Makeovers Can Be Murder (18 page)

Evelyn reached for my hand. ″Oh, sweetie,″ she said. ″You′ve been through such a hard time. On the plus side, your depression must be lifting if you′re obsessing about Dr. Medina. Just keep in mind that you′re a woman on the rebound. I don′t want you to set yourself up for more hurt.″

″I′m not going after Medina,″ I said. ″The whole idea is ridiculous. Besides, it would be completely cliché to fall for one′s doctor right after a major breakup.″

I hadn′t fallen for Medina—not yet, anyway. For one thing, it was much too soon in the wake of the total demo-ing of my heart and soul by Jonathan and Gi.

But something about my encounter with the plastic surgeon the previous day had left an impression on my spirit—not to mention on my libido. Medina was definitely a hottie.

Evelyn giggled. ″So what was your final verdict on the thermal-laser wand?″ she asked. ″Did it melt anything? You waist looks a little thinner, I think. Let me see.″

I glanced around us. The only diners nearby were an older couple. They appeared to be completely absorbed by a plate of artisanal-looking bread and cheese.

″The jury′s still out on the thermal-laser wand,″ I said. ″Right now my stomach′s still kind of swollen.″

I lifted my blouse to demo my raw, still-healing midriff. It looked like I′d been hugged by a giant boa constrictor.

″Wow.″ Evelyn peered at my skin. ″He did that with a
wand
? That′s more bruising than I got with my implants.″

″Aw, jeez. Really?″

The wand had actually been surprisingly painful. Even with the softening effect of a local anesthetic, it had felt like getting zapped by a cattle prod. The first time I′d felt the touch of the wand, I jumped and let out a yelp. Frank had gotten that on tape, of course. It was certain to be the highlight of the marketing promo.

Talk about reporter involvement. If a shot of me squealing like a stuck pig and flopping around on top of a skin doctor′s table didn′t satisfy Beatty, nothing ever would.

Chapter 35

Sunscreen—the Best Skin Cream Around

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

Two hours, two orders of tiramisu, and a shared bottle of Chianti later, Evelyn and I were rehashing the latest developments in Jana′s murder.

It was nearly nine thirty. My news story about Belmont Miller′s allegations—that his sister′s body organs had been stolen—was scheduled to air that night on the eleven o′clock news. I′d spent the entire day fleshing out the story (if you′ll pardon the expression) with records from the firm that Belmont had hired to do the private autopsy on Jana, showing that her heart valve had been removed. I didn′t use the video of her body that the firm had attached to an e-mail. Even if we blacked out her face, the video was far too gruesome. I wouldn′t have used it even if Jana had been a total stranger.

My report had ended with my stand-up, in which I relayed a snippy ″no comment″ I′d gotten from the medical examiner′s office in response to the organ-theft allegations that I was reporting.

As I told Evelyn about my story, her eyes went wide.

″Who would steal a heart valve from a
dead
person?″ she asked. ″And what would they do with it, anyway?″

″They probably sold it to a medical school someplace in exchange for some quick cash,″ I told her. ″They′re circling the wagons over at the ME′s office, so it′s hard to get access. And the police aren′t talking to me right now at all, because I′m on the bottom of their shit list because of the story we ran about Antoine Hurley. They think I′m a traitor to the prosecution.″

But I knew one guy who could find out what was going on over there.

I needed to put in a call to Fish.

 

The message light was blinking on the answering machine when I got home that night.

I hesitated before checking the message, wondering whether it might be Jonathan. He seldom called me on the landline, but leaving a message at home is just what I′d expect if he wanted to leave a message without danger of my picking up.

I could already feel the anger prickling in my fingertips as I punched in the numbers to retrieve the message. But the call was from Dr. Medina.

″Hi, Kate. I hope you don′t mind me calling you at home,″ Medina′s message began. ″I just wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed our interview yesterday.″

After a pause, he continued, ″And hey. I was just wondering if you might like to have lunch or dinner with me this weekend, or whenever you′re available. I don′t know if you have a rule against dating the subjects of your stories, but I would really enjoy getting to know you better. I don′t mind admitting that I′d like to see
you
.″ At the end of the message, he left his private cell number.

I wrote down the doctor′s number. Then I replayed his message five more times, savoring each syllable of it.

I′d like to see you
, his message had said.

No palpitating heart of a fifteen-year-old could have been launched farther into orbit by a guy′s unexpected call. If a NASA space technician were to describe my emotions in strictly technical terms, he′d say I was jitterbugging on Jupiter.

I didn′t even consider calling Medina back right away. That would come off as too eager. Let other women play the dating game according to modern rules by calling a guy back right away or even—no way!—calling him first. I preferred to wait. That was the way my mom had raised me, and she died before I got old enough to rebel.

Next I indulged in a completely adolescent girl-crush exercise. Sitting at my laptop in the dining room, I Googled Medina′s name. I was looking for every tiny bit of information about him that existed out in cyberspace.

Most of the links that popped up were already familiar to me. I′d already researched Medina′s background for my story about his thermal-laser-wand procedure, so it was hard to get anything new. But I did find a few interesting tidbits. Along with a handful of other doctors and medical personnel, he made yearly flights to Bolivia, Uruguay, and other impoverished parts of the globe to perform surgical operations for children. Medina specialized in correcting facial deformities in very young children. The charitable medical operation that he worked with was called Global Docs for Humanity. A news photo showed Medina posed against the backdrop of a mountaintop village, surrounded by children and smiling adults.

That′s impressive
, I thought.

From that point on, my fantasies took the brain helm; I was off and running to the Libido Races.

I tapped in a search for Titian′s
Venus of Urbino
. My fingertips left faint sweatprints on the keyboard.

Articles and pictures of the famous reclining-nude painting flashed across the screen. I studied them for a while, absorbing some of the excerpts. Some reviewers of the painting conjectured: Was Titian′s Venus a goddess? A courtesan? An archetype of the Renaissance Everywoman? This Venus had a look in her eyes of bold and uninhibited sexual desire. Her eyes dared the viewer to approach. She had one cheek nestled into her hair, which was a delicate cascade of reddish blond curls that spilled over her bared shoulder. After almost five hundred years, the Venus of Urbino remained an enigma. She was an object of desire for men for the ages.

The flushed feeling I′d first felt in Medina′s office washed over me again.

Did Medina look at me like that? Did he see me the way Jonathan looked at Gi in the photo I′d seen of the two of them together? Jonathan had looked at Gi as if he′d wanted to rip her clothes off and do her, right in front of the camera. I
hated
the way Jonathan had looked at Gi.

Clearly I was overdue for a romantic sea change. I′d been focusing on Jonathan like he was Moby Dick, when there were tons of . . . ahem . . .
fish
in the sea.

Right at that moment, I gave myself a brand-new set of marching orders:

I was washing my face in the bathroom when Elfie, who′d been rubbing against my ankles, suddenly froze. She shot out of the bathroom and dove under the bed.

Elfie is an excellent burglar alarm system. She responds the instant anyone sets foot outside the front door of my house.

Drying my face on a towel, I stepped into the bedroom. Then I paused to listen. It seemed quiet. Almost.

Through the living room, a faint sound was coming from the front door. It wasn′t a knock exactly. It sounded like someone was slowly turning the doorknob. No sound could have been more chilling. Now
I
froze.

I certainly wasn′t going to fling open the door to see who it was. Maybe it was simply someone disoriented or trying the wrong door. But that seemed unlikely.

As if to answer my question, the doorknob rattled back and forth. Violently this time. Someone shoved against the door. Trying to break in, and none too subtly.

I grabbed the wireless phone from its base by my bed. Sending up a prayer of thanks that a few months back I′d replaced the previous owner′s flimsy locks with deadbolts, I punched in 911.

″This is Kate Gallagher,″ I said to the emergency operator who answered. ″Someone is trying to break into my house right now. It′s 221 Amber Lane. Please send a squad car as soon as possible. And please tell them to
hurry
.″

Chapter 36

Dot Your Wand

—From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan

 

 

It was time for a quick change of strategy.

The 911 operator had sent a squad car, but in the meantime I decided to become my own siren.

″I don′t know who the hell you are, but the police are on the way!″ I screamed toward the door.

Dashing into the kitchen, I grabbed a knife from the wooden knife block on the counter, and a skillet from the cupboard. Then I kicked the walls. Anything to make noise and scare whoever it was off.

″Get
out
of here. Get
out
—get
out
!″

The 911 operator, who was still on the line, said in a worried tone, ″Miss Gallagher? What′s happening? Are you okay?″

Bomp-bomp-bomp!
Another sound at my front door. Only this was knocking, authoritative and official sounding. It couldn′t be the intruder.

″Kate Gallagher?″ a deep male voice said. ″Dur ham Police Department.″

Still clutching the skillet, knife, and phone in my hands, I crept to the door. I opened it a sliver. Two patrolmen stood there wearing serious-responder expressions. One of them I recognized from having covered previous crime scenes. I remembered his name was De la Cruz.

Letting the knife slip from my hand, I opened the door wider. (Never let a cop see a knife in your hand under any circumstances, by the way. It can be dangerous.)

″You got here really fast,″ I said to De la Cruz.

″One of your neighbors called—you got a great neighborhood watch here. What happened, Miss Gallagher?″ De la Cruz said to me. The fact that he didn′t need to confirm who I was meant that he′d obviously recognized me, too.

I explained the twisty doorknob sound to them, plus the pushing-on-the-door thing that had scared the bejesus out of me. I have to admit, my explanation sounded much less dramatic than the experience had
felt
in real time.

″So you didn′t get a look at the guy?″ De la Cruz said, while making some notes in his report pad.

″No,″ I said. ″I just made as much noise as I could to scare him off.″

The other cop, who′d been examining the doorknob, straightened up. ″Hey, Cruz,″ he said. ″Take a look. I found jimmy marks.″

″Jimmy marks?″ I said. ″Are those from the guy trying to break in?″

″Yup. Definitely,″ De la Cruz said, peering at the brass doorknob. ″It was probably an attempted burglary. We′ve had a bunch of them around here lately. Usually they take place during the daytime when no one′s home, though. Not at night. It sounds like they came here looking for trouble.″

Looking for trouble.
I thought about Anaïs Loring of the Newbodies, and how she′d been murdered during a home-invasion robbery. At
night
.

The chill I′d felt earlier washed over me again. I checked my watch. It was nearly ten thirty. I′d heard the first sound of the intruder around ten.

It′s like evil karma is stalking the Newbodies
, Evelyn had said to me the other night on the phone.
Who′s next?

Was it supposed to have been
me
?

Chapter 37

Waist-Cincher Magic

If you haven′t discovered waist cinchers yet, run, do not walk, to the undergarment section of your department store. These miracle support garments suck your waist in by several inches.
Oh
my God. I never leave home without one, especially when I′m feeling bloated.

—From
The Little Book of Beauty Secrets
by Mimi Morgan

 

 

Fish kept vigil on my couch into the wee hours of Thursday morning, just to make sure I was safe. I think he was secretly hoping my intruder would return, just so he could kick some intruder ass.

In addition to appointing himself my personal watchdog, Fish had promised to follow up with the medical examiner′s office to find out who had illegally sold Jana′s heart valve.