"I don't think I did anything illegal," Margaret's recorded voice said nervously. "Not really, anyway. But what if I did? Would you turn me over to the police?"

"I don't have any reason to, Margaret. I'm just trying to get information that might help my client. I mean, you didn't do any bodily harm? Rob somebody, nothing like that?"

"Certainly not! I just – knew something I didn't tell. I don't even know for sure it was important."

"In that case, I seriously doubt it's an issue," Larrabee said. "How about this? You tell me what happened. I'll give you my professional opinion on whether you broke the law. If there's any problem, we can discuss it."

He heard her sigh, a thin, spinsterish sound. "It's not just the police," she said. "I was very disturbed. But-" The sentence lingered, unfinished.

"But it's time to make peace with it, huh?"

"I would like to get it settled," she said.

"Margaret, I do this all the time, and I can promise you, a lot of people it wouldn't bother. But you, I can tell you've got a real conscience. Believe me, you'll feel much better."

She sighed again, then started remembering out loud.

Margaret had worked for D'Anton for about two years, from 1995 to 1997. She had been in her forties then, never married, a highly competent nurse with a great deal of administrative experience. She had been wooed to D' Anton via a head-hunting agency. Her stay had by and large been a smooth one. She didn't have much personal contact with D'Anton – he tended to be brusque, and mainly ignored his support staff. His anger could be ferocious. The clinic was not a relaxed or friendly place, but it was run at a high level of competence, and pay and prestige were excellent.

She remembered the girl who had disappeared, Katie Bensen, because street-smart Katie had been very much out of place among D'Anton's other, affluent patients. But the staff did not ask questions. Katie's procedures had been simple, a couple of light skin peels to remove traces of adolescent acne.

About two months later, a plainclothes SFPD detective came in. Margaret was handling the desk. He showed her a photo of Katie and asked if they had a current address for her. He was polite, apologetic for bothering the august Dr. D'Anton, and it was clear that he did not really expect any help – this was just a space that needed to be filled in on a report.

Margaret looked up Katie's records. Her address was the same one the detective had, an apartment in San Francisco. To make sure, Margaret checked the billing records. There she found something surprising. Katie's bill had, in fact, been sent to a different address – D'Anton's Marin County house.

Margaret thought it must be a mistake. The billing was done by a separate office, an independent contractor that handled many other physicians. Someone there must have been looking at D'Anton's address for another reason and carelessly typed it in.

She told the detective that the clinic had the same address for Katie that the police did. He thanked her and left.

Then, wanting to correct the mistake, Margaret went to D' Anton and told him what had happened.

She had never seen him get flustered before. He stammered out an explanation – Katie had modeled for his wife, Julia, and the procedures were partial payment for that.

Then he got angry. The police had no right to come around casting aspersions on him. And Margaret had no business giving out information without a subpoena.

She was taken aback. It was nothing medical, or confidential, she pointed out – just confirming the address the police already had. D'Anton barked a few more sharp words about loyalty and priorities, then turned his back and stalked away.

D' Anton ignored her for the rest of the week. Then he surprised her again, by asking her to meet with him privately – to stay late, on a Friday evening, after everyone else had gone home.

He ushered her into one of the operating rooms and closed the door behind, even though the building was empty. There was a cold intensity to him that frightened her. She had violated his strict policy of clinic confidentiality, he told her; she was being dismissed. If she agreed, without argument, he would give her an excellent recommendation and three months' severance pay. Otherwise, she would get neither.

She moved to Southern California soon afterward and found a new job.

"I should have gone to the police and told them," she said to Larrabee. "I'm not proud of it." Then she added, defensively, "But – you know. I was a nurse, a woman. He was the great surgeon. He'd have gotten rid of me anyway, with a bad recommendation and no money."

"Why do you suppose he got so upset, Margaret?" Larrabee asked.

He waited through her long silence, aware that this was the question that must have gnawed at her through the years.

"All I can think," she finally said, "is that he didn't want anybody to connect him, or his wife, to a girl who'd gone missing."

Tina arrived at Larrabee's right on schedule. She was wearing blue jean cutoffs, a tank top, and sandals. Her legs, he realized, were really pretty good. She handed him a sheet of paper, a computer printout. It read:

Case file # 3184-E 06: entry # 14 on this document

Opened: 7/25/98

Insured: D. Welles D' Anton, M.D. Complainant: Roberta E. Massey / 1632 Paloma Ct / RC

Allegation: Professional misconduct Status: No further action taken by complainant. Statute of limitations expired: 7/25/99

The reference was to an actual file, the kind kept in a folder in a cabinet, in the insurance company's offices. It would contain specific information about the case – but getting to it, at least legally, was next to impossible. Professional misconduct could mean many things, and it was possible that the claim was frivolous and had just gone away.

But D' Anton might have paid somebody off, as he had Margaret Pendergast. Apparently, the matter either had been dropped or settled informally – directly between the complainant and the physician, with no action from the insurance company. "You're a gem, Tina. What do I owe you?"

"Call it three hundred. It didn't take long." He gave her three one-hundred-dollar bills. She folded her arms. With the cutoffs and purse slung over her shoulder, she looked like a hooker from the neck down. But her face, with the cat's-eye glasses, still belonged in the world of fluorescent-lit offices.

"So?" she said. "You want me to do you?"

Larrabee hesitated, touched by something like superstition at disrespect to this serious business. But it wasn't tough to shake off. He glanced at the clock. Monks wasn't due for another hour.

"Well – sure, if you're sure," he said. You worried it'll fuck up our professional relationship?"

"Not from my side. You're not using me as leverage to break up with Bev, nothing like that?"

"Nope. We're tight. It's just something she can't give me."

"I feel a little funny about it being one way."

"That's okay. This way, I'm not really cheating." Tina unslung her purse and set it on a table, swinging into business mode.

"How do you like to, uh, operate?" Larrabee asked.

"You go sit on the couch."

He did as he was told. It was like being under the watchful gaze of a nurse.

She took a small tape recorder from her purse and clicked it on. Then she got beside him on the couch and curled herself over his lap, like a cat. She was a good warm weight, with perfume that suggested lilacs.

The tape started playing, the strumming of a folksy guitar, then a husky male voice talking. Larrabee realized, with some surprise, that it was an old episode of Prairie Home Companion.

"We used to listen to it in the joint," she said. "His voice turns me on. Wow, I haven't done this in a long time."