“So the job was a success.” I squeezed his hand, hoping I sounded like a cheerleader. “Congratulations!”
“Yeah. Thanks. Well, unfortunately—” He stopped.
“Go on,” I prompted, and before he could ask, added, “Yes, I’m sure. I want to hear it, McQuaid. All of it.”
He was silent a moment. “Unfortunately, when Blackie and I got back to headquarters, we heard that Felipe had turned that trick once too often. He was machine gunned in Juárez this afternoon. Killed instantly.”
I shuddered. It could have been you, I thought, and the words came to my lips, but I didn’t say them. Yes, it could have been McQuaid. But it could have been me, this afternoon in Burgess’ garage. Life is short, and we never know what’s waiting around the corner, right here in town or on a Mexican hillside. The best thing we can do—the only thing we can do—is to love one another now, while we have one another, while we’re together.
“I’m sorry about Felipe,” I said evenly. “But I’m glad you and Blackie got the job done and made it out okay.”
He nodded regretfully. “It’s a loss. Felipe was tough and smart, the kind of guy you want at your back in a tough place. He took too many chances, but he understood the risks. And for him, the greater the risk, the better he liked it.” He paused. “Blackie is like that, too, although you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Offer him a dangerous job and he’ll jump on it, just for the fun of the damn thing.” There was a certain grimness in his voice. “That’s not me, China. I do what I have to do, but I don’t love the risk.”
“No?” I asked. “Then why did you take the job?”
“Because I got a percentage on the equipment we brought back across the border.” He chuckled wryly. “Enough, in fact, to fund the rest of Brian’s undergraduate years. So if Sally finks out on her commitment again, I can handle it.”
I pulled away and looked at him. “Is that why you took on that dangerous job? For the money?”
He frowned. “Well, sure. I hope you don’t think I do stuff like that just for kicks.” He put a hand on my shoulder and looked at me, straight and hard. “I am not a danger junkie, China. You know that, don’t you?” He shook my shoulder a little. “Don’t you?”
“I know that you don’t think you’re a danger junkie.” I might have laughed when I said that, but his face was serious. Too serious.
“Huh,” he grunted. “Look who’s talking. The girl who went looking for trouble in a killer’s garage and ended up locking herself into his Hummer while the freakin’ guy stood outside, threatening her with a gun and his vicious dog. He could have killed her, too, and claimed a castle defense. In fact, he might very well have done just that, if the cavalry hadn’t ridden up in the nick of time.” He regarded me through narrowed eyes. “Now, who’s calling who a danger junkie?”
I made a face. “Who told you all that?”
“The chief of police told her husband, and he told me. Did she lie? Did he?”
“Not exactly, no.” I sighed. “But there were extenuating circumstances. Several of them.”
His mouth was a thin line. “There always are when you paint yourself into a tough corner, China. So don’t get on my case about being a—”
I kissed him. “I’m not getting on your case, McQuaid. I love you, whoever you are.”
He kissed me, long and deep. “Love me, huh?” he murmured. He lifted me to my feet and held me against him. “Care to prove that?” he asked after a moment.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” I said breathlessly.
Winchester clambered to his feet. He knew the signals. If we were going upstairs, he was too. Bassets do not like to sleep alone on the porch.
* * *
A few weeks later, Sheila’s birthday party—an old-fashioned block party—was a boisterous success. The temperature was in the low eighties, and the sky was a vivid, moving panoply of sun and clouds. Ruby’s backyard, with its border of flowers and rosebushes, looked gorgeous. The whole neighborhood turned out to help celebrate, along with Blackie’s friends from the Adams County sheriff’s office, Sheila’s friends from the PSPD, and some of the guys from Beans’. Blackie and Hark Hibler had brought Ruby’s TV set out to the deck and were watching a baseball game, while several people had brought guitars and fiddles, and impromptu singing groups gathered here and there around the yard. The kids were playing volleyball, and Caitie and a couple of the neighborhood girls were hunched over a large jigsaw puzzle.
The food was splendid. Bob Godwin set up a big barbecue barrel and served smoked ribs and sausages to the crowd. The potluck—salads, sides, sandwiches, breads, and a birthday cake studded with thirty-nine candles—was terrific. There was lemonade for the kids and iced tea and wine for the grown-ups. And Ramona brought several kegs of Comanche Creek beer she wanted everybody to sample and vote on. Blood orange beer and prickly pear beer came out about even in the informal rankings, but the hands-down favorite—predictably—was chipotle beer.
Ramona did not bring Rich Kaufman. They were no longer a thing, Ruby told me in a whisper. Rich, still brokenhearted over the loss of his wife, was leaving the brewery as soon as Ramona could find another brewmaster. And Ramona’s passion for beer had turned into just another of her passing fancies. She was already looking for an investor to buy her share of the brewery.
“If she could settle down to just one thing and put all her energy into it, she’d be a huge success,” Ruby said wistfully.
“If she could settle down to one thing, she wouldn’t be Ramona,” I said tartly, and Ruby had to agree.
Charlie Lipman was at the party, too. I was stretched out in a chaise lounge with a glass of wine, enjoying the afternoon sunshine, when he pulled up a chair beside me. He lowered himself into it holding a glass of lemonade. He was actually sober, too, even though it was the weekend.
We were silent for several moments as a nearby group finished a raucous version of “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” fueled by Ramona’s chipotle beer. When it was over and the group had headed back to the kegs, Charlie pulled his chair around so that we were facing each other.
“I guess maybe I owe you an apology,” he said.
“I don’t need an apology,” I said. “But it would be kind of interesting to hear the details.”
He screwed up his mouth. “Yeah. Well, I guess I owe you that, too.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. “I’ve severed my connections with the Pecan Springs Community Hospice.”
“Good plan,” I replied, and waited for more. After a moment, I got it.
“Unfortunately, I was the one who told Christopher Burgess and Marla Blake that Kelly Kaufman had made unauthorized copies of the hospice records.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “When Kelly told me about the Medicare fraud, I believed she was making it up—that she was a disgruntled ex-employee acting out of spite because she’d been fired. I had no idea that the hospice was anything but a hundred percent above board. I thought I was doing my job, safeguarding an important organization against a frivolous, if not fraudulent, claim.”
“Ah,” I said. “And you also told them that Kelly was staying in my cottage?” That would explain the attempted break-in on Sunday night—fended off by Miss Lula—and the break-in after the car crash.
“Yep, that was me.” He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “I made a big mistake. But I did it in good faith, China, acting out of the information I had at the time.” He took a sip of his lemonade, made a face, and set the glass down on the grass beside his chair. “I can’t bring Kelly back, but I’ve told the police about my part in this crazy affair. That information was the key to Burgess’ motive.”
“For ramming Kelly’s car?”
“Yes. Because they hadn’t been able to come up with a motive, the best they could do was involuntary manslaughter. But when the prosecutor learned that I’d told
Burgess that Kelly was onto the Medicare fraud, he upgraded the charge to murder. I understand that another upgrade might be in the works. Capital murder.”
“They can probably make that stick,” I said thoughtfully. “Murder committed in order to conceal another crime. And on top of that, there are felony charges of possession and trafficking for the narcotics found in the house. Who’d Burgess get to defend?”
“Sam Carson, from San Antonio. He’s good.”
“I know Sam from law school,” I said. “He’s good but not that good. If the prosecutor does a halfway decent job, Burgess is looking at a hefty prison sentence.” I paused. “He hasn’t been apprehended yet?”
That was the big news. Burgess had been arraigned on multiple counts and posted a half-million-dollar bail. But just a few days before the grand jury heard his case, he had up sticks and left town, which of course didn’t deter the grand jury. An all-points bulletin was issued for his arrest, but the last I heard, he was still on the lam.
“Oh, they’ll get him,” Charlie said confidently. “Just a matter of time.” Another group of musicians fired up—“San Antonio Rose”—and Charlie leaned closer to me, raising his voice. “When I talked to the police, they said that you were the one who doped out the hospice fraud, based on the records that Kelly copied—illegally, I should point out—from the hospice computer. True?”
I ignored the remark about the illegality of Kelly’s copying. It was true, but as a practical matter, it wasn’t likely to be a contested issue at trial.
“True,” I replied, “but I didn’t dope it out on my own. I had the help of Lara Metcalf. She’s the one who retrieved Kelly’s laptop from the wreck and gave me the thumb drive that held the records. She’d worked as a nurse at the hospice and understood the way things operated. She knew Chris Burgess, too.” I hesitated, then decided not to tell him that Lara and Burgess had once been romantically involved. He didn’t need to know that.
He sat for a moment, smoking and listening to the music. Then he asked, “Are you aiming to file a whistle-blower claim? You can, you know. From what Sheila told me, it sounds like you probably have enough documentation.” He gave me an amused glance. “At least, enough to interest some shyster lawyer.”
“Who, me?” I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t intend to file, but Lara Metcalf is seriously considering it. She’s contacted one of those ‘shyster’ lawyers you recommended to Kelly. If she wins a whistle-blower award, she plans to use the money to create a nursing scholarship in Kelly’s name.”
“A worthy aim,” he said drily. “But I’ve heard that kind of thing before. We’ll see if she actually ponies up when the money comes in.”
I ignored that, too. “There’s a lot to be negotiated,” I said, “since the hospice fraud is a motivation behind the other criminal acts, and False Claims suits are supposed to be sealed.” I paused. “I take it that you’re not going to represent the hospice in a False Claims suit.”
“Correct. I’ve already told both Burgess and Blake that they should plan to plead, whomever they hire to defend them. Simpler and cheaper, all the way around.”
“True enough,” I said. “I hope they take your advice.”
He pushed himself out of his chair. “Well, thanks for listening, China. I’m glad I got that off my chest. It’s been bothering me.” He glanced around. “Haven’t seen McQuaid. Is he here?”
I pointed toward the deck, where five or six people were intent on the game. “He’s watching the Rangers whup up on the Twins. Six–two, last I heard. You need to talk to him?”
“Yeah. I want him to schedule that Brownsville trip. I’ve got a client in big trouble down there. He needs a good investigator.” He shot me a curious look. “Everything go okay in El Paso?”
I thought of Felipe, and danger, and misadventures here and there. “More or less,” I said. “Ask him. I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
Charlie nodded, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked away. I watched him go, thinking how glad I was not to be burdened with clients’ legal troubles. I didn’t envy Charlie the load he was carrying.
The afternoon wore on. The ribs and sausages disappeared, the kegs emptied out, and people began going home. It was Sunday, after all, and Downton Abbey was on. McQuaid, Blackie, and Hark were still out on the deck, now watching Los Angeles playing Baltimore. Caitie was out there, too, still working on the puzzle with her new friends. Ruby, Sheila, and I had finished cleaning up the party things and were sitting around Ruby’s kitchen table enjoying a glass of my homemade ginger ale and a slice of Sheila’s cake.
“Charlie and I were talking about the Kaufman case,” I said to Sheila. “What’s the latest news on Burgess? Any reported sightings?”
Sheila picked up her fork and attacked her birthday cake. “I guess you haven’t heard. He was picked up just a few hours ago attempting to cross the border. He’s already on his way back to Pecan Springs.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s great!” I said enthusiastically.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t make it,” Ruby said, sipping her ginger ale. “If he got into Mexico, he might be hard to find.”
“And hard to extradite too,” I said. “A capital murder charge would complicate things. Mexico doesn’t have the death penalty. If Burgess had been apprehended there, the prosecutor might have had to agree not to go for the death penalty in order to get him extradited.”
“Well, we’ve got him now.” Sheila’s voice was gritty. “And this time, there won’t be any bail. He’ll be cooling his heels in jail until the trial—where he’ll be convicted and hauled off to prison. Burgess has seen the last of his freedom for a good long time.”
Ruby frowned. “I don’t think I ever heard how you know it was his Hummer that hit Kelly’s van.” She picked up the pitcher of ginger ale and refreshed our glasses.
“Forensics,” Sheila said. “That orange Hummer paint is distinctive. And there was the fog light glass, too. Putting Burgess himself in the Hummer was a little harder. But when we searched the vehicle, we found a receipt for fuel from a Wag-A-Bag on the west side of town, time-stamped twelve minutes before the crash. The security camera at the pump shows that he was the one filling up and driving off.”
“Good work, Smart Cookie,” I said approvingly. “Charlie told me that Sam Carson is defending. Sounds like Sam will have his hands full.”
Sheila nodded. “I saw you and Charlie talking. He tell you about his part in this? He’s the one who handed us Burgess’ motive. Without him, we didn’t have a way to tie Burgess directly to Kelly. We had the shoeprint in your cottage, but we didn’t have a reason. Charlie gave us what we needed.”
“He told me,” I said, turning my chilly glass in my hand. “I’m wondering about Marla Blake. Mrs. Mueller was able to implicate her in the MacDonald death, but I haven’t heard an update.”
Sheila sighed. “The prosecutor says we don’t have enough evidence to reopen the case. I assigned a detective to it, but he came up empty-handed.”
“I don’t understand,” Ruby said, frowning. “China told me that Mrs. Mueller actually saw Marla Blake with Mr. MacDonald, right around the time he died. That’s eyewitness testimony, isn’t it? Isn’t that enough?”
“All she saw was the two of them sitting together on the porch. That’s just not enough to make a case, especially since we don’t know when MacDonald actually died.” Sheila finished her cake and pushed her plate away. “There will be plenty of other criminal charges against Blake, though, once the Medicare fraud investigation gets underway.” She sat back in her chair. “But she’s back in the hospital. And from what I hear, the prognosis isn’t good.”
“Hospital?” I asked, surprised. “Prognosis?”
“You don’t know?” Ruby pulled down her mouth. “She has cancer.”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed.
“Ovarian cancer, stage four,” Sheila said.
“It’s spread to her lungs and her liver. It’s been diagnosed as terminal.”
“But I just saw her,” I protested, and then stopped. When I saw her last—at the hospital the night Kelly died—I’d noticed that she seemed to have lost quite a lot of weight, and that her sleek dark hair looked like a wig. “I guess she was keeping it a secret,” I said.
Sheila nodded. “That’s right. She’s been going to Houston for treatment, I was told. But the cancer is aggressive and there’s no keeping it a secret now. She’s trying to get permission to use an experimental drug.”
“Terminal,” Ruby said quietly. “That’s rather ironic, isn’t it? I mean, she was involved in creating false hospice cases—terminal cases. She might even have killed old Mr. MacDonald. And now she’s diagnosed as terminal herself. There’s justice for you.”
“Justice doesn’t always happen in the courtroom,” I said. “But it usually happens, even in an imperfect world.”
“Burgess will get justice, too,” Sheila said grimly. “In the courtroom. He will, I promise you.”
Caitie stood outside the screen door. “Hey, Mom. Dad says game’s over and he’s ready to go home.”
“Tell him I’ll be just a minute,” I said, and Caitie turned to yell, “She says she’ll be along when she’s good and ready.”
“Brat,” I said affectionately, and Caitie giggled.
“Happy birthday, Sheila.” I paused, studying her, thinking that she somehow looked . . . different. Prettier, if that was possible. Softer, maybe. Happier. “Whatever Blackie gave you for a present, you must have liked it. You’re glowing.”
“I don’t think I heard what it was,” Ruby said. “Something special?”
“We haven’t told anybody yet.” Sheila’s voice softened and she seemed almost shy. “And yes, I guess it’s pretty special.” She took a deep breath. “We’re having a baby.”
Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery Page 27