CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (15 page)

CHAPTER 19 – ORANGE YOU GLAD

I sensed someone behind me. From the look on Betty and Irene’s faces, I had a problem, who turned out to be a short, ferret-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses.

“Earl Patchett. I’m director of this facility. Who are you?”

He was wearing an expensive three-piece blue pinstripe suit. The Mont Blanc chronograph on his wrist had so many dials and bezels he probably had to ask people the time. Under his arm he was carrying a brown leather portfolio that didn’t match the suit, though I suppose there was no reason it should.

“My name is Rhode. I’m a private investigator looking for Florence Capriati’s son.” I gave him my most winsome smile. “I’d like to talk to her.”

“There is no next of kin listed for the woman.”

I wondered how a director of so many nursing homes could be so sure, so quickly, about any one patient.

“I may be able to update that list.”

“Do you have identification?”

I would have to work on winsome. I showed him my license. He yanked it from my hand, which I didn’t like, and studied it for so long I was tempted to tell the nurses to get a room ready for another stroke victim.

“This is a New York license,” Patchett said, thrusting my I.D. back to me. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“New York and Jersey have reciprocity for private investigators.”

“Am I supposed to take your word for that?”

Patchett made it sound like he’d be a fool to fall for the old reciprocity gag. I soldiered on.

“Mr. Patchett, even if there was no reciprocity, which there is, private detectives don’t need it when conducting investigations involving missing persons, background checks or a myriad other tasks that are legal for everyone. I can do it in any state at any time. Now I don’t tell you how to empty bedpans, so why don’t you let me do my job.”

I thought I heard a snicker from one of the nurses. Patchett shot a look at them and they buried their heads in paperwork.

“We respect the privacy of our patients, Mr. Rhode. I’m under no obligation to allow you visiting rights. I think you’d better leave.”

“Visiting rights? What is this, the state pen? Is there any intelligent reason I can’t see Mrs. Capriati?”

“I gave you my reasons.”

“No, you gave me some official-sounding gobbledygook that might work on a salesman but not with a private detective working a missing person’s case. And since my missing person happens to be the target of an ongoing F.B.I. search, that’s who I’ll call if you continue obstructing my investigation. The bureau wrote the book on gobbledygook and all yours will do is get them mad. Given what scrutiny nursing homes are under nowadays you might want to avoid that. I might even mention the dozen code violations I’ve seen since I came here.”

Most of what I said was my own gobbledygook, including the part about obstructing an investigation. I was pretty sure the F.B.I. could care less about Capriati and his ancient embezzlement. And piles of leaves, overflowing trash and a sour smell didn’t mean the place was overdue for a visit by the health authorities. But from his nervous glance at the nurses I suspected I’d struck a nerve.

“Well, listen Mr. Rhode, no need to become confrontational. I’m sure you understand my desire to protect my patients, some of whom are very fragile.”

I was getting very tired of Earl Patchett.

“Will Mrs. Capriati know who I am?”

“No.”

“Does she even know who you are?”

“Probably not.”

“Does she recognize anyone?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Has anybody visited her recently?”

He looked over at the nurses. They shook their heads.

“So, what possible harm can there be if I see her for a moment?”

He took a last shot.

“What good will it do you?”

It was the first sensible thing the jerk said.

“I don’t know, Earl. But I’ve come a long way to see her, so I might as well. She’s a lonely old lady. Maybe it will be good for my soul. By the way, I understand someone sends her cash, which you handle. Gee, you think it might be a kin? How much is she getting? And what is it used for?”

“Patient finances are confidential,” he said, looking sharply at the two nurses. “Reciprocity or no, you’ll need a court order.”

He was probably on firm ground about that. I had to bend a little.

“The amount isn’t important. I’m more interested in any return address on the envelopes you get. I’m sure you understand. That can’t be confidential, unless the sender gave you specific instructions. And if that’s the case a court order would probably supersede those instructions.”

Patchett was in a bind. I was guessing he didn’t want any courts involved.

“The money comes in plain white envelopes, no return address. I throw them away. As for the amount, it’s a pittance, enough for some sundries and other things to make her more comfortable, or to spruce up the room.”

Betty coughed. He looked at both nurses.

“Isn’t that right?

They both quickly said yes.

“Did either of you ever see a return address?”

They both said no and he turned back to me.

“Were the letters addressed by hand,” I asked. “Do you remember the postmarks?”

Patchett gave me an elaborate sigh. I was obviously becoming tiresome.

“The addresses are typed. I don’t remember anything specific about the postmarks, but seem to recall the letters came from several different locales.”

I do tiresome much better than winsome.

“What happens if Mrs. Capriati dies?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you expect the letters and cash to continue for eternity?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure the sender keeps up on the woman. Perhaps he calls.”

I looked at the nurses.

“She get many calls?”

“None that I’ve handled,” Betty said.

“Me, either,” Irene added. “But anyone calling would get the operator and could just ask how a patient is doing.”

“Any way to check if any calls were put through to her?”

“She doesn’t have a phone in her room,” Betty said.

“Who will pay for her, er, final arrangements, Mr. Patchett?”

“I believe there is a small insurance policy?”

“Who is the beneficiary?”

“I believe the corporation that owns this facility. She signed it over before being admitted.” He anticipated my next question. “Before her disease advanced to the point where it would have become an issue. Now, is that all? Do you still want to see the poor woman? You may upset her. I doubt that she will provide any useful information about her son or his whereabouts. But if you find him, I hope you will let me know.”

I’d bet Patchett knew where every farthing related to his patients was, and viewed a possible heir as a royal pain in the ass. Time to shove something else up there.

“I sure will. It appears he may have a child he doesn’t know about. That would be Mrs. Capriati’s granddaughter. I may try to arrange a visit. I presume that won’t be a problem. I believe grandchildren enjoy reciprocity.”

The little twerp looked like he wanted to slug me. Being a little twerp, he didn’t. The shoulders on both nurses shook with repressed laughter. Faced with the possibility of two Capriati heirs, he might have to re-cook the books.

“Miss Evans, please take Mr. Rhode in to see Mrs. Capriati. And stay with him. I don’t want him wandering around disturbing other patients.”

Or finding roaches. He turned back to me.

“You can have 15 minutes.”

He walked away without shaking hands. I stuck my tongue out at his back, just for the benefit of the two nurses, who both laughed. Betty came around the counter and punched me lightly on the arm.

“I like your style. Follow me.”

“I hope I didn’t get you gals in trouble with the envelope thing.”

“Don’t sweat it, good lookin’. There’s a nursing shortage. And the last time they fired a black woman my age was never. Don’t worry about the 15 minutes. Stay as long as you want. Patchett was on his way out when he spotted you. Only stops by for a couple of hours at each facility.”

We took an elevator to the second floor and walked down a hallway. I tried to ignore the occasional cries that came from some of the rooms.

“Can’t be easy working in a place like this,” I said.

“It’s not so bad,” Betty said. “We have a good staff. And it helps to remember that these folks could be ours.” She paused outside a room. There were two name tags on the door, and one of them said F. Capriati. “But just between us, I wouldn’t mind if someone dropped a dime on Patchett. We been after him for months to clean this place up. And I saw one of those envelopes. It was damn thick. Unless it contained all dollar bills, it coulda bought more than what he call them, sundries?”

“I like your style, too, Betty.” 

Mrs. Capriati shared the room with another woman who was staring blankly at the screen of a small color TV on a dresser at the foot of her bed. Betty greeted both women cheerfully, but neither gave any indication that they noticed our arrival.

“Both these ladies have advanced Alzheimer’s,” she said. “They don’t have much to say to each other.”

She went over to the TV, which was tuned to a talk show, and lowered the volume.

“I doubt she understands a word of it,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean she has Alzheimer’s.”

“True that.” She fluffed Mrs. Capriati’s pillow. “Flo, you have a visitor.”

Florence Capriati could not have weighed more than 80 pounds. She made Christian Bale look obese. But her hair, while completely white, was thick and had obviously been carefully tended by the nursing staff. She turned her rheumy eyes toward me and seemed to make an effort to focus. One spider-like hand started moving toward me across the sheet. I took it. It was cold and trembling. She worked her lips.

“Billy?”

She smiled. Even though I had been warned I felt terrible.

“No, Mrs. Capriati. But I hope to find him.”

“Billy!”

She was becoming agitated. Her hand gripped my wrist with surprising strength. Maybe Patchett was right. Once I found out her memories were gone I should leave without disturbing the poor woman. I looked to Betty for help. She went to a small cabinet next to the bed and pulled out an album. She riffed through the pages and then leaned down and pointed at a photo.

“Look Flo. This is Billy, in here. This nice man is looking for him. Maybe he can find him for you.”

Mrs. Capriati looked at the photo, then at me. She sank back against her pillow and seemed to lose interest. I took the album from the nurse and looked at the photo of William Capriati. It was even older than the one I had. I flipped through the album. There were other family photos, some of them Polaroids, rapidly fading. None showed Billy as an adult. Shots of Flo, her husband and the boy in a park, on a beach, first communions, birthday parties, a grade school graduation. Other people, presumably friends and family. Dogs and cats. Young Billy and friends eating cupcakes, most of which were smeared across their smiles. Billy coming down garlanded stairs sleepy but excited on Christmas morning. Under a tree surrounded by toys and wrapping paper, the flash from a camera reflected in a mirror on a wall. There was nothing of use for me. It was like every happy family album I had ever seen.  My throat felt constricted.

Florence Capriati suddenly sat up and grabbed my arm.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said uncertainly. I was trying to figure a way to gently disengage my hand, when she added. “I like oranges.”

“Yes,” I said, slowly rising. “I do to. And they are good for you.”

“Give me an orange.”

I turned to Betty.

“Mrs. Capriati would like an orange.”

“No! You!”

She was becoming agitated again. Betty came over.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ll go get you one.”

“Now! My oranges!”

“Listen, why don’t you get her an orange or something.” I said. “I’ll stay with her.”

“I just hope there is an orange left in the box. We keep the gifts separate but sometimes people help themselves. A lot of the stuff would just go bad if they didn’t.”

She was almost out the door when it hit me.

“Somebody sent her a box of oranges?”

“Yes. I think she gets them every few months.” It dawned on her. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m as bad as some of these folks. I forgot about that.”

“Start about the same time as the money?”

“I’m not sure, but, yes, I think so.”

“Addressed to her?”

“Well, yes, care of the nursing home.”

“Return address?”

“I don’t know. I think I would have noticed that.”

“Do you have the box?”

“When there’s only a couple left I think they throw it out.”