Sunscreen-the Best Skin Cream Around
There′s only one skin cream in the world you need to use, and that′s sunscreen. Make sure you wear it every day; put it on before you leave the house. Don′t forget to put it on your hands, neck, and exposed chest areas-they get as much sun as your face!
– 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.
Oh my God. Dr. Medina wants to go out with me. Medina must be attracted to me. To me.
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:
1. Stop whining about Jonathan.
2. Return Medina′s phone call the next day.
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.″