Lucky Stiff (16 page)

“That totally pissed him off,” Hurley says in a self-satisfied tone.

I say nothing. I can’t. My mind is mush. All the blood in my body seems to be centered on—and pulsating—between my legs. I stand there dumbfounded, grateful Hurley’s car is behind me to hold me up.

Hurley, on the other hand, seems annoyingly unaffected by it all. As he walks around to his side of the car, he says, “What do you say, Winston? Should we go drill some more suspects?”

I have another kind of drilling in mind, but clearly I can’t say so. When I have my wits about me enough, I push away from the car, open my door, and drop into the passenger seat.

I spend the time it takes us to drive to our next stop picturing Hurley and me, tanned and happy, tooling along the Florida coast inside our “Barbie and Ken Beach Cruiser.”

Chapter 13

The nursing agency providing Jack Allen’s home care is run out of a storefront office in a strip mall. Its overhead sign reads:
FLETCHE
RN
URSING
. The interior is simply furnished with two desks—one of which is empty—a couple of file cabinets, a bookcase, and some fake plants. At the rear of the main room is a closed door, which I assume leads to a back area of the office.

Behind the one occupied desk is a man who is a prime example of the hazards of tanning beds. The skin on his face, neck, and hands is dark brown and fibrous-looking. While I guess his age to be somewhere in his mid- to late thirties, his skin and the gray in his dark hair make him look decades older. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open much lower than need be, and his neck and fingers are adorned with jewelry. Judging from the razor burn I see on his hairless chest, I’m guessing he’s also into “manscaping.” I see several travel brochures for the Caribbean mixed in with the papers on his desk, which might explain why his skin looks like worn leather.

“Hi, I’m Paul Fletcher,” he says with a big smile, flashing teeth that have been bleached into near transparency. “I’m the owner. How may I help you?”

“We’re here to inquire about one of your patients, Jack Allen,” Hurley says, flashing his badge.

Paul’s smile fades, saving us from the blinding light of his teeth. “Oh, yes, poor Mr. Allen. What a horrible thing. How can I help you?”

“We understand one of your nurses visited Jack daily to provide care and saw him on the day he died.”

“You mean Lisa Warden,” Fletcher says. “She was Jack’s home health aide. I was his nurse.”

“Did you see Jack on the day of the fire?”

“No, I only visited Jack once or twice a week, to reassess his condition, update his care plan, and supervise Lisa.”

“So when did you see him last?”

“I believe it was a couple of days before, but let me check.” He gets up and walks over to one of the filing cabinets, opens the second drawer, and pulls out a file. “Yes, it was the twenty-third when I last saw him,” he says upon opening the file. “Lisa saw him five days a week, sometimes six.”

“Did you know about his big win at the casino?”

“Sure. Everyone pretty much knew. Jack didn’t try to keep it a secret.”

“What time was Ms. Warden there on the twenty-fifth?”

Fletcher consults the chart again. “According to her note, she was there from eight to nine that morning.”

“May I ask where you were on the morning of the twenty-fifth?”

“Sure. I was here in the office finishing up some paperwork because I’m taking a vacation in a few days and needed to finish out my year-end billing. I got done around ten and then went home.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes, I do,” Fletcher says a bit irritably. “Why are you asking all these questions? I heard that the fire and Jack’s death were accidents. Is that not so?”

“Do you have any knowledge of Ms. Warden’s whereabouts after she left Mr. Allen’s residence?” Hurley asks, ignoring Fletcher’s question.

“I know she had two other patients she saw that morning, one at ten and one at eleven.”

“On Christmas Day?” Hurley says skeptically.

“Illness knows no holidays,” Fletcher shoots back.

Hurley sighs. “Can I have the names of those patients? We’ll need to verify that Ms. Warden kept those appointments.”

Paul shakes his head. “I can’t give out that information. Privacy laws and all, you know.”

Ah, yes, the ever-frustrating HIPAA laws. It’s a set of rules that makes the provision of health care more of a secret than the location of CIA operatives. If bin Laden had been protected by HIPAA, he’d probably still be alive. But I’ve anticipated this objection.

“I understand that,” I say. “I’m a nurse myself, so I respect the need for your patients’ privacy. But what if you were to call them and ask them if they’d be willing to talk to us? If they give permission, that would cover you and your agency, no?”

Paul considers this, frowning. “I suppose that would be okay,” he says finally. We stand there, waiting, and stare at him for a few awkward seconds, before he adds, “I’ll give them a call and get back to you.”

“I also need to speak with Ms. Warden,” Hurley says.

“She’s not in the office right now, but let me check her schedule.” He pulls up a file on his computer and then says, “Today is her day off. Hold on and I’ll see if she’s home.” He makes a call; and when Lisa Warden answers, he tells her why he’s calling. He listens for a minute and then says to Hurley, “She said she can meet with you somewhere at one, if you like.”

Hurley nods. “I’d like to meet her at her home.”

Fletcher frowns and relays this information to Lisa. When he hangs up, he writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to Hurley. “That’s her address,” he says.

“One more thing, Mr. Fletcher,” I say. “I’d like a copy of Jack’s chart, please.” Fletcher purses his lips, and I suspect he’s about to throw HIPAA at us again. I head him off, though. “I’m with the medical examiner’s office,” I say, taking my turn to flash a badge. “If you check the state regs, you’ll find that the ME’s office is allowed complete access to the medical record of a deceased, when the death is suspicious. HIPAA doesn’t apply.”

Fletcher looks skeptical of my claim.

“I’ll be happy to show you the actual regulation, if I can borrow your computer.”

Finally he shrugs and says, “I’ll need some time to copy it.”

“I’ll take it to my office and copy it for you,” I offer. He doesn’t have to let me take his original chart out of the office, but I’m hoping he either doesn’t know that, or doesn’t care. “By the time I bring it back, you should have some answers for us from those other patients.”

Fletcher is clearly annoyed by this manipulation; but in the end, he capitulates, allowing Hurley and me to leave with the chart in hand.

Prior to hitting up the nursing agency, Hurley arranged for an officer to pick up Serena Vasquez and bring her to the police station. She is waiting there for us, along with her twin boys and the neighbor’s daughter she is again watching. We discover Serena is in the interrogation/conference room with Junior, while the kids are hanging out by themselves in the break room, surveying the contents of the station refrigerator. When we walk in, I hear one of them say, “Are these bullets?” I dash over and drag them away, shutting the refrigerator door.

Hurley rolls his eyes and says, “Apparently, there isn’t anyone else here to watch the kids. Do you mind staying with them until I can take over for Junior and send him out here?”

I look over at the three kids, who are all standing in front of a large wall poster that shows a teenage girl puffing on a joint with the caption
I’m not as think as you stoned I am
.

“Sure,” I say, thinking,
How bad can it be?
I check my wallet for change and decide to herd the kids to the vending machine room down the hallway and treat them to some unhealthy snacks. “Come on, you guys,” I say. “Who wants snacks?”

I’m answered with a chorus of “I do”; and like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, I lead the little rats out of town. When we get to the vending machines, the kids all line up in front of them. Their eyes are as big as saucers; their fingers are splayed on the glass.

“What’s your name?” I ask the twin closest to me.

“I want Oreos,” he says.

“‘I-want-Oreos’ is a silly name,” I counter; at which point, he shoots me a dirty look.

Then his brother pipes up and says, “His name is Angelino.”

Clearly a misnomer
.

“And mine is Oro. That’s almost like Oreo, so can I have some Oreos?”

Angelino shoves his brother and says, “I asked first.” Oro shoves back. Before I know it, the two boys are engaged in an all-out brawl, while the girl backs into a corner watching them. She’s clutching a Barbie doll in her arms. It’s a vintage Barbie, the kind with ugly joints and a 1960s ponytail. I suspect it came from a yard sale. I’m tempted to warn the girl about falling for that whole “Barbie and Ken myth,” but I don’t. She’s young yet; there’s still plenty of time for her dreams to be shattered.

I ignore the boys, walk up to the machine, plug in some change, and buy a package of Oreos. Then I turn to the girl. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Susie.”

“Do you like Oreos?”

She nods, looking shy.

I hand her the package. “Then this is your reward for behaving.”

She takes the package, and the boys, sensing that something momentous has just occurred, break up their little tango and glare at me.

“We asked first,” Angelino says. “We should get the cookies.”

“Yeah,” Oro chimes in.

“Well, neither of you will get anything, because you clearly don’t know how to behave.”

I’m feeling pretty smug until Angelino walks up and kicks me in the shin. Oro goes over to Susie, shoves her, and grabs the Oreos and the Barbie doll, though Susie’s grip on her dream is much stronger than Angelino anticipated. All he comes away with are the cookies and Barbie’s head. Susie is left crying in the corner as the two boys run from the room and down the hall to the men’s room.

I’m sure they think this is a safe haven for now, that no reasonable woman would follow them into a men’s room. They may be right, but it’s a huge miscalculation on their part to assume I’m a reasonable woman.

I bang the door open and charge in after them, just in time to see Angelino drop Barbie’s head in the toilet. I also see Junior, who is standing in front of a urinal, finishing off his business.

Junior whips his head around and looks at me with a shocked expression. Unfortunately, other parts of his anatomy whip around as well. Clearly confused, he looks from me to the twins and then back at me again, before he realizes he’s still holding his man muscle and has just dribbled pee on his shoes. Flustered, he quickly tucks things away and zips up. Meanwhile, his face is turning a shade of neon red.

I walk over to the boys, grab an arm on each of them, and start to yank them out of the stall. Angelino, who, I’m guessing, always has to have the last word, makes one final statement by reaching over and pushing down the toilet’s handle. I shove him aside and make a desperate grab for the doll’s head, saying a silent prayer of gratitude over the fact that whoever used the toilet last had the decency to flush it. Someone also felt the need to use a sanitizer in the bowl recently. Unfortunately, it’s the type that turns the bowl water blue. I manage to grab Barbie’s fake blond ponytail and pluck her head to safety just as it is about to be dispatched to goldfish heaven. However, it’s not before the water has tinted her hair a lovely shade of royal blue.

“Everything okay, Mattie?” Junior asks, his face still blazing.

From off in the distance, we can hear Susie still screaming as if someone had ripped her head off rather than her doll’s. The two boys are standing in the corner, staring at me all big-eyed, like I’m a crazy woman.

“Nothing a tubal ligation couldn’t have fixed,” I say, staring down the two hellions in the corner. “Those two are yours. If it was up to me, I’d just shoot them if they pull anything else, but I’ll leave that decision for you.”

Oro lets out a puff of a laugh at this; but when I narrow my gaze at him, his smile fades fast. He bites his lip and looks over at Junior nervously. Junior just shrugs at him, letting his hand fall casually onto the butt of his gun. Oro swallows hard and tries to shrink himself into the wall behind him.

I walk over to the sink and rinse Barbie’s head, using a bit of hand soap to shampoo her hair. The end result is a very punk-looking Barbie. “I’ll try to calm down the other one for you,” I tell Junior as I dry Barbie’s hair with a paper towel. Then, with one last glare at the hellions, I exit the bathroom and return to the vending room, where I find Susie slumped in a corner, still screaming.

I kneel down in front of her, take Barbie’s body from her hand, and squeeze the head back onto it. “Here you go. Good as new,” I say, handing it back to her.

“Her hair is blue,” Susie whines, hiccupping sobs as she stares at the doll.

“Yeah, well, um, that’s because she’s secretly one of those people from
Avatar,
” I say, praying the kid has seen the movie. Apparently, she has, because she stops crying and gives Barbie a thoughtful look.

Junior appears in the doorway with the two hoodlums in tow. “Hurley wanted me to send you into the conference room,” he says.

Thank God. Parsing murder suspects is nothing compared to handling unruly kids. “Good luck with this bunch,” I tell Junior. I start to leave, but then I turn back. “You might want to empty the ammo in your gun, just in case you’re tempted.” And with that parting shot, I head for the conference room.