by Sue Grafton
Back at my place, I picked up my gym bag and headed over to the gym. I parked my car in the only space available, tucked between a pickup truck and a late-model van. Even from the parking lot, I could hear the clank of machines, the grunts of a power lifter straining with a dead lift. Inside, the rock-and-roll music coming in through the speakers competed with a morning news show airing on the ceiling-mounted TV set. Two women on the stair machines climbed patiently while a third woman and two men trotted smartly on treadmills set at double speed. All five sets of eyes were focused on the screen.
I signed in, idly asking Keith, at the desk, if he knew Clint Augustine. Keith’s in his twenties, with a busy brown mustache and a gleaming shaven head.
He said, “Sure, I know Clint. You’ve probably seen him in here. Big guy, white-blond hair. He usually works out at five o’clock when the place first opens up. Sometimes he comes in later with his clients, mostly married chicks. They’re a specialty of his.” Keith’s intermittent use of steroids caused him to swell and shrink according to his consumption. He was currently in shrunken form, which I personally preferred. He was one of those guys with a great chest and biceps, but very little in the way of lower-body development. Maybe he figured because he stood behind a counter, he didn’t need to buff out anything below his waist.
“I heard he’s been working with Crystal Purcell.”
“He did for a while. They’d come in late afternoon, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Isn’t she the wife of the guy who disappeared a while back? Man, that’s a tough one. Something skanky going on there.”
“Could be,” I said. “Anyway, I gotta get a move on. Thanks for the info.”
“Sure thing.”
I pulled on my workout gloves and found a quiet spot. I stretched out on a gray mat and started with my ab routine, two sets of fifty sit-ups, hands behind my head, my bent legs resting on a free-weight bench. I could smell glue fumes wafting through the asphalt-gray carpeting. The Nautilus and Universal machines looked like elaborate constructions built from a full-size Erector set: metal verticals, bolts, pulleys, angled joints. Once I finished my sit-ups, I started with leg curls, the exercise I most despise. While I counted fifteen reps, I pictured my hamstrings popping loose and rolling up like window shades. I moved on to leg extensions, which burned like hell, but at least didn’t threaten any crippling side effects. Back, chest, and shoulders. I finished my workout with preacher curls and dumbbell curls. I saved the best machine for last: triceps extensions, always a favorite of mine. I left the gym damp with perspiration.
Home again, I showered, pulled on a turtleneck, jeans, and my boots, grabbed a bite of breakfast, and packed myself a brown-bag lunch. I reached the office at nine o’clock and put a call through to the police department, where Detective Odessa assured me he’d do yet another computer check to see if there was any sign of Dow Purcell. He’d already sorted through numerous bulletins describing the unidentified dead throughout the state. There were no Caucasian males in Purcell’s age range. Local police, sheriff’s department, and CHP officers were being briefed weekly on the importance of keeping an eye out for him. Odessa had increased his coverage, papering most of the medical facilities in the surrounding counties in case Purcell showed up incoherent or comatose.
I briefed him on the people I’d spoken to so far. When I told him about the issue of Medicare fraud, he said, “Yeah, we know that.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s Paglia’s call and we’re under orders from him.”
By the end of the conversation, it was clear we were both still in the dark, though he did seem to appreciate my bringing him up to date. He was even moderately charitable about Blanche’s consulting a psychic, which surprised me somehow. I forget that police detectives, in addition to being hard-assed, are also capable of entertaining doubts about such things.
I pulled out the phone number for Jacob Trigg, whose name Crystal had given me, saying he was Dow’s best friend. I dialed and spoke briefly to him, explaining who I was, and we set up an appointment for ten o’clock Tuesday morning at his place. I made a note on my calendar and then called Joel Glazer at the office number Crystal had given me. His secretary told me he was working from home and gave me the phone number there so I could reach him. I called the number, briefly identified myself and the fact that Fiona’d hired me. He seemed pleasant and cooperative to the extent that he gave me his address and set up a meeting for one o’clock that afternoon. I then called Santa Teresa Hospital and learned that Penelope Delacorte was now Director of Nursing Services, in her office from nine to five weekdays. I made a note of the title and decided to try her later in the day, after my meeting with Glazer. Lastly, on my own behalf, I made a call to Richard Hevener, whose machine picked up. I left a message inquiring about the status of my rental application. I tried to sound especially winsome on the phone in hopes that might tip the odds in my favor.
At lunchtime, I sat at my desk and ate the peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich I’d brought from home. At twelve-thirty, I left the building and started walking around the block, hoping I’d remember where I parked my car. I found the VW, unmolested, at the corner of Capillo and Olivio, much closer than I’d thought and in the opposite direction. For the fifth day straight, the sky was overcast, a brooding gray, roiling at the edges where a thick mass of clouds threatened rain.
Santa Teresa is constrained on the north by the mountains and on the south by the Pacific Ocean, limiting geographic growth. The westernmost neighborhoods feather out as far as Colgate; the easternmost sweeping into Montebello where the prices jump. Horton Ravine, where I was headed, is a moneyed enclave, carved out by land grant and deed, whereby successive California governors rewarded military leaders for killing people really, really well. The resulting three thousand plus acres were passed from rich man to richer, until the last in line, a sheep rancher named Tobias Horton, had the good sense to subdivide the land into saleable lots, thus making a killing of another kind.
I took the 101 as far as the La Cuesta off-ramp, turned left, and followed the road around to the right, heading for the main entrance, which consisted of two massive stone pillars with HORTON RAVINE spelled out in curlicue wrought iron arching between them. The Ravine was lush, the trunks of sycamores and live oaks stained dark from the recent rains. Most of the roads are called “Via something”; via being the Spanish word for “way” or “road.” I drove past the Horton Ravine Riding Club, continued a mile, and finally took a right turn and went up a hill.
The Glazers lived on Via Bueno (“Road Good”… if I remember rightly from my brief matriculation in night-school Spanish). The house was 1960s modern, a dazzling white cluster of abstract forms superimposed on one another in what amounted to an architectural pig pile. Three soaring stories were variously angled and cantilevered with a steeply pitched tower driving straight up out of the center of the mass. There were wide decks on all sides and large expanses of glass, into which birds probably regularly propelled themselves and died. When I’d first met Dana Jaffe, she was living in a small housing tract in the town of Perdido, thirty miles to the south. I wondered if she was as conscious as I of how far she’d come.
I parked in a circular motor court and crossed to the low sweeping stairs that led up to the front door. A few minutes passed and then she answered the bell. I could have sworn she was wearing the same outfit I’d seen her in the first time we’d met – tight, faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Her hair was still the color of honey, with silver, as fine as silk threads, now appearing in the mix. She’d had it cut and layered, every strand falling into place as she moved her head. Her eyes were khaki or hazel, sometimes reflecting green, sometimes brown under softly feathered brows. Her most arresting feature was her mouth. Her teeth were slightly occluded and the overbite made her lips appear plump and pouty.
She said, “Hello, Kinsey. Joel said you’d be stopping by. Please come in. Let me take that.”
“This
is beautiful,” I said as I stepped inside, slipping off my slicker, which I handed to her. While she hung it in the closet, I had time to gape. The interior was cathedral-like, a vast space crowned by a vaulted ceiling thirty feet above. Bridges and catwalks connected the irregular levels of the house and shafts of sunlight formed geometric patterns on the smooth stone floor.
Dana joined me, saying, “Fiona probably told you we’re redoing the place.”
“She mentioned that,” I said. “She also said you suggested me for this job, which I appreciate.”
“You’re entirely welcome. I confess I didn’t like you back then, but you did seem honest and persistent, a regular little terrier when it came to finding Wendell. Your friend, Mac Voorhies, at California Fidelity, gives you the credit for the fact I got to keep the money.”
“I’ve wondered about that. Last I heard they were still debating the issue. I’m glad it worked out. How well did you know Dow?”
“I ran into him occasionally because of Joel, but we weren’t friends. I met Fiona after they divorced, so I tend to side with her. I’m polite when I run into him, but that’s about it. Joel’s on the phone at the moment, but I’ll take you up to the office as soon as he’s done. Would you like a look around?”
“That’d be great.”
“We’re doing this piecemeal. Not my preference. Fiona and I wanted to do it all at once… a full installation, which is so much more dramatic and lots more fun, but Joel put his foot down, so we’re doing the job in stages. This is the living room, obviously…”
She rattled off the rooms as I followed along behind. “Sun room, den, formal dining room. The kitchen’s in there. Joel’s office is in what we call the ‘crow’s nest’ upstairs.”
The rooms were clearly in transition. The floors were covered with palace-sized Oriental carpets, probably quite old to judge by the softness of the colors and intricate designs. The furniture, which I assumed was chosen by the deceased Mrs. Glazer, appeared to be almost entirely antique, with massive armoires and occasional pieces in polished mahogany. The few upholstered pieces were done in white linen, the lines clean and clear. A variety of fabric swatches had been draped across the chairs and two-inch samples of paint colors had been taped in various places on the wall. Some of the upholstery fabrics I hadn’t seen since my youth, when my aunt Gin would take me to visit her friends. Jungle prints, fakey-looking leopard skin, banana palms, bamboo, zigzags, and chevrons in shades of orange and yellow. The wall paint under consideration was that noxious shade of green that marked most 1930s bathrooms when they hadn’t been done in an oh-so-modern mix of pink and black.
“She’s found us a sharkskin-top Ruhlmann desk for this wall, with an Andre Groult mirror. We’re thrilled about that.”
“I can imagine,” I murmured. I could see where Fiona’s art deco taste wouldn’t be completely out of place, but I couldn’t for the life of me picture these cool, elegant rooms redone in black lacquer, plastic, leather, enamel, curly maple, and chrome.
Dana was saying, “Joel was widowed four years ago. He lived here with his wife for the past twenty-two years. The truth is, I’d love to level it, but he can’t see the point.”
Good for him, I thought. “How’s Michael?” I was afraid to ask about her younger son, Brian, because the last time I’d seen him he was on his way back to jail.
“He and Brendon are fine. Juliet left. I guess she got tired of marriage and motherhood.”
“Too bad.”
“Well,” she said, briskly, “let me check and see if Joel’s off the phone.”
I realized she was just as eager as I to avoid talk of Brian. She moved to an intercom in the dining room, pressing a button that apparently rang through to Joel’s office. “Sweetie, are you free?” I heard his muffled reply.
She turned with a smile. “He says to come right on up. I’ll walk you to the elevator. Maybe we can chat when you’ve finished your talk with him.”
“I’d like that.”
Chapter 9
*
Joel Glazer’s office was located on the third floor, a spacious, airy tower room with windows on all four sides. There were no curtains or drapes, but I could see narrow blinds pulled up to the tops of the panes to permit maximum light. His views were spectacular: the ocean, the coastline, the mountains, and the western edges of Horton Ravine. The thickened cloud cover spread gloom across the landscape, at the same time making the deep blue of the mountains and the dark green of the vegetation seem more intense.
In place of a desk, he used a heavy refectory table. All the other pieces of furniture were antiques, except for the seven-foot sofa, done in a tailored rust-colored velvet with white piping along the seams. As in the rooms below, the area rug was an oversized Oriental carpet, probably seventeen feet by twenty-three. Because of the extended use of windows, there was no artwork to speak of. Bookcases and file drawers were built along the walls from the windowsills down. The office was not only immaculate but orderly – everything arranged just so. The edges of the papers and documents on his desk were squared, pencils and pens lined up parallel to the blotter.
Joel Glazer rose to greet me and the two of us shook hands. His looks surprised me. I was so enamored of Dana Jaffe’s beauty that I’d imagined a mate for her equally good-looking. My reaction to Joel was much like mine when I first saw the photographs of Jackie Kennedy and Aristotle Onassis – the princess and the frog. Joel was in his sixties, with a high, balding forehead, his once fair hair turning a tawny shade of gray along his temples. Behind frameless glasses, his eyes were brown, with heavy creases near the outer corners. His mouth was bracketed with deep lines. When he stood up to greet me, I realized he was shorter than I, probably only five feet four. He was portly and his shoulders were hunched in a way that made me want to monitor my calcium intake. His smile revealed a gap between his two front teeth, which were discolored and slightly askew. He wore a fresh white dress shirt, with a pair of flashy cuff links, his suit jacket arranged neatly over the back of his chair. I picked up the faint citrus of his aftershave. “Nice to meet you, Miss Millhone. Have a seat. I understand you and my wife have a prior acquaintance.”
I settled into a brown leather wing chair that blended perfectly with the cream, beige, rust, and brown of the carpeting. “Seems like a long time ago,” I said. I wasn’t sure how much Dana’d told him about her prior life and most of that story seemed too complicated to summarize in conversation.
He settled back in his chair, his right hand resting on the desk in front of him. He had a signet ring on the middle finger that glinted in the light. “No matter. You’re actually here with regard to Dow. Fiona tells us she’s hired you to track him down. I’ll tell you what I can, but I’m not sure that’s going to be much help.”
“I understand,” I said. “Could we start with Pacific Meadows? I gather there’s been a problem with the Medicare billing.”
“My fault entirely. I blame myself for that. I should have kept an unofficial eye on the day-to-day operations. Harvey Broadus and I – don’t know if you’ve met him – my partner…”
I shook my head in the negative, allowing him to continue.
“We’ve had a host of projects in the works this past six months. We’ve been partners for years. My background’s business and finance where his is real estate and construction – a match made in heaven. We met on the golf course fifteen years ago and decided to go into partnership building retirement communities, nursing homes, and board-and-care facilities. Both of us had parents who were deceased by then, but the need for attractive housing and skilled nursing care for the elderly was something we’d both struggled to find and not always with success. Anyway, long story short, we’ve now put together an impressive chain of residential health care and intermediate-care facilities. Pacific Meadows, we acquired in 1980. At the time, it was shabby and poorly run. We could see the potential, but the place was losing money hand over fist. We poured close to a million dollars into the renovation and im
provements, which included the new annex. Soon after that, we made the lease arrangement with Genesis Financial Management Services. Somebody – I forget now who – suggested Dow’s name to Genesis as a possible administrator. I’d known him socially and could certainly vouch for his reputation in the medical community. He’d just retired from private practice and was looking for a way to occupy his time. Seemed like a worthwhile arrangement for all the parties concerned.”
“What happened?”
“I wish I knew. Harvey and I are often out of town, crisscrossing the state. We’ve probably taken on more than we should, but Harvey’s like me – the two of us thrive on pressure.” The phone on his desk began to ring. He glanced at it briefly.
“You need to get that?”
“Dana will pick up. I should go back and fill you in, at least superficially, on how this business works. What you have essentially are three separate entities. Harvey and I own the property through Century Comprehensive, which is a company we formed back in 1971. By property, I’m talking now about the land and the building occupied by Pacific Meadows. The nursing home is actually operated by Genesis, as I’ve mentioned before. They lease the physical plant from us. They also handle all the billing: accounts payable and receivable, Medicare and Medicaid billing, DME purchases – that’s durable medical equipment, in case you’re wondering. Genesis falls under the larger umbrella of a company called Millennium Health Care. Millennium is publicly held, and as such, they’re required by law to submit financial information to Social Security, and by that, I mean lists of assets, liabilities, and the return on equity capital. A certified public accountant has to verify those figures. Ten, fifteen years ago, an owner and operator were often one in the same, but times have changed. By law, those functions now have to be separate and distinct. It’s like a system of checks and balances, keeps everybody on the up and up.”