Page 119 of Killer Body

Alain rose, too, ghostlike, his face pale and unsmiling. “It was my fault. I know that now. You never would have done what you did if I hadn’t gotten drunk and made an ass of myself with Judith.”

“True. But it was my fault, too. I had a very small life. You made it larger. Then it got too large, too out of control.”

“And now you don’t need me.”

A commotion from the front of the bar commenced as two men with microphones and a woman, wearing too much makeup and a suit the color of a hydrangea, entered the room. She and Alain had been recognized, and now here came the media. Shecould flee or meet them head-on. She didn’t have to think about which it would be.

“I don’tneedanyone.” Gabriella crossed the small patch of carpet separating them and took his arm. “But I’ve never stoppedwantingyou.”

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 Voicenewspaper—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 ofno,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.