False Profits

by Patricia Smiley

  I said sure, but I felt impatient to move ahead with my agenda. She sat at the table and began meticulously folding sheets of paper and sliding them neatly into envelopes, which she sealed with her tongue. I sat down in a chair across from her.

  “I understand that Francine has been employed by Dr. Polk for quite some time,” I said. “How closely did he supervise her work?”

  “My husband was a doctor, Ms. Sinclair, not an administrator.”

  Technically, she was wrong. He was both, but I didn’t want to argue the point.

  “Who else might know about the Center’s billing procedures?”

  She paused to think. “Possibly Harold Amberg. He and my husband had known each other for years. They also shared practice space.”

  “Does Dr. Amberg know about his death?”

  She looked momentarily pained. Then she leaned back in her chair, staring upward into nowhere. “I’m not sure.” She left her mouth open for a moment as if she would say more, but nothing came out. It could have been glue buildup, but it felt more like holding back. “It isn’t easy telling friends that your husband committed suicide.”

  Her statement threw me. “Did the police find a suicide note?”

  “No, but why do you think people leave notes anyway?”

  “I don’t know. To get the last word. Maybe just to explain why.”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “My husband and I said everything we needed to say to each other years ago. I’m sure he would have considered any further words superfluous.” The tone of her statement seemed almost like a confession, as if she was acknowledging her failures before someone did it for her.

  I tried to keep my tone soft and nonthreatening. “I’m surprised. He didn’t seem like the type.”

  “As you probably found out, my husband was a take-charge kind of person. Why is it so hard to believe that he took charge of his death as well?” She paused. “I don’t suppose he told you. He rarely talked about it. But we lost a son three years ago to Emery-Dreifuss. It’s a rare form of muscular dystrophy. Ryan began showing symptoms at age five. We tried everything to make him better. Nothing worked. He died of a complex arrhythmia. My husband took his death rather hard.”

  I watched her closely as she talked about her child. Her face was placid, her tone clinical. At least their son’s death helped shed light on Polk’s passion for neurodiagnostic testing and, perhaps, his volatile nature as well. But three years had passed, so why commit suicide now, especially when he believed NeuroMed was on the verge of helping people like his son? Even adding Mo Whitener’s threats to the mix didn’t seem like reason enough for somebody as tenacious as Milton Polk to end his life.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know about your son. I guess that might explain—”

  She interrupted. “I realize this may sound a little cold to you. Please don’t get the wrong impression. I cared deeply for my husband, but we had an arrangement. I didn’t question his comings and goings, and he gave me money to pursue my interests. I learned long ago not to hope for explanations.”

  She was right. Her comment did sound cold, but I tried to cut her some slack. Maybe she was simply numb from years of spousal neglect. Polk couldn’t have been easy to live with. Besides, pushing the suicide theory might deflect suspicion from her. After all, wasn’t the spouse always the obvious suspect in a murder case? I wondered if Mona Polk had any reason to want her husband dead. She might have gotten tired of dealing with his angry outbursts, or blamed him for not finding a cure for their son’s illness. Maybe the guy just wouldn’t put the cap back on the toothpaste, and she couldn’t take it any longer. Of course, all that was useless speculation, because Mona Polk had an alibi for the time of her husband’s murder. She was in Santa Barbara for the weekend, or so she claimed. In any event, the police would sort all that out. I had to move forward.

  “Mrs. Polk, how exactly can I help you?”

  “You can stamp.” She held out a roll of postage stamps and a stack of envelopes.

  “No, I meant—your phone call—the reason I’m here.”

  She handed me the stamps anyway. At least the roll she gave me was the self-adhesive variety and looked benign, so I decided to lend a hand. She flattened the pleats on her skirt and resumed folding the newsletters.

  “My husband was something of a maverick, as you know,” she said. “He didn’t trust many people, but as I told you on the phone, he spoke highly of you. I need someone he trusted to give me a picture of what’s happening at NeuroMed. For example, is it possible for me to run it, or will I have to sell?”

  “How much do you know about your husband’s business?”

  “Nothing, really,” she said. “He has a private practice, but I don’t know what’s left of it. So much of his energy lately went into building the Center. Frankly, my husband handled all our finances. I’m not sure where the money was coming from.”

  I’d met people like Mona Polk before, but I always found them difficult to understand. They seemed like intelligent, competent women until they married strong-willed, powerful men and somehow morphed into Stepford wives. Watching women play passive arm candy in a horror film is one thing, but seeing it in the real world is far scarier. Mona Polk was program chairwoman of a charity and had just planned and executed a large fund-raising dinner. The flowers in the foyer were proof of her success. Now her husband was dead, and she found herself clueless about everything, including the source of her own income. What a waste of good brain cells.

  “You’re not a doctor, so you’ll have to sell the neurology practice,” I said. “As for NeuroMed, it would be tough to run it without some background in medicine. You’d probably have to hire a physician and an administrator. That costs money. Frankly, I’d look at selling that, too.”

  “Could you find a buyer for me?” she said.

  I hesitated. That wasn’t in my area of expertise. On the other hand, Milton Polk was dead, and I was in a lot of trouble. I had less than a week to find out who’d gotten me into this jam and why. Without Gordon’s support, I was on my own. Mrs. Polk seemed like my only option at this point.

  “I’m not a medical-practice broker,” I said. “I can help you find one, but I have to warn you: I may not be the best person for the job.”

  At first she looked puzzled and then stunned as I told her about Whitener accusing me of scamming investors. I explained that certain people, including FBI agents, might interpret my further involvement with NeuroMed as proof of collusion between her husband and me. It was a long time before she spoke.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

  I felt disappointed by her response. Her first big decision post-Milton, and she blew it.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

  I’d almost made it to the door when she said, “Wait. I need help, and I don’t know who else to call.”

  That wasn’t much of an endorsement, but it was a start. I nodded. “Okay. The practice broker will need reports and financial statements for both businesses. I have the NeuroMed data, but I’ll need to do some research on Dr. Polk’s private practice.”

  She looked relieved and asked me to start working on the reports immediately. I promised to prepare a contract for her to sign that would spell out all the details, including my fees. After that, she picked up the letters we had just neatly stacked, and threw them into a tote bag leaning against the table.

  “I’m sorry to rush you, but I have another appointment.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just one more thing: I’m looking for something of mine that your husband may have left here. It’s the original business plan I wrote for NeuroMed. It could be in a large maroon envelope.”

  She frowned in thought. “I haven’t seen anything like that,” she said, “but you’re welcome to look through his desk. If it’s not there, I’ll ask Elsa to check around the house.”

  “I’ll also need a signed note explaining that I’m working for you, in case an
ybody asks, and the address of your husband’s private practice.”

  She rose gracefully from her chair, walked to a desk near the window, and pulled an address book and a couple sheets of personalized stationery from the drawer. She scribbled intently. Then she handed me the pages. On one, she’d written the name Harold Amberg, M.D., diagonally across the page. Underneath was an address in Sherman Oaks. Somehow, I expected Mona’s handwriting to be small, tight, and controlled, but it wasn’t. Hers was large but feminine, as if it belonged to a person who was not afraid to take risks to indulge her passions. Interesting, I thought.

  “I’ll call Harold and tell him to expect you.” Mona pulled out one of the newsletters from her bag and handed it to me. “And take one of these, in case you’re looking for a cause.”

  She led me down the hall to Polk’s home office. I made a quick search through his desk drawers. The NeuroMed documents weren’t there, but I kept looking. I didn’t know what I hoped to find, just something—anything—that pointed me toward a solution to all my problems. When Mona checked her watch for the second time, I took the hint.

  “If it’s more convenient, I could look through these papers at home and bring them back in a day or so.”

  She said, “Fine,” and from the closet she pulled a couple of canvas tote bags, imprinted with the name of a drug company. I filled both with all the files and loose papers I could find in Polk’s desk.

  Mona gave me a parting handshake. “I’ll show you out.”

  “That’s okay, I’m sure Elsa will make sure I find the door.”

  Elsa was nowhere in sight as I made my way down the stairs, though I expected to find her lurking behind a potted palm, watching my every move. I had just cleared the wrought-iron gate when I was distracted by a noise. A man somewhere in his twenties stood in the foyer; feathery black eyelashes, held at half-mast for maximum effect, framed his dreamy brown eyes. A skimpy white gym towel, wrapped tightly around his waist, exposed one dark, muscular leg. Water meandered down his body, furrowing the curly hair on his broad chest. He had black hair, an olive complexion, and symmetrical features. Women would have bought the calendar for his picture alone. He smiled and, with one last sultry flutter of those lashes, disappeared down the hall, leaving behind shimmering footprints on the tile floor, and the scent of Ivory soap. I couldn’t help wondering if this smoldering towel boy was one of Mona’s “interests” that Milton Polk financed, and if he was the appointment she was late for. Sometimes I have a bad habit of looking for the worst in people. More than likely, he was just a friend helping her work through her grief.

  13

  moments later I walked down Mona Polk’s front steps and across the circular driveway, toward the Boxster. The street was deserted except for a few parked cars and the city trash and recycling containers lined up curbside. I had hoped that Mona could provide more details about her husband’s whereabouts on the last weekend of his life, but finding that information was obviously going to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. At least, I knew where he’d been until ten o’clock on Saturday, the night he’d died.

  Sitting in the car, I leaned back against the headrest and wondered if Polk had received Mo Whitener’s letter, too, and if he knew about the fraud accusations against me. If so, he must have also known that sooner or later he’d be implicated as well.

  I took a few minutes to sort through the items I’d taken from Polk’s desk, and found an expensive-looking black leather appointment calendar. Unfortunately, all the pages were blank, as if it had been an unwanted gift that had never been used. Slipped inside the book were two form letters that were stuck together with something pink and squishy that could have been part of a Hostess Snowball. Both letters were hawking life insurance. There were also some overdue bills that I’d have to return to Mona for payment, a piece of paper with some circles and numbers that may have been a seating chart from the Project Rescue dinner, and a newspaper clipping. It was in Spanish and included a picture of a young woman. My high school Spanish was rusty, so I couldn’t read anything but the name, Teresa García. Mona did charity work for a women’s shelter in Mexico. The clipping was probably connected to that. I looked at the seating chart. Ten to a table. Fifty tables. Big event. The numbers inside the circles obviously corresponded to another register not contained in the envelope—the one that listed the names of the attendees.

  The remainder of the pile included a parking ticket and a sealed envelope addressed to Polk in what looked like his own hard-to-read handwriting. When I opened it, I was hoping to find something helpful, like a Stupid Criminal Check List: (1) change report; (2) blame Tucker; (3) run away to Rio with [name of accomplice here]. No such luck. All I found was a receipt for a cup of coffee. Scrawled across the receipt were the words write-off. A business expense, I realized. Three dollars and fifty cents for a cup of coffee. Now, that was a crime. I found no cashier’s checks from Mo Whitener with lots of zeros after the first number, so I put everything back in the two tote bags, including the Project Rescue newsletter Mona had given me. I wouldn’t be reading that anytime soon. I had all the causes I could handle at the moment.

  Mona had implied that Polk was a hands-off manager, at least when it came to the day-to-day operations, but that hadn’t been my impression at all. From what I’d observed, he liked to control and wasn’t the type to delegate, especially where money was involved. It might be convenient to let Francine shoulder the blame for any billing irregularities, but was it realistic? She didn’t seem like the mastermind type, just the loyal type, someone who’d do anything for her boss. The question was, had she used my name to help him commit insurance fraud?

  Technically, I was no longer unemployed. In fact, suddenly I had a lot to do. There were still a few hours before the end of the business day, so I decided to drive to Sherman Oaks, to ask Dr. Amberg some questions about Polk’s neurology practice and to see if the NeuroMed documents were somewhere in his office.

  I took Sepulveda to the San Fernando Valley, hoping to bypass some of the traffic on the 405 Freeway. The clouds had thinned, so I put the top down to let the low autumn sun warm my head. With each twist and turn of the road, the car’s motion whipped up the calming fragrance of sage from the hills above.

  Polk’s private practice occupied a modest space on the eleventh floor of a middle-aged building on Ventura Boulevard. The polished brass nameplate on the outer door announced, Harold Amberg, M.D., Milton Polk, M.D., Neurology. I expect doctors’ offices to be filled with sick people and generally creepy, so I took a deep breath to prepare myself. Luckily, the lobby was empty. As soon as I walked in, I heard the sound of ball bearings sliding on a track. A glass window at the reception counter opened to reveal a young woman with a sweet smile and a freckled face that was surrounded by a cloud of curly raspberry hair.

  “You must be Tucker,” she said. “Mona just called. Have a seat. I won’t be a sec.”

  She told me her name was Madie and pointed me toward the lobby and a mauve chair that was shaped like a cream puff. Current copies of The New Vegetarian, Runner’s Life, and a flyer for a charity golf tournament were neatly fanned across a chrome cube table. I was just warming up to an article about how to make tofu taste like apricot macaroons when the glass door opened again.

  This time Madie asked me to follow her to one of those generic doctors’ offices that look as if they had been overdecorated by a well-meaning spouse. A collage of framed diplomas covered one wall. A studio picture of a sensible-looking woman and two beak-nosed children sat on a credenza behind a desk that was too large for the room.

  I passed on the scratchy-looking tweed chair and was studying the inscription on a tennis trophy when the door opened and a lean man in his mid-fifties entered the room. His gray hair was moussed back, exposing a receding hairline. His skin glowed with color, which, I assumed from the lobby magazines and tennis trophies, came from exercise and healthy living rather than a tanning salon. Large glasses covered his face and were supported b
y a nose that confirmed that the kids in the picture were his.

  “Ms. Sinclair?” he said. “Mona called, told me you’d be coming by. She said you needed some information. Of course I’ll help in any way I can. Poor Milt. My God. Too young to die.”

  He peeled off a pair of latex gloves before shaking my hand. His was dry and smooth. The white powder from the glove left a residue on my palm.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk,” he said. “I have to check a couple of X-rays before my next patient.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  As he gestured for me to sit on that scratchy tweed chair, a whiff of starch from his lab coat wafted past my nose. He sat on a stool near a box on the wall and pulled two films from a large yellowish-brown envelope. He stuck the images into clips and turned on a light at the side of the box.

  “I know you’re busy,” I continued, “so I’ll get right to the point. Maybe I’m wrong, but I assume Mrs. Polk will have to sell the neurology practice. She may have to let the Center go, too. I’m just curious if you have an opinion about any of that.”

  “Well,” he said, stretching out the word like hot taffy, “as far as the Center is concerned, you’ll have to ask someone else. I don’t know anything about that.”

  “And the practice?”

  He paused for a moment, maybe to study the frontal and side views of a skull that had materialized with the light, maybe to censor his words before releasing them into the space between us.

  “Difficult.” His intense focus on the light box made me unsure whether he meant the patient’s medical status or my question.

  “Seems like the practice would be easy to sell,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be advantageous for a young doctor to buy an established business?”

  His head rocked sideways. “Sure, if it comes with patients. Unfortunately, Milt lost most of his. Truthfully, I think what he really lost was interest. Medicine has changed. Trying to manage patients with all the interference from insurance companies and government agencies was tough on Milt. But for him the Center wasn’t medicine. It was business. He could wheel and deal to his heart’s content. And that replaced medicine as his one great passion.”