Cursed Page 8

  “I’ve got a delivery service on speed dial. Hector is probably filing a missing person’s report as we speak because he didn’t hear from me tonight.”

  Zack smiles. “Hector? You’re on a first-name basis with the delivery boy? Please tell me the two of you don’t have a thing going.”

  “A thing? You, my friend, are watching too much porn.”

  “Can a guy watch too much porn?” Zack checks his watch.

  He tries to be subtle, but I notice—trained observer that I am. I glance at mine, too. We probably have a little over an hour before the moon rises and our evening has to come to an end.

  I stand up and start to clear the table. “I’ll do the dishes.”

  Zack follows me into the kitchen with the salad bowl and bottle of dressing in hand. “Just leave them. I’ll throw them in the dishwasher later. We’ve got about thirty minutes of tape to review.”

  “Mind if I make some coffee?”

  Zack is already on his way over to the flat-screen. “Help yourself. Beans are in the container next to the coffeemaker. It’ll take me a few minutes to hook this up.”

  I make short order of grinding the beans and within a minute or two the kitchen fills with the aroma of a dark French roast. Zack has hooked his laptop up to the flat-screen television. The display shows eight labeled views of Barakov’s offices divided into blocks: Lobby, OR, Recovery, Reception, Elevator, Stairs, Break Room, Hallway.

  “Mugs?” I ask.

  “Next to the sink.”

  I pour two cups, adding the requisite cream and two sugars to Zack’s, then join him on the sofa.

  “All set?”

  “I have this paused close to the time Isabella Mancini’s car went through that light. This way we won’t miss her.”

  I nod. “Hit it.”

  Zack presses PLAY and the various blocks on the screen begin to change. People walk in and out of the lobby. The OR and recovery room remain empty. We watch Silvia Barton move from her post in reception to the break room and back. Barakov walks down the hallway into what I guess is an exam room. A minute or two later he emerges and goes into his office. A woman comes out maybe a minute after him and then joins him. Her face isn’t visible, but her stature and hair color are wrong for Isabella. There are two elevators, and the block showing those images alternate between the two.

  “There’s no view inside Barakov’s office or the exam rooms,” I point out.

  Zack has been quietly sipping his coffee. “No. But we’ve got the stairwell and the hallway. If anyone were to go in or out, we’d know. Keep watching. I’ll be right back.”

  Zack gets up suddenly and heads for a door at the far end of the living room, past the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him go through it. I reach for the mouse on the coffee table in front of me and pause the video.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Zack is already on his way back, a set of rolled-up papers in his hand. “I picked these up from the city. They were filed at the time of the renovation of Barakov’s office.”

  He spreads the plans out next to the laptop. “Unless you’re Spider-Man, there’s only two points of entry. The way we came in and the way we went out.”

  “So if we don’t catch Isabella in the stairwell or lobby . . .”

  “She didn’t enter the building,” Zack finishes.

  We resume play. Ten minutes go by, then another ten. It’s past Isabella’s appointment time.

  “What about the parking garage below? Any cameras there?”

  “No. I swung by there after picking up the plans. There are no cameras on or in the garage, so no visual records. But there’s also street parking and several nearby lots.”

  I reach over and click the mouse to fast-forward. Within a few minutes, the video comes to an end.

  I set my cup down on the coffee table. “How do we know she wasn’t late? Or maybe Barton or the doctor did something to the footage?”

  “I’m the one who stipulated the start and stop times. The file was emailed to me within minutes. That kind of seamless editing would have taken longer to pull off. But I think you’re onto something about the parking. Where did she park and what the hell happened to the car?”

  “The police must have run the plates.”

  Zack’s eyebrows rise, expressing his lack of confidence. “I’m gonna check myself.” He looks at his watch, then gazes out at the darkening night sky.

  He stands up, a flush of concern flashing in his eyes. “I have to go,” he tells me. “I have an appointment.”

  I know what it is, so I make it easy on him. It’s the second night of the full moon.

  “And I should get home before I turn into a pumpkin. Thanks for dinner.”

  “Anytime.”

  I wonder where he spends those three nights a month when the beast emerges. It’s curiosity, though, not alarm. I make no comment, just gather my stuff and go. Relief replaces the concern in his eyes as he shows me to the door.

  I pause on the way out. I have to ask, “Do you still feel we’re on the right track with Barakov?”

  I get the shrug. “The dots don’t seem to be connecting. And he did volunteer the security footage. Still, where there’s smoke . . .”

  “There’s usually fire,” I finish. “You check on the plates and keep going through the evidence we’ve got. I’m going to do a little more digging into Barakov. Let’s touch base tomorrow after lunch.”

  Zack agrees and I leave. I wish I had a stronger sense of whether Barakov is or isn’t involved in the disappearances of Amy Patterson and Isabella Mancini. For the moment, I’m sitting squarely on the fence.

  I back out of Zack’s driveway and onto the road. In my rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of a car parked down the street. Sarah’s silver BMW is unmistakable. Is she here to seek refuge during the full moon or to finish her earlier conversation with Zack? Perhaps she’s his appointment and he’s expecting her. Somehow I don’t believe that. Maybe I don’t want to believe it.

  Zack may consider Sarah an ex. He might consider whatever the two of them had casual. I doubt it’s the same for Sarah.

  By the time I get home, the sun has set. The moon, full and bright, shines down from the night sky and spills into the garden. After patrolling the house and the grounds, I perform my evening ritual: set up the coffeepot for tomorrow morning, go through the mail I picked up on the way in, pour myself a glass of wine. The wine I take with me into the bedroom, where I slip into one of a dozen Chinese silk sleeping gowns that I own. I take my hair down and shake it out, letting it fall about my shoulders and flow free. I contemplate a long soak in the bath, but I’m tired and decide against it.

  Instead I wander out onto the deck. The night air is cool, but my skin is warm, my face flush. I’m tired, yet restless. I curl up in the old porch swing. Its rocking motion, like always, comforts me. I lean back, sip my wine, and breathe in the fragrant night-blooming jasmine. The motion of the swing lulls me. My thoughts drift to Zack.

  I think about what might have happened if I’d let things in the kitchen continue just a few seconds longer. I think about the way he moved, the way his body felt pressed against mine. I remember the way my body responded. How my breasts felt heavy. How my nipples peaked and hardened.

  I couldn’t ride the sensation then, couldn’t give in to it. But here, alone in the dark, there’s nothing to stop me. I sense a familiar wetness between my legs.

  I gulp my wine and squeeze my thighs together.

  I tell myself it’s been too long since I’ve had sex. It’s release I need, plain and simple, not Zack. Anyone will do. Anyone can scratch this itch. Anyone.

  I set my glass down on the deck and stretch out, letting my head fall back. I drop the walls, letting the glamour fall away, releasing my power. The air stirs around me, rustling the nearby leaves. My already warm sk
in becomes even more heated. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting the fragrance of the garden flowers fill my lungs. It triggers a memory of another place, another time—a time when everything was possible. When life was uncomplicated and pleasures existed without bounds. If I listen hard enough, I can almost hear the faraway ocean, taste the salt in the air, feel the hands on my body, strong and sure.

  CHAPTER 8

  Day Three: Thursday, April 12

  I’d had a restless night, drifting in and out of sleep. Now as I lie in bed watching the sun filter through the windows lining the front of the carriage house, I know any possibility for real sleep is over. Stifling a yawn, I brace myself and throw back the covers. A run is the last thing I want, but my body knows it’s just what I need. Within minutes I’ve changed into my workout clothes and am out the door heading down Sunset.

  The fog is thick and the streets are wet with dew. It feels more like fall than spring. The wide, palm-lined street is silent save for the sound of my running shoes slapping against the pavement. This is one of the oldest neighborhoods in San Diego, and unlike Michael Dexter’s, most of the Craftsman-style homes with their low-pitched rooflines, overhanging eaves, tapered support columns, and generous front porches have been carefully maintained. They were built in the early nineteen hundreds when I was in another town, living under another name. But I can appreciate their beauty now.

  I take my normal route, merging onto Fort Stockton, then going left onto Hawk before taking another left onto West Lewis. I run past the Historic Business Center. A small coffee shop is in the process of opening. All of the other shops are still shut up tight. Back onto Fort Stockton, I continue on to Presidio Park. I wind my way through a series of paths while keeping an eye out for the homeless that sometimes occupy the area. Although I know how to defend myself, my powers don’t extend to superstrength or superspeed. I’ve often wished they did. Hell, I don’t even have superhealing, not like a vampire or a Were. Demeter didn’t want to make it that easy on me. I’ll heal from anything, but I do it the old-fashioned way, like a human, with time and pain.

  By the time I get back to the house, the fog has lifted. I start the coffee I’d put up the night before. While I wait for it to brew, I whip up a glass of orange-mango juice with a little protein powder. Smoothie in hand, I trek out to the front of the estate’s drive in search of the newspaper. I find it once again in the rosebushes instead of on the concrete. How the kid can miss twenty feet of driveway, yet manage to precisely place the paper in the center of a rosebush day after day, I’ll never know. I manage to retrieve it without suffering any damage from the thorns, then tuck it under my arm and set out to check the property.

  I fish the keys from the pocket of my warm-up jacket, let myself in the front door, and disable the alarm. I swallow the last of my smoothie, leaving the glass on the entryway table along with the paper and yesterday’s mail before heading upstairs. It’s a path I’ve walked hundreds of times. I check the doors and windows. I make sure there haven’t been any plumbing mishaps. Twice a week I water the plants. But not today. My sweep of the downstairs goes quickly. In less than ten minutes I’ve done my duty, secured the house, and am on my way back to the cottage.

  I scan the morning headlines on the way. The first thing I see, on page one of the San Diego Union-Tribune, is a picture of Amy Patterson. According to the article, Amy’s disappearance is now being treated as a kidnapping. The reporter casts Haskell in an unfortunate light. She’s described as being the person who was closest to Amy and in charge of all of her finances. He intimates Haskell is perhaps the person with the most to gain should a ransom be demanded and not be paid and Amy end up dead. What does Haskell have to say for herself? Apparently she failed to return the reporter’s phone calls and granted him nothing more than a big fat “no comment” when he showed up at the gallery unannounced.

  At that, I have to smile. I imagine he got more than a “no comment” when he showed up at the gallery. When I remember Haskell’s brisk, no-nonsense style, what she really said to the reporter was most probably unprintable.

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee hits me as I walk through the door. I put the paper aside and head straight into the dining area, where my laptop awaits. My job for the next few hours is to research Dr. Alexander Barakov. While my laptop powers up, I procrastinate for a few more minutes, washing out the blender and pouring myself a generous cup of coffee. I bring the pot back to the table with me. I know I’m going to need it. Where Zack seems to revel in wading through piles of paper in search of a common denominator, making color-coded notes and arranging them in neat little columns, I find research of this kind tedious, almost painful. Nevertheless, it’s time to get started. I stare at the login prompt. Where to begin is the question.

  Once I do, the hours pass unexpectedly fast. Dr. Alexander Barakov is a renowned and well-connected physician. There are pages of testimonials from satisfied clients. Alongside them are dozens of red-carpet photos of high-profile celebrities—their full breasts, perfect noses, and uplifted asses a testament to his skill. I find more raves and reviews on blogs, a few references to magazine articles. His patients love him. At least the ones who haven’t disappeared.

  Pausing to refill my coffee mug, I take a moment to review my notes.

  Barakov grew up in New York. His father was a physician, his mother a member of the Junior League and the Daughters of the American Revolution. He received his undergraduate degree from Harvard in biology, then went on to Johns Hopkins Medical School, where he excelled academically. He completed his internship at Johns Hopkins Medical Center. That’s where he met the first future Mrs. Alexander Barakov, nursing student Charlotte Murphy. The two married and then Barakov moved on to a coveted fellowship in plastic surgery at UCLA.

  A search of birth records shows two stillbirths and one live birth for the couple. The surviving child died of SIDS at the age of four months. After the death, Charlotte attempted suicide and spent six months in a private psychiatric hospital. There would be other suicide attempts over the next twenty or so years as she struggled with bipolar disorder. Barakov always managed to keep the drama playing out on the home front separate from work.

  While his reputation as a stellar physician steadily grew, Charlotte threw herself into a variety of charity projects. The Los Angeles Times archives hold dozens of photographs of her. There are several articles mentioning her as well. The largest spread occurred seven years ago. That’s when Charlotte Barakov suddenly disappeared without a trace.

  Bingo.

  I bookmark the page.

  About one million people go missing each year in the United States. Ninety percent turn up eventually. With over three hundred million people in the U.S., what are the chances that one man would be connected to not one, not two, but three missing women?

  Although math has never been my strong suit, I think I can say with complete confidence that the odds fall somewhere between astronomical and fucking impossible. I smell a rat.

  An alarm pops up on my computer, interrupting my chain of thought.

  Crap. I’m supposed to meet Liz in an hour. There are a dozen more links in the Times that I need to screen. I move through them quickly, bookmarking those I want to review more thoroughly later. The last one is a wedding announcement from five years ago. Barakov remarried. Wife number two, Dr. Barbara Pierce, is ten years his junior and a surgeon. It was a small ceremony. Barakov’s then long-standing secretary and Pierce’s son from a prior marriage stood up for the couple, who honeymooned in Paris.

  I glance at the clock. Now I’m down to forty-five minutes. I grab my cell and rush into the bathroom. I sweep aside the curtain around the old-fashioned cast-iron claw-foot tub, turn on the taps, and then pour in a generous amount of vanilla and lavender bath salts that I blend myself and keep on a narrow side table in an antique apothecary jar. I may be running late, but there are some luxuries I don’t deny myself. I quick
ly pull my top off over my head and tie up my hair before calling Zack. He doesn’t pick up until the third ring. By that time I’ve managed to divest myself of the rest of my clothes.

  “The check on Isabella’s plates turned up nada,” he grouses upon answering.

  “Yeah? Well, what I’ve got will make up for that ten times over. Guess what.”

  “Is that running water I hear? You’re not calling me from the ladies’ room, are you? Just because you can take a cell phone everywhere doesn’t mean you should.”

  “I’m running late.” I turn off the water, step into the tub, and settle back against the bath pillow. “That was the bath running.”

  The water is so hot that steam is rising. I close my eyes and for a second everything melts away. I can’t help myself—a contented sigh escapes my lips.

  “Emma?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you telling me you’re in the bath?”

  “Focus on the question, Zack.”

  “I’m trying,” he says. Then after a beat, “I could have focused just fine if you’d told me you were in the kitchen, doing dishes.”

  “Okay, I’m in the kitchen doing dishes.”

  “Too late. What was the question?”

  “Guess what happened to Barakov’s first wife.”

  “The charm of being married to one of the Keebler elves wore off and she went in search of a real boy?”

  “You’re making fun of him because he’s short? I thought you told Barakov flaws were interesting.”

  “Unless you’re an asshole. Then they’re fair game.”

  “She disappeared, Zack. Went missing seven years ago without a trace.”

  “Ho-ly shit!”

  I smile. “Knew you’d like that. Listen, I have a lunch date with a friend—”

  “I’ll start digging.”

  “You don’t mind following up on the lead?”

  He’s already clacking away on the keyboard. “Are you kidding me? I’m so going to enjoy this!”