Road Blocked: A Reed Ferguson Mystery (A Private Investigator Mystery Series - Crime Suspense Thriller Book 13)

by Renee Pawlish

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Since I didn’t know what would happen the rest of the evening, I stopped at a King Soopers grocery store to pick up some granola bars and to use the restroom. Then I drove to Vanderkamp’s office, and arrived in plenty of time to see him leave work.

  This time, I parked on the side street near the parking lot, where I could see Vanderkamp’s Mercedes sitting in a spot near the entrance to the building. Luckily I didn’t have long to wait. A trickle of patients came out of the building around five, and then shortly afterward, groups of nurses in their scrubs emerged and strolled to their cars. A portly gentleman in a suit and tie came out five minutes after that, and then Vanderkamp hurried out. He had a pinched, worried look on his face. Had Karen Abram called him and gotten him riled up? As he made a beeline for his Mercedes, I ducked down and peered over the dashboard. Vanderkamp unlocked his car, got in, and soon pulled out onto Iowa Street. He drove to Wadsworth and signaled for a left turn. He had to sit in the turn lane for a break in traffic. I started the 4-Runner and waited, not wanting to pull in right behind him and risk being detected. Suddenly his car zoomed past oncoming traffic as he turned and went north.

  I drove up to Wadsworth. Unfortunately, a stream of traffic was coming south, and I had to wait. I cursed, worried that I’d lost Vanderkamp. I saw a break in cars, hit the gas, and careened onto Wadsworth. I cut off a truck and heard a horn blare, but I ignored it. I was focused on the traffic ahead of me. I couldn’t see the Mercedes. Had it turned off? I swore again. The light at Florida turned yellow, but I punched the gas and went through. I zipped in and out of cars, going as fast as I dared, and then I spotted the Mercedes up ahead. I got within five cars of it and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Vanderkamp drove conservatively toward Sixth Avenue, then got on the highway and headed east. I had an easy time following him into downtown. He went east on Colfax to Downing Street, then north to Martin Luther King Boulevard. The neighborhood was definitely nicer than I remembered, with a mix of houses, apartments, and businesses in the area. When I grew up, this was lower income. But with so many people moving to Denver and real estate being at a premium, more neighborhoods were being gentrified, although I noticed some buildings in this area were still in need of some love.

  “Where the hell are you going?” I muttered as if Vanderkamp could hear me.

  I soon found out. A few blocks east on MLK, the Mercedes pulled over in front of an older apartment building. Who would he know there? I thought.

  I drove past, crossed the intersection and found a parking space. I looked in the rearview mirror, just in time to see Vanderkamp crossing MLK. I glanced over my shoulder to see him run into a bar called “Sonny’s.”

  “This is certainly different from your club,” I said out loud.

  I watched the entrance to the bar for a minute. No one else went in or left. Why would Vanderkamp eschew a luxury club like The Ridge to have a drink here? Was he meeting someone? But I hadn’t seen anyone go in, so was that person already there? Only one way to find out.

  I got out, locked the 4-Runner, and dashed across the street. Sonny’s had a small front window, and I sauntered slowly by it and peered into the window. All I saw in return was my reflection. So much for that. I walked to the corner, waited a moment, and then made an impulse decision. I strode back along the sidewalk, up to the bar entrance and marched inside.

  A drone of voices and laughter greeted me, and a song I didn’t recognize played from a jukebox in the corner, but not as loud as I would’ve expected. A mix of people sat at small round tables and at a bar along the wall to the right of the entrance. Some were blue-collar, others looked as if they’d gotten a handout and dropped in for a drink. None looked like they had come from a doctor’s office.

  I glanced around and spotted Vanderkamp sitting at a table near the back. Across from him was a solidly built man with thinning gray hair, a large bulb of a nose, and big eyes with a dangerous edge. Vanderkamp had taken off his tie, but he still stood out, and so did his friend, who wore slacks and a white polo shirt. Vanderkamp was nodding at him, and then the other man put meaty hands on the table, and Vanderkamp jumped back.

  I couldn’t get close to their table because the ones around them were occupied. And I was obvious as well, both by standing at the door, and in my dress slacks and nice shirt, rather than the jeans that most others were wearing. I moseyed up to the bar and squeezed in between a guy in worn jeans, T-shirt, and heavy work boots and a lone man who appeared to already be in the tank.

  “Hey, take it easy,” the man slurred when I accidentally bumped his elbow. “Don’t spill my drink.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, then signaled the bartender.

  “Yeah?” he grunted.

  “Fat Tire,” I said.

  He threw me an irritated look. “Huh?”

  “A Bud,” I corrected myself. I should’ve known this place wouldn’t have microbrews.

  He shook his head as he filled a mug and set it in front of me.

  “Two bucks.”

  I paid him, then turned sideways so I could watch Vanderkamp. He and his large-nosed friend – although “friend” seemed a debatable term – were leaning over the table, heads close together. I couldn’t hear anything over the other voices in the bar, especially that of the guy next to me, who was carrying on an animated discussion with the bartender. However, Vanderkamp did not appear happy. More than once he frowned, and twice he held up his hands, as if trying to calm down the other guy. The other man twirled an empty glass in his hand, and then said something to Vanderkamp, whose eyebrows shot up. Then Vanderkamp nodded slowly. The other guy pushed his chair back and started to get up. Vanderkamp reached toward him, and the guy stopped. He stared at Vanderkamp, and just his demeanor seemed threatening.

  Whoever that guy was, he was about to leave. But what do I do? I thought. Stay with Vanderkamp or follow the stranger?

  I knew where Vanderkamp lived and worked, and I could find him anytime. This other guy was a different story. But it would be obvious if I left right when he did. I whirled around and signaled to the bartender.

  “Is there a back way out?”

  His eyes darted to the right, toward a hallway, but he glared at me. “Nah.”

  I set down my beer and strode into the hallway. The bartender called after me, but I ignored him. To the left were two doors marked “Women” and “Men”, but the end of the hall turned to the right. I hurried past the restrooms and around the corner. A door to the right said “Office” and one to the left was unmarked. I went to that one and jerked it open. It led into an alley.

  I stepped outside, pulled the door closed, and ran around the building, back to MLK. I shielded my eyes against the sun’s glare and peeked toward the bar entrance. Vanderkamp’s friend wasn’t around. I dashed across MLK, hopped into the 4-Runner and started it. Then I shifted in my seat so I could see the bar. Not a moment to spare.

  The man with the large nose emerged from the bar, lit a cigarette, and then walked along MLK until he reached a black sedan. He got in and sped west on MLK. I let him get to Downing Street and then I did a U-turn and followed. I was wary of this guy, so I kept my distance, but he drove casually back into downtown, to the Westin Hotel on Sixteenth and Lawrence. The sedan turned into the covered driveway and up to the front entrance. I slowed down as I passed the hotel and saw a valet come out to the sedan. The man got out, handed his keys to the valet, and went inside the hotel. I reached the corner, spied a parking place across the street, and hit the gas. I quickly parked and ran back to the Westin.

  I’d been in this hotel before when I’d eaten at The Palm restaurant located at the back of the lobby. Near the entrance was a Starbucks on the left and seating on the right. Behind the seating area were escalators, and past the Starbucks, a bank of elevators was tucked around the corner. I looked around but didn’t see the guy I’d been following. I walked past the Starbucks and glanced around to the elevators, but no one was waiting ther
e. It was dinner time, so I popped into The Palm.

  “I’m meeting a friend,” I told a startled host as I rushed by.

  I perused the restaurant, but didn’t see the man, so I left and took the escalators upstairs. This level had a counter for check-ins on the right and a bar that took up the area to the left of the escalators. A few people sat at tables that overlooked the street below. And there was the man with the large nose, ordering a drink. I quickly turned to the right so he wouldn’t see me. I walked by the check-in counter, past the escalators, and was able to circle around to the bar.

  The man had gotten his drink, and he was sitting at a table with his back to me, watching a television in the corner above the bar. He took a sip of his drink, then pulled out a phone, swiped the screen, and began speaking. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me loitering nearby, so I slowly walked past. I heard a snippet of conversation, but it was in a foreign language, something Slavic-sounding, if I had to guess. I continued back to the escalators and downstairs. I sat in the lobby for a minute and thought about the man upstairs.

  Vanderkamp had seemed apprehensive of this guy, but what was his connection to Vanderkamp? Why meet at an out-of-the-way bar on MLK instead of at the Westin, or at Vanderkamp’s club? Obviously they didn’t want to be seen by anyone who knew them. Was this guy the stalker that Hinton was worried about? Was he a hired killer?

  I contemplated my next move. How could I find out who that man was? I knew nothing about him, just that he spoke with a foreign accent. I could go back upstairs and watch him until he went to his room, and then get Cal to check the register for a name, but what if this guy – the Slav, as I was now mentally calling him – sat at the bar for a long time? I risked his spotting me and recognizing me from the other bar. And what if he didn’t go to his room, but went somewhere else? If he was a professional killer, would he spot a tail? Probably. I grimaced. I didn’t like my options right now, so I shrugged, shoved myself up, and went outside.

  Nothing about this case made sense, and my frustration was boiling to the surface. I got to the 4-Runner and called Hinton. Maybe he would remember something about this guy. But Hinton didn’t answer. I pocketed the phone angrily. I’d told him to be available when I called, but he wasn’t answering. Not cool. My mind was a jumble of disjointed information, so I decided to go home and relax. Maybe things would look different in the morning, and I could begin to get some answers.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Willie and I were still in bed when my phone rang just a little after nine on Friday morning. It was Vanderkamp’s office, and they’d had a cancellation. I confirmed the appointment and ended the call.

  Willie was lying on her side, and she rolled onto her back. She yawned and stretched, then gazed at me. “Mmm, who was that?”

  “Vanderkamp’s office. I have an appointment at eleven this morning.”

  “What’re you hoping to find out?”

  I leaned back against the headboard and rubbed my chin. “I want to know if he’s scamming Medicare. Of course he’s not going to tell me that. But if he is, and I can rattle him a little bit, maybe I’ll get a gut sense of what’s going on.”

  “So how are you going to play this?” Willie asked curiously. “A lot of doctor’s offices want you to provide an ID along with your insurance card.”

  “I know, so instead of being the clever Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, I’ll be the devilishly handsome and talented Reed Ferguson.”

  Willie grinned. “Who’s he?”

  “Oh, that’s cold,” I said as I got up and went into the bathroom. She was still laughing as I stepped into the shower.

  ***

  I arrived at Lakewood Medical Clinic at 10:45. I spent a few minutes filling out paperwork, and then sat by myself in the waiting room. A woman in pink scrubs sat behind a counter, busy on her computer and answering the phone, and I periodically saw other nurses in blue scrubs walking down a hallway past the counter. No one else was around. I wondered why there weren’t other patients waiting with me. I knew that Pete Hinton was out of the office, but what about the other doctor, Bernie Shepherd? A little after eleven, the nurse in blue called my name and escorted me down the hall to an examination room. We went inside and she was about to check my vital signs when I told her I was just here to interview Doctor Vanderkamp on behalf of my mother. She arched her eyebrows in surprise, murmured something unintelligible, and told me the doctor would be in soon. Then she stepped back into the hallway and closed the door.

  I glanced around. The room was a typical exam room, with a padded examination table covered with a strip of paper, a sink and counter in the corner, a rolling stool, and a chair by the door. An antiseptic smell permeated the room.

  I sat in the chair and crossed my arms and waited. A few minutes later, I heard someone walk up and stand on the other side of the door. Papers rustled and then the door opened to reveal Marshall Vanderkamp, his nose in an open manila file. Then he looked up at me.

  “Mr. Ferguson.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Doctor Vanderkamp.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said and shook his hand.

  This was the closest as I’d been to him, and I took the time to assess him. Along with the gray hair and round face, he had worry lines on his forehead and dark bags under brown eyes. His whole bearing said “stressed.”

  He moved over to the rolling chair, sat down, and glanced at the file again. “So you’re in good health?”

  “Yes,” I began. “I’m not here for myself, but for my mother.”

  He glanced up at me. “Where is she?”

  “Florida.”

  “That makes an examination difficult,” he said wryly. Whatever was troubling him hadn’t affected his sense of humor.

  I waved back at the door. “Didn’t they tell you? I’m searching for a doctor for my mother.”

  He checked the file again. “Oh yes, I see.” He put the file in his lap and gazed at me. “Okay, what questions do you have for me?”

  “My mother’s moving back here soon, and she’s got a few health issues, so she’s going to need a good doctor.”

  “What issues?” he asked politely.

  “High blood pressure, asthma, and arthritis.” None of that was really true about my mother, but she’d never know I was talking about her like this. Good thing, too. “There might be more that she’s not telling me. But if you talked to her, you’d think she was on her deathbed.”

  “Oh, yes, I know the type.”

  “She can be a handful.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” he said.

  Fine? Yes, I thought. But definitely a handful.

  “Anyway,” I went on. “My mother’s last doctor would no sooner enter the room than he had his hand on the door, ready to leave. She was not pleased with that. She wants some time with a doctor, to make sure she can ask the questions she needs to and that she understands everything that you’re saying to her. She doesn’t want to be rushed.”

  He nodded sympathetically while I talked. “I certainly understand her concerns. Unfortunately, it’s easy to treat patients in a revolving-door kind of way, but I’m not like that. My patients are important to me, and I take time to discuss their issues, concerns, and health status.”

  “How long specifically do you spend with each patient?”

  He pursed his lips in thought. “That’s hard to say because it does vary, depending on the nature of the visit, but at a minimum ten to fifteen minutes, but that’s by no means the norm.”

  “So no rushing people in and out?”

  He smiled. “No. You can ask the nurses up front. We take our time and do things right.”

  “I guess I should’ve asked this first, but do you take Medicare?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’ve heard that many doctors aren’t taking Medicare patients anymore because it’s not financially feasible.”

  He nodded. “That’s true, but we’re making it work.”

  “How?”


  That caught him off-guard. “Excuse me?”

  “If doctors are losing money by taking Medicare patients, how are you making it work, to use your words?”

  “Well, we don’t solely see Medicare patients, so that offsets the financial liability. And I might not make as much as those other doctors, but it’s not all about the money.”

  According to Denise Hinton, the Vanderkamps were rolling in the dough, I thought. “So maybe four patients an hour, so thirty or so patients in a typical day?” I said.

  He frowned. “I don’t really know for sure, but like I said, I take my time with patients.”

  “I’ve been reading up on Medicare fraud,” I said.

  “Yes?” he said carefully.

  “I guess it’s easy to overbill and accidentally charge for services that aren’t performed.”

  “That’s true.” Still cautious.

  “Has your office ever had any issues or investigations with your Medicare billing?”

  “No.”

  “I can tell you, my mother would not be happy if there was anything weird going on here.”

  He forced a smile. “She doesn’t have to worry about that here.” He picked up the file. “What’s her name?”

  “Gladys Finch,” I said, making up a name on the spot. I wasn’t sure why he suddenly wanted her name, but I wasn’t going to give him my mother’s real name.

  He wrote it down. “I think the best thing to do is have her come in herself, when she moves here. Then she and I can chat, and she can decide if she’d like to have us work with her.”

  “That’ll be fine,” I said.

  He stood up. “I do have another patient. Do you have any other questions?”

  “I thought you didn’t rush patients in and out,” I observed drily.

  He stared at me, his blue eyes cold. “You’re not a patient.” He stepped to the door and opened it. “I’ll walk you out.”

  I stood up, and he gestured down the hallway. I sauntered toward the lobby, and when I reached the front counter I turned around, but he was gone. I stopped by the front counter.