It turned out that the doctors in Miles’s office were not taking appointments for the next day, which was Friday. In fact, when I called that afternoon from my office at HotRescues, the receptionist sounded weepy when she told me that, at the best of times, appointments were usually not available for a week or more. Now, due to a death in their professional family, this was the worst of times.
That gave me an even better idea of the snobbery undoubtedly at work there along with the plastic surgeons’ knives. People who actually wanted to have wrinkles cosmetically altered or lips collagened into frozen pouts would probably believe that, if they had to wait for an appointment, those who could do it best were in high demand.
Maybe they genuinely were—although that made me
shake my head, with its unaltered features, in incomprehension.
As I talked on the phone, I eyed my computer screen, viewing the list of files I had created for Bella’s situation. How could I start filling in blanks if I had to wait for eons to talk to people in the office where Miles had worked?
“I do have a cancellation on Monday, though,” the receptionist said after a pause. “For Dr. Santoval. I think she’ll be seeing patients again then, although …” Her voice tapered off.
“I heard on the news about what happened to Dr. Frankovick.” I lowered my voice with sympathy. “Such a terrible situation. I’m sure you’re all in mourning.” She was unlikely to be the object of my planned inquiry, but getting anyone to talk could lead to something helpful.
“Yes, we are.” Her response was a combination of hoarseness and sob, and I perversely felt tears rush to my eyes. I knew what it was like to mourn someone. Despite Miles Frankovick’s attitude toward saving pets and his treatment of Bella, he’d undoubtedly left behind some oblivious people who cared that he was gone. Like his staff. His coworkers—and maybe particularly Dr. Santoval, if her performance on the news wasn’t just an act.
“But life must go on, I guess,” the receptionist continued bravely. “It’ll be hard around here, but we were told that the best way to deal with what happened to Dr. Frankovick is to continue on as well as we can, in his memory. So—well, we did happen to have a cancellation. If you could come in at ten in the morning on Monday … ?”
“Yes,” I said, and gave her my name and cell phone number. I didn’t have to reveal that I was the director of a
no-kill animal shelter like Dr. Frankovick’s ex-wife. But even if they learned who I was, I could still genuinely want to have cosmetic surgery done to improve my looks.
My horrified rejection of the whole idea would not show up on any Web site if they Googled me.
The weekend went fast. Maybe it was because time always seemed to pass quickly these days when my kids were around. I managed to see Kevin now and then between his get-togethers with friends. As always, I remarked—internally and nostalgically—about how much he resembled his dad. Kerry had been tall and slim, with deep red-brown hair and a ready laugh. That also described my sweet, smart son.
I was glad I got to cook a meal at home for him on Sunday night. That way, I spent a couple of extra hours with him.
Kevin was aware that I was training for a marathon, even got to see Matt and me run with our dogs a little before he’d taken off to join his friends on Sunday morning. He was fine with my inviting Matt to join us for dinner that night. He’d met Matt before and seemed to enjoy talking to him about his work with Animal Services.
I supposed that if I decided to intensify my relationship with Matt, Kevin wouldn’t mind. Tracy might not, either. But although Matt and I now had a “friends with benefits” sort of thing going on—and maybe more—I didn’t want to rush things.
Neither did Matt, fortunately. He was astute enough to realize I wasn’t ready for anything too serious. Not yet, at least.
Matt had been married before, too—back when he had been a Navy SEAL. He had divorced around the time he’d left the military and become a K-9 officer in the police force of a small California town. Soon after was when he had moved to L.A. to join Animal Services. He had only recently revealed his former marriage to me, and we had been seeing each other for months. No kids, though, and he seemed to regret it. Maybe that was why he was so kind to animals.
Too soon, Kevin had to jump into his car and head back to his college campus, east of our home. Matt and Rex were still there when Kevin left. Enjoying their company made my son’s departure easier.
They stayed the night, too, and my activities with Matt helped even more with the transition.
When I need medical attention, I don’t head for Beverly Hills. There are other good doctors who staff reputable hospitals much closer to where I live. Dante funds generous benefits to the staff, including me, at HotRescues, so my medical insurance might cover the extra costs of going there. But why bother?
The office where Miles Frankovick’s medical practice had been was in the eighth-floor penthouse of a building on Wilshire Boulevard. I pulled my Venza into a metered spot along the street and hoped that I had overpaid for the time I would spend there. I didn’t want a Beverly Hills parking ticket.
The building was, inevitably, ritzy for a place housing many medical offices, with lots of glass and gold trim
decorating the marble façade. The elevator unfolded proudly to reveal the entry to the office I sought. The carved oak door was labeled ornately with
BEVERLY HILLS’ PREEMINENT COSMETIC SURGERY FACILITY
. To one side, a display case as elegant as a piece of antique furniture framed a list of half a dozen names that included Miles and also Dr. Serena Santoval.
The waiting room looked as if it belonged in a European castle. Its gleaming slate floor was covered with plush braided area rugs and had several conversation areas with richly upholstered chairs and European-looking tables laden with magazines. Several people sat there leafing through the publications. I glanced around to determine whether I thought any needed plastic surgery.
They didn’t.
Neither did the two receptionists behind the desk that led into the medical areas. The women themselves were either hired for their model-like beauty, or they’d partaken of some of the services here as part of their compensation. Or both.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Lauren Vancouver. I have an appointment at ten.”
“Which doctor?” asked the gorgeous brunette with cheekbones as sculpted as any famous starlet’s beneath her perfect complexion. Her lips were poufy enough to suggest that she had, indeed, received collagen injections.
“Dr. Santoval, I believe.” I leaned over the desk conspiratorially. “I’ve heard good things about her, but, well …” I pretended to hesitate. “I heard even better things about Dr. Frankovick.”
The receptionist’s hazel eyes widened and grew damp.
Despite looking like a resident promotion for the doctors, she was, apparently, human. Maybe she was the weepy person I’d spoken with on the phone. Was that part of the image, too?
“He was a good man,” she said. “His patients swore by him.” She straightened her shoulders beneath her white medical top. “But Dr. Santoval is quite good, too. The only thing is, we’ve had to switch your appointment to Dr. Renteen. He is excellent as well. All of our doctors are. But he was the one who worked most closely with Dr. Frankovick. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
She was well programmed. Did I want to talk to Dr. Renteen? Sure, whoever he was. But would I like him? Probably not. And what had happened to Dr. Santoval?
I only had to wait for about five minutes before I was shown from the waiting room into the examination area. This part of the office was almost as showy as the reception room, with artwork along the wall that I was sure included limited-edition prints by names even I would recognize, and more carved wooden doors for the individual rooms.
The chamber I was nearly bowed into was more like an office than an exam room—again, pretty snazzy. The man sitting behind the desk had a thick head of ebony, wavy hair and a smile that revealed gleaming white teeth. His shoulders didn’t appear especially broad beneath his white lab jacket, but maybe that was because it was difficult to modify shoulders by unnatural means. “Hello, I’m Dr. Abe Renteen.” He held out his hand.
“Lauren Vancouver,” I said, shaking it.
He proceeded to ask gently prodding questions about the kind of cosmetic work I sought. I’d already rehearsed what I hoped was a credible intro. It nevertheless sounded like garbage to my own disbelieving ears as I recited it to him—something about feeling as if I was aging too quickly because of the extra skin under my chin and the lines near my eyes.
I watched his gaze move from one location on my face to the other. In a way, I hoped he would just reassure me that I looked fine, but that wasn’t, of course, his job—or the way he would scoop in the barrels of money he undoubtedly received from anyone who actually followed through and had him rework their appearance.
When I was done, he rose and motioned for me to stand, too. His critical examination of my face made me shrivel defensively inside, but I hid it. Hell, I know I look just fine for someone my age.
“I’d heard such wonderful things about Dr. Miles Frankovick,” I said, tossing that out even before I had intended to so I could draw Renteen’s fault-finding to a screeching halt. “I’d been hoping to consult with him … but of course I heard what happened.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Renteen. I’d initially assessed him as maybe five years younger than me or more, even with whatever work he’d had done, but his frown aged him to way beyond my own mid-forties. “It was so sad.” Interestingly, his tone didn’t sound especially regretful.
My mind raced to decide how to follow up. “Maybe it was just as well I didn’t see him, though. You know, I heard on some of those awful TV gossip shows that he and his wife had just divorced and were still involved in some
ugliness. I watch those shows all the time, and for a while their situation was right there in every program, very nasty. There was even some talk that they split because he was involved with a professional colleague.”
I was reaching a bit with that one, to see if I’d get any reaction.
None came, though, so I continued, “All that discussion of cosmetic surgery gave me the idea of coming here and getting a consultation with Dr. Frankovick, but I delayed. I’d figured it was hard for a doctor to really concentrate on doing things well when he’s preoccupied, and for a cosmetic surgeon to possibly mess up …” I let my words trail off—and as I watched Dr. Renteen’s face, I believed that I had somehow hit a nerve.
“He would have done a good job.” That came out through gritted teeth. Ah, a reaction at last. “He was a professional. But all of those paparazzi, those terrible shows—his personal life was just that. Personal. It should never have been allowed to reflect on this office, even when he was alive. And it did. Too much. It—” Dr. Renteen paused. A look of dismay washed over his face, as if he only just realized he was venting to a patient. His eyes closed for an instant, and when he opened them he smiled with no emotion. “But of course it didn’t really reflect on us. Or even on him. He was a fine doctor. Those reporters are just trash-talkers. Now, though we’ll miss Dr. Frankovick, we’ll continue in his fine tradition. Now, let me tell you what I would suggest for you. I’ll then have it written up into a report, which will also contain our estimated charges. You can choose the entire package or whatever parts of it you would like.”
Not a single knife scratch
, I wanted to hurl back into his face.
This seemed as easy as if I’d written the Hollywood script, the way Bella used to do. Dr. Renteen had just given me a good motivation for him to have killed his medical colleague: resentment over bad publicity that could have hurt their whole practice if it didn’t stop. He surely didn’t talk to all his patients like this.
Then again, not all of his patients would necessarily mention watching Miles Frankovick’s ugly divorce being dissected in the media.
I dragged my feet, almost literally, when Dr. Renteen showed me out of his office. I’d have liked to have gotten all the other doctors’ opinions of Miles Frankovick and his divorce and how the publicity might have hurt their medical practice.
I thought about requesting consultations with his colleagues so I could select the one I liked best, but doubted that would go over well.
There was definitely one I wanted to talk to, though: Dr. Serena Santoval.
A couple of other people dressed in white jackets like Dr. Renteen, who were probably doctors, walked down the hall as I asked him a few more questions about timing and recuperation and whatever else I could think of.
Several others in more colorful lab coats darted about like tropical fish, probably nurses or aides to the drably clad physicians.
The woman I recognized from TV finally appeared, coming out of one of the other examination rooms.
“I’ll look forward to your written suggestions,” I told Dr. Renteen. “Thanks.” And then I hurried toward Dr. Santoval.
She stopped to talk to one of the colorfully garbed nurses who had a handful of files. I glanced back and no longer saw Dr. Renteen—a good thing. I dawdled a bit, and when Dr. Santoval started away from the nurse I caught up with her.
“Hi. I just talked to Dr. Renteen about having some cosmetic surgery done, but I was wondering if a lady physician would be even more empathetic with a female patient. Could I possibly consult with you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time just now, and Dr. Renteen is quite a good doctor.” I hadn’t paid much attention to Serena Santoval’s appearance when I had seen her on TV. Now I noticed that, although she was attractive, I didn’t see any indication that she’d had cosmetic surgery herself. Divots parenthesized her mouth, and a few small lines radiated from the corners of her pale blue eyes. Maybe both were caused by recent exhaustion and grief instead of age, though.
I drew a little closer and began to speak as if sharing a confidence. “I really had hoped to see Dr. Frankovick … but of course that’s not possible. I saw you on the news being interviewed about his death. I’m really sorry. I could tell you must have been close. Not that it’s my business, but were you … I mean, were you more than professional colleagues? With your obvious grief—well, some of those shows implied that he was involved with a coworker. Was that you?”