Junie nodded.

“And you would get that tour because…”

“Because I’m going to have major work done and want to visit several of the best plastic surgery centers before deciding where to have it.”

“And your husband, Dr. Deeppockets here, of course wants to accompany you,” Junie said.

“Husband?” Nick replied.

“I’ve always said you’re a great catch.”

“Very cute,” he said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

There was a brief silence before Jillian said, “She does have a point, Doc. If we want to pull this off we really should go in as a team.”

“Not just a team, as a couple,” Junie corrected. “A rich couple with a husband who wants his trophy wife to get some buffing up. Ninety percent of the women who have plastic surgery don’t need it, so that won’t be an issue. Don’t you think, Reggie?”

She gave a light tap on the leg of Reggie’s chair, startling the teenager, who actually jumped a bit.

“Oh yeah,” he stammered. “Absolutely. You should definitely be a couple, for sure. But you gotta be the part if you’re gonna play the part.”

“What are you getting at, Reggie?” Nick asked, shooting the teen a reproachful look.

“I mean you guys better like, you know, be all coupley-kiss and all that to make it real, you know.”

“Oh, that’s good thinking, Reggie,” Junie said, scooping up the baton. “The lad’s right. If you two can’t convince us you’re a couple, you’re certainly not going to convince the plastic surgeon that your intentions are real.”

Nick glared at Junie, who in turn just smiled and gave him an impish wave of her fingers. Then he glanced over to Jillian, who was shifting her weight from foot to foot with nervous energy. But she also made no attempt to put the suggestions to bed.

“You guys are ridiculous,” Nick said. “Just ridiculous. We don’t need any practice to-”

Without warning, even to himself, he took Jillian by the waist, bent his knees, and dipped her backward toward the floor, ballroom style. Then he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. For a moment, Jillian’s eyes were open wide. Then, slowly, they closed as the kiss gained momentum. Her lips parted just a bit and his opened in response. He slid one hand up her back and supported her head. Her hair felt like silk between his fingers. Two seconds, ten, a minute-Nick would never know how long that kiss lasted. He did know that any sense of self-consciousness vanished in the first instant. With some reluctance, he eased Jillian upright, and with his arm still set around her waist, he turned to Junie.

“There. Was that believable enough for you?” he asked.

“It was for me,” Jillian said, brushing her hair from her forehead and regaining her breath.

“Look,” Reggie said, with no regard for the subject he was changing, “they have a virtual tour of the building on the Web site. The place seems pretty fancy.”

Junie took a close look at the panoramic photomontage of the Singh Center lobby that Reggie had put up on both monitors. It was a massive sparkling white marble foyer, with a working fountain in the center and several gold-framed pieces of art hanging on the walls, including a large portrait of Singh himself.

“Just in case they’re watching,” Nick said, “we’ll probably need to pull up in some sort of high-end auto, certainly not the junker I drive.”

“There are rentals,” Junie said. “It’ll be my treat.”

“First, we need to make an appointment,” Nick said.

Jillian fished her phone out of her purse and dialed the main number. She put the cell on speaker and brought her finger to her lips to remind the others to remain quiet. A woman answered on the third ring. She had an educated British accent.

“Good afternoon. Thank you for calling the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center. This is Daintry Calnan speaking. How may I be of service?”

“Yes, hello. My name is Collins, Mrs… Jefferson Collins,” Jillian said. “I’m planning to have some plastic surgery and I’m calling to schedule a tour of your facility and hopefully to arrange to meet Dr. Singh.”

“Referring physician?” Daintry asked.

“Oh, a doctor I met at a cocktail party at my friends the Bronsteins’,” Jillian replied, now comfortably in touch with her skill at improvisation. “I can’t for the life of me remember his name. When I told him what my husband-I mean what I wanted, he told me your spa was the only place to go.”

“Few would argue with that,” the receptionist replied. “We do have availability for a consultation with Dr. Singh in three weeks. That would include a tour of our facility.”

“Oh, three weeks is simply too far away for us. I’m afraid that won’t do. I was hoping to see your surgical center tomorrow, actually. It’s the only time that works for my schedule. I do a great deal of volunteer work at the children’s hospital, you know. If not tomorrow, then I’m afraid I’ll simply have to look elsewhere.”

“As your doctor friend at the Bronsteins’ said, this is the top-of-the-line facility for any sort of plastic surgery. Would you mind my asking what specific procedure you were thinking of having done?”

“Well, several of them,” Jillian said.

“Several?”

“Yes. I’m considering some extensive work. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”

“Mrs. Collins, you are aware that plastic procedures done here usually cost tens of thousands of dollars, none of which is likely to be covered by your insurance? Plus there’s a week or so of residence in our very exclusive spa hotel.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of the cost. I would expect nothing less from a facility with your reputation. This is a gift from my husband. He invents software, you know, then builds a company, then sells it, then builds another one. This next sale will be the fifth-no, no, the sixth time he’s done it.”

Silence.

“Um… well, then, in that case, hold a moment, please.”

Classical music piped out from Jillian’s cell phone speaker. She put a finger to her lips again to remind everybody to stay quiet. Fifteen seconds later, Daintry came back on the line.

“Well, I have some good news,” she announced. “It appears we had a schedule cancellation that wasn’t in our computer system yet. Tomorrow afternoon will work just fine. Shall we say three?”

“We shall say that,” Jillian replied, giving her audience a thumbs-up.

She clicked her cell phone shut after finalizing the tour time and getting specific directions from McLean, Virginia, where she lied about living. The three standing around her looked at one another in stunned disbelief.

“You were incredible,” Nick said finally. “Absolutely incredible.”

“I was Blanche in our school production of Streetcar. Reggie, please write down ‘Jillian and Jefferson Collins’ so we don’t forget our names.”

“You can borrow my wedding band,” Junie said.

CHAPTER 25

Franz Koller’s mood brightened as soon as the surgeon began to stir. The gamma-hydroxybutyrate, one of the newer of the so-called date-rape drugs, was wearing off. It had been easier than he expected-much easier-to orchestrate her non-kill. The main problem he needed to overcome was that except for her surgical practice and teaching obligations, Dr. Abigail Spielmann lived a virtually monastic existence.

He had followed her for five days and had entered her East Side brownstone three times, each time easily disabling the antiquated security system. He had rigged up microcameras in her second-floor study and her third-floor bedroom, searching for any secret life-any deviance-on which he could build his kill. What he found was a dull woman of fifty, unmarried and, as far as he could tell, asexual. She returned home every evening at about nine, poured a large glass of a high-priced Syrah, and went to her study to write. At ten, having finished the wine, she repaired to her bedroom, read for ten or fifteen minutes-currently an Indira Gandhi biography-and drifted off to sleep. Somewhere in the early morning she awoke briefly, went to the bathroom, and then turned off the bedside light.