Cursed

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 quickly 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!”

He clicks off and I settle back in the tub for a quick soak. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction that the mere mention of my being in the tub drove Zack to distraction. I wonder if he’s, at this very moment, thinking of me. I shake my head as I recall the zealousness with which he began typing. Barakov is the only thing on Zack Armstrong’s mind right now. And I’d bet everything I have that Zack is not picturing the doctor naked and in a bath.

CHAPTER 9

I’ve no sooner gotten off the phone with Zack than my cell rings again.

“What? You want a progress report on the bath?”

There is prolonged and pointed silence on the other end. I check the caller ID. It’s a number I’m not familiar with. Definitely not Zack.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “This is Emma Monroe.”