by Sue Grafton
I said, "I can sympathize. I pay a fortune for insurance and I could use the cash." My voice sounded hollow. I moved my hand out from under Tommy's with the intention of lifting my glass for another sip of my martini, but I realized I was shaking too much to get the glass to my lips. I tucked my fingers under my thigh. I could feel how cold they were even through my jeans.
Meanwhile, Henry went on as smoothly as a con artist with an easy mark. "I called the fellow myself and described the diamond to him. He wouldn't make a commitment on the phone, but he seemed interested. I know you don't want to give the ring away, but you're going to have to be realistic. You'll never recoup the actual value, but he sounds a lot more generous than some. I think this would be for his personal collection, so it might be worth a shot."
I tried to reconstruct from his comments the phony tale he must have had in mind. The implication was that I had my mother's pricey diamond ring and was in the market for some cash. Apparently, I'd consulted him about selling it and he'd asked around. So far so good, but the trick with a good lie is not to push. I thought we might go another round or two, but then we'd have to move on. String a lie out for too long and it can trip you up.
My mouth was dry. How much? I cleared my throat and tried it again. "How much? Did he give you any idea?"
"Between eight and ten thousand. He says it depends on the stone and whether he thinks there's any secondary market, but he swore he'd be fair."
"The ring's worth five times that," I said, indignantly. I knew the ring was imaginary, but it still had sentimental value. Under the circumstance, eight to ten thousand sounded like chickenshit to me.
Henry shrugged. "Check around if you want. There are other jewelers in the building, but as he says, better the devil you know."
"Maybe. We'll see about that."
Tommy's expression hadn't changed. He seemed to listen politely, no more and no less interested than any ordinary guy would be.
I felt a trickle of sweat inch down my spine to the small of my back. I pointed and said, "What's in the envelope?"
"Oh. I'm glad you reminded me. I have a present for you." He passed me the envelope, watching expectantly as I undid the clasp and folded back the flap. Inside, neatly secured with a paper clip, was a handful of bills, presumably Klotilde's.
"Okay, I'll bite. What is this?"
"See for yourself. Go on and open one."
I slid off the paper clip and picked up the first bill, which appeared to be a lengthy itemized list of charges, most of them for medical supplies:
brush, hair $1.00
Steri-strips, 3m V4 X 3 $1.22
Steri-strips, 3m V4 X 3 $1.22
underpads, polymer 23 X 36 $3.35
syringe, monoject ins. $0.14
syringe, monoject ins. $0.14
syringe, monoject ins. $0.14
catheter, all-purp Davol $1.59
baby lotion $1.62
tray, bard irrigation $2.69
cups, denture $0.14
There were roughly thirty items in all. The total was $99.10. None of the charges seemed out of line to me. I glanced at the next statement, a record of therapeutic exercises and physical therapy sessions, totaling 130 minutes over the last few days of July. The box for each day bore the initials pg, the therapist who rendered the treatment.
I looked at Henry with puzzlement.
He said, "That whole batch is hers. I came across them this morning and thought you'd be interested. Take another look."
I picked up the next invoice. This was a claim for portable X-ray equipment, the transport for the portable X-ray, and two X-ray exams, one of the wrist and one of the hand. The total was $108.50.1 glanced at the top of the form and then shuffled back through the first two. All three were generated by Pacific Meadows. "I didn't realize she'd been a patient at Pacific Meadows."
"Neither did I. I showed them to Rosie and she said Klotilde was admitted last spring. Pacific Meadows was one of several facilities where she'd been a patient in the last few years. I don't know if you ever paid much attention, but she'd be hospitalized for something – a fall, pneumonia, that staph infection she picked up. With Medicare, she was only allowed X number of days – I think, a hundred per illness. She was so cranky and disagreeable, a couple of places refused to take her. They just claimed there wasn't room. Are you following this?"
"So far."
"Check the date services were rendered."
"July and August."
Henry leaned closer. "She passed away in April. She'd been gone for months by then."
For a moment, I let the information sink in. This was the first tangible evidence of financial shenanigans that I'd seen. But how had they managed it? Klotilde must have died at just about the same time the paper audit was being conducted at Pacific Meadows. According to Merry, a substantial number of charts had been ordered for review. Maybe hers wasn't one. I tried to recall the sequence of events whereby deaths were reported to Social Security. As nearly as I remembered, the mortuary filled out the death certificate and sent it to the local office of vital statistics, which in turn forwarded the original to the county recorder's office. The death certificate was then sent to Sacramento, where it was archived and the information sent on to Social Security.
"Henry, this is great. I wonder if there's any way to check it out?" I was of course pondering the notion of persuading Merry to do some snooping for me. I'd have to wait until the coming weekend, which was when she filled in. I didn't think it'd be politic to approach her during regular weekday hours with Mrs. Stegler standing by. Plan B was maybe doing a little search of my own if I could figure out what to look for. I glanced up to find both Tommy and Henry watching me. "Sorry. I was trying to figure out what to do with this."
Tommy must have decided he'd been polite long enough. His hand settled over mine. His grip was firm and prevented my pulling free without being conspicuous about it. "Hey, Henry. I hate to butt in here, but this lady's promised to buy me dinner. We're just having a quick drink before we walk over to Emile's."
Henry said, "Well, I better get back to my stew before it starts sticking to the pan." He flicked a look at me as he rose to his feet. I knew he didn't want to leave me, but he didn't dare persist. At the prospect of his departure, I felt the same desperation I'd felt when I was five and my aunt walked me over for my first day of elementary school. I'd been fine while she lingered, chatting with the other parents, but the minute she left I had a panic attack. Now, I could feel the same roar of anxiety that dulled everything but my longing for her. Henry and Tommy exchanged chitchat and next thing I knew, Henry was gone. I had to get out of there. I tried to withdraw my hand, but Tommy tightened his grip.
I tapped the manila envelope. "You know what? I really need to look into these. I'll have to take a rain check on dinner. I hope you don't mind."
Tommy minded. I watched his smile fade. "You're reneging on a promise."
"Maybe tomorrow night. I've got work to do." I knew it wasn't smart to go up against this man, but the notion of an evening alone with him was intolerable. Mariah had to be gone by now and if not, that was her problem.
He began to rub my fingers, the contact slightly rougher than was strictly necessary. The friction became uncomfortable, but he seemed unaware. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Please let go of my hand."
He was staring at me. "Has someone told you something about me?"
I could feel my jaw set. "What's there to tell, Tommy? You have something to hide?"
"No. Of course not, but people make things up."
"Well, I don't. If I say I've got work to do, you can take my word for it."
He gave my fingers a squeeze and then released my hand. "I guess I better let you go, then. Why don't I call you tomorrow? Or better yet, you call me."
"Right."
We stood at the same time. I waited while Tommy shrugged into his raincoat, picked up his umbrella, and adjusted the clasp. When we reached the entrance, I retrieved my slicker and um
brella. Tommy held the door. I made short work of the fare-thee-wells, trying to control my desire to flee. I turned toward my apartment while he walked off in the opposite direction on his way to his car. I forced myself to stroll though my impulse was to scurry, putting as much distance as possible between him and me.
Chapter 18
* * *
I went back to my apartment and locked myself in. Tommy gave me the creeps. I went from window to window, closing the latches, pulling the shutters across the panes so that no one could look in. I didn't relax until every possible bolt and bar had been secured. I sat down at my desk and found Mariah Talbot's business card, which I'd tucked in my bag. I was nervous about my association with her. Tommy'd been uncanny in his suspicions about me. I pictured him rummaging in my purse the minute my back was turned, coming across her card. People like him, obsessed with control, need the constant reassurance that no small detail has eluded them. I committed the number to memory and cut the card into small pieces. I was uncomfortably aware that he still held my rental application, which spelled out more about me than I really wanted known. He'd never fully believe I was focused on matters related to Dow Purcell. In his mind, whatever I was up to must have something to do with him. Narcissism and paranoia are flip sides of the same distorted sense of self-importance. In the eerie way of all psychopaths, he'd picked up on my newly minted fear of him. He must be wondering who or what had caused my attitude to shift.
I sat down at my desk and dialed Mariah's Texas area code and the number on the card. I knew I wouldn't reach her, but at least I could leave her a message to get in touch with me. I thought about how deftly Henry had stepped in with the name of the fence. He'd lied as well as I did and with the same finesse. The question now was whether Tommy would act on the information.
Mariah's answering machine clicked in. "Hello, this is Mariah Talbot. You've reached the offices of Guardian Casualty Insurance in Houston, Texas. My usual work hours are eight-thirty to five-thirty, Monday through Friday. If you're calling at any other time, please leave a message giving me your name, the time, and a number where I can reach you. I check my machine frequently and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you."
I said, "Hi, Mariah. It's Kinsey. We need to talk. Please call me at my office number. If I'm unavailable, leave me ten seconds of silence. After that, just keep checking your messages. I'll call and suggest a time and a place to meet. Thanks." As I spoke, I found myself hunched over the phone, my hand cupping the mouthpiece. What did I imagine? Tommy Hevener pressed against the outside wall with a hand-held listening device? Well, yeah, sort of. Talk about paranoid. Having placed the call to Mariah, I turned my attention to the bills Henry'd given me, sinking into the comfort and safety of the job before me. The first in the pile bore the heading "Medicare Summary Notice" and further down the page, a line that read "This is a summary of claims processed on 8/29/86." If I could lay my hands on her medical chart, I could find out what the doctors had been treating her for. I knew about some of her illnesses, but I wanted to see what medications and supplies had been ordered for her. I could then compare the actual orders to the items for which Medicare had been billed. Shuffling through, I found an Explanation of Medical Benefits form; account statements with codes, boxes for co-pays and deductibles; invoices; plus several records of daily treatment – physical therapy by my guess. No diagnosis was ever mentioned, but in the first half of August, the charges for medication alone totaled $410.95. Hundreds of additional items, many of them minor, had been billed to Medicare in the months since her death. Of course, this could be an error, a mix-up in accounts with goods and services being charged inadvertently to the wrong patient billing number. On the other hand, Klotilde's surname, with its odd, impossible Hungarian spelling, appeared throughout, so this was hardly a matter of someone misidentifying a "Smith" or "Jones," or switching one "Johnson" for another with the same first initial. Most helpful to me was the fact that while the claim number changed, Klotilde's Medicare number followed her from form to form. I made a note of the information on a scrap of paper, folded it, and slid it into my jeans pocket. I wondered whether her records were still available at Pacific Meadows. Almost had to be, I thought. She'd died in April and I assumed the facility would keep her records in their active files for at least a year before retiring them to storage.
I waited until 9:30, filling my time with various household chores. Cleaning out a toilet bowl can be wonderfully soothing when anxiety levels climb. I scrubbed the sink and the tub, and then crawled around on my bathroom floor, using the same damp sponge to wipe down the tiles. I vacuumed, dusted, and started a load of laundry. From time to time, I looked at my watch, calculating the hour at which the residents of Pacific Meadows would be bedded down for the night. Finally, I exchanged my Sauconys for black tennis shoes and then slipped into a black windbreaker, which was better for night work than my gaudy yellow rain gear. I separated the house key and the VW key from the larger collection on my key ring, transferred my driver's license and some cash from my wallet to my jeans, and then added a small leather case that contained my key picks. This particular kit had been designed by a felonious friend who'd spent his spare moments in prison fashioning an assortment of picks that looked like a manicure set. In between breaking-and-entering gigs, I could nip my cuticles and file my nails. The only other item I took with me was a flat flashlight the size of a playing card that fit neatly in my bra. On my way to the nursing home, I made a detour by the drive-through window at McDonald's, where I picked up a sack of burgers, two Cokes, and two large orders of french fries.
When I arrived at Pacific Meadows, the parking lot was close to empty. The day personnel had departed and the night shift operated with a considerably reduced staff. I parked my car in a darkened area, picked up the sack of fast food, and locked the door behind me. The rain had been held in abeyance, stalled over the mountain range just north of us. Meanwhile, we'd enjoyed a sufficient break between showers that the pavement was dry in patches. Crossing the tarmac, I reviewed the layout of the building, calculating the location of Ruby Curtsinger's room. I knew a bird feeder hung outside her sliding door, and I was hoping I could use that as a reference point. I had just reached the corner of the building when a car turned into the lot behind me.
In stealth mode, I stepped into the protective shadow of a juniper while the driver backed the vehicle into a slot midway down the row. The car was a classic, long and snub-nosed, fenders softly rounded, its make and model one I wasn't able to identify on sight. The body looked like something from the '40s: the paint color, cream; the front bumper, a chunky affair of highly polished chrome. Four doors, no running board, a set of dazzling whitewall tires, no hood ornament. The man who emerged was as smart looking as the car. He tossed a lighted cigarette aside and I watched it wink briefly on the asphalt before the damp extinguished it. He wore a pale raincoat over a dark three-piece suit, black wingtip shoes with heels that tapped sharply as he walked. As he approached the lighted entrance, I could see his thick mustache and a substantial head of silver hair. He disappeared from view. When I was certain he was gone, I continued around to the rear of the building on the walkway that paralleled the narrow gardens.
Most of the residents' rooms were dark, the drapes drawn securely across the sliding glass doors. I closed my eyes, trying to picture Ruby's room in relation to her neighbors; difficult to do since I'd only visited her once. I searched for the bird feeder that had graced her eaves, hoping the nursing home hadn't provided one per resident. Ahead of me, one of the sliding glass doors was partially opened and I could see the flickering gray light of a television set. Outside, an empty bird feeder was visible, hanging like a little lantern from a thin strand of wire. I leaned close to the screen. "Ruby? Is that you in there?"
Her wheelchair was parked no more than two feet away. She leaned forward and peered through the screen door at me. It seemed to take her a moment to figure out who I was. "You're Merry's friend. I'm sorry, I do
n't remember your name."
"Kinsey," I said, holding up the bag. "I brought you something."
She unlatched the screen door and motioned me in, her bony face brightening. I slid open the screen and stepped into her room. She pointed to the bag. "What's in there?"
I held it open to her and she peered in while I identified the contents. "Two Big Macs, two QP's with Cheese, two Cokes, two fries, and numerous packets of ketchup and salt. I figured you'd need that." I passed her the sack. "The stuff's probably cold and I apologize for that."
"I have a microwave."
"You do? Good job. I hope you're hungry."
"You bet." She set the bag in her lap and wheeled herself over to the low chest of drawers. On top, she had an electric tea kettle and a microwave oven the size of a bread box. She put the bag in and set the timer. Over her shoulder, she said, "Make sure the coast is clear."
I crossed to the hall door, which had been closed for the night. I turned the knob, opened the door a crack. The corridor was dim. At the far end, I could see the nurses' station in a hot oasis of light. Standing with his back to me was the gentleman I'd seen entering only moments before. Maybe a relative making an after-hours visit. The door across from Ruby's opened abruptly and a nurse came out wearing a snappy white uniform, with a starched white cap, white hose, and crepe-sole white shoes meant to stave off varicose veins. I didn't think nurses even dressed like that these days. The few I'd seen wore street clothes or nursey-looking pantsuits made of machine-washable synthetics. It was Pepper Gray, the bitchy nurse who'd eavesdropped on the conversation between Merry and me during my initial visit. She had a stethoscope hung around her neck and her expression was preoccupied as she checked her watch. She turned toward the nurses' station and padded briskly down the hall.
Behind me, Ruby's microwave oven pinged. I jumped and swiftly pushed the hall door shut. There wasn't a lock and I hoped the cheap, heady fumes of junk food wouldn't bring attendants running. Ruby retrieved the bag from the microwave and wheeled herself back to her place by the sliding glass doors. She pulled the rolling tray between us and pointed to a chair. I wasn't sure about sharing her food, but I'd really brought more than she could eat and I was starving to death. She seemed tickled at the company and wolfed down her Quarter Pounder almost as fast as I did. Both of us made little snuffling sounds as we moved on to the Big Macs and the cartons of fries.