"There's a million luscious young girls with promising futures out there, darling. Some of them get lucky, for a while. But only a few are good enough and smart enough to stay on top."

It seemed clear that Gwen included herself in that select group.

"Let's have a drink," she said. "I've got a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on ice. I've been saving it for a special occasion."

"I'd better stick with club soda for now," he said.

"Come on, just one glass. You'll be more fun if you relax."

"You mean, I'll have more fun?"

"No, be more fun, for me," she said. "I'm very selfish."

Monks smiled. "All right. Just one."

"It's inside. I'll get it."

She left him, walking to a side door of the house, her long slim legs flexing gracefully with a model's fillylike stalk.

Monks heard another loud splash from the swimming pool.

"It's great," a young woman's voice called invitingly. "Like a bath."

He moved quietly closer. The pool was like a grotto, springing out of a rocky cliff, lit by underwater lamps. It had a distinctly Mediterranean feel. Quite a few of the guests were standing around it, drinking and talking.

By now Monks had started to notice that there were two fairly distinct groups – the older and more affluent, and a younger set, dressed casually and even flamboyantly, like Gwen and Coffee Trenette. Tight jeans and tops that accentuated breasts or pectorals seemed to be the prevailing uniform. They were mostly quite attractive – they looked like they were, or could be, actors and models.

One of them, a man, was looking back at him pointedly – glaring, in fact. He had on wraparound sunglasses, and it took Monks a moment to realize that it was Ray Dreyer, Eden's ex-boyfriend.

Dreyer was wearing a black silk jacket over a T-shirt. Monks walked over to him.

'Thoughtful of you to dress in mourning," Monks said quietly.

'Tuck you," Dreyer mouthed. Monks braced himself, thinking that Dreyer might want to pick up their fight where it had left off. But he turned away and went the other direction, farther into the shadows.

Another old friend who was glad to see him, Monks thought.

Then he noticed a slight flare of light, from the other direction. The main front door of the house was opening and closing. A man was coming out.

D'Anton.

Monks walked quickly back that way and intercepted D'Anton as he reached the bottom of the porch steps.

"Good evening, Doctor," Monks said.

D'Anton glanced around impatiently. The glance turned to an icy stare as he recognized Monks.

Monks was very aware that he might be looking into the eyes of a man who was capable of mutilating a living human being.

"How dare you come to my house," D'Anton said.

"Gwen Bricknell invited me."

"And you actually accepted?" D'Anton said, with withering disbelief.

"I was watching you inside there. It must be quite a feeling, being surrounded by your own creations."

Unexpectedly, D' Anton smiled. It was filled with pity for Monks.

"Do you know what they would tell you?" D'Anton said. "What they have told me! That they belong to me. Any fool can give them money, but I can give them what really matters – youth and beauty."

"So you figure you have the right to do anything you want with them?"

D'Anton's smile vanished. "I don't know what you're getting at, but I have had enough of you," he said. "If you come around me again, you'll be hearing from my attorney."

"The same errand boy you sent to scare Roberta Massey?"

D'Anton recoiled, a tiny backward jerk and widening of his eyes. But he recovered instantly. Monks had to hand it to him.

"That name means nothing to me," D'Anton said.

"Oh, right, you're not good with names, are you."

"I remember yours, now." D'Anton held Monks's gaze with his own, steely and unwavering, for a few seconds longer. Then he turned away and continued his brisk walk, fading into the night.

D'Anton had recognized Roberta's name, there was no doubt about that. Monks considered that he might have played that card too early. But it would increase the strain on D' Anton, and strain could lead to mistakes.

Monks moved back toward the pool, but stayed a little apart from the crowd. In another couple of minutes, Gwen came back out, carrying two flutes of pale effervescent champagne.

This time, as she passed the crowd at the pool, she was accosted by a thickset, balding man in his sixties, who leered at her like a satyr.

"Jesus, sweetheart, you look like jailbait tonight," he said in a loud, raspy voice.

Gwen paused, glancing at him in amusement.

"I know you're an expert there, Ivan."

"That thing still as tight as it used to be?" he growled.

"You certainly didn't stretch it any."

A ripple of laughter sounded from nearby guests, watching the two of them like a circle drawn up around teenaged boys getting ready to fight. Monks was touched by an equally adolescent outrage, a schoolboy urge to step in and defend his girl's honor. But she seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly – keeping the loutish attacker at bay, like an exquisite fencer, with quick, sure barbs.

Maybe the preoccupation with youthfulness that he sensed here was catching, Monks thought, although there had been none of it in the brilliant adamantine intensity that emanated from D'Anton.

She moved away from the group, her head turning, looking for Monks. He raised his hand to catch her attention.

'There you are," she called, and came to him. "I thought I'd lost you."

"No chance of that."

She handed him one of the flutes. "What shall we drink to?"

"How about the hostess?"

"Oh, you are good. All right. The hostess decrees that we entwine arms, like in the movies. Gaze into each other's eyes. And drain our glasses dry."

Monks had to stoop forward a little to be able to entwine arms and still drink. The champagne was wonderful, dry and tart, with a sort of muskiness like her perfume. Her eyes were dark, warm, intent, and their faces were close. She brushed his lips with hers. He was bemused. He had not seriously believed that she might be interested in him, no matter what Larrabee had said, and romance did not seem like a good mix with a murder investigation. But he wanted to keep things going and, he admitted, it was highly enjoyable. He felt a touch of guilt about Martine. Then he remembered the black Saab he had seen in her driveway earlier. That helped.

She took the champagne glasses, set them aside, and then came back to his embrace.

"Shall we do that some more?" she murmured.

"A lot more," Monks said. "But first, why don't you show me that person you told me about? The one who's so possessive of Dr. D' Anton?"

The wary look that he had seen in her eyes at the clinic came back.

"I've been trying to pretend this is just a party," she said quietly. "But that won't work, will it?"

Monks touched her cheek. "I'll be glad to pretend with you. But I need to do my job, too."

She stayed absolutely still for two or three seconds. Again, he got that eerie sense that whoever lived inside her had left.

Then she gripped his arm conspiratorially. "Come on," she said, and led him toward the house. She pointed in through a window. "There."

The nurse, Phyllis, was still in the center of the room. It looked like she was putting away the Botox materials. She was wearing a dark gray suit, jacket and skirt, that made her square figure look even frumpier in this gala crowd.

"Phyllis?" Monks said.

Gwen nodded emphatically. "She's very sneaky, and very jealous of Welles. She has all these little ways of letting everybody know she owns him. There've been times I've felt her behind me, and I'd have sworn she had a knife in her hand."