Chapter 7
Kobe
Dr. Fatemeh Kordestani was a difficult woman to nail down.
She canceled our morning meeting for a last-minute surgical consult.
When she tried to postpone until the following day, Rue put her foot down, reminding her that her ex-husband had been murdered and that she needed to make room in her busy schedule to see us.
“What kind of surgeon is she?” I examined the plainly decorated walls of the reception room at the doctor’s office. Too distracted by thoughts of Dominique and our evening together, I’d failed to read the sign upon arrival. The watercolor artwork and generic magazines gave no hint of her practice.
A pair of nurses and a secretary chatted behind a single-pane service window at the admittance desk. None of them seemed impressed with the presence of two detectives in the waiting room, but apart from a few side glares, they had ignored us.
“Thoracic.” Rue thumbed through a gardening magazine before tossing it aside and snagging an issue of Women’s Health instead. “This woman is on steroids. Look at her.”
The model with her fake tan, string bikini, and cut figure was clearly part of a bodybuilding show. “I think that would be against the rules for the competition. What’s a thoracic doctor do?”
“They specialize in the organs located in the chest cavity. Heart, lungs, esophagus, and whatever else is in there.” Rue turned the page.
My phone vibrated, and I dug it from my pocket.
A jolt of pleasure rippled over my skin when Dominique’s name appeared.
After the previous night, I’d half expected to be ghosted by the handsome pathologist. His discomfort when I’d brought up his wife had nearly destroyed the fragile progress we’d made, and I could have kicked myself for mentioning her.
Two and a half years, but Dominique was clearly still drowning in grief.
I checked the message. How did your chat with the ex-wife go?
Not the correspondence I was hoping for, but it was an icebreaker. Haven’t talked to her yet. She put us off. We’re at her office now, waiting for her to show up.
When I didn’t get an immediate response, I offered a tentative How’s your day going? Not that my reticence came through in text.
Not bad. The new rotation of students hasn’t put me in an early grave yet, which is good since their skills at autopsying leave much to be desired, and I wouldn’t trust my body in their hands.
I chuckled, drawing Rue’s attention from the magazine.
She arched a brow. “Your friendly neighborhood pathologist, I assume?”
I had shared about our date the previous night, needing a second opinion since I didn’t trust my ability to read the room. “Yes, and it seems the doctor has a dark sense of humor.”
“Most pathologists do. Nature of the job. Be careful, Kobe. If what you told me is true, he’s in a fragile state.”
“I know. I am.” I texted back You’re funny, Doc. At least they’re learning from the best.
He replied faster that time. You know nothing about me, Detective, yet I’m the best? Is that flattery?
I couldn’t contain my grin. Not at all. They wouldn’t have given you the position as head pathologist otherwise. I assume you know something about something.
I wonder some days.
Now that I had Dominique chatting, I wanted to write something witty and flirtatious, but the door to Dr. Fatemeh Kordestani’s office opened, and the doctor entered. Regretfully, I put my phone away and glanced at the woman who walked through the door.
I had to do a double take because she looked like she’d been torn from the fitness magazine Rue had been browsing.
The female Dr. Kordestani was Persian, taller than me by several inches, and clearly spent every waking hour she wasn’t at work in the gym.
I didn’t lift weights. Growing up, I’d played all kinds of sports.
I still ran on occasion to stay fit, but one look at Fatemeh’s sculpted body told a story of dedication.
No one got that kind of muscle definition without serious commitment and a strict diet.
She was bikini-model-gorgeous with curves in all the right places.
Flowing mahogany hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders and down her back.
A white lab coat hung over her arm. A leather purse dangled from the opposite shoulder.
Fatemeh’s light brown skin glowed, and the dark pools of her rich brown eyes threatened to drown unsuspecting victims in lust. Burgundy lipstick coated a generous mouth that was plump enough I suspected she had routine injections.
Research told us she was in her midforties, but Fatemeh could have easily passed for a decade younger.
I earned an instant dirty look and realized too late that I was slack-jawed and staring. Fatemeh was a knockout, and it took less than three seconds for her to categorize me as a pig and don a feisty coat of armor. That was fair.
I’d always admired beautiful women. In fact, I found myself oddly attracted to them at times, but I’d never had the desire to explore romantically or sexually.
It had been enough to confuse my teenage brain growing up.
Several failed relationships followed before I determined that I could appreciate a woman’s physique without wanting to date her.
The doctor lifted her chin and addressed Rue, her voice like warm honey. “I assume you’re the detectives.”
Rue offered her hand. “Detective Hayashi, and the juvenile who is standing in a puddle of his own drool is my partner, Detective Haven.”
I clamped my teeth against a retort but gave my partner a scathing look for the unnecessary comment. She was sure to reprimand me in private later, like a disappointed motherly figure.
Fatemeh and Rue exchanged handshakes before the doctor scowled at my outstretched hand and turned to the secretary, who gave her a rundown of messages, handing her a few slips of paper with the phone numbers of missed calls.
Fatemeh retrieved a folder and invited us to join her beyond the waiting room.
I tucked my hand into my pocket and followed.
Dr. Kordestani—I was curious why she’d kept her married name after two years—guided us to a spacious office not unlike a general practitioner’s exam room.
It was bright and clean. Apart from several medical posters displaying thoracic anatomy, the counter was strewn with a collection of stainless steel instruments I assumed would be used during appointments.
A handful of personal touches dotted the room.
A generous window let in afternoon light with half a dozen potted plants lining the windowsill.
Framed photographs decorated a high shelf, showing Fatemeh and two other women in what appeared to be a botanical garden.
They shared similar smiles and features, so I assumed they were related.
Sisters? Cousins? A few trophies and medals occupied space on another shelf.
One for completing the Boston marathon, another for a local triathlon, and a third for a bodybuilding competition of some type. Called it.
Hanging her purse and depositing the folder on a counter, Fatemeh donned her lab coat and adjusted the fashionable silk scarf she wore so it sat right before thumbing through a day planner.
“Talk. I have an appointment in twenty minutes, and I refuse to fall behind schedule because of this nonsense.”
Rue and I exchanged glances, silently agreeing that my partner would take the lead. “We’ll make it quick. We have a handful of questions regarding your husband.”
“My ex-husband.”
“Yes. When’s the last time you spoke with him, Mrs. Kordestani?”
“It’s Doctor. I spoke with him the week before last when he failed to pay his alimony yet again.
He thinks I’ll tire of chasing after him, but I won’t.
” She paused, seemed to consider, then added, “Well, I suppose that won’t happen anymore.
” She closed the planner and leaned against the counter, arms crossed as she studied us. “Next question.”
Rue stared at the woman for a long moment. She didn’t show it, but I recognized the signs of Rue’s frustration—a slight tightening in the muscles along her jaw and the narrowing of her eyes.
“Was Navid often late making payments?”
“Every month. He strongly disagreed with the judge’s decision regarding alimony. I make—made—more money than him, but my debt is significantly higher. Some of us didn’t have rich parents to put them through school. Government loans add up. Is that what we’re here to discuss? My alimony?”
Disliking the woman’s attitude and no longer willing to concede, I spoke up. “Did you and Navid fight a lot?”
Fatemeh gave me a look that called me stupid. “Considering that an inability to get along is the number one cause for divorce, Detective, I’d say yes. We fought all the time.”
“Did he ever hit you?”
Fatemeh flinched and glanced at Rue like I’d won the prize for audacity. When Rue didn’t come to her rescue, the doctor huffed with annoyance. “No. He wouldn’t dare. Navid had an attitude problem, but he was never violent.”
Pot meet kettle, I thought.
“What was he like as a doctor?” Rue asked.
“Overworked and underappreciated. We all are.”
“That’s not what I meant. How would you describe his relationships with his coworkers, patients, and students?”
Fatemeh’s attention drifted to the collection of plants on the windowsill. She seemed to drift for a moment, gaze turning inward. “Navid had the social skills of a gnat, particularly when under stress, which, in our field of work, happens often. He was professional but not always kind.”
“So, you’re saying he was a bit of an asshole?” I said, cutting in.
I earned a reprimanding look from my partner but ignored it.
Fatemeh smirked, turning her gaze from the window to me. “Yes. That’s what you want me to confirm, isn’t it? That he amassed a pool of enemies everywhere he went. That he must have pissed off the wrong person. It wouldn’t surprise me.”