifted. I start the coffee Id put up the night before. While I wait for it to brew, I whip up a glass of orange-mango juice with a little protein powder. Smoothie in hand, I trek out to the front of the estates drive in search of the newspaper. I find it once again in the rosebushes instead of on the concrete. How the kid can miss twenty feet of driveway, yet manage to precisely place the paper in the center of a rosebush day after day, Ill never know. I manage to retrieve it without suffering any damage from the thorns, then tuck it under my arm and set out to check the property.
I fish the keys from the pocket of my warm-up jacket, let myself in the front door, and disable the alarm. I swallow the last of my smoothie, leaving the glass on the entryway table along with the paper and yesterdays mail before heading upstairs. Its a path Ive walked hundreds of times. I check the doors and windows. I make sure there havent been any plumbing mishaps. Twice a week I water the plants. But not today. My sweep of the downstairs goes quickly. In less than ten minutes Ive done my duty, secured the house, and am on my way back to the cottage.
I scan the morning headlines on the way. The first thing I see, on page one of the San Diego Union-Tribune, is a picture of Amy Patterson. According to the article, Amys disappearance is now being treated as a kidnapping. The reporter casts Haskell in an unfortunate light. Shes described as being the person who was closest to Amy and in charge of all of her finances. He intimates Haskell is perhaps the person with the most to gain should a ransom be demanded and not be paid and Amy end up dead. What does Haskell have to say for herself? Apparently she failed to return the reporters phone calls and granted him nothing more than a big fat no comment when he showed up at the gallery unannounced.
At that, I have to smile. I imagine he got more than a no comment when he showed up at the gallery. When I remember Haskells brisk, no-nonsense style, what she really said to the reporter was most probably unprintable.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee hits me as I walk through the door. I put the paper aside and head straight into the dining area, where my laptop awaits. My job for the next few hours is to research Dr. Alexander Barakov. While my laptop powers up, I procrastinate for a few more minutes, washing out the blender and pouring myself a generous cup of coffee. I bring the pot back to the table with me. I know Im going to need it. Where Zack seems to revel in wading through piles of paper in search of a common denominator, making color-coded notes and arranging them in neat little columns, I find research of this kind tedious, almost painful. Nevertheless, its time to get started. I stare at the login prompt. Where to begin is the question.
Once I do, the hours pass unexpectedly fast. Dr. Alexander Barakov is a renowned and well-connected physician. There are pages of testimonials from satisfied clients. Alongside them are dozens of red-carpet photos of high-profile celebritiestheir full breasts, perfect noses, and uplifted asses a testament to his skill. I find more raves and reviews on blogs, a few references to magazine articles. His patients love him. At least the ones who havent disappeared.
Pausing to refill my coffee mug, I take a moment to review my notes.
Barakov grew up in New York. His father was a physician, his mother a member of the Junior League and the Daughters of the American Revolution. He received his undergraduate degree from Harvard in biology, then went on to Johns Hopkins Medical School, where he excelled academically. He completed his internship at Johns Hopkins Medical Center. Thats where he met the first future Mrs. Alexander Barakov, nursing student Charlotte Murphy. The two married and then Barakov moved on to a coveted fellowship in plastic surgery at UCLA.
A search of birth records shows two stillbirths and one live birth for the couple. The surviving child died of SIDS at the age of four months. After the death, Charlotte attempted suicide and spent six months in a private psychiatric hospital. There would be other suicide attempts over the next twenty or so years as she struggled with bipolar disorder. Barakov always managed to keep the drama playing out on the home front separate from work.
While his reputation as a stellar physician steadily grew, Charlotte threw herself into a variety of charity projects. The Los Angeles Times archives hold dozens of photographs of her. There are several articles mentioning her as well. The largest spread occurred seven years ago. Thats when Charlotte Barakov suddenly disappeared without a trace.
Bingo.
I bookmark the page.
About one million people go missing each year in the United States. Ninety percent turn up eventually. With over three hundred million people in the U.S., what are the chances that one man would be connected to not one, not two, but three missing women?
Although math has never been my strong suit, I think I can say with complete confidence that the odds fall somewhere between astronomical and fucking impossible. I smell a rat.
An alarm pops up on my computer, interrupting my chain of thought.
Crap. Im supposed to meet Liz in an hour. There are a dozen more links in the Times that I need to screen. I move through them quickly, bookmarking those I want to review more thoroughly later. The last one is a wedding announcement from five years ago. Barakov remarried. Wife number two, Dr. Barbara Pierce, is ten years his junior and a surgeon. It was a small ceremony. Barakovs then long-standing secretary and Pierces son from a prior marriage stood up for the couple, who honeymooned in Paris.
I glance at the clock. Now Im down to forty-five minutes. I grab my cell and rush into the bathroom. I sweep aside the curtain around the old-fashioned cast-iron claw-foot tub, turn on the taps, and then pour in a generous amount of vanilla and lavender bath salts that I blend myself and keep on a narrow side table in an antique apothecary jar. I may be running late, but there are some luxuries I dont deny myself. I quickly pull my top off over my head and tie up my hair before calling Zack. He doesnt pick up until the third ring. By that time Ive managed to divest myself of the rest of my clothes.
The check on Isabellas plates turned up nada, he grouses upon answering.
Yeah? Well, what Ive got will make up for that ten times over. Guess what.
Is that running water I hear? Youre not calling me from the ladies room, are you? Just because you can take a cell phone everywhere doesnt mean you should.
Im running late. I turn off the water, step into the tub, and settle back against the bath pillow. That was the bath running.
The water is so hot that steam is rising. I close my eyes and for a second everything melts away. I cant help myselfa contented sigh escapes my lips.
Emma?
Hmm?
Are you telling me youre in the bath?
Focus on the question, Zack.
Im trying, he says. Then after a beat, I could have focused just fine if youd told me you were in the kitchen, doing dishes.
Okay, Im in the kitchen doing dishes.
Too late. What was the question?
Guess what happened to Barakovs first wife.
The charm of being married to one of the Keebler elves wore off and she went in search of a real boy?
Youre making fun of him because hes short? I thought you told Barakov flaws were interesting.
Unless youre an asshole. Then theyre fair game.
She disappeared, Zack. Went missing seven years ago without a trace.
Ho-ly shit!
I smile. Knew youd like that. Listen, I have a lunch date with a friend
Ill start digging.
You dont mind following up on the lead?
Hes already clacking away on the keyboard. Are you kidding me? Im so going to enjoy this!
He clicks off and I settle back in the tub for a quick soak. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction that the mere mention of my being in the tub drove Zack to distraction. I wonder if hes, at this very moment, thinking of me. I shake my head as I recall the zealousness with which he began typing. Barakov is the only thing on Zack Armstrongs mind right now. And Id bet everything I have that Zack is not picturing the doctor naked and in a bath.
CHAPTER 9
Ive no sooner gotten off the phone with Zack than my cell rings again.
What? You want a progress report on the bath?
There is prolonged and pointed silence on the other end. I check the caller ID. Its a number Im not familiar with. Definitely not Zack.
Sorry, I mumble. This is Emma Monroe.
The silence gives way to what sounds like an embarrassed cough. Im sorry, too, for interrupting your bath. Michael Dexter here.
I sit up straighter in the tub. What can I do for you?
Another pause. Then a heavy sigh. I wasnt entirely honest with you yesterday.
Oh? I get the tingly feeling that comes with the possibility of finally catching a break on a tough case. I keep my voice curious yet detached when I ask, What about?
All I hear on the other end is breathing. Hes not going to confess to playing a part in Isabellas disappearance, is he? Like Zack, Ive been becoming more and more convinced that Barakov is involved in this somehow. I find myself holding my own breath.
Finally he says, I held back something that might be important to the case. If I tell you, will you keep it in confidence?
Im not a priest, Michael. Im a law enforcement officer, a federal agent. You know if you tell me something incriminating
Oh, Jesus, no, he interrupts. I didnt do anything to Isabella He breaks off. This is something I cant talk about over the telephone. Can I see you this afternoon?
Im free anytime after two. Do you want me to come to your place?
Im having lunch with the Director of the Museum of Modern Art. Ill be finished by two. Can you meet me at the Japanese Tea Garden in Balboa Park?
Yes. Michael, are you sure this can wait? I dont want him losing his courage between now and then.
It can. And I have to see your face when I tell you this.
Now Im really curious. All right. See you at two.
I second-guess myself while I finish my bath, dress, and jump into the car to head for Evans place. Should I go to Balboa Park and catch Dexter before his lunch date?
What good would that do? Scare him? Embarrass him?
No. Better to trust hell show at two. And if he doesnt, I know where he lives. Liz is always there for me and she needs me now.
Evan Porter lives in the Marina District downtown. The fact that he is doing very well at his law practice is evidenced by his home. His loft is located in the old Soap Factory, one of the largest all-brick buildings on the West Coast . . . and an exclusive address. Units run close to a mil and they come with guest parking. Unfortunately, an ominous-looking black sedan with tinted windows occupies the spot Liz told me to park in. I dial her cell.
Theres a car in number twelve. You said twelve, right?
We just finished our meeting. Hes on his way down.
Right on cue, the sedan comes to life. The engine fires and the driver steps out. With stiff precision he opens the rear passenger door, then waits at attention. He looks like a military man, close-cropped hair, compact body, dark well-tailored suit.