False Profits

by Patricia Smiley

  “You’re still upset,” he said. “You shouldn’t be. This isn’t life. It’s business.”

  “Gee, Gordon, that’s interesting, because it kind of feels like life to me.”

  “Fine, but there are no hard feelings on my part. You’re still tops in my book.”

  His voice was gentle enough, but I really resented his kiss-and-make-up attitude. I should have known that Gordon wouldn’t obsess over our argument. His style was to do what you had to, then make the best of it. As for me, refusing to speak to him wouldn’t serve me well in the long run, either. It wasn’t easy, but I gulped down my pride.

  “Fine,” I said, “no hard feelings.”

  “Good. I called to bring you up to speed on the Whitener situation. Right now he’s not rational. Eleven million is a lot of money. We told him Polk had signed several documents that would exonerate us, but he’s not buying it. He still thinks you and the doctor were in this together, and he blames the firm for failing to catch you at it. It’s getting ugly, Tucker. He’s demanding to see the NeuroMed file or he says we’re all going down for the count. Unfortunately, we can’t find it here at the office.”

  The light turned red at Sunset Boulevard, giving me a moment to think. To tell or not to tell? Gordon would be upset, but I couldn’t keep the bad news from him any longer. He might even have some creative ideas about what to do next.

  “You can’t find it because it’s missing,” I said.

  There was a long silence on the line, accompanied by deep breathing.

  “Would you care to elaborate?” His voice was steady and composed.

  “I searched my office with a flea comb, Gordon. The file wasn’t there. I think somebody took it, either inadvertently or on purpose. I’m not sure which.” I waited for that to sink in before I added, “I think the file somehow ended up with Dr. Polk.”

  “Then go to his office and get it back,” he said in a slightly more strident tone.

  “It isn’t there. Or at his house. Or at his private practice, either. I’ve checked.”

  “I don’t want to know where it isn’t, Tucker,” he said, alarmed. “I want to know where it is. Jesus! You think negotiating with Whitener is a fucking walk in the park? It’s taking everything we have. I need those documents—now.”

  I was glad this was a telephone call, so I didn’t have to see the disappointment on Gordon’s face. Hearing it in his voice was bad enough.

  “What happens if I don’t find them?”

  “I think you goddamn well know what happens,” he said. There was a pause while he took a few deep breaths; then he added in a softer voice, “Shit, I don’t know, but keep looking, all right? And when you find them, call me—immediately.” He hesitated. “And, Tucker? I can’t tell you how much I regret what’s happened. If I had it to do over again . . .” His voice trailed off. “Look,” he added, “just keep me informed.”

  Obviously, Gordon hadn’t heard about my appearance at Covington’s charity bash, or he wouldn’t have sounded so conciliatory. If I was lucky, he’d never find out.

  When I arrived home, I tossed my shredded panty hose in the trash, showered, and changed into some sweats before I took the Teresa García file from my purse and read each page carefully. Most of the notes were illegible, but one thing was clear: Wade Covington was listed as her employer. The one-page Progress Notes stated that the girl had been evaluated for a head injury. Milton Polk’s signature appeared at the bottom of the page, but the file included no further information.

  I picked up the newspaper clipping that I’d gotten from Mona and scanned the text. Living in L.A., you’d think I’d have kept up my Spanish. I hadn’t, so I dusted off my old high school Spanish-English dictionary and began translating. At least one word looked vaguely familiar, so I looked it up first. It was muerto—dead.

  Translating was tedious, but luckily, the article was short. Teresa García, age seventeen, had returned to the home of her uncle in the village of Corona, near Guadalajara, Mexico, after sustaining injuries from a fall in the bathtub while working in the United States. Within days, she’d slipped into a coma and died. It was one of those small-town obituaries with meager facts and the flowery language of grief. I assumed that Teresa García had fallen while working for Wade Covington, and he’d arranged for Polk to evaluate her. It all sounded innocent enough, except the girl had died. I wondered why she’d been sent home for treatment. It was hard to believe that Corona, Mexico, had better hospitals than Los Angeles, California.

  I thought back to the chill I’d heard in Vivian Covington’s voice when she found her husband with the maid, María, and wondered if Teresa García’s fall was a cover-up for something more sinister. Tucker, your imagination is in overdrive again, I thought. Even if the García girl had been domestically challenged, Covington wouldn’t risk a murder rap because of waxy yellow buildup. He had way too much to lose.

  I took Teresa García’s file to my desk and telephoned Mona Polk. I wanted to ask if she recognized the girl’s name, but she was out making funeral arrangements. I checked my watch: six p.m. Seemed like an odd time to be planning a funeral, but what did I know? Wait a minute. Six o’clock? I was supposed to be in Century City, meeting Eric. Damn. I dialed the number for the restaurant. There was no telephone in the bar, but the hostess reluctantly agreed to go look for him. I waited, waited, waited. Two minutes. Then five. Waited until someone hung up the phone. Shit.

  I didn’t have time to change, but it didn’t matter. Eric had seen me in sweatpants before. I grabbed a jacket and ran out the door. On the way into town I left a message on his machine at home, telling him I was on my way. But by the time I walked into the restaurant’s bar, he was nowhere in sight.

  If Murphy weren’t careful, he’d have some competition in the lawmaking department—Sinclair’s law: If anything can go wrong, it will. Tucker would see to that personally.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I arrived at a crowded Du-Par’s Restaurant in the Farmers Market on Fairfax. The eatery is a Los Angeles landmark with waitresses and decor that haven’t changed since the Stone Age. Venus was seated at a table, eating blueberry pancakes and reading the Los Angeles Times. She listened to the details of my adventures at Covington’s luncheon, punctuating the tale with a few “tsk’s” and a lot of “mm-mm-mm’s.” When I asked if she’d heard any recent gossip about Covington, she said, “Funny you should ask. I just read in the paper here about some award he got.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Let me see.”

  Venus motioned to the waitress for more syrup. I ordered coffee and turned to the Calendar section of the paper. The Charity Scorecard column had a blurb about Covington’s Man of the Year award, which had been presented Saturday at the Regent Beverly Wilshire. Aames & Associates was listed as one of the corporate sponsors. Gordon was obviously working all the angles to win Covington’s business. The article went on to say that approximately one hundred thousand dollars had been raised for a nonprofit agency that operated a shelter for victims of domestic violence. The name of the agency was Project Rescue.

  Alarm bells sounded. Project Rescue was Mona Polk’s pet charity. That awards dinner was the last place Milton Polk had been seen alive. I wondered if Wade Covington was the person Polk was to have met that night. I felt as if I’d just found a big stash of Easter eggs hidden behind one clump of grass.

  The restaurant was noisy, but the tables were packed in close. I didn’t want anyone to hear me, so I kept my voice low. “Venus, listen to this. The García girl lived near Guadalajara. Project Rescue is in Guadalajara. García worked for Covington. Covington worked for Project Rescue. Polk treated the girl just before she died. Are you starting to see connections here?”

  I had brain drain from all those brilliant deductions, but Venus wasn’t in the mood for my ahas.

  She rolled her eyes. “Nine thousand cops on the LAPD, and you wanna play junior detective.”

  I waited for the waitress to pour my coffee and leave.

  “Lo
ok,” I said, “thanks to Milton Polk I could spend my remaining reproductive years doing hard time, and nobody seems to care but me.” That tactic didn’t seem to be working, so I changed to a tone that was just shy of pleading. “Come on, Venus. Call Waddell.”

  Venus came from a large, close-knit family that included lots of lawyers and cops, including a cousin named Waddell, an LAPD sergeant who, like Detective Kleinman, was assigned to the Pacific Station.

  “Maybe he can ask Kleinman how the Polk investigation is going, and see if Teresa García’s name comes up.”

  Venus looked at me as if I were some kind of moron. “You think police officers tell that kind of shit to just anyone?”

  “No, but they might tell it to their favorite cousins.”

  Only her eyes were frowning. I took that as progress. “Trust me. The man is not going to tell me anything.” She must have read the disappointment in my expression, because her standard stony expression softened. “Why am I always trying to protect you from you?” Her question was rhetorical, but I knew some serious considering was going on behind it. “Oh, all right. It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll try just this one time. But that’s it,” she said emphatically. “Don’t you go asking me again.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Venus. I owe you one.”

  She rolled her eyes. “One? Honey, I’ve got more invested in you than my 401(k).” Then her expression turned serious. “Tucker, you’re a shit magnet, and this snooping around is just gonna bring on more trouble. I’m telling you, let somebody else handle it. Like a good lawyer.”

  “I’m working on getting one, Venus, but for now I’m all I’ve got. But thanks for worrying.”

  I left Venus to her pancakes and headed home. For the rest of that afternoon and evening, I waited for a callback from Mona Polk. I didn’t want to intrude on her grief, should any surface, but I was eager to ask her about Teresa García, and about any progress that had been made on her husband’s murder investigation.

  While I waited, I typed up her fee agreement on my computer and also printed a few temporary business cards, using a desktop publishing program. After that, I phoned the company that managed the billing for Polk’s neurology practice. One of their account reps told me he was still listed as an active client, though there had been no recent receivables posted. Armed with that information, I called a medical practice broker I knew, just to get a ballpark estimate of what he thought the practice and the Center were worth. He wasn’t optimistic.

  I wasn’t optimistic, either. Eric hadn’t called me. That was troubling. It meant there had been no word yet from Sheldon Greenblatt on whether he’d represent me either in the Whitener case or against Aunt Sylvia. Both matters had to be dealt with, and soon. I thought about calling Greenblatt myself, but Eric had warned me not to. I didn’t want to screw this up, so I decided to wait a little longer, but not much.

  Around seven o’clock, Muldoon whimpered for a walk, a cookie, or a game. Or possibly it was some dog-speak I couldn’t decipher. Whatever. It reminded me that I was home—alone—dog-sitting. Without Pookie’s fractured energy, the house felt silent and lonely. Pookie had trained me that melancholy was a misdemeanor and depression a felony. I could do serious time for the way I was feeling. What were Deegan and Buck up to, I wondered? Maybe Detective Kleinman wanted to take me out to dinner but was too shy to ask. Medic!

  I poured a cup of herbal tea into a commuter mug and said the magic words that would send Muldoon into an altered state: “Wanna go for a walk?” At least one of us could be happy.

  A bank of fog was looming offshore as I stepped out onto the deck. I zipped my down vest against the November chill and walked down the steps to the beach. At least the tea felt warm and comforting.

  Muldoon was already on gull patrol. I let him roam for a bit, but once he tasted freedom, he was dragging his paws about going back inside. I coaxed him to the bottom of the steps, but evaporating wave foam fizzling on the sand distracted him, and he shot off again on another bark-o-rama. He didn’t buy the “want some dinner?” ploy, either, and wouldn’t budge any farther than those steps. Then I heard the phone ring.

  I ran up the stairs onto the deck, juggling the tea mug and the keys, trying to get the door open, wishing I’d brought Muldoon’s leash. Damn dog. I left the door ajar, hoping he would have enough sense to follow me inside. I grabbed the phone just before the recorder piped in. It was Eric.

  “You’re out of breath,” he said playfully. “What were you doing?”

  Small talk. That was good. It meant he wasn’t angry with me for missing our meeting at the restaurant.

  I wriggled out of my vest and threw it on the couch. “Just dog-sitting,” I said. “Pookie’s out of town.”

  “Your mother left something alive in your care?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He came with instructions. So far, so good. The only thing left for the day is dinner. And how hard can that be?” The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I realized that I still hadn’t bought food for the little tyke. I groaned because I knew that there wasn’t a single can of hypoallergenic, no-animal-by-products Zen dog food left in the refrigerator or the cupboards. Well, what the heck. If he’d survived this long, he’d survive until I made it to a pet food store.

  Eric went on to explain that Sheldon Greenblatt was still in trial but that his secretary had promised a callback in the morning. I was anxious and a little angry about the delay, but Eric assured me that Greenblatt was worth the wait.

  “So, Tucker, I got your message,” he said. “Shall we try it again?”

  His tone sounded a little businesslike, and that didn’t seem quite right. But businesslike or not, I didn’t want to talk about our relationship over the phone, and certainly not right then.

  Before I had a chance to respond, he said, “Tucker? I said should we try to set up another meeting? Say, tomorrow night?”

  I needed a longer reprieve. “How about Saturday night?”

  He hesitated but, with a barely audible sigh, agreed. Eric sounded positively mellow, as if he’d just had sex. I almost asked him what he’d been doing, but if Eric were sleeping with someone else, he wouldn’t be pursuing me. And he definitely wasn’t the type to go solo. I figured he was just tired. We agreed to meet at a restaurant in Brentwood at seven o’clock Saturday night.

  After we hung up, I called for Muldoon. No dog, just a cold draft surging around my ankles. I walked over and looked out the open door. The fog had moved in now, and nothing was visible except churning gray air.

  “Muldoon? Here, pup.”

  He didn’t come when I called. Typical male. Maybe he’d found a date and deserted me. I did a quick search of the house. No pooch. I headed out the door, carefully walking down the steps, feeling my way along the sand with my feet. The fog felt dense and claustrophobic. I felt responsible and guilty. I didn’t even know if the little guy could swim. What if he got lost in the fog and wandered into a riptide? Pookie would never forgive me.

  Surf I could only imagine pounded against the shore. I was a little disoriented and wandered farther down the beach than I’d planned. The lights from my deck had melted into the smoky air. I couldn’t see three feet in front of me. Gee, there could be a giant rogue wave forming silently offshore, biding its time, waiting to suck me into a watery grave. I wouldn’t even know what hit me. I shivered and thought of Milton Polk’s last moments as he desperately gasped for air and found only water.

  Tucker, Tucker, Tucker. You are working yourself into a major snit here. Forget the little scrub brush. For once, I took my own advice. I did a one-eighty and headed for home. The lights from the houses seemed dim and muted as I searched for some familiar landmark. This time I’d left without my vest, and I was freezing. I thought about my jacket in the Covingtons’ wood closet. If Wade and the missus weren’t into cozy fireside chats, they might not find it until the January rains. Fat chance. I heard heavy breathing, but it was only mine. No . . . something else. Another so
und. Shuffling in the sand . . . near me. I stopped.

  “Muldoon?” The fog encased me like a cocoon, bouncing the sound around my head. Maybe whimpering would help. It seemed to go a long way for the leg lifter. “Is that you, little guy?” Nothing. It was probably a jogger. I picked up my pace until, just ahead, the welcoming light from my deck came into view. I ran the last few yards and skipped up the stairs. Huddled next to the door, looking chilled and somewhat contrite, was Muldoon. I scooped him up, hurried inside, and locked the door, dumping him on the couch, sandy paws and all. But he didn’t stay. He shot onto the floor, barking like a drover, whining, sniffing around the couch, and then racing toward my bedroom.

  That’s when I noticed my driver’s license lying on the coffee table. It struck me as odd to find it where it never was, where it never should have been. It hadn’t been there earlier. I was sure. I would have noticed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had it out. Had I used it as ID for the check I wrote at the market? Yes, but that was days ago. Then my breath stopped and my heart pounded in my throat. A dim bulb clicked on in my head as I remembered. Covington’s luncheon. Buck had taken my license. He’d given it to Deegan, but had Deegan given it back to me? No, at least, not until now. My chest felt heavy. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Why hadn’t I locked the door? Someone had just been in my house. Uninvited. Maybe still inside, hiding. Someone working for Covington? Buck, I could handle. Deegan? Not likely. Bad news if it turned out to be one of the other hulks on guard that day. At least Deegan had a sense of humor.

  I strained to pick up any unfamiliar sounds, but all I heard was blood drumming in my ears and dog claws scratching on the floor. Run for help or take a peek myself? Another one of those pesky decisions. Using all the courage I could muster, I eased off my shoes and looked around for a weapon. Kitchen knife? In the drawer. Too noisy. Anything else? Nada. Nyet. A big fat zero. Not even an umbrella. Only Pookie’s celery hat, sprouting from the end table. Lethal it wasn’t; a distraction, maybe. I eased it off the table along with a blunt number-two pencil. Great. What was I going to tell these guys? “Watch out, I’m packin lead.” Pookie’s room was empty, as was the bathroom. Just my room, and I could sound an all clear. Muldoon was at my bedroom door, scratching to get in.