CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Three women were dead, and the one thing they had in common—besides beauty, besides ambition, besides the bad luck of signing with the wrong agency—was this address on Wilshire Boulevard.
Kari had looked up Dr. Callum Pemberton before coming.
Board-certified, Stanford Medical School, with fifteen years in practice.
His website featured tasteful before-and-after photos and testimonials from actresses whose names she half-recognized.
His online reviews praised his "artistic eye" and "natural results.
" Nowhere did it mention that at least three of his patients had died under suspicious circumstances in the past three years.
Kari gave her name to the receptionist—a young woman whose face had clearly been worked on, though Kari couldn't pinpoint exactly what had been changed—and settled into a leather chair to wait.
Soft music played from hidden speakers—something classical and inoffensive.
Everything in this room was designed to reassure people that they were in capable hands, that the money they were about to spend would be worth it, that their insecurities could be fixed with a scalpel and a checkbook.
Kari thought about the young women who had sat in this same chair before her. Amanda Escalante, nineteen years old, from a small town in New Mexico. Jennifer Blake, twenty-two, from Phoenix. Girls who'd grown up without luxury, who'd never seen anything like this kind of polished wealth.
How intimidating it must have been. How easy it would have been for a charming doctor in an expensive suit to make them feel special, chosen, worthy of his attention.
The receptionist's voice broke into her thoughts. "Dr. Pemberton will see you now. Second door on the left."
The office itself continued the spa theme: more soft lighting, more expensive art, a massive desk made of some exotic wood that gleamed in the afternoon sun filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The view looked out over Beverly Hills, all palm trees and manicured lawns and swimming pools glinting like jewels in the sunlight.
A view that said: I have made it. I am successful. You should trust me.
Behind the desk sat a man in his mid-fifties, handsome in the preserved way of someone who'd had access to the best treatments his profession could offer.
His hair was silver at the temples but thick and carefully styled, his skin smooth and evenly tanned, his teeth white and perfectly straight.
He smiled as Kari entered, and the smile was warm and practiced, the smile of a man who'd learned exactly how to put people at ease.
"Detective Blackhorse." He stood and extended his hand, his grip firm, but not aggressive. "I have to admit, I was surprised to get your call. I don't often have law enforcement visiting my practice."
"I appreciate you making time for me, Dr. Pemberton."
"Of course. Please, sit." He gestured to a chair across from his desk, waiting until she was seated before settling back into his own chair.
The gesture was courteous, gentlemanly. Everything about him was carefully calibrated.
"You mentioned this was about some of my patients.
I should tell you upfront that doctor-patient confidentiality limits what I can share, but I'm happy to help in any way I can within those boundaries. "
"I understand." Kari settled into the chair, watching Pemberton's face as she spoke.
She'd interviewed enough suspects over the years to know that body language during the first few seconds of a conversation often revealed more than words could.
"I'm investigating the deaths of several young women connected to the modeling industry.
Amanda Escalante. Jennifer Blake. Destiny Morales.
I believe you treated all of them at some point. "
Pemberton's expression grew appropriately somber. "Yes, I knew those women. Tragic losses, all of them. This industry can be incredibly hard on young people. The pressure to maintain impossible standards, the constant rejection, the scrutiny of their bodies and faces. It takes a toll."
"Can you tell me about your relationships with them?"
"They were patients, Detective. I performed various procedures for them—minor things, mostly. Refinements. And I prescribed medications as needed to help them cope with the stress of their careers. Nothing unusual for women in their profession."
Kari tilted her head. "You prescribed psychiatric medications? Anti-anxiety drugs, that sort of thing?"
"When appropriate, yes."
"I thought that kind of prescribing was usually handled by psychiatrists, or at least a GP. Not a plastic surgeon."
Reeves smiled thinly. "I have a holistic approach to patient care.
These young women come to me because they're unhappy with some aspect of their appearance, but that unhappiness is often connected to deeper anxieties.
It would be irresponsible to address the physical without acknowledging the psychological. "
"So you're treating their mental health as well as their appearance."
"I'm treating the whole patient." His tone had cooled. "I'm not doing anything illegal, Detective, if that's what you're implying. Physicians are permitted to prescribe within their judgment."
"I'm not implying anything. Just trying to understand your practice."
He stared at her for several seconds. Then, as if realizing defensiveness would only make him look worse, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, putting on an air of relaxed confidence.
"You have to understand, the modeling industry is brutal.
These young women face constant pressure to look perfect.
Many of them develop anxiety, insomnia, eating disorders.
I try to help them manage those issues so they can continue their careers without destroying their health. "
"What kind of medications did you prescribe?"
"That's getting into confidential territory, but I can speak generally.
Anti-anxiety medications. Sleep aids. Sometimes, appetite suppressants, though I try to steer patients away from those, the side effects can be serious.
I'm not in the business of enabling eating disorders, despite what some people might assume. "
He smiled slightly, as if acknowledging an unfair criticism he'd weathered before. "My goal is always my patients' well-being. Physical and mental."
"Some of the medications found at the scenes of these deaths were prescription drugs. The kind you might prescribe."
Pemberton's posture shifted, almost imperceptibly.
He sat up straighter, and he unlaced his steepled fingers.
"Detective, I'm not sure what you're implying, but I don't appreciate it.
I prescribe medications according to medical need and professional standards.
What patients do with those prescriptions after they leave my office is beyond my control.
I can't follow them home and watch them take their pills. "
"I'm not implying anything. I'm gathering information.
" Kari kept her voice neutral, her expression blank.
But she was watching him carefully now, noting the way his eyes had narrowed, the way his hands had moved to grip the arms of his chair.
The relaxed confidence was still there, but something else had crept in underneath it.
Wariness, maybe. Or calculation.
"Can you tell me," she asked, "about your relationship with Elite Vision? I understand you have some kind of arrangement with them."
"I have referral arrangements with several agencies.
They send me clients, I offer a preferred rate.
It's mutually beneficial—standard practice in this industry.
" Pemberton's voice had cooled noticeably, the warmth draining out of it.
"Many of their models need cosmetic procedures to stay competitive.
I provide those services at a discount, and in return, the agencies recommend me to their talent. Everyone benefits."
"How much of your business comes from these arrangements?"
"I fail to see how that's relevant to your investigation."
"I'm trying to understand the relationships between the people and organizations connected to these deaths.
The financial relationships. The personal relationships.
" Kari paused, letting that land. "You clearly have a significant financial stake in the modeling industry.
That makes you connected to these women in ways that go beyond doctor and patient. "
Pemberton stood abruptly and walked to the window, his back to Kari. The movement felt calculated, a way to buy time, to compose his face before she could read it. When he spoke again, his voice was tight with controlled irritation.
"Detective Blackhorse, I've been cooperative because I want to help.
I care about these young women, whatever you might think.
But I'm beginning to feel as if I'm being treated like a suspect rather than a resource.
If you have specific questions related to a specific crime, I'm happy to answer them with my lawyer present.
Otherwise, I think this conversation is over. "
Kari stood as well. She'd pushed as far as she could without official standing.
Any harder, and she'd be crossing lines that could compromise Carter's investigation.
"I appreciate your time, Dr. Pemberton. If you think of anything that might be helpful, please give me a call. " She placed her card on his desk.
He didn't turn around. "I'm sure you can find your way out."
In the elevator, Kari replayed the conversation in her mind. Pemberton had been smooth at first, charming and cooperative in the way of someone accustomed to managing his image. A man who spent his days convincing women to let him cut into their faces—of course he knew how to be persuasive.
But when she'd pushed on the medications, on his financial arrangements with the agencies, the charm had fallen away. He was hiding something. Whether it was murder or simply the kind of ethical corners that powerful men cut without consequence, she couldn't yet tell.
She walked to her rental car and sat behind the wheel for a moment, the afternoon sun hot through the windshield.
Her thoughts kept circling back to what Carter had said about the pattern.
Five deaths in three years. All connected to Elite Vision or Image Management.
All involving medications that someone like Pemberton could easily provide.
She pulled out her phone and called Ben.
He answered on the second ring. "Kari. How's it going out there?"
"Making progress. I just interviewed a plastic surgeon who treated at least three of the victims. He got defensive when I pushed on his relationship with the agencies.
" She paused, gathering her thoughts. "Carter officially opened a serial murder investigation.
Five deaths in three years, all connected to Elite Vision or Image Management.
All staged to look like suicides or overdoses. "
"Five deaths. Shit." Ben let out a breath. "At least someone's taking it seriously. That's more than I can say for the FBI out here."
"Still nothing new on Naalnish?"
"Nada. But I've been going through your mother's files.
I've been trying to trace the shell companies—Devco Holdings is one of them—but they're buried under layers of other corporations.
Whoever set them up didn't want to be found.
" He paused. "Your mother saw this years ago.
She was documenting it, building a case. And then..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
"When I get back, we need to go through everything together," Kari said. "All seventeen cases. See what else she found."
"I've been organizing it. Ruth's helping—she remembers things Anna told her, context that's not in the files." Ben's voice softened. "She misses you, by the way. Asked when you're coming home."
"Soon. A few more days, hopefully. I'm close to finding Tayen—I can feel it."
"Then focus on that. We'll dig into the rest when you're back."
"Thanks, Ben. For staying on this."
"Your mother was onto something real. Someone needs to finish what she started." A pause. "Be careful out there, Kari."
After she hung up, Kari sat in the car for a long moment, watching the L.A. traffic stream past on the boulevard. She found herself thinking about patterns—the ones her mother had seen years ago, the ones Kari was seeing now.
Different cities. Different victims. Different circumstances. But the shape of it felt the same: vulnerable people dying under suspicious circumstances, their deaths explained away as accidents or bad choices, while the people responsible went on with their lives untouched.
Her mother had spent years documenting those patterns, building a case that no one wanted to hear.
And now Kari was doing the same thing—chasing a killer through a city that didn't want to admit it had one, fighting for women whose deaths had been dismissed as unfortunate but inevitable casualties of an unforgiving industry.
She wondered if this was what it had felt like for Anna. The frustration of seeing something that others refused to see. The loneliness of being the only one who cared enough to keep asking questions.
But Anna had been alone in her investigation. Kari wasn't. She had Carter now, a real detective with real resources who believed her. She had Ben back home, digging through files and following threads. And somewhere in this sprawling city, Tayen was waiting to be found.
Kari started the engine and pulled out into traffic. The case was coming together. She could feel it—that familiar sensation of pieces shifting, edges starting to align. She wasn't there yet, but she was close.
She just had to keep pulling the threads until the whole thing unraveled.