Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Rikki
Hamilton flies back home, and I miss him at once. When we’re working, I forget that he’s my supervisor. I even forget he’s a man I could have cared for.
I arrive in San Diego that Monday, using my famous last name—Valley Voice newspaper—when asking for the director of the clinic. He isn’t in, but the office manager, a Ms. Potoroff, no first name, gives polite, no-nonsense answers to my questions from behind her computer.
This is a room of no, I realize, a room where one is cut off, not admitted. The white counter and its waxy pink roses serve as a barrier, and the woman behind it serves as a sentinel.
“It’s absolutely against policy to reveal patient information,” she says in an officious tone that reminds me of Lucas’s assistant at Killer Body. Those attitudes only make me more determined.
“I would think there would be an exception in a case such as this, when someone’s life could depend on it.”
She reaches for the coffee on her desk. I notice that although she wears dark lipstick, not a trace remains on the white cup. “I hardly think anyone’s life depends on whether or not I give you information about that patient.”
I lean over the marbleized solid surface of the counter between us. She’s younger than she looks, not much older than I, although the skinned-back black hair and prim little glasses do a fine job of hiding the fact.
“This isn’t just any patient. She’s a public figure who’s disappeared. Her health could be a significant factor in the investigation.”
“You’re a reporter, not the police.”
“I’m a reporter trying to uncover leads that, once I print them, the police won’t be able to ignore.
Not everyone judges all information with equal importance.
The police are conducting their investigation in the way that they see fit.
I believe that Julie Larimore’s health is a major factor in her disappearance. ”
“Well.” She enters something into the computer and watches the screen, her cheeks the color of the roses on the counter. “If that were a factor, she would have returned here, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Not necessarily. Perhaps she’s unable to.”
“Nevertheless.” She stares back at the screen, which she clearly prefers to looking at me. “Our policies are in place to protect our patients.”
It’s been a long drive with no payoff. I make one last attempt.
“Could I at least speak to Julie Larimore’s doctor?”
“Dr. Bledsoe isn’t available today.” Spoken too fast to be the truth.
“Could you leave him a message that I want to speak with him?”
“I seriously doubt that he’ll want to discuss a patient with you.”
“A high-profile patient,” I remind her, “with a high-profile problem. I’m sure he’11 want to talk to me, on or off the record.”
She hands me a notepad with the name of a drug company stamped on it.
“Write down what you need, and I’ll see that he gets it.
” Then in a softer voice, “I’m not trying to be difficult.
I’m just trying to protect her privacy. She entered the hospital under a pseudonym.
That’s an indicator that she prefers to remain anonymous. ”
“She did that before she disappeared,” I say. “If she’s in danger, she’d want us to do whatever we can to find her.” I scribble a note, attach my card. “I’m going to write my story with or without speaking with the doctor,” I say. ‘Tell him that for me.”
Ms. Potoroff rises, her expression as set as her hairdo. “I will.”
It’s all I can do to keep from dashing across the parking lot full of expensive vehicles. Instead, I walk briskly, trying to contain my excitement. At least she admitted that Julie Larimore was a patient. At least I have the name of her doctor.
Her doctor. I run the rest of the way to my car and the briefcase Lucas has entrusted to me. I’ve seen doctor bills in there.
I lock the door, look around, feeling as if someone is watching me.
But no, that’s guilt manifesting itself as fear.
There’s no one anywhere around, only late-model automobiles, the kind indigenous to this community.
My own white Toyota, less than neat, just barely fits.
My jacket hangs like a shapeless black drape on the back of the seat, hiding Lucas’s briefcase, which I didn’t dare leave in a motel room.
I’m late in returning it to him. I wonder if that will be the final straw in this tenuous allegiance of ours.
My suitcase on the passenger seat, now a base for my laptop, makes me realize how far away I am from the life I have come to think of as normal. How long will it be before I can do something as simple as bathe in my own tub and sleep in my own bed?
Since Lisa’s death, my nomadic existence has isolated me in this car, always moving. I realize how much I want it to be over, how ready I am to go back, regardless of what I must face when I do.
I touch the smooth black surface of the suitcase, my only connection with what I’ve left, and get out my cell phone.
I take out the packet and begin sorting. Yes, Dr. Wayne Bledsoe, The Bledsoe Clinic.
I can find no mention of what the bills are for. Under the column for procedure, only numbers are listed.
Then I look at the clinic bill. This was major surgery. I feel as if I’ve just drunk a gallon of coffee. I grab my cell phone and call the number on the bill.
“Bledsoe Clinic. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Bledsoe.”
“Are you a new patient?” The receptionist at The Bledsoe Clinic is friendlier than the office manager I encountered inside.
“I’ve been referred by my family doctor.”
“I’ll need to get your insurance information,” she says. “What’s the nature of your visit?”
“The surgery.”
I hold my breath in the moment of silence.
Then she says, “Gastric bypass? Has your physician already consulted with Dr. Bledsoe about it?”
“Yes. That’s Dr. Bledsoe’s specialty, isn’t it?” A wild guess, fueled by what Tania Marie told me and what I have come to first suspect and now believe.
“The clinic handles more gastric bypass surgeries than any other clinic in the state. Dr. Bledsoe can answer any questions for you. I’ll need to get your name and insurance information. Let’s start with your name, last one first.”
I clench the phone in my sweaty fist. Why am I shaking now? This was what I guessed, the reason for Julie’s disappearance. Tania Marie was right. She’d seen Julie at the clinic, the before in a before-and-after nightmare. What is after, and where is Julie now?
“I’ll need to call you back,” I say, and I press the button to disconnect the call. Then I make another one.
“Dennis Hamilton.” His voice sounds far away.
“Den, it’s Rikki. I know what happened to Julie Larimore.”
“What happened? Where is she?”
“I don’t know where, but I know why. She had gastric bypass surgery.”
“Holy shit. Are you sure?”
The Interview
And how do you feel about that?
About what? That everyone is looking for me? I’m too tired, too weak, to answer. Instead, I think of forgiveness. I forgave my family, my father. Bought him this house so that we could all be together, so that we could be a family again. I forgave. Will I be forgiven, as well, for my sins?
My energy bleeds from me like water right now. But your question is almost as important as the answer.
How do I feel about that?
I feel nothing.
Lucas
Bobbie W was talking to the photos in the gallery again. Lucas didn’t want to hear what he was saying.
He walked up behind him, put a hand on his surprisingly frail shoulder. The one-way conversation stopped in midwhisper.
“How’s it going?” Lucas asked.
“Tough right now.”
Bobby W continued facing straight ahead, his head held aloft, like that of a younger man’s.
His neck looked old, folded in tight little pleats.
The entire hall smelled of heavy after-shave.
Maybe that’s how guys had done it once, just doused themselves in scent, held their heads up and hoped for the best.
“What can I do to make it less tough?” Damn, if he could have talked to his own father this easily.
“I just received some horrible news. It’s not certain, but—” He reached for Lucas to steady himself. His eyes were rimmed in red, the way they were after a bout of drinking, but Lucas could smell no liquor on him, only the cologne, almost medicinal in its intensity.
“What’s happened?”
“Come, sit down, and I’ll tell you. Regardless of the outcome, I’m canceling the competition. I want to see all three girls, not out in public. Somewhere safe, the boat. Ellen’s making the calls right now.”
“Are you sure?” Lucas asked. “What made you change your mind?”
The old man put his head in his hands. “I can’t do this anymore.”
A sickening realization started in his stomach and spread through him. This wasn’t something minor.
“Julie?” he asked, already certain now.
Bobby W nodded, meeting his eyes with a look that could mean only one thing.
“Where?”
“L.A. Harbor. Washed up.” He shook his head. “They want me to identify her, Luke.”
Gabriella
“So, are you going back to him?”
Christopher opened the door of the car for her, and Gabriella slid inside. “In case you failed to notice, I didn’t renew my wedding vows. I just spent the night with the man.”
“Two nights, if I may be picky.” Christopher gave her an indulgent smile but didn’t close the door. “And, last time I checked, the man was your husband.”
She hoped she didn’t look as goony and love-logged as she felt. “Two nights, okay? And the press is going to have a proverbial field day.”
“With you landing on your sweet little huaraches, as usual, I might add.”
“They do like a good love story.”
“So do I.”
“I know you do.” She glanced at her watch, as much a distraction as to check the time. “We’d better get moving.”
As was his style, he didn’t mention the subject again. As was her style, it continued to gnaw at her. She’d be glad when this next step was taken. She owed Christopher the truth about her decision.
“Whatever happens, I’m still filling in for John Crosby,” she announced to the silent car. “If I like it, and it likes me. I’m going to try to get my own show.”
“Good for you.”
She leaned forward, tapped the back of his smooth neck. “Whatever I do. I’m taking you with me, Christopher.”
“Gabby, please.”
“I mean it. You stuck by me when I didn’t have the proverbial pot, and you’re the only family I have now.”
“You’re my family, too.” His voice was so low and tear-choked that she could barely discern the words. She hadn’t wanted this to get emotional, but how could it be anything else?
“I want you to be able to quit your day job,” she said, “to write, the way you were when you were working for me full-time. Whatever I decide, that won’t change.”
He adjusted his dark glasses and drove in silence for a moment.
“What about Bobby Warren?” he finally asked.
“I’m going to tell him today.”
“Before or after he announces his choice?”
“Before, of course. I’ve got to take the high road.”
“I’m glad.” He turned around, his grin wicked. “I’m also glad we don’t have to spend the day on a sailboat with Bobby Warren and Rochelle McArthur.”
“Shel’s not that bad. That whole bitch thing is just an act. Can you imagine how terrifying it must be to be losing everything when you’re just approaching your prime?”
“That’s Hollywood, the ugly side of a city that’s driven by the film mentality, an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”
Her cell phone rang. “Alain, I’ll bet,” Christopher said.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a hopeless romantic, my dear?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said.
She pressed the phone against her ear. “Alain?” Goodness, she was eager to hear his voice once more.
But Alain was not the one who answered. Only Tania Marie, a frantic Tania Marie, at that.
“I went to the boat, but no one’s here,” she sobbed. “I tried to call Mr. Warren and got Ellen, his assistant. They changed the meeting place at the last minute and didn’t tell me.”
“That’s fine with me.” As Christopher pulled the car into the marina, Gabriella spotted Tania Marie, her short hair blown by the wind into a glistening black-cherry sheet. “I can see you from here.”
“Oh, I can see you, too.” Tania Marie began to wave frantically.
“Where are we going? Is it near here? If you like, we can ride together.”
Tania Marie turned, telephone smashed against her ear, and began walking down the pier in a long crinkle-pleated black skirt, totally unsuitable for anything but a cruise ship, poor dear. “That would be so cool. It’s not far at all. Just up the 101.”