The questions about Oasis had multiplied exponentially on her walk from the police station. There were dozens of avenues she could pursue. Scents she could follow. But only one of them burned in her mind like a need.
“Simon Reed” and “watch.” She typed the search terms into the engine.
A cascade of results streamed down the page.
Numerous websites described Simon’s watch collection. Considered one of the best vintage collections in the country, it was the envy of the United States Watch Society, which had published catalogs filled with effusive descriptions of his historical pieces.
But nothing explained how he’d gotten the watch. Or whether the watch was even hers.
Limiting her search parameters by date and file type, Caroline focused on a narrower question: When did he get it? She limited the results to videos.
She learned that, two months earlier, Simon had given a speech to the Rotary Club. In the video, he wore a white-faced Cartier with Roman numerals painted in black.
Six weeks ago, he’d attended a ribbon cutting of another Oasis-Greenleaf project.
Caroline zoomed in on Simon Reed’s wrist on the hand cutting the ribbon.
Again he wore a watch, but it wasn’t Caroline’s. This one had a black face.
Narrowing the time parameters, Caroline tried again.
The results landed like a kick to the solar plexus: a month ago, he’d donned the green-faced watch. On August 16, he’d celebrated his birthday at a banquet. He’d worn it then for the first time. And he liked it. He’d worn it in every public appearance for the weeks that followed—far longer than either of his previous timepieces.
An unexpected tremor of anger quaked across Caroline’s nerves.
Simon Reed was not allowed to like her family’s watch.
She wanted to call him. She wanted to tell him that he was wearing stolen property.
But before making accusations about a well-connected man who happened to be the son of a much-loved television personality, she needed to be sure those accusations had some basis in reality. She needed to resolve whether the watch actually was her family’s heirloom.
By the time another hour had passed, Caroline had learned about the heyday of the Glashutte, the so-called Silicon Valley of watchmaking in early twentieth-century Germany. She’d discovered that different craftsmen had different styles. But she’d found nothing conclusive about whether Karl Geitz had made other watches like the one Caroline’s family had owned. She’d found articles suggesting that Geitz had made limited runs of certain designs, but nothing suggesting the watch Caroline’s family had inherited was actually a one-of-a-kind piece.
She’d even tried calling the watch repair shop, but she’d been relegated to leaving a voice mail message.
Caroline walked to the window of her office.
Down below, at ground level, a patch of green surrounded a pond. She knew the pond was home to several turtles. When she’d picked the office, she’d imagined strolling down by the fountains and pond, hanging out with the improbable downtown wildlife. It hadn’t happened. With her obsessive working style, Caroline wasn’t the communing-with-turtles type, apparently.
She looked back at her desk, where her laptop glowed with information.
It wasn’t clear that Simon was wearing her family’s watch, but it was possible. And if it was her family’s watch, the fact he wore it was proof that whatever was going on at Oasis went beyond a dodgy bequest policy and a poor job vetting CNAs. It was proof that there was a connection between Simon and Patricia. A direct one.
When Caroline emerged from her office, she found Amy smiling.
Caroline glanced at Amy’s desk, where the new five-by-seven photograph was facedown, as if to hide it from Caroline’s sight.
“What?” Caroline asked.
Instead of revealing the hidden photograph, Amy gestured with her chin toward the screen of her computer.
“I found the guy at Oasis who handles all of the job training programs, including the CNA program,” Amy said. “His name’s Conrad Vizzi.”
Wordlessly, Caroline came to stand behind her assistant.
She read Vizzi’s biography. The breadth of his accolades and the length of his qualifications suggested a man of at least fifty. But the slight, curly-haired man wearing a blue work shirt couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Perhaps it was an old picture.
“I’ve got an idea for finding out why no one sues Oasis,” Amy said.
She prompted the phone for an outside line. Then she dialed *82 to block caller ID and keyed in Vizzi’s number.
“This is Conrad,” answered a man’s voice. A pleasant tenor.
“I’m calling about your CNA program,” Amy began. “I’m the administrator of a fifty-bed skilled nursing facility that’s just ramping up in Long Beach. We’re putting together our staff, and I’ve heard good things about the people you guys train.”
“Thanks for reaching out to us,” said Vizzi. “What would you like to know?”
“If you just could tell me about your program, that would be great,” Amy said, meeting Caroline’s eyes. Social engineering worked best when the target had been induced to talk freely.
“As you may know, we focus on training folks who are putting their lives back together again after suffering domestic abuse or homelessness or incarceration for nonviolent felonies. We do careful background checks, but I just wanted to put that out there,” said Vizzi. “Some facilities are uncomfortable with hiring people trying to get back on their feet.”
“I understand,” said Amy. “We like the idea of being a part of your mission.”
“That’s great,” Vizzi said. The relief in his voice was palpable. “In that case, we have some great people, and you’re right, we try to make it work for the skilled nursing facilities we partner with.”
Scribbling on a piece of paper, Caroline pushed another question in front of Amy.
“How do you handle payroll?” Amy asked at Caroline’s behest.
“Once you sign a contract with us, we handle all of the tax reporting, plus we pay the CNAs directly. We deal with all of the administrative hassles.”
“Let me make sure I understand. Our facility would pay you guys, and then you’d handle all payments and tax withholdings and whatnot for the CNAs?”
“Exactly. It keeps things nice and simple for the nursing homes.”
“Wow. That’s great.” Amy paused long enough for Vizzi to bask in the glow of her positive reaction. “There’s one small thing I’d heard about from some colleagues that gave me just a little concern.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve heard your CNAs sometimes talk to nursing home residents about Oasis, and that Oasis sometimes receives contributions from residents. Bequests and whatnot.”
“That’s true, but nursing home residents regularly leave money to all sorts of charities. It’s entirely legal. We’re very careful in how we train our CNAs. They never pressure residents.”
Caroline noted that Vizzi had described Oasis as a charity.
“But what if someone complains?” Amy asked. “I really don’t want to get sued.”
“We go to great lengths to avoid anything like that. Our policy is to return bequests to families that complain rather than litigate over what a nursing home resident intended.”
“This has been very informative. Thanks for the information. I’ll be in touch.”
Without waiting for Vizzi’s response, Amy hung up.
Caroline gave a low whistle of appreciation. “That’s one way of avoiding lawsuits. It’s genius, really. Just treat complaints by heirs as a cost of doing business. Return the gift and no one has anything to complain about.” Oasis’s scheme suddenly seemed that much more devious.
“Or maybe they aren’t doing anything wrong,” Amy said, holding Caroline’s eyes. “Maybe Oasis really isn’t manipulating anyone to do anything. Maybe they’re exactly what they appear to be. Maybe your boy Boyd is right—maybe Oasi
s is legit.”
Caroline knew what her assistant was thinking. Amy knew her obsessive tendencies. Her sometimes irrational tenacity.
“But what about the watch?” Caroline asked.
Amy just shook her head.
“I’m going downstairs to get sandwiches for us. When I get back, we’re going to call Vizzi back,” Caroline said, heading for the door.
An hour later, Caroline took up Amy’s seat at the desk. She hoped she’d waited long enough not to raise Vizzi’s suspicions.
She hit speakerphone, screened caller ID, and dialed Vizzi’s number again.
As soon as the on-site director had answered and introduced himself, Caroline started straight in, “I wanted to ask you some questions about one of your CNAs, Patricia Amos. I believe she might’ve stolen something from a nursing home resident.”
“Is this The Pastures?” Vizzi asked. “I’ve already told Mr. DuBois, we haven’t seen Patricia in months. We don’t know where she is.”
“I’m not calling from The Pastures’ administrative offices. My grandmother was a resident of The Pastures before she died and left everything to you.” Caroline paused to listen for Vizzi’s reaction to the awkward fact. She waited for some hint of panic that he was speaking to a disgruntled would-be heir whose hopes of inheriting had been dashed by his organization.
But Vizzi just said, “From time to time, nursing home residents leave us bequests.” His voice rose at the end of the sentence, as if beckoning for more information.
Caroline noted that he hadn’t yet offered to return her grandmother’s money. That probably came later.
“How long have you been training your CNAs to try to write Oasis into the wills of residents?” Caroline asked. The question was provocative. Deliberately so. She didn’t expect Vizzi to admit to anything, but again, she wanted to judge how he’d respond to the accusation.
“Our trainees never pressure anyone. That sort of conduct would go against everything we stand for. Everything Duncan Reed stands for,” Vizzi added with vehemence.
“How involved is Duncan Reed in Oasis?” Caroline asked. The television personality’s stroke was common knowledge.
“Our whole mission has been shaped by his vision.”
“How so?” Caroline pressed, noting Vizzi’s dodge.
“Mr. Reed has always been deeply religious. He spent time in seminary as a young man. His mission throughout his life has been to make a difference in people’s lives. That’s everyone’s goal here, mine included.”
Listening to the earnest tones in Vizzi’s voice, Caroline realized she was listening to a true believer. And yet, those tones were the same as so many pious voices through history whose piety had justified all manner of theft.
“I’ll make the same promise to you that I made to the administrator at The Pastures,” Vizzi continued. “If we find out anything about Patricia, we’ll let the authorities know right away.”
“Thanks, but I’d like to see Patricia’s personnel file, or at least the information regarding how you vetted her,” Caroline said.
“That information is confidential. If you believe a bequest was made in error, I can assure you we’ll return it. And, of course, we’ll cooperate with the police in any investigation. But we cannot share personnel records with the public.”
“Even a member of the public who we both agree had something stolen by one of your residents?” Caroline pushed.
“We cannot turn over any records without a court order,” Vizzi repeated, his voice hardening. “It’s a busy day here, and I’ve got to go. I’ve got an appointment I can’t miss. Have a good day.”
At the sound of a dial tone, Caroline and Amy met each other’s eyes.
Caroline spoke first.
“You heard what Vizzi said,” Caroline said slowly, a grim smile forming on her mouth. “Oasis won’t give us any records without a court order. Fine. We’ll get a court order.”
“What are you going to do?” Amy asked.
“I’m going to sue Oasis.” Caroline was done giving Oasis the benefit of the doubt. The fact that the entity was encouraging elderly people to leave money to it was suspicious, no matter what Boyd or McFadden or the DA or anyone else thought. Someone needed to figure out how often it was happening, and to whom.
“Prepare a short complaint,” Caroline continued. “Allege that Oasis is employing Patricia Amos and other employees to defraud elderly people. Assert claims for undue influence, fraud, and elder abuse.”
Amy’s eyes held uncertainty. “Do we really have enough evidence to file suit?”
“Sure. You don’t have to know the whole story to sue someone. You just have to know enough of it. We’ve got that. Once we get that complaint filed, we can file discovery requests. Oasis will either tell us what it knows or they’ll resist our requests, and we’ll get the court to issue orders compelling Oasis to tell us. One way or another, we’ll get what we need to see.”
“Serve it personally,” Caroline said, handing the signed complaint back to Amy twenty minutes later. The pleading was short, but it would suffice to start the legal proceedings.
“Will do,” Amy said.
“You can figure out who Oasis’s service agent is from the corporation’s articles of incorporation,” Caroline suggested. She knew that every corporate entity had an agent for service of process—the person to whom any legal complaints had to be given in order for the corporation to be deemed to have received them.
It took ten minutes of research before Amy figured out where Oasis had been incorporated.
“Nevada,” Amy announced to Caroline as she downloaded the articles of incorporation from the Nevada secretary of state’s website.
“Interesting,” said Caroline from over her assistant’s shoulder.
“Really?” Amy asked, half turning to meet her boss’s eyes.
“Yes. Nevada corporations aren’t required to list their shareholders or board members in their articles of incorporation.” Caroline’s eyes narrowed at the public filing that represented the birth of Oasis. Nevada’s unusual disclosure rules provided yet another way that Oasis had shielded its operations from scrutiny. Yet more invisibility for the shady entity.
“Oasis’s service agent is some guy named Mark Roe,” said Amy, pointing at the screen. “His office is in an office building down on Figueroa Street.”
Caroline’s brow furrowed. Logically, the service agent should have been Vizzi or maybe Vizzi’s secretary. Who was this Roe guy on Fig? And why wasn’t he located on the Oasis campus down on Skid Row?
“I’m on it. Mind if I leave work after I serve the complaint?” Amy asked. “I need to do some shopping.” The corners of her mouth curled in a little smile.
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
Given permission, Amy squealed and finally turned the five-by-seven frame toward Caroline.
In the picture, she wore a sundress dotted with yellow daisies. Next to her stood her dour boyfriend, Hector. With his gunmetal-gray shirt buttoned up to the top and his domesticated loaf of neatly trimmed hair, he looked out of place next to the Spirit of Spring.
“He sent this, too.” Amy held out a card to Caroline.
“‘You are cordially invited to join me at Mitchell Cottage, Lake Arrowhead,’” Caroline read aloud. The flowery calligraphy lacked the panache of a real calligraphist. It occurred to her that Hector had probably done it himself. It was simultaneously cute and cringeful.
“He’s taking me up to his family’s cabin next Sunday for a week. Just as soon as he finishes some changes for his editor to some big story he’s working on. He wants me to leave Liam with my parents so it’ll be just us.”
“Sounds fun,” Caroline said, privately adding for you. Hector was a reporter. A self-impressed one. In the silver-framed picture, instead of smiling, he’d drawn his mouth into a serious line, as if practicing for the jacket photo of the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel he was sure he’d write someday.
“I can’t wait.” Amy smiled. “Only downside of staying at a private residence instead of a hotel is that there’s no gift shop.” She picked up one of the snow globes from the cabinet and wiggled it.
But then Amy’s face grew serious.
“Maybe Hector could help us with this Oasis thing?” she asked.
Caroline considered the offer. She had little confidence in Hector’s abilities. As a beat reporter covering the San Fernando Valley, he hadn’t filed any stories of any real significance. But maybe he’d prove useful.
“Sure,” she said.
Despite the audible lack of enthusiasm in Caroline’s voice, Amy smiled broadly.
“Great! He’s super busy, but I bet I can pry him away for coffee or something after work sometime in the next few days.”
“I can’t wait,” said Caroline.
CHAPTER 7
“This isn’t like the time I was investigating dangerous drinking water in rural Thailand with my J-school team,” Hector said, stroking his goatee before taking a sip of his double macchiato. “We had the regional authorities up our asses, so we knew we were on to something. But who knows. Maybe this Oasis stuff is something.”
It was a tepid endorsement, but Caroline took it. At least he hadn’t called her paranoid. To express her gratitude, she restrained herself from pointing out the nonexistent impact of his only real investigative reporting endeavor. Thailand hadn’t exactly changed its practices because of his journalism school’s blog posting in a California news outlet.
“To know if this Oasis stuff is real, we need to see bank records—so we can see how often it’s happening,” Amy piped in from the chair beside Hector. She wore an aquamarine dress and matching aquamarine earrings. Her mother-of-pearl-shiny curls struggled to escape an emerald headband arrayed with starfish. Next to Hector in his untucked oxford shirt and wingtips, she looked like a mermaid who’d fallen in love with a Hollywood agent.
“Agreed,” Hector said. “The fact there’s no judicial oversight if you die with less than $150,000 creates an opportunity for bad people to do bad things. But to put together a story, we really need proof of some sort of abuse. Bank records would help,” he concluded.
Proof (Caroline Auden Book 2) Page 8