The Stiff and the Dead (26 page)

“Oh, my gosh. Okay. I'll spell it out. I started dating Helen more after Wisnowski died. Sure, I liked the company of such a vibrant woman, but then I got suspicious. Don't you see? I was dating her to help your case!”

“My case?”

“Yes, Pauline. I found a . . . Viagra tablet in Helen's living room!”

Jagger made a noise. To me it sounded like a failed laugh. He had turned toward the window, obviously not wanting to embarrass my uncle.

“How many did you find?” I asked.

“One, Pauline. But how many do I need to find? Maybe she sells them too!”

I touched his hand. Obviously his feelings for Helen were stronger than he wanted to admit to us. “Maybe she had it—” I couldn't say it. I couldn't say that maybe Helen had a Viagra for one of her “dates.”

Because obviously she'd never offered it to Uncle Walt.

Jagger stood up. “Great job, Walt. I'd hire you myself if I could.”

I wanted to ask whom he worked for then, but it wasn't an appropriate time. Uncle Walt was beaming because of his “investigating.”

Jagger patted him on the back. “Yep. Great job. Look, can you do us a favor?”

Uncle Walt stood. “Anything. I'm at your disposal.”

“Great. Don't say a word to anyone.”

Uncle Walt “zipped” his lips.

I smiled.

Jagger continued, “Perfect. I knew we could trust you. So, no telling anyone, and stay clear of Helen.”

“But,” Uncle Walt protested, “maybe I should keep surveillance on her? Tell Stash about her?”

Jagger had begun to walk away, but turned back quickly.

I'd seen his smiling reflection in the dresser mirror and wanted to thank him for being so kind, so considerate of my aged uncle.

“Leave the rest to us professionals, Walt. You did a great job reporting what you found. We'll take over from here.” With that he held out his hand.

Uncle Walt took it in a shaky hold. “Well, then. My work is done.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

On the way out, Jagger said over his shoulder, “Maybe next week we can take my SUV out for a drive.”

Tears welled in my eyes at the sight of the twinkle in Uncle Walt's.

“Thank you,” I said to Jagger when we got into his SUV.

“No problem.” He cranked the engine and drove off.

We'd snuck out the backdoor before my mother caught us and made us eat sweet rolls. They were always delicious, but I was still so full, and I wanted to talk to Jagger.

“You know, I never liked Helen.”

He turned down Elm Street and stopped at the red light. “And?”

“And, well, do you think she is mixed up in this?”

He chuckled. “Pauline,
one
Viagra. You of all people should know the effects of that.”

Since the vehicle was at a stop, I slapped at his arm.

He pulled away and my hand landed on the steering wheel. I learned then that my reflexes were no match for Jagger's.

“Very funny,” I said.

“It is. But actually I'm not trying to be funny.”

“Good. 'Cause you're not.”

“What I meant was, no. I don't suspect Helen. Neither do the cops. What I suspect is that poor Uncle Walt is really miffed about getting dumped or that she never offered him a Viagra and, although he probably believes it, he's seeing something that isn't there.”

I wasn't so sure.

“And if Walt starts something, our cases could blow up in our faces,” he added.

I nodded.

When we pulled up to my condo, Jagger didn't turn off the engine. Good. What I needed now was a long nap. An all-day nap.

I tossed and turned and looked at the clock a gazillion times. Only twenty-five minutes had passed since I'd climbed into bed. Obviously I was overtired and the coffee Jagger made this morning must have been Miles's regular blend and not decaf.

I looked at the window. A light snowfall brightened the early afternoon. My first thought was to go for a jog. Maybe I'd feel better with some exercise. Then I told myself I'd probably slip on the sidewalk and break something. That was the kind of luck I usually had.

Leaning back, I propped my pillows into a pile and stared out the window. Was Uncle Walt even remotely right about Helen Wanat?

Or, more likely, were my negative feelings about her getting in my way.

I wasn't a good people watcher. Never could judge someone from the outside unless it had to do with their health. Jagger had said Helen was clean, and I knew damn well that he wouldn't say that if she weren't. Also, no way in hell was I going to argue with him where investigating was concerned.

He was a master.

And, a darn good “people watcher,” it seemed.

He'd read Uncle Walt correctly and was even gentle with the old man's feelings. I liked that.

Ring. Ring.

First I looked at the phone. Miles and Goldie had gone shopping for the day in New York City. They'd left me a note on my door. I couldn't wait to see what outfits Goldie came back with. His black jacket hung from my closet door.

I thought about Jagger.

Ring.
“Hello.” I had grabbed at the phone so fast, I nearly fell out of bed.

“How's it going?” Nick's voice came across the line so clean, so fresh, and so deep.

My heart did a pitter-patter.

That was good. Nick's voice had the power to make me interested. After a bit of chitchat, with me filling him in on my case, he'd thought Helen wasn't suspect either. I could only hope that Uncle Walt wouldn't get hurt anymore, and planned to keep an eye on her. Nick also told me that I really had to get going on my case. Fabio had a short fuse.

I laughed. “No argument there.”

“I miss you, Pauline.”

I swallowed. Hard. “I . . . me too.” Did that mean I missed him or myself? Flustered, I tried to correct myself, but felt at a loss.

His chuckling warmed my heart through the AT&T lines. “I'll see you tomorrow night. How about dinner?”

Exhausted, dinner was the last thing on my mind. But I truly wanted to see Nick. “I look forward to it.”

With a promise to pick me up at seven, he hung up.

If I couldn't sleep before, I never would now. So, I got up, took a shower to perk up and got dressed. This time I wore the black leggings and turtleneck. Who cared if I looked like a mime? I wasn't going anywhere.

Once downstairs, I fixed myself a cup of tea, spread out my work photos on the table, and stared at them. No wonder Fabio was pissed. There really wasn't much to go on. I needed something soon.

I looked down at Spanky, who was snoring by the door, cuddled in his zebra doggie bed. A gift from Auntie Goldie. “What the hell am I going to do?”

“You have the keys to the pharmacy, jerk.”

Jerk! My little darling had called me a jerk. Then I realized, yet again, that I'd spoken out loud with the wisdom of a five-pound canine.

I finished my tea, rinsed out the mug and set it in the dishwasher, and then gathered my glasses, beeper, keys and license. Not wanting to lug around a purse, I stuck twenty bucks in the pocket of my jeans. I then reached into the inside zipper of my bag and took out the keys to the clinic.

Pauline Sokol, insurance investigator rides again.

The clinic parking lot wasn't totally empty. Good, because now my car wouldn't stand out. That gave me pause. Then I told myself some cleaning crew probably worked on Saturdays and wouldn't take much notice when I unlocked the door with a key I had. Employees often came back over the weekend to finish up paperwork.

Me, I'd never been that much of a workaholic.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my new pair of thin black gloves. On the way there I'd stopped at a Wal-Mart. Jagger would be proud. I pulled off the tags, threw them in the trash bag beneath my dashboard and stepped outside.

This time I'd worn my Steelers parka instead of Goldie's sexy jacket. I figured if I got caught, sexy wouldn't help. Maybe my favorite football team would bring me luck. I checked the pocket of my jeans to make sure I had everything. The bulges said I did.

At the door, I paused, looked around and took out the key. The door opened without a hitch. As I walked inside, a man carrying a mop came from around the corner.

“Oh!” I stumbled back.

He looked at me, at the key. “I'm leaving. Lock up when you are done and stay off the floor on the west side of the pharmacy. It's still wet.” He stuck the mop in the pail, which he shoved into the janitor's closet, grabbed a jacket and walked out the door, mumbling.

The only thing I got was “don't want no footprints on it.” I nodded. I didn't want my footprints on the floor or anywhere else either. The fact that this man could identify me did little to worry me. He seemed in a hurry; he probably didn't even notice my Steelers jacket.

Lock up. Good. He'd made it sound as if I were the only one here. I turned toward the clinic and paused.

Suddenly an eerie feeling crept inside me. Not that I expected any ghosts, but the last time I'd broken into my workplace to snoop, I was nearly shot.

I told myself fate wouldn't be so cruel as to repeat that incident, and that I had a job to do. I was a big girl, with big bills. Adult bills that needed to be paid soon. Once inside the clinic, I stopped, listened. A clock, given by a drug company, ticked away in the waiting room. The only sound was the second hand passing by each organ—6 was a kidney, 9, a liver, and 12, a heart.

It was ten past the pancreas now and apparently adrenaline had boosted my second wind. I slowly walked through the empty clinic and headed toward the door to the pharmacy, praying it wasn't locked.

I twisted the handle and it clicked. Perfect. The door opened and I walked through, turning and shutting it. Then I stood for a few minutes, waiting. Nothing. Good. No one was around. Emergency lights glowed red above the doorways. There was also some white light coming from the floor area, most likely to discourage burglars.

I smiled.

Not that I was going to steal anything, but the light helped, since I'd forgotten a flashlight. A tidbit I was not going to share with Jagger. Across the waiting room was the yellow plastic “wet floor” sign left by the grumpy janitor. Good thing for grumpy janitors in a hurry to leave. I walked to the back of the pharmacy, where the medications were filled.

With my gloves on, I opened drawer after drawer. Feeling sure that all the narcotics were locked up, I'd never touch the safe, in case someone came in. That way I couldn't be accused of stealing drugs, and then lose my nursing license. A sobering thought, even for someone who never wanted to work in that profession again.

My heart sank. This was a waste of my time, I thought. I could have been doing more tossing and turning in my bed. I leaned against the counter and told myself I had to think like a pharmacist. A crooked pharmacist. A cheating pharmacist.

The area looked clean. Where would Leo hide things? Where would he put anything to do with Sophie? And had the cops already found what I might need?

I should have brought Spanky with me to tell me what to do. Now I needed a dog to help with my case. How pathetic was that?

Speaking of pathetic, I thought of the measly late Leo Pasinski. Then I noticed a file cabinet. I walked over, opened it and looked under
B
for Banko. Sophie's chart was not as thick as some of the others but it wasn't thin by any means. Much like the woman herself. I yanked it open and spread the papers out on the clean counter.

Damn. Leo hid things right out in the open. The old “reverse psychology,” I guessed. Well, it did make things less conspicuous.

With my camera glasses on now, I clicked away. I tried to read each page as I clicked but thought I shouldn't take too much time there. I could study it all at home. One paper flew off the pile as I shifted the others.

I reached down to pick it up.

A prescription. Then I found prescription after prescription in Sophie's name—all written on a pad by the same doctor. Dr. Arnold Stabach. The only doctor by that name who I'd worked with at Saint Gregory's Hospital had died last year. I leaned closer. Sure enough, the office location was on Pleasant Street and at Saint Greg's where he'd worked.

Sophie or Leo must have stolen the prescription pad before he died. Then Sophie wrote them out and Leo filled them, or more than likely didn't. No wait. I had to think like a criminal. I paused. I chewed a strand of hair. I clicked my nail against my teeth. Yes. He must have filed the insurance claims on them and not filled the prescriptions. That way he could sell the pills—twice.

Very clever.

Bump. Bump.

My hands froze for a second. There couldn't be mice in the clinic making that kind of noise. I shoved the papers back into the folder, not caring what order they were in. Then I stuck the folder back in the file cabinet so it blended in and shut the drawer faster than the speed of a hummingbird's wings.

I silently tiptoed to the other side of the room. The noise seemed to come from behind me. So, I hiked myself up onto the counter, knocked the damned box of carob bars for another flying leap, and jumped off the other end. Tough luck, carob bars, I thought, as getting the hell out of there was more important.

Bump!

I looked from side to side and behind me. While still looking, I started to run. Suddenly the noise got louder. My feet flew out from under me. And I slid like Thumper on ice across the wet floor to land—at the feet of a
man.

My head clunked against the floor as I spun around on my back. Ouch! I'd shut my eyes at first, then opened them to look up. Dark blurry vision. Ears ringing. Slight nausea. Concussion City.

Another janitor stood over me, mop in hand—glaring down and frowning.

What the hell kind of excuse could I use for being here?

And would he call 911, and would I be found out?