Good. She needed the ex-cop in her uncle to bring his trained eye to the data set.
“I’ve got a pattern,” Caroline said. She brought up the records of the affidavit transactions in chronological order. “Look at the frequency of the transactions five years ago. Now compare that to the frequency four years ago, then three years ago.”
“It’s happening more often,” Hitch said. “There are more transactions each year.”
“Exactly,” Caroline said.
“Somehow they’ve expanded their operations each year. Maybe they’ve gotten more nurses or CNAs into nursing homes?” he mused.
Flipping back to the page showing the gifts from The Pastures’ residents to Oasis, Caroline looked for information about the names of the caregivers. She’d cross-referenced The Pastures records against the BanCorp data to see the number of bequests, but she hadn’t looked for names before. Perhaps The Pastures had kept track of some sort of identifying information?
No, there was nothing there. No names or codes for names. Just the amounts of the bequests. The dates on the wills. The dates of the affidavits. The dates of the deaths. The dates of the withdrawal transactions.
“Jesus,” Hitch breathed behind her.
Twisting back so she could see her uncle’s face, Caroline watched him tilt his head to one side. Then he reached for the mouse.
With quick movements, he zeroed in on the last pages of the data.
“What do you see?” Caroline asked. While she waited for him to respond, her heart began to pound, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was the sight of the color draining from Hitch’s face, leaving him pale and haunted.
“The gap,” he managed. “Look at the interval between when people at The Pastures made their wills and when they died.”
When she looked back at the data, Caroline saw it.
“The interval’s gotten shorter,” she said. “In the last twelve months. People are making their wills. Then they’re dying.” Her eyes tracked through the data. Five weeks. Six weeks. The gap between the dates on the wills and the dates of death were all in the same range.
The implications were ominous. And unavoidable.
Caroline didn’t have to remind her uncle that Grandma Kate had had an IV placed in her arm shortly before she died. Nor did she have to tell him that an air bubble pushed into an IV line could stimulate an embolism.
She brought up the most recent data. The data that included her grandmother.
Katherine Hitchings had signed her new will on August 3.
She’d died on September 11.
Five weeks. The interval was similar for most of the deaths at The Pastures’ facilities.
Caroline felt as though someone had thrown her into an icy lake. Once she’d seen the pattern, she couldn’t unsee it.
“That woman—Grandma’s caregiver. She’s the one—” Caroline trailed off, remembering the New Age hippie CNA. She’d been worse than a sham. She’d been worse than a thief.
At the mention of the woman, Hitch clenched and unclenched his hands. The small muscle at the corner of his jaw began to work.
“She’s still out there somewhere,” he began, his voice low and angry.
Although Hitch hadn’t been loud, Lani roused on the bed.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking back and forth between Caroline and Hitch.
“Everything,” Caroline said.
She waved away Lani’s baffled look.
It was 8:30 p.m.
It was time to call Albert.
CHAPTER 24
“I’m so sorry,” Albert said. If he’d entered the conversation hoping for evidence from Caroline, he’d gotten a full truckload of emotion along with it. “I’ll continue to analyze the data, but I agree with your analysis—the timing cannot be a coincidence.”
At his words, another shiver of nausea coursed through Caroline’s esophagus. Her grandmother had been murdered. The realization was so huge and so horrible that she could scarcely touch it.
“You do understand that I’m not going to be able to use any of this stuff you’ve sent to me in a trial,” Albert added quietly.
“I know. I was hoping you could obtain the data from other sources—legal sources.”
“I’ll do my best,” Albert promised. “But we’re in a bit of a bind—to subpoena documents from a bank, I need evidence. But to get evidence, I need to subpoena the bank.”
“You just need a good judge to give you a warrant.” Even as she said it, Caroline recalled Judge Chandler’s brutal treatment of the civil suit against Oasis. Frustration welled in her breast. Oasis had obscured its operations. It had bought influence. Even the judicial system, which was supposed to be designed to unearth the truth, seemed impotent to breach Oasis’s fortress.
Across the room, Lani looked at her with sympathetic eyes.
“I do have some good news for you,” Albert said. “I got a positive ID on the guy in that video surveillance footage you sent me from the bank. The man who’s handling the affidavit withdrawals for Oasis is named Gregory Parsons. He’s a real scumbag. He’s a lawyer, but he doesn’t practice anymore. He got tagged for liability in a civil fraud action about fifteen years ago. He runs a financial consulting company now.”
“What were the facts of the case against him?” Caroline asked, glad to have something to distract her from the queasy feeling in her esophagus.
“Parsons altered some appraisals in a partnership dissolution action. His defense was that he was an appraiser. Turned out he was never licensed as such. There were also claims for accounting irregularities, misrepresentations, and other matters.”
“How’d he get wrapped up with Oasis?” Caroline asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s one of Simon’s investors,” Albert speculated.
Caroline shook her head slowly. Despite her efforts, she’d never been able to identify any of Simon’s investors.
An unsettled churning quaked through her gut.
Her inability to discover Simon’s investors bothered her. People who invested in do-gooder projects usually liked getting credit for their charity. They put their names on plaques. They memorialized their gifts in their annual reports. Anonymous giving was unusual. It didn’t make sense that Simon’s investors would hide.
Maybe the reason they’d never come forward was simple: maybe Simon’s entire cohort was as sketchy as he was.
“Okay, so this scumbag Gregory Parsons is a major investor and collects the money,” Caroline mused. “Simon is the big-picture guy and the front man—he makes nice with the city so it’ll green-light his development projects and give him city funds for them. Meanwhile, Conrad Vizzi handles the training of the CNAs.”
At the mention of Vizzi’s name, Lani’s eyes widened.
Lani knew Vizzi, Caroline suddenly realized. She made a mental note to ask her about it.
“That sounds possible,” Albert was saying, drawing Caroline’s attention back to the phone line. “Maybe the CNA scam’s a nice little side business Simon’s got going. When they’re not milking the public treasury, they’re milking the nursing homes. But we still need evidence. Proof.”
“Agreed,” Caroline said. “Have you found anything?”
“I looked at that property that Oasis owns on Parrino Court, down near the LA River,” Albert said. “Like you suspected, it’s a bunch of nothing. Just some trailers and empty warehouses.”
“Why does Oasis own it?” Caroline asked. She could think of no reason for the fake charity to own a large tract of useless land on an undesirable side of town.
“Wish I knew,” said Albert, “but it seems like a dead end. Speaking of which, I tracked down Jessie Tuttle—that Oasis worker who got hurt on the County Law Library restoration job.”
“What did he say?” Caroline asked. Hector had believed the injured man might have information about Oasis’s dark dealings. He’d sought—but failed to find—Jessie Tuttle. Perhaps A
lbert had achieved what Hector had not.
“He’s dead,” Albert said.
“Dead?” Caroline echoed. She knew the news shouldn’t have surprised her, but Tuttle’s demise still filled her with dread.
“I found his lawyer,” Albert said. “The guy was trying to put together a wage-and-hour suit against Oasis. Jessie Tuttle was going to be his lead plaintiff. He filed suit and propounded discovery, asking for all records of the Oasis construction projects. A month later, Tuttle was found in a ditch with a needle hanging out of his arm. Apparently Tuttle had a smack habit that he’d kicked.”
“Or not,” Caroline said.
“Or not,” Albert agreed. “The lawyer couldn’t find another plaintiff. The case died with Tuttle.”
“Of course it did,” Caroline said, exhaling her frustration. Inquiries about Oasis always went nowhere. People with knowledge disappeared. Trying to see Oasis’s workings was like trying to view a construction project through a hole in a tarp covering a fence. Although Caroline could hear the movement of heavy machinery and see part of the works, she couldn’t make out the whole operation. But one thing was sure: Oasis was deadly serious about avoiding scrutiny.
“If I don’t come out of this, Mateo Hidalgo is going to need other counsel. Please make sure he gets that,” she asked quietly. The boy whose representation she’d undertaken could not be left without an attorney. He deserved an advocate. Someone somewhere in the system needed to make sure he was safe.
“Let’s not go there quite yet,” Albert said.
Caroline exhaled. He was right. She still had a laptop. She still had her freedom. While the odds remained heavily weighted against her, she wasn’t out of the fight yet.
“That assistant DA in the gangs unit, Shaina Parker, told me she’s on top of the Gonzalez matter,” Albert said. “I told her we were working on a case that could be affected by any prosecution. She promised to keep me apprised.”
“Thanks,” Caroline said. That Albert had been willing to contact the assistant DA was a gift. Being on the run was bad enough. That a little boy might be harmed because of her troubles was unacceptable.
“Your friend Amy’s doing better,” Albert said, his voice bright in a way that let Caroline know he was trying to cheer her up. “She came home from the hospital.”
The news had the desired effect, warming Caroline. She wished she could call her friend. She wished she could make sure she was going to be all right. But Caroline knew that until she’d found some way to clear her name, she was toxic to anyone she tried to contact.
“We’re keeping an eye on her,” Albert continued, “just to be on the safe side. We believe she’s likely safe now—since she’s given whatever information she had to us.”
“She could ID the hit man,” Caroline mused aloud. “That would be a reason to continue pursuing her, if I were Oasis.” She hated discussing the ways in which her closest friend might still be a target for a hit man, but she needed Albert to provide protection.
“Agreed, which is why we’re keeping someone on her, but she doesn’t have any information beyond that. She isn’t a witness to Oasis’s CNA program or other wrongdoing, so she’s probably fine.”
Caroline exhaled again. Albert was right, of course. And that was the problem. They desperately needed a witness. Someone inside Oasis who could act as a whistle-blower in a criminal prosecution.
“Any leads on finding the hit man?” Caroline asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Albert said. “He’s underground.”
Underground. The word gave Caroline no solace.
“I’m going to keep working on the Gregory Parsons angle. If we can find something on him, maybe we can get him to turn state’s evidence,” said Albert.
“Good thought,” Caroline said, though she wasn’t optimistic about anyone within Oasis turning on Oasis.
“Check back in with me tomorrow,” Albert said.
“Will do,” Caroline agreed.
“Are you doing okay at your current location?” Albert asked.
“Yes,” Caroline said. “I’m good for now.” Her meager funds wouldn’t last long. She’d be back on the street soon if she didn’t get back to work. But she had enough to deal with now.
“Good luck,” Albert said, hanging up.
Caroline turned to find Lani staring at her.
The small woman’s eyes were filled with trepidation.
Caroline thought she knew the reason.
“You know Conrad Vizzi, don’t you?”
Instead of answering, Lani glanced over at Jake, who lay on the bed watching TV.
“Jake’s a good guy,” Caroline said. “You heard what he said about his service in Iraq. He’s a gentleman, truly.” She noted a small smile twitch at the corner of Jake’s mouth.
“I always guess wrong about men,” Lani said, “especially my last boyfriend.”
“Daryl,” Caroline surmised. “The guy at the distribution center.”
Lani nodded. “Things were always bad with him. The first time I left Daryl, I stayed at a friend’s house. But he found out where I was from Facebook—someone posted a picture with me in it. He came after me. I was going to try to disappear—you know, go to a new city or something. But I didn’t have any money. Daryl always paid for everything.”
Although Lani’s story was meandering, Caroline’s instincts told her to let it unfold. Lani hadn’t denied knowing Conrad Vizzi. Caroline was confident Lani would circle back to him.
“I called one of those domestic violence hotlines,” Lani continued. “They mentioned that Oasis campus downtown. You can get retrained. They’ll feed you and give you a bed. So when I left the second time, I went there.”
Nodding, Caroline realized how Lani had crossed paths with Conrad Vizzi.
“How long were you at Oasis?”
“For about a month,” Lani replied. “I lived on that huge campus they have.”
“Why’d you leave?” Caroline asked.
“I didn’t want to do one of those training programs that the Oasis people push you into.” At Caroline’s quixotic expression, Lani explained, “They promise you’ll get fast-tracked for employment if you sign up for their courses. You know, car repair, welding, framing, food service, nursing, whatever. But then they slap you with this program fee that you’re supposed to pay back. And then your wages suck, so you’re paying it back pretty much forever.”
“Why don’t people just leave?” Caroline asked.
Lani paused before answering. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, almost a whisper. “If you try to leave Oasis without paying back your program fee, things happen to you. Bad things.”
A faint buzzing began in Caroline’s ears, as if the pieces of the puzzle had edged a little closer to one another.
“What kind of bad things?” Caroline asked.
Lani twisted her hands together and looked away.
“Please,” Caroline said. “I need to know.”
When Lani met Caroline’s eyes again, her own held fear. “Like if you’re supposed to report to your parole officer, he’s suddenly recommending a longer parole period or he’s come up with some reason you’ve broken parole. Or if you served time for drugs, you get pulled over, some cop plants coke on you. Or maybe you try leaving town and getting a job, you know, like trying to make a new life for yourself, and then some pictures from your juvenile files that were supposed to be sealed suddenly appear in the local paper. You got to pay your debt to Oasis if you take them up on their services or they screw you.”
“What happened to you?” Caroline asked.
“I started helping out in the kitchen at Oasis, you know, learning about being a cook—that’s a nice, useful skill, right? But when I found out about the whole program fee thing, I bailed. I’ve got enough debt. I tried going to another shelter that wasn’t run by Oasis.”
“But Daryl found you there,” Caroline surmised.
“He didn’t find me. Oasis told him where I was.”
/> “How do you know that?”
“Because that’s how Oasis works,” Lani said, her small jaw setting in repressed rage. “You got to pay your debt one way or another. Work those construction projects for minimum wage. Tell those old people at nursing homes about Oasis. That’s the way a lot of girls did it. And anyways, lots of people don’t mind paying Oasis back. They get into the whole thing—Oasis is your lifeline. Your chance at a future. But to me, it all seemed too wrong. Oasis promises to take care of you, but then they never let you go.”
After spending nights on the street, Caroline understood the attraction of making any available deal with the Devil. And yet, not everyone’s connection to Oasis was about coercion. Oasis provided training but also context. Connection. It satisfied needs strong enough to tie a soul to Oasis. But were those needs strong enough to drive someone to murder to protect it?
“You met Vizzi at Oasis,” Caroline said.
Lani nodded. “He’s the one that’s running things over there on that big campus.”
Caroline had already assumed as much.
“What about other people connected to Oasis? Did you ever meet Simon Reed?”
“I don’t know. What does he look like?” Lani asked.
Instead of trying to describe him, Caroline pulled the laptop toward her.
When she found the page she wanted, she carried the laptop to where Lani sat in bed.
“This is Simon Reed,” Caroline said, sitting down beside the small woman.
On the screen, Simon was standing in front of City Hall. The accompanying article described his ambitious development plans, including the fifty-three-story building to be built on city land on Bunker Hill.
“I’ve seen pictures of that guy at the Oasis campus. His picture’s all over the place there. But I never met him,” Lani said.
Caroline swung the laptop back in front of herself. With a few more keystrokes, she brought up an image of Gregory Parsons. The man in pinstripes from the bank’s security footage.
“What about this guy?” Caroline asked. “We think he might be Oasis’s money guy.”
Lani shook her head. “Never seen him. I was in the Oasis dormitory or the kitchen, so if that guy worked in the back office, I wouldn’t have ever come across him.”
Proof (Caroline Auden Book 2) Page 24