Saving Max

by Antoinette van Heugten

  Doaks smiles. He doesn’t mind being found out if she’ll talk. He drops all pretense at charm. “Yeah, I know about ’em, but you’re right, they don’t belong to me.”

  She nods as if he has passed a test. “So what are you bothering an old lady about?” She catches his eye and motions to a fifth of whiskey and a smeared glass on top of the television set. He brings them to her. She pours a healthy shot—at least two man-size fingers—and then offers the glass to Doaks.

  “That’s okay. You go on.”

  She shakes her head. “Take it.”

  “Want me to fetch another glass?” He can get a better look around if she’ll let him go into the kitchen.

  “Nah, I like it straight from the horse’s mouth.” She tips her head and lets the cheap, brown liquid run down her throat. Her lips purse in a satisfied smack as her eyes narrow. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “Look,” he says. “Here’s the deal—no bullshit. A seventeen-year-old autistic kid was murdered or committed suicide in a mental hospital in Iowa. The kid used to live here. I’m tryin’ to track down the mother.”

  She looks up, a parrot poised for a cracker. “Why do you care?”

  “I represent another boy who was in the same hospital, and they’re tryin’ him for the murder,” he says. “I don’t think he did it. I’m just tryin’ to dig up some information about the dead kid so I can help prove he offed himself. So, what can you tell me? How long did she live here? She leave anything behind?”

  The old lady grins. “What’s in it for me?”

  The surprise is that she hasn’t asked sooner. “What do you think would be fair?” He holds up a hand. “Not crazy—fair.”

  She holds out thin arms. “Look around, mister. I’m an old woman with no money, no family, no nothing.” She taps a finger on her temple. “Except for what I got up here and the few bucks I get to rent these lousy properties for some big shot downtown. Now, what the hell is fair about that?”

  “Twenty bucks.” He stopped paying real money for the sad songs of old ladies a long time ago. Whatever he gives her will be burnin’ a hole in her liver by the time he’s out of the door.

  “Fifty,” she counters, eyes gleaming.

  “Done.” He fishes out two wadded twenties and a torn ten and places them in her palm.

  She sticks the bills under the strap of her ratty nightgown. “I’d put ’em here—” indicating where her cleavage used to be “—but they’d be on the floor the minute I stand up.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “Bad news, that’s what she was,” she says. “Lived here with that crazy kid of hers about two years ago. Had brown hair ratted to the nines; fancy clothes; lots of makeup. Always late with the rent. I was stupid enough to let her get away with it.” She shrugs. “The kid, you know. I felt sorry for him. Anyway, she had church people here all hours of the day and night. They took care of the kid while she worked someplace downtown. That kid was a mess. Always making weird noises and scratching himself up all the time. After about a year, she up and left.”

  “Know where she went?”

  “Nope.” She pours Doaks another shot. “Don’t know and don’t care. Caught holy hell from the owner, I can tell you that.”

  “Leave any personal belongings?”

  The old woman hoots. “Ha! She left me with a pile of crap—that’s what she left me. The place was a wreck.”

  He sighs. “She leave anything with her name on it? Check stubs, bills, notepads?”

  Her eyes narrow like a cat eyeing its prey. He can almost feel his wallet burning. He’ll have to pay again to play, but he doesn’t have to make it easy on her. He pulls another twenty from his wallet. “No ticky, no laundry. You don’t see this unless you get me somethin’ I can take outta here. And I don’t mean an old boot and some bobby pins. I mean somethin’ with her name on it—somethin’ I can use.”

  “There ain’t much,” she admits.

  “Much what?”

  “I told you,” she says. “She left the place in a hell of a mess: dirty clothes, food in the kitchen, all her garbage for me to clean up.” She waves her hand, indicating everything and nothing. “I threw most of it out for the trashman—old papers, bills, stuff like that. But I still got a box of her junk up there in the attic.” She points upstairs, eyes hungry for the cash in his hand.

  “Not so fast, sister.” He puts the twenty back in his pocket and stands. “Show me first. If it ain’t worth a damn, you keep your fifty bucks and I’m on my way. Capish?”

  The old lady glares at him, but rises unsteadily from her chair. Scotch and old bones don’t help when she tries to put it into gear. Once on her feet, she shuffles slowly as Doaks follows her upstairs into a bedroom large enough to accommodate a mattress and not much else. She points at the closet. He opens the door, looks in. It’s crammed full of clothes that smell like that stinky lavender shit old ladies like. Doaks kicks away at the mess on the floor.

  “You got a ladder?” He’s already sweating like a stevedore. The air in that room hasn’t moved since 1928. She points at the corner. He stomps over and places a wobbly chair under the opening to the closet ceiling, which is so low he can poke his head into the attic just by standing. It’s pitch-black except for slats of light that come through a few roof holes. He groans as he grapples to hoist his sadly neglected body through the attic opening. After many unattractive attempts and copious cursing, he finally succeeds. The smell that greets his nostrils is a mix of rodent feces, mold and rot. “Terrific.”

  “There’s a light switch up there somewhere,” the old woman calls. “Don’t sit on it.”

  “Now she tells me,” he mutters. He feels around to the right and left, but hits only dirt and rotted wood. His fingers go a little farther afield and happen upon a switch that protrudes from an old beam. He flips it. Nothing. “Got a flashlight?”

  Apparently the old lady didn’t have much faith in the switch, either. While he’s up there clawing through rat shit, she’s managed to find a decent flashlight. Her third toss makes it up to his knees, and he grabs it. He’s sweating so hard dank rivulets pour down his chest.

  “First the fuckin’ rain and now a damned inferno,” he mutters. He’d like to see Sevillas up here on his hands and knees, covered in bat guano or whatever kind of offal he’s wading through. Everything has a wild smell. As he flicks the light around, ugly silhouettes of a few rats and a moving wall of roaches appear and then scuttle into the darkness. There’s something about the sound of vermin scrabbling and whirring around a person in the dark.

  His cell phone rings. “Fuck me, Rachel,” he mutters. He fishes it out of his pocket and flips it open. “What?”

  “It’s me, Danielle.”

  “Thought it was the Queen of Sheba,” he growls. “I’m knee-deep in rat shit here.”

  “Have you found anything?”

  “Nope, just like I told you. Hope you got your shit packed, because we split in an hour.”

  “Please, Doaks, keep trying,” she pleads. “It’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  “Then quit botherin’ me,” he says. “I’ll give it two more minutes, and then I’m outta here.” He snaps the phone shut and sticks it back into his pocket. He plays the light over the floor and makes out three cardboard boxes. He shines the light into the first box. Old photographs of a younger version of the woman downstairs. Age sure did a number on her. The second box crumbles when he tries to open it. He moves on to the last box and pulls back the flap. Inside is a weird collection of odds and ends. Old purses, shoes without mates, an umbrella with most of its spokes gone. He finds a red leather collar with a small black box attached to it and holds it up to the light. It’s one of those fancy dog-shock collars.

  Doaks’s frustration mounts. There’s nothing here but a bunch of leftover crap anybody would ditch if they decided to split without ponying up the rent. “Why did the old bat drag my fifty-six-year-old ass up here if all I was gonna get was a handful of wet rat tur
ds?” he mutters. “Just tryin’ to bone me for a few more bucks.” He leans over the attic opening and yells down. “There isn’t a damned thing up here!”

  “Yes, there is!” Her voice is impatient. “Look in the box.”

  “Why don’t you haul your scrawny ass up here and look in the stinkin’ box?” he mutters. He takes a last look in the third box and finally turns the whole thing upside down. Dried roach shells and dust fill the air. A piece of paper floats down. Doaks grabs it and sticks it under the flashlight.

  Dear Ms. Morrison,

  We are pleased you have contacted American Home Mortgage with respect to your potential purchase at 2808 Leek Street, Phoenix, Arizona, Plat 51, Lot 6. We regret to inform you that we are unable to assist you in the financing of this property…

  Doaks flips over the envelope to look at the date. April 7, 2009. A few months before Marianne took Jonas to Maitland. He turns it over.

  As requested, we are providing a copy of this letter to both your Chicago and Arizona residences in the event you are in transit…cc: Desert Bloom Apartments, Unit 411, 6948 E. Ranch Road, Phoenix, AZ 85006.

  He snaps off the flashlight. He stuffs the piece of paper into his pocket and quickly descends. In the light of the bedroom, he sees he’s covered with black. Dirt, grunge, roach wings—you name it. He smells like he’s rolled in elephant manure. The old lady is waiting for him. She wrinkles her nose.

  “Ain’t my attic, lady.” He pulls the paper from his pocket. “What’d you say her name was?”

  “Sharon Miller.”

  “Ever see any ID to that effect?”

  She gives him a bitter look and waves a hand. “What does this look like—the goddamned Ritz?”

  Doaks shrugs and turns to go. He looks at his watch. Almost five. So much for that six o’clock flight. He needs to get back to the hotel and tell Danielle what he’s found. Then they need to call Sevillas. The old lady grabs his arm with bony fingers that are surprisingly strong. She wears a triumphant grin. “I want my money.”

  “For what? One stinkin’ piece of paper?” He shakes his head. “Fat chance.”

  She gets right up in his face, her breath like black tar on a bar floor after a Saturday night. “We had a deal. You give me my money!” She cusses him all the way downstairs. In the front hallway, Doaks grabs his raincoat and hat. She plants her hands on her hips and blocks his path. “If you didn’t find anything, why’re you taking that paper with you?”

  He reaches into his pocket; pulls out the twenty; and lays it in her palm. He takes a deep bow. “And madam,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, “we thank you for your hospitality and wish you a long, happy life.” Before she can say anything, Doaks is back in the cab, speeding toward the hotel. “I hate old women,” he says to no one in particular.

  “Young ones ain’t so great, either,” replies the driver.

  “Yeah,” says Doaks. “At least when the young ones screw you, it don’t make you feel so bad.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Danielle zips up her traveling bag and looks at her watch. It’s almost five. She just got a text message from Max. He’s doing more research and he wants her back, now. Where is Doaks? She hopes he’s late because something good has finally happened. He’s probably bogged down in Chicago traffic. Just as she is about to try him on his cell phone again, there is a knock on the door. She opens it. What she sees is not what she expects.

  Standing, hat in hand, is none other than Dr. Jojanovich. His face is white-bread pale. “Ms. Parkman.”

  “Dr. Jojanovich,” she says. “What a…surprise.”

  He points his hat weakly at the living room. “May I come in?”

  Danielle steps back. “Of course. Please.”

  The doctor moves slowly forward. Danielle watches as he eases himself into a chair. “Doctor, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you don’t look well.”

  “What is wrong with me, Ms. Parkman, has nothing to do with my health.”

  “May I take your coat or offer you something to drink?”

  “I’m fine,” he says. “Although I wouldn’t turn down a whiskey if you have one.”

  Danielle splashes some Scotch into a glass and hands it to him. He grips it like the anointed knight who has found the Holy Grail. After the first, deep swallow, some color returns to his face. “I hope you don’t mind my coming without calling first. My secretary wrote your hotel and room number on my message pad this morning.” He glances at her suitcase. “So, you are leaving Chicago?”

  “I was supposed to be on a six o’clock flight,” she says, “but I’m afraid I’ve been delayed.”

  Jojanovich stares at the floor. When he finally looks up, his eyes are leaden. “I am sure you would like to know why I have come here.”

  Danielle tries to keep her face impassive. She nods.

  “I have no idea whether anything I say may be of benefit to your client,” he says. “But I was unable to withhold certain information I have if it may in any way tend to make the difference between the life and death of a human being.”

  The doctor has the look of a witness who wants to tell his story. The less intrusive she is, the better. “I want to hear anything you’d like to tell me.”

  Jojanovich clasps and unclasps his hands. “Two years ago, Ms. Parkman, I hired a woman to work in my office. This woman was a highly skilled nurse. I’d never had better. In fact, she was so talented at her job that I often wondered how I could be so fortunate to have her when my practice is not what you would call…cutting-edge.” His shoulders sag. “After a period of months, she suggested that she could easily handle the administrative side of my practice, as well as perform her nursing duties. I agreed immediately.” His eyes are suddenly animated.

  “I had never met anyone like her. She was a…dynamo. My patients loved her, and she kept the place running smooth as a top. That went on for about a year.” He sinks back into his chair, eyes hooded. “Her name was Sharon—Sharon Miller. I am afraid she may be the same person you were inquiring about in my office today.”

  Danielle forces herself to stay in lawyer mode. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because she fits the description you gave me.”

  “Blond hair?”

  “No,” he says, “but everything else matches up. The height, her voice, very computer savvy.”

  “In what way?”

  “Look, Ms. Parkman, within two months that woman had the entire place set up on computer. She was a whiz. I had no idea how to even run the damned thing.” He smiles ruefully. “She was supposed to get around to teaching me someday.”

  “Exactly how did she set up your office?”

  He shrugs. “Ordered some medical software. Input patient lists and records, appointments, lab reports, correspondence. You name it, she took care of everything.”

  “All on the computer?”

  “Yes,” he says. “She thought my way of keeping charts was old-fashioned. She was probably right.”

  Danielle studies him. “Why did she leave, Doctor?”

  Jojanovich pulls out a large cigar. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Jojanovich puffs on his cigar, exhaling small, dark clouds. His eyes recede deeply into their folds, wary crabs. “She left…for a variety of reasons.”

  Danielle feels something, a tingle at the back of her neck. “Did you fire her?”

  “No,” he says. “But I suppose I would have had to.”

  “Why?”

  He avoids her eyes. “Miss Miller left my employ without giving notice. One day things were fine, and the next—she was gone.”

  “I’m confused, Doctor,” she says. “You say she left for a number of reasons. Then you say she disappeared.”

  The doctor looks up, a miserable expression on his face. “I only discovered the reasons after she left.”

  Danielle reaches over and touches his arm. “It’s all right. Just tell me what happened.”

  He squares his sho
ulders. “Very well. But before I tell you, I must have your word that you will not use this information to pursue her legally.”

  Danielle pauses. “Why?”

  “What I mean is that even if you use this information to help your client, you must promise me that no relevant legal authorities will be alerted to her activities here.” His voice is the strongest it has been all evening. “I do not want her facing charges. Do you understand?”

  Danielle’s mind runs the traps. Whatever this woman has done in Illinois—even if she is Marianne—is of no relevance to her. What she needs is information. Now. Her words are carefully chosen. “As you know, I have no control over what the authorities in Illinois may or may not do, but I have no intention of contacting them. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Fine.” He seems relieved. When he speaks again, it is quickly, as if now that the honey has started dripping from the bottle, he can’t stop the flow. “When Miss Miller left, I was shocked. Here was this woman who had run everything so smoothly that I had no idea what to do when she was gone. You saw the computer on my desk?” Danielle nods and remembers how odd she found it that the computer was not even plugged in.

  “Well, after she left I couldn’t even find out when I had an appointment, much less what bills to pay or how to access my patients’ records. When Sharon was there, I wrote down my comments on the patient’s chart during the office visit, and she transcribed and entered it into the computer.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I always thought it was fine just to keep the chart in a manila folder, but Sharon wanted it all on the system. After she left, I had to call a computer company in just to figure out how to run my own office.” His eyes have heat in them for the first time.

  “It took weeks to get the whole thing straightened out so I could conduct my practice in anything approaching normalcy. I hired a new nurse and went back to having a receptionist in the front office.” His large hands hang helplessly over the sides of the chair. “I wanted everything switched back to paper—paper I could see. I had the new girl bring up all the old charts and files from the basement, where Sharon had put them after she programmed everything into the computer.”