P is for Peril (40 page)

“So how'd Dow screw up?”

“That's what we're trying to figure out.”

“Because I thought, you know . . . by law your company and the operating company had to be completely separate.”

“True. But Genesis has to rely on the information they receive from Pacific Meadows. No one from the operating company's on site. If Dow reviewed and forwarded billing charges, Genesis took his word for it.”

“So he could have told 'em anything he wanted.”

“Could and did.”

“How'd he get caught?”

“We're not sure. It might have been a guardian or relative of a patient who noticed the discrepancies and phoned in a complaint.”

“What, to you guys?”

“To Medicare.”

“A whistle-blower. Bad luck for him. So the fraud busters jumped in and followed up.”

“That's our guess. At this point, we don't know what they have.”

“What if it turns out it wasn't him?”

“His reputation's still ruined. A town this size, once you've been tainted by rumor, it's almost impossible to recover your good name. People will be polite, but it's the kiss of death.”

“I guess from Dow's perspective, the whole thing looked hopeless no matter what.”

“More or less.”

“What if it turns out he's innocent?” I said.

“Either way, we're left holding the bag.” He glanced at his watch, set his plate aside, and got up. “Well. I better go find my wife. Nice talking to you, Kinsey. I hope our paths cross again in happier times.”

“I hope so, too,” I said. I lifted my wineglass. “Thanks for this.”

“Glad to be a service.”

I watched him cross the room, scouting for Celine.

What a bullshitter. Joel Glazer had been on the phone with Broadus the day I talked to him. I wasn't out of his office door before the information was passed on. What Broadus had told me about their business troubles was almost word for word the story I'd heard from Joel.

When I got back to my apartment, the phone was ringing. Two rings. Three. I let myself in and snatched up the phone before the machine kicked in. Tommy Hevener. The moment I heard his voice, I realized I should have been screening my calls.

He said, “Hey, babe. It's me.” His tone was both intimate and assured, like I'd been waiting all day in hopes of hearing from him. The sound of his voice gave me a jolt sufficient to make me salivate like a dog. I had to remind myself that while I didn't want to see him, I might need his help in getting Richard calmed down.

I ignored his seductive manner and said, “Hi. How are you?” All breezy and matter-of-fact.

“What'd you do to Richard? He's pissed as hell at you.”

My stomach did a flip. “I know and I'm sorry. I feel terrible about that.”

“What happened?”

“Ah. What happened. Well.”
Think, think, think, think, think.
The lie lurched from my lips. “Lonnie wanted me to stay in the office, so he offered me a fifty percent discount on the rent.”

“Why didn't you just say so? Richard would've understood that.”

“I never had a chance. He was in such a rage I couldn't deal with him.”

“Why didn't you tell me? We could have worked something out. Christ, and then on top of that he found out you went and put a stop on the check? You should have seen him. He was screaming at the top of his lungs. You don't know what he's capable of once he gets like this.”

I thought I knew Richard's capabilities. “Can't you talk to him for me?”

“That's what I've been trying to do. I thought if I heard your version of the story I could reason with him. You blew this one bad.”

“You're right. I know that, but it's like I explained to him . . . I thought writing him a note would be less awkward than telling him in person.”

“Big mistake. That's what set him off.”

“I got that already. What do you think will happen next?”

“Hard to say with him. Maybe the whole thing will blow over. We can hope,” he said. “Anyway, enough about him. When can we get together? I've missed you.” His tone was playful, but it was all a front. I could either yield to him now or he'd go right on working on me until I did. I could feel a slow, stubborn anger begin to rise in my gut. I tried to keep my tone mild, but I knew the message wasn't one he'd accept. “Look, I don't think this relationship is going to work for me. It's time to let go.”

There was dead silence. I could hear breathing on his end. I let the silence extend. Finally, he said, “This is your pattern, isn't it? Distancing yourself. You can't let anyone get close.”

“Maybe so. Fair enough. I can see how you'd think that.”

“I know you've been hurt and I'm sorry about that, but give me a chance. Don't shut me out. I deserve better than that.”

“I agree. You do deserve better. Truly, I wish you well and I'm sorry things didn't work out.”

“Can't we even talk about this?”

“I don't see the point.”

“You don't see the
point?
What the hell is this?”

“I'm not going to argue. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression—”

“Who the hell are you, thinking you can talk to me like this? You were the one came on to me.”

“I'm hanging up now. Good-bye.”

“Just a fuckin' minute. You stick it to my brother and I come to your defense and you think you can turn around and pull this kind of shit with me? You're out of your mind.”

“Great. Perfect. Let's let it go at that.” I set the phone down in the cradle. Belatedly, my heart began to bang like someone dribbling a basketball. I stood there waiting.

The phone rang and even though I was expecting it, I jumped. Two. Three. Four. The machine picked up. I heard my outgoing message and then he hung up. Thirty seconds passed. The phone rang again. I lifted the handset and depressed the plunger, terminating the call. I turned off the ringer and then, for good measure, I unplugged the phone.

I sat at my desk and took a few deep breaths. I was not going to let the guy get to me. If I had to, I'd talk to Lonnie about getting a restraining order. In the meantime, I had to find a way to get him out of my head.

I took out my index cards and scribbled down numerous new notes, filling in a few blanks. Like a Tarot reading, I laid out a spread of cards for review. Joel Glazer, Harvey Broadus, and Pacific Meadows formed an arc. Attached to those cards, there were two more: Penelope Delacorte, the associate administrator, and Tina Bart, the bookkeeper, who'd been fired. Joel Glazer and Harvey Broadus had gone to great lengths to suggest that Dow was at fault in the Medicare scandal brewing under the surface. The one item that didn't fit was the note I'd made about the liaison between Broadus and the frisky charge nurse who serviced him.

I returned to the card for Tina Bart. Where had she gone? No doubt Penelope Delacorte knew, but she wasn't about to tell me. On impulse, I leaned over and opened my bottom drawer. I hauled out the phone book and turned to the
B
's. When in doubt, says I, why not start with the obvious? Five
Barts
were listed, none of them
Tina
or
T.
There was a
C. Bart,
no address, conceivably short for
Christine
or
Christina.
Single women do this abbreviation bit to avoid all the heavy breathers out there who dial numbers at random while pinching their pants. I plugged in the phone again and tried the number for C. Bart. After two rings, a machine cut in. The voice on the other end was one of those mechanical butlers, some computer-generated robot who talked like he was living in a tin can. “Please leave a message.” Use of this proto-male was another device used by single women, who like to create the illusion of a guy on the scene. I reached for the Polk Directory and looked for the telephone number listed for C. Bart. The Polk Directory, also known as “the crisscross,” lists addresses and phone numbers in two different ways. Unlike the usual phone book, which orders its information alphabetically by name, the crisscross arranges the listings by the street address in one section and by the telephone number in the second section. If you have only a phone number without a street address, you can look up the number in the Polk and find the corresponding street and house number, plus the name of the person living there. Similarly, if you have only an address, you can track down the name of the occupant, along with the phone number, providingthe number's published. In this case, I found C. Bart at an address on Dave Levine Street, not far from Pacific Meadows. Penelope Delacorte had told me that Tina Bart was already working at Pacific Meadows when she arrived on the scene. Not too much of a leap to assume she was working nearby. Time to find out how much she knew.

Before I left the apartment, I searched out my old gun and tucked it in my shoulder bag. The gun is a Davis .32 semiautomatic with a five-and-a-quarter-inch barrel, loaded with Winchester Silvertips. During the past three years, I've taken a raft of shit about my use of this firearm, which I'm told is cheap and unreliable—a judgment that hasn't altered my lingering affection for the piece. It's small and tidy, weighing a nifty twenty-two ounces, and it feels good in my hand. I didn't believe Richard or Tommy would actually come after me, but I couldn't be sure. And that, of course, was the nature of the game they played.

It was close to five o'clock as I traveled north on the 101. The afternoon light was already gone. Drizzle swirled through the moving traffic like a vapor and the action of the windshield wipers formed a fan-shaped smear where the mist settled on the glass and was waved away. Dave Levine is a one-way street heading toward town, so I was forced to take the Missile off-ramp and turn left onto Chapel. I swung up and around, catching the street at a higher point and following it down again. I passed Pacific Meadows on my right and began to scrutinize descending house numbers. The building I was looking for was only a block away. I found parking on the street and approached on foot, hunched against the misting rain.

The structure was a plain stucco box, four units in all, two up and two down, with an open stairwell up the middle leading to the second floor. Apartment 1 was on my right, with Apartment 2 just across from it. The name Bart had been written in black marker pen and attached to the mailbox for Apartment 3. I backed up ten steps and checked the second-story windows. Lights were on in several rooms on the front right-hand side. I climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, and waited. Behind me, through the open space between the halves of the building, I could see the rainfall like gauze swaddling the streetlights. A draft of air was being funneled through the gap and it was cold.

“Who is it?”

“Ms. Bart?”

I heard her secure the chain and then she opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you at home. I'm Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private investigator, working for Dr. Purcell's ex-wife. Could I talk to you?”

“I don't know anything. I haven't seen him in months.”

“I'm assuming you heard his body was found up at Brunswick Lake?”

“I read that. What happened? The paper didn't really say.”

“Would it make a difference to you?”

“Well, I don't believe he killed himself, if that's what they're trying to prove.”

“I tend to agree, but we may never know. Meanwhile, I'm trying to reconstruct events that led up to his death. Can you remember when the two of you last spoke?”

She made no response, but there was information in her eyes.

A shift in the breeze blew a breath of fine rain against the side of my face. Impulsively, I said, “Could I come in? It's really getting chilly out here.”

“How do I know you're who you say you are?”

I reached in my handbag and took out my wallet. I pulled my license from the windowed slot and pushed it through the crack to her. She studied it briefly and then handed it back. She closed the door long enough to undo the chain. She opened the door again.

As soon as I stepped inside, she went through the whole process in reverse. I removed my slicker and hung it on a hat rack near the door. I paused to look around. The interior was a curious mix of old charm and annoyances: arches and hardwood floors, narrow windows with yellowing wooden Venetian blinds, a clunky-looking wall heater near the bedroom door. The living room boasted a fireplace with a grate that supported a partially charred log resting on an avalanche of ash. The air in the apartment wasn't much warmer than the air outside, but at least there wasn't any breeze. Through an arch on the far wall, I caught a glimpse of the bathroom tile, a retro maroon-and-beige mix, probably installed when the place was built. Without even seeing it, I knew the kitchen was bereft of modern conveniences: no dishwasher, no compactor, no garbage disposal. The stove would be original, a vintage O 'Keefe and Merritt with two glass-fronted ovens and a set of matching salt and pepper shakers in a box on top. Rechromed and fully reconditioned, the stove would cost a fortune, though one oven would never work right and the hip young thing who bought it would unwittingly underbake her bread.

Tina indicated that I could take a seat in a gray upholstered chair while she returned to her place on the couch. She was younger than I'd expected, in her forties and so lacking in animation I thought she might be tranquilized. Her hair was the color of oak in old hardwood floors. She wore a sweat suit: gray drawstring pants and a matching jacket with a white T-shirt visible where the front was unzipped. She had her shoes off. The shape of her foot was outlined in dust on the soles of her white cotton crew socks. She seemed undecided what to do with her hands. She finally crossed her arms and tucked her fingers out of sight, as though protecting them from frostbite. “Why come to me?”