by Blake Pierce
The receptionist nodded and led the way down the hall. As he had on the way to Aaron Rose’s office, Ryan gave Jessie a friendly reminder.
“I know we’re not worried about it getting out that we’re still investigating the case. That ship has sailed. But don’t forget, even if this guy did sleep with Michaela, that doesn’t mean he killed her. Let’s try not to add any lawsuits for defamation to our pending disciplinary action.”
Jessie nodded her understanding, if not her agreement. She wasn’t worried about lawsuits right now, just getting to the truth.
The receptionist stopped outside the last, slightly ajar door at the end of the hall and knocked softly.
“Yes?” someone said in a soothing voice.
“Dr. Kallas, it’s Maya. I know you’re working on charts but you have some visitors who need to speak with you.”
“We’ll take it from here,” Ryan said, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Jessie followed close behind. As she entered she took a deep breath and pushed all the chaos of the day out of her mind. She needed to focus completely to determine if Richard Kallas was just a scumbag or something far worse.
Kallas stood up as they entered. He had an untroubled smile on his face. The second she saw him, Jessie knew he was the same man from Michaela’s photo. Kallas was handsome in a creepy, manufactured way.
His brown hair was shockingly full and vibrant for a man who looked to be in his early forties, without a hint of gray. Jessie suspected it was aided by a transplant and colored often. His skin was golden and his teeth were brilliant white. He looked to be in great shape, with a trim waist and muscles that strained at his dress shirt.
Behind him on the wall, Jessie saw a collection of photos from marathons and Iron Man competitions, just above a series of what appeared to be vintage scalpels and surgical blades, some of which looked more like weapons than precision tools. In some of the pictures, his face looked dramatically different from the man standing before them now.
Part of it was simple aging. But part of it was also due to artificial attempts to defy age. The real-life Kallas had smooth skin and no visible wrinkles near his eyes or on his forehead, both of which made him look weirdly like a plastic Ken doll.
His nose and chin were different from some of the photos as well. Both had been sculpted. The chin was broader and squarer and the nose was smaller and sharper than before. The skin below his cheekbones looked tightened as well, giving him the permanent appearance of someone sucking them in. Even his ears looked slightly different, as if they’d been tweaked so as to not stick out as far.
No wonder Agent Dolan’s FBI people hadn’t been able to match the photo she gave him to the man in front of them now. Being asleep in that picture couldn’t have made it easy. But in addition, if Kallas had most of the work on his face done recently, after his driver’s license photo was taken, it might be hard for even a computer make the match.
“What can I do for you?” he asked politely. “I gather you’re not here for a consultation?”
“Why do you say that?” Jessie asked.
Kallas smiled even more broadly than before. He glanced over at Maya, who was hovering by the door.
“You can go home, Maya. I’ll close up,” he said, turning back to Jessie and Ryan. “Because neither of you seem to need much work…yet. You are both gorgeous physical specimens. It looks like you stepped out of a fashion magazine, or at the very least, a department store catalogue.”
“Thanks,” Ryan muttered.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Kallas said, stepping around his desk to get a closer look at them. “The gentleman has a few forehead wrinkles that could be easily buffed out. But at your age, they come across as distinguished. Maybe come see me in five years. And the lady looks shockingly good considering what—and forgive me for saying this—is clearly some recent trauma.”
“Why do you say that?” Jessie asked, wondering if plastic surgeons and profilers shared some of the same skill set.
“Well, the lines around the eyes are more pronounced than one would expect in a woman your age. I’m guessing you’re about thirty. But their configuration suggests stress and lack of sleep rather than normal skin degradation. You’ve been through a lot, especially recently. But still, I wouldn’t recommend doing anything for another half a decade or so. It would look desperate at this early stage. I could do something about the scars though.”
“The scars?”
He nodded at her forearms, which were marked by multiple confrontations with both serial killers and more everyday criminals.
“Those are easy,” he said. “The one near your throat would require more work. It’s quite angry.”
Jessie forced herself not to cover the scar with her hand. The handiwork of her father and a hunting knife when she was six, it ran along her collarbone from the base of her neck all the way to her right shoulder. Other than psychological distress, it was the one enduring gift he’d left her with. Kallas’s casual mention of it made her skin crawl.
“I’m good, thanks,” she said, trying not to sound curt. “Tell me, Dr. Kallas, do you go by Richard or Dick?”
“Well, that strikes me as quite a personal question. I’ll answer if you tell me if you prefer Jessie or Jessica?”
Despite her best efforts, Jessie couldn’t stop from gasping slightly.
“How do you know who I am? I haven’t introduced myself.”
“Which you must admit is a bit rude,” Kallas said. “But don’t worry. I’m not some mind-reader. I’m a law-abiding, well-informed citizen. And you, Ms. Hunt, are in the news quite a bit, a law enforcement celebrity of sorts. It’d be hard not to recognize you. I don’t recognize the gentleman but I’m going to assume he is also some kind of cop. Maybe an FBI agent? Federal marshal? So many choices.”
“This is Detective Ryan Hernandez, LAPD Central Station. And to answer your question, I go by Jessie.”
“Ah, then let me answer yours,” Kallas said, leaning back to rest his backside on the edge of his desk. “Professionally, it’s Richard. My dear departed mother went with Dickie, which was not my favorite. Friends use Dick, sometimes with more enthusiasm than I would prefer. Are we going to be friends, Jessie?”
“I kind of doubt it, Richard,” she told him.
“That is truly disappointing,” he replied sadly.
But the cold, calculating look in his eyes suggested he already viewed them as foes.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Jessie felt a shiver run down her spine.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to depend on her gut to the exclusion of all else. But something told her the man in front of them was very dangerous. It was nothing overt. But in a way she couldn’t quite verbalize, his manner was just…off. That didn’t mean he was a killer. But he definitely wasn’t, as he described himself, just a “law-abiding, well-informed citizen.”
“Are you married, Richard?” she asked, trying to shake him out of the cockiness he clearly felt here at the home field of his office.
His brow furrowed slightly, probably as much as was possible considering all the Botox in his forehead.
“Sadly no,” he admitted. “Three engagements but never made it to the altar. Why do you ask? Are you in the market?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I’m spoken for.”
“Of course you are,” Kallas replied. “How could you not be? I mean, despite the incarcerated ex-husband and the serial killer daddy, you’re still quite a catch, though I imagine the emotional support required of your partner would be significant.”
Jessie managed not to glance at Ryan. Kallas continued.
“So, if you’re not here looking for a date, I have to wonder the reason for this visit. Forgive my curiosity but I’ve had two law enforcement types in my office after work hours for several minutes now and I’m still not clear why. Care to share?”
“Of course,” Ryan said, taking a slight step forward so that he was physically between Kallas an
d Jessie. “We have a few questions for you about a woman named Missy Mack. Are you familiar with her?”
Without any hesitation, Kallas smiled and gave a soft chuckle. It was not the reaction Jessie expected.
“Do you mean Michaela Penn?” he asked. “Of course I know her.”
“In what capacity?” Ryan asked.
“Well, I can’t get into too many specifics because of HIPAA requirements, but she’s a patient.”
“She’s a patient of yours?” Jessie asked incredulously.
“Technically, she’s a potential surgical patient. She’d come in for several consultations but we hadn’t come to any final determination about actions going forward.”
“What kind of actions?” Jessie pressed.
“As I said, privacy regulations prevent me from getting specific,” Kallas replied, adopting an apologetic tone. “You’d need a waiver from Ms. Penn before I could speak about her care.”
Ryan glanced over at Jessie. She knew what was coming and trained all her attention on Kallas.
“Michaela Penn is dead,” Ryan said bluntly.
Kallas’s permanent smile disappeared.
“What?” he said.
“Michaela Penn was murdered two days ago. So according to HIPAA disclosure provisions, you are able to share her information with law enforcement.”
Kallas shook his head, not so much in refusal but because he seemed not to have fully processed the information.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You said Michaela’s dead?”
“That’s correct,” Ryan said. “When did you see her last?”
“I don’t know,” he said, putting his hand to his forehead and rubbing it vigorously. “I think it was recently. I’d have to check my records to be sure.”
“Go ahead,” Ryan said. “We’ll wait.”
Jessie watched Kallas closely as he returned to his desk. While there was no “correct” way to respond to the news of someone’s death, he was behaving within the normal range of expected reactions.
And yet, Jessie got the sense that he was play-acting. She just couldn’t discern whether that was because he didn’t really care about Michaela much and felt like he had to fake it or because he was involved in her death.
The doctor sat down at his desk and punched a few keys and looked at his screen.
“It looks like she was in just this last Monday, in the afternoon. She was on the verge of deciding whether to have a procedure done.”
“What procedure was that?” Jessie asked.
“Um, okay,” he said, no longer concerned with privacy claims. “As you clearly know, Michaela was an adult film actress. She was looking into breast augmentation. She thought it might be good for her career.”
“That’s why she was coming here?” Ryan asked, disbelieving.
“Yes, of course. I consulted with her on three occasions. She told me that she planned to make a final decision this week so that I could schedule surgery if she pulled the trigger. Why else would she come here?”
Had she not seen the photo of Kallas asleep, she would have found his feigned innocence borderline convincing. He was good. The question was whether his deception was to hide an inappropriate relationship with a patient or something more.
“Dr. Kallas,” Jessie said, staring him in the eyes. “That’s the problem. You see, we know that Michaela wasn’t just your patient, if she was ever your patient at all. And the fact that you’re not being straight with us about it can’t help but make us doubt everything else you’ve told us. Would you like to try again?”
“Excuse me?” he said, the sadness on his face now replaced by self-righteous anger. “What exactly are you alleging?”
“Look, Dr. Kallas,” Ryan said, giving Jessie his patented “cool it” glare, “we understand that you’re in a precarious position here. But the more forthcoming you can be with us now, the less messy it has to get later. We’re looking for information, not confrontation. So how about telling us the whole story about your relationship with Michaela? I can’t promise that you’ll emerge from this unscathed. But we’re looking for a killer, not a doctor who let his fantasies get in the way of his professionalism. Once we can eliminate you as the former, we can find a way to deal with you as the latter. What do you say?”
Kallas continued to look indignant.
“I say that this conversation is over. The next one you have will be with my attorney. I hope the police department’s insurance policy covers the damage these false allegations could do to my business, because I’m going to clean it out.”
“We have a picture,” Jessie said sharply.
“What?” Kallas said, his voice still resentful, but his eyes closer to panicked.
“You heard me,” Jessie repeated, enjoying him try not to squirm. “There is a photo that does not comport with your description of your association with Michaela. You don’t have a case. But we do.”
Richard Kallas looked at her with dead eyes that no amount of plastic surgery could mask.
“Please leave,” he said icily, standing up and putting his palms flat on his desk for emphasis.
Ryan looked over at Jessie and shrugged.
“That’s your call, Doctor,” he said. “But we will be back. And when we return, it’ll be with a warrant. Let’s go, Jessie.”
Ryan headed for the door. She looked back at Kallas, standing there fuming, his hands pressed on his desk and his forearms pulsating in anxiety. She didn’t want to go, confident that one more push would make the doctor topple into a pile of his own falsehoods.
“You know we’ve got you,” she said quietly.
Then, despite her reluctance to leave without anything concrete to offer Captain Decker, she followed Ryan. As they reached for the door, Jessie heard an odd click.
“What was that?” she asked as Ryan grabbed the handle.
He tried to turn the knob but it didn’t move.
“It’s locked,” he said, looking for a button or switch on the handle but finding none. He turned around and exasperatedly asked, “What’s the deal with the door, Doctor?”
Jessie turned back as well, in time to see Kallas give a sarcastic shrug of his own to go with a nasty smile. She noticed something else too. Behind him on the wall, below the marathon and Iron Man photos, something was amiss with his collection of surgical blades. It took her a moment to realize what the problem was.
One was missing.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
“You know the most important skill in medicine?” Kallas asked as he held up what looked like a small remote control. “Improvisation.”
Then he pushed a button on the remote, casting the office into total darkness.
“Ryan,” Jessie called out as she reached for her gun, “he took a knife off his wall. He’s armed.”
“Got it. Stay quiet,” Ryan murmured from somewhere further to her left than he had been moments earlier.
Realizing he must have started moving the second the lights went out, she followed suit, shuffling to the right until she felt her arm brush the wall. As she tried to quiet the pounding rush of blood in her ears, she heard the snap from Ryan unholstering his weapon and she tried to do the same. But her fingers were clumsy and she couldn’t seem to get them to work properly.
She wanted to exhale to calm herself but knew that would alert Kallas, who had not made a sound since the lights went out, to her location. The only noise in the office was the soft whir of the air conditioning.
Then she had another idea. On the other side of her belt, she had a small torch flashlight that could be slid out of its holster silently. She managed to extricate it and placed her finger on the “on” button.
But she didn’t push yet as two problems became quickly apparent. First, she couldn’t warn Ryan about what she was about to do. And second, once she turned on the light, she’d be alerting Kallas to her location. Even if she managed to find him, he might be on her before she could do anything about it.
Any plan she
was formulating flew out of her head when she heard the distinct sound of a knee cracking somewhere near Kallas’s desk. She ordered herself not to react audibly.
He doesn’t know where you are. If you move you might bump into something and expose yourself. Stay still. Stay alert.
Kallas must have realized he’d put himself at risk and stopped moving. Jessie strained her eyes, hoping that might help her adjust to the darkness. But it did no good. The curtains were drawn and the sun had already mostly set so there was no illumination from outside. Kallas, in anticipation of turning off the light, had shut off his computer screen so its glow didn’t reveal him. The only thing visible was the green light on the smoke alarm on the ceiling and it offered no help.
A moment later there was another sound, soft and whooshing, that she couldn’t identify. It came from somewhere in the middle of the office, less than ten feet from her. As she tried to determine what it was, she slid down the wall in a crouching position. Sensing something close to her, she carefully reached out and her fingertip touched a hard surface. It only took a moment to recall that it was a bookshelf that ran along a section of the wall she was pressed against.
And then it occurred to her. What she’d heard moments earlier was the sound of a large blade being unsheathed from its cover. Kallas was close and he was planning to make a move.
He knows this office better than we do. We have to change the dynamic or he’s going to gut us both.
Gripping the torch light, she decided the time had come to do something. She delicately felt around the bookshelf to her right until her fingers found a flat unoccupied spot on the top, about four feet off the floor. She stood up, placed the flashlight in that spot facing the direction where she’d heard Kallas unsheathe the knife, and counted silently to three. Then she pushed the “on” button. The click sounded like a thunderclap.
She took one large step back away from the bookshelf as the torch illuminated the middle of the room. Kallas wasn’t in the spotlight but she could hear him moving from somewhere nearby, fast approaching.