China Lake (28 page)

I nodded, oddly both frightened and relieved. She described the vaccine schedule, five doses administered over a twenty-eight-day period. A jab in the arm, not the stomach like in the old days. I kept nodding, saying, ‘‘Right, let’s do it.’’ She insisted this was precautionary, playing it safe. My head bounced up and down like a beach ball. I told her that Curt Smollek and Isaiah Paxton might have been exposed. Then I asked whether rabies was more common than I had known, and told her about the coyote attacking Abbie Hankins in China Lake.

She frowned. ‘‘You’ve come in close proximity to confirmed rabies twice within the space of seven days?’’

‘‘Yes. Two hundred miles apart.’’

Her furrow turned so deep that the bottom lay in shadow.

‘‘Dr. Abbott?’’

She tapped her pencil against the notepad. ‘‘I don’t want to speculate.’’

Speculate your ass off, I almost shouted. ‘‘Please.’’

‘‘There is a significant reservoir of the disease among wild animals in California. But this is highly unusual. Either it’s a statistical anomaly, or we’re seeing evidence of an emerging outbreak.’’

Dr. Abbott sent me to the emergency room at St. Francis Medical Center for the first injection. I felt numb. While I waited for my shot, edgy thoughts suggested themselves—about germs, and coincidence, or the lack of it. And it all went back to Dr. Neil Jorgensen.

Coming out of St. Francis with a Band-Aid on my arm, I decided to stop by the medical building down the hill on Micheltorena Street, where Jorgensen and Mel Kalajian, late MDs, lovers, and partners in plastic surgery, had kept their offices. In previous times, the parking lot had gleamed with expensive cars, especially Neil Jorgensen’s latest Porsche in some blazing color. Now the lot was empty. But the office door opened when I turned the knob. Seeing no one, I called out, ‘‘Hello?’’

From the back a voice answered, ‘‘Right there.’’

A moment later a chunky woman in a green suit, with tiny rimless glasses and her hair in a twist, came around the corner. She stopped when she saw me.

‘‘Oh—I was expecting Dr. Marsden. Are you with his practice, Ms. . . .’’

‘‘Delaney. No, I’m not. I’m . . . I knew Dr. Jorgensen.’’

She set down the file folders she was carrying. ‘‘Because the office really isn’t open.’’ She glanced around at the waiting room, with its soothing gray carpet, Gorman prints of Navajo mothers, and coffee table covered with issues of
Fortune
magazine. On the counter were wilting flower arrangements with sympathy cards taped to them.

She forced a smile. ‘‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m expecting another surgeon who’s thinking of buying the practice.’’ She put out her hand. ‘‘Esther Olson. I’m the office manager.’’

I didn’t know how to work into the conversation I wanted to have, but Esther Olson sounded as if she wanted to talk. I said, ‘‘Any chance that the new doctor will keep the staff on board?’’

‘‘Who knows?’’ This time her smile failed, flat out.

‘‘Had you been with Dr. Jorgensen a long time?’’

‘‘Thirteen years. Since before Dr. Kalajian joined the practice. Oh. Who would have believed, both of them . . .’’ She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. ‘‘When Dr. Kalajian passed away, we didn’t think we could keep the practice going. Dr. Jorgensen was a wreck, and some patients didn’t want to come to an office where a man had been . . . where someone had expired. But we pulled together and Dr. Jorgensen soldiered on. . . .’’

I had forgotten that Mel Kalajian was murdered in this building. Now I recalled that he had interrupted a robber. Olson’s gaze lengthened, giving the impression that she was seeing the office as it had been in happier, more profitable times, when Neil Jorgensen had snipped, peeled, and liposucked Santa Barbara’s richest. On his best days Jorgensen could turn an eye lift into an excavation. On his worst . . . I shuddered to think of him operating when, as Olson described it, he was a wreck.

She brought herself back. ‘‘Did you know Dr. Kalajian too?’’

‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘This must have been an awful year for you.’’

She took off her rimless glasses and cleaned them on a handkerchief. ‘‘Yes. Ever since that night in July . . . when I got that horrible phone call from Dr. Jorgensen, telling me that Dr. Kalajian had been . . . that he was gone.’’

‘‘Dr. Jorgensen was the one who found his body?’’

It was a question too far. She put her glasses back on and scrutinized me.

She said, ‘‘I’m sorry. How did you say you knew Dr. Jorgensen?’’

‘‘I knew him in a professional capacity.’’

‘‘You’re a doctor?’’

‘‘No.’’

I really must train myself to lie reflexively. Esther Olson was no dummy—she may have idealized Neil Jorgensen, but she knew how often his patients looked in the mirror and decided to sue.

She said, ‘‘You’re a lawyer?’’ Quickly she eyed my jeans and T-shirt. ‘‘A process server?’’ She took a step back, as if to prevent me from touching her with a summons and complaint I might have hidden in my bra.

‘‘A lawyer,’’ I said. ‘‘But I’m not here because of any court action, Ms. Olson.’’

‘‘For God’s sake, the man is dead. Can’t you people leave him alone?’’

‘‘I called the ambulance for him the night he was hit by the truck.’’

‘‘Oh . . .’’ She had been pointing toward the door, about to kick me out, but now her fingertips went to her lips. ‘‘You’re the bystander. We’ve been wondering if we’d ever meet you.’’ Her lips began trembling. Softly she touched my arm. ‘‘Thank you.’’

She gestured to a sofa. ‘‘Please, I’m sorry, sit down. I’ve so been wanting to talk to you. You’re one of the last people to have spoken with the doctor. He never came out of his coma, you know, but you were there— maybe you can tell me what happened and help me understand what led him to that church. I need closure on this.’’

Her eyes were bloodhound sad. I didn’t want to tell her that Jorgensen had ended his life screaming the F-word. Instead I explained how he had interrupted the service, saying, ‘‘He was quite upset.’’

‘‘You were inside the church? I thought . . . the paramedics said . . .’’ She withdrew several inches. ‘‘Are you a member of the Remnant?’’

‘‘No. Not a chance in hell.’’

I told her a bit, and she drew closer again. She said, ‘‘They’re vicious people, the Remnant. They picketed Dr. Kalajian’s funeral.’’

‘‘Ms. Olson, this will sound strange, but I’m going to say it anyway. I think that somehow the Remnant was responsible for Dr. Jorgensen’s death.’’ She stared, and I said, ‘‘I know it sounds crazy.’’

‘‘No, you’re right. I can’t put my finger on why, exactly, but you’re right.’’

Leaning forward anxiously, she again asked me to describe Jorgensen’s final minutes. I tried to convey his confusion and foul anger. She shook her head.

‘‘That had to be the illness,’’ she said. ‘‘He just wasn’t like that.’’

Actually, in my experience he had been a virtuoso at conjugating the verb
fuck
, but Olson wouldn’t have considered that a testimonial. I said, ‘‘Do you have any idea how he contracted rabies?’’

‘‘None. It’s simply inconceivable.’’ She exhaled sharply. ‘‘And now those people have to take the vaccine. . . . Watch, next thing they’ll be filing lawsuits against his estate. You mark my words.’’

Not wanting to get my butt kicked through the door, I decided against telling her I was one of those people. Changing the subject, I said, ‘‘Dr. Kalajian’s murderer. Was he ever captured?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘I understand that Dr. Kalajian interrupted a robber who was after drugs.’’

‘‘That’s what the police think. But . . .’’ She scrunched up her mouth, clearly trying to decide whether she wanted to get into this. ‘‘It bothered Dr. Jorgensen, and now it’s bothering me. The circumstances . . . just don’t add up.’’

She told me the sequence of events leading up to Mel Kalajian’s death. It was a weeknight in early July, and Kalajian had been visiting postsurgical patients at St. Francis. He left the hospital at seven thirty and walked back to the office, which was closed by then.

Kalajian, said Olson, was a tall, well-built man in his early forties. He took care of himself, working out five days a week at the gym.

‘‘He lifted weights, you understand? He was strong.’’

He had gone into his office. Then—perhaps noticing lights that shouldn’t have been on, or hearing a noise—he went to one of the treatment rooms, which was outfitted for minor surgery. It was his penultimate act in life.

From the disarray in the room it was clear that Kalajian had put up a fight. From the amount of blood pooled around his body it was clear that he had fallen on the spot where he was stabbed. He had been rammed through the chest with a liposuction cannula.

Olson said, ‘‘The police weren’t forthcoming, except to say that they thought a drug addict had broken into the office. Dr. Jorgensen couldn’t get any more information out of them no matter how strongly he insisted.’’

I pictured the stalemate at the police station: Jorgensen arrogant and grief-stricken, the police defensive, hackles up.

‘‘Dr. Jorgensen thought a patient was involved.’’ She looked to see if I was skeptical.

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘When the police let us back in the office, Dr. Jorgensen found something. It was just a little thing, but he thought it was significant. He found a sheet of paper under the receptionist’s desk, from a patient’s file—the information sheet they fill out when they first come in. He went to stick it back in the file, but the file was missing. He was convinced that someone had taken it, someone who didn’t want anyone to know they had been here. Which would be someone involved in the robbery and murder.’’

I guess I did look skeptical.

‘‘I know that’s a leap. But he tried checking out this patient. Her name was on the information sheet. It turns out the name, the address, everything was fake.’’

‘‘Did he tell the police?’’

‘‘Yes. But they thought it was a dead end. Whoever’s fingerprints were on the sheet, they had no police record. The police never came up with a real name. After that they lost interest.’’

‘‘What was the name she gave?’’

‘‘I don’t remember. It wasn’t anything distinctive.’’

‘‘Do you know anything? Age? Ethnicity? The reason she came in?’’

‘‘No, and I couldn’t tell you even if I knew. That would violate doctor-patient confidentiality. Why?’’

‘‘Because I bet Dr. Jorgensen thought she belonged to the Remnant. When he burst into the church that night, he pointed and shouted, ‘She knows.’ ’’

Her neck stretched and tightened. ‘‘Oh, my God.’’

She glanced at the file cabinets and computer systems behind the front counter. ‘‘Do you think you could recognize her?’’

‘‘Possibly, if she’s from the Remnant.’’

‘‘Come here.’’ She went behind the counter and flipped on a computer. ‘‘Our recent patient files are on the computer, and they include photographs. We have digital-imaging software that allows the surgeon to alter photos, to show the patient how they’ll look after their procedure.’’ The computer booted up. ‘‘I shouldn’t be showing this to you. But if you think you can recognize this woman . . .’’

‘‘I won’t spy on personal data, I promise.’’ I sat down at the desk.

She said, ‘‘There are hundreds of files. All I know is that this woman was Dr. Kalajian’s patient, and—’’

Just as I set my fingers on the keyboard, there was a knock on the door.

Olson said, ‘‘There’s the buyer. Listen, go on and search the database. But please don’t say anything while I give him this tour.’’

An older man came in wearing a bespoke suit and a look of polite curiosity. Olson starched on a smile and marched across the room, her hand extended like a saber.

I started by searching for names I knew. Tabitha Delaney. Nothing. Good. Chenille Wyoming, Shiloh Keeler, Glory Moffett. Nothing. I set search parameters to bring up Kalajian’s female patients from the past year and began clicking through files, starting with A. Up flashed photo after photo of middle-aged skin, adipose tissue, marbled flesh and lumps and massed unhappiness, all within the normal range of human design. B, C, D. More faces looking for gratification via the knife. E, F, G. An occasional birth defect or disfigurement as the result of accident or disease.

H through N. Up popped a Technicolor shot of someone’s ass. It was a stupendous ass, its immensity evident even in 2-D, but skillful lifting and repacking had molded it into rounded twin powerhouses—regal Clydesdale buttocks. Kalajian had been an artist.

My eyes fell on the patient’s name.
Olson, Esther
. Just then she came back into the lobby, chatting with the new doctor. Quickly I clicked to the next file.

There she was. The longing, slightly nervous look in her eyes grabbed at me. The name on the file read,
Peters, Kelly
, with a big red notice attached: PAYMENT OVERDUE. Looking at the before photo, I now knew why she had that scar at the corner of her left eye. Kalajian had removed a blue-ink tattoo of a teardrop.

It was Glory.

My heart was thumping. This was what I had hoped to find—confirmation that the Remnant had been here. Yet to think that Glory might have killed Mel Kalajian made my eyes ache.

Olson walked the doctor outside. I began printing the file.

Glory.
It’s not my original name, you know. . . .
And Kelly Peters wasn’t her name either, I’d bet money. Dammit. Had she broken into the office that July evening? Did Mel Kalajian find her with drug bottles in her hands? Did she grab the cannula and . . . No. Kalajian had been strongly built, and had engaged in a hellacious fight with his attacker. Glory was a lightweight young woman. Those dots didn’t connect.

The more I thought about it, the less sense that scenario made. Why would Glory go to the trouble having a tattoo removed if she simply planned to break into the office after hours? Then it hit me.