“Yes. You would have done what my wife would have,” Henry said. “While Nancy was alive, you were simply a friend, helping out. But now that she’s . . . Now that she’s gone, I realized that people might think you were auditioning for the role she filled.”
“You mean your son might take it that way.”
“What Caden thinks is important to me, Jean.”
She shook her head. “Henry, I’ve known you for more than a decade. You stood by me when my husband was killed in a car crash, and you didn’t seem to care what other people might think about it. You were simply a friend, and that’s what I needed at that time. Why is this different?”
Henry was silent for several seconds. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” Jean said. “I don’t think it’s necessarily because of what other people might think. I think it’s because of the feelings you’re noticing, feelings that have surfaced now that you’re not—” She paused, weighing her words. “I’ll go ahead and say it. You’re not encumbered by Nancy. And those may be normal feelings, Henry. But they don’t mean either of us needs to act on them. Because they may change.”
He smiled. “You’ve been around me too long, Jean. You’re beginning to be as direct as I am sometimes. What I hear you saying is that it’s okay for me to lean on you while I find out . . . while I find out what’s ahead for me.”
“It’s okay for me to be a friend. That’s what you need right now, and that’s what I’ll be—that’s all I’ll be.”
Caden made the same bedtime rounds of the house he always did, but he took a bit more care with each door and window, making sure they were closed and locked. As he went by the large window in the living room, he pulled the drapes aside and peeped outside to make certain there were no unfamiliar vehicles parked on the street. When he was satisfied things were as they should be, he double-checked to make certain the drapes were fully closed.
He and Beth had stayed up later than usual, hoping that either Henry or Jean would call to report on how his procedure went that day. Finally, Caden said, “If something went wrong, we would have heard by now. Let’s get some sleep.”
As he was crawling into bed, he was startled by the ringing of the landline. A glance at the bedside clock told him it was almost midnight. Was it the ER? He wasn’t on call. His father? He rarely called—or, at least, not until the diagnosis of pancreatic carcinoma had been suggested—and when he did, it was always in the early part of the evening. However, maybe he’d let time slip away from him and didn’t want to neglect telling his son and daughter-in-law about his procedure. Caden hoped that was the case.
He picked up the receiver and answered. But it wasn’t the hospital. Nor was his father on the other end of the call. Once more he heard the electronically modified voice deliver a message that burned itself into his brain.
“Don’t believe anything the DEA agents tell you.”
16
Because it was Saturday, and Caden had no patients in the hospital, he and Beth were sitting at the breakfast table, talking and enjoying their second or third cup of coffee—Caden had lost count. They’d long since finished breakfast. They’d read the paper. And eventually they got around to talking about the elephant in the room—Caden’s father’s biopsy, the DEA agents, and the attempt on Caden’s life. Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
“You’re not on call, are you?” Beth asked.
“No, Jim Sparling has it this weekend.”
“He seems to be taking call a lot.”
Caden reached for the phone. “Jim’s trying to build up his practice. If you’ll recall, I was where he is just a few years ago. I was a poor boy, just getting started.” He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Caden, I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday.”
He recognized his father’s voice and signaled to Beth. “I’m glad to hear from you, Dad. Let me put this on speaker. Beth is right here.”
There was a short pause before she said, “How did the procedure go yesterday?”
“No problems. As I was saying, I’m sorry I let the day get away from me yesterday. I was sort of sleepy from the Versed they gave me, then I talked with Jean for a while, and after that I went back to sleep.”
“What did your doctor find?” Caden asked.
“Dr. Ross said things looked about as he expected. He took some needle biopsies, and he’ll call me when the path report comes back.”
“Are you doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Beth leaned toward the phone. “Is there anything we can do?”
“No,” Henry replied. “I’m just taking it easy today. I’ll let you know when the biopsy reports come back. Then I guess I need to decide whether I’ll go forward with treatment, or just—”
“Dad! No! Let me know what Dr. Ross says, and we’ll talk about our next move.”
Henry’s voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the iron fist under the velvet glove. “There’s no our to this, son. There’s only my. It’s my life. My cancer. And I’ll decide what to do.”
Caden opened his mouth to speak, but Beth stopped him with a hand gesture. Instead, she said, “We’re glad you’re doing okay. Be certain to keep us posted.”
After the call was over, Caden looked at his wife. “My father can be the most stubborn creature on the face of this earth.”
“But he’s still your father,” Beth said. “This isn’t easy for him, especially the waiting. You have to hold off on trying to convince him to undergo treatment until we see what treatment is possible.”
Caden sighed. “You’re right, of course. There’s no use trying to convince my father of anything until we see what can be done. Surgery is usually the first option, but his tumor may be better treated with radiation or chemotherapy. And there’s always the chance that his cancer may be beyond treatment.”
“If that’s the case . . . ”
“Then we’re back to what my father discussed with me in his original call.”
Before the conversation could go further, the phone rang again. Caden frowned. “We’re really popular this morning.”
“Maybe it’s that detective. But I doubt he’s gotten very far in such a short time.” Caden picked up the phone and answered.
“Dr. Taggart, this is Agent Neilson. I need to see you. Where do you want to meet?”
The offices of Drs. Taggart and Horner were closed for the weekend. There was no activity in the building except in the office of Claude Horner. He sat behind his desk, and his wife, Nelda, had pulled up a chair to sit beside him.
Claude pointed to a row of figures with the blunt end of a pen. “This is how much an audit of the books will show we’re short.”
Nelda studied the figures on the sheet, then whistled silently. “That’s a lot.”
“Thank you for not asking the obvious question about how this happened or why.”
“No need. What’s done is done. Now tell me about how this can go away.”
Claude unlocked one of his desk drawers and pulled a multi-page document out. “This is mine, but he has the same one.” He spread it on the desk, and again using the blunt end of a pen, pointed out some features, ending with the number at the top of the first page.
“One million dollars,” Nelda said.
“One million dollars,” Claude echoed. “And with that, all my troubles go away.”
“Is this going to happen?”
“It’s extremely likely. Matter of fact, I guess you’d say you can bank on it.”
“No,” Nelda said. “You’d better bank on it.”
Mid-morning on Saturday, Caden sat in a small coffee shop on the opposite side of town from his office and the hospital where he worked. He occupied the furthest table from the door. His coffee sat untouched before him as his eyes constantly assessed the few people in the establishment. Every few moments, he’d check the time. Where was Neilson? And what was this meeting about?
As he looked at his watc
h once more, Neilson slid into the chair opposite him. Caden tried to keep a tight hold on his anger, but his words were clipped. “This is the second time you’ve met me without your partner. Where’s Harwell?”
“That’s what I want to talk about,” Neilson said.
“Then tell me. I’m tired of your phone calls and secret meetings.” He moved his coffee cup around the table, making interlocking circles with the spilled beverage.
Neilson looked at Caden, then dropped his eyes to the tabletop. “You need to keep this to yourself. To begin with, we don’t think you’ve been actively involved with the narcotics prescriptions showing up in Freeman.”
“You’ve told me this before. I know I’m innocent. What else?”
“There’s a lot more you don’t know.” As he talked, Neilson plucked a couple of napkins from the dispenser and wiped up the spilled coffee. “As I’ve said, Harwell and I were sent here from the Seattle office to investigate the flood of false prescriptions showing up in Freeman. Most of them had the DEA number of three doctors—the ones in your group.”
Caden held up his hand, palm out. “It’s not a group. I own the building, and the other two doctors pay me a sum each month that covers overhead and rent. It’s a loose confederation. We share call and help each other out, but we’re not tied together as a group.”
“Okay, I get your point, but let’s look at it this way. There’s one computer used by all the nurses to send e-prescriptions for all the drugs the doctors prescribe. It would be fairly easy for anyone in your office suite to send out false narcotics prescriptions every once in a while, using one of the DEA numbers of the physicians. If you’re careful and only write a small number of false prescriptions each week, whoever’s behind this can clear a significant amount of money without anyone ever catching on.”
“Isn’t that risky? And what’s a ‘significant amount’?”
“The risk is low if you don’t get greedy and keep the number of scripts within reason. As for money, it varies geographically. Remember those figures I quoted at our first meeting? The maximum prescription for Vicodin and similar narcotics is eight a day for a month, or 240 tabs.”
“Yes.”
“One of those tablets is worth anywhere from $10 to $40 on the street. A prescription for 240 means between two thousand and ten thousand dollars. Maybe you decide to play it safe and do one script a week. That could yield up to half a million dollars a year. Two scripts, a cool million. Even after paying off anyone else involved, that would be a nice little supplement to an income.”
Caden pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “I had no idea how much those prescriptions were worth. But what does that have to do with Harwell, and why he’s not here?”
“We were sent here to unmask the person behind the ring that’s passing these illicit prescriptions. But I was also instructed to keep an eye on Harwell.”
“Why?”
“Because the people at DEA headquarters think he may be involved in this and possibly several other groups that are selling illicit prescriptions for opioids.”
Fall weather being what it is in north Texas, the cool wind of yesterday had given way to a mild southerly breeze and the warmth of the sun today. White sails dotted the lake in front of them as Beth sat beside her husband at a picnic table, enjoying lunch. It would be a relaxing moment for most people, but her husband wasn’t relaxed. They were well away from any possible listening ears, so she’d encouraged Caden to tell her what he’d learned that morning. And it shocked her.
“I had no idea opioids brought such a high price,” she said.
“Some more than others, but Neilson says that even writing one prescription a week for something like hydrocodone or oxycodone can bring in half a million a year. Two per week—”
“A cool million, and Neilson is not only checking up on illicit prescriptions, but also keeping his eyes open for evidence that would incriminate Harwell?”
“That’s what he told me,” Caden said. “And he asked me to keep it quiet.”
Beth put down the remnants of the sandwich she’d been nibbling and wiped her hands on a napkin. “That’s the part that bothers me.”
“Me too. I don’t know if I believe anything or anyone right now. Mel Sewell pointed out how gullible I was to accept the bona fides of Neilson and Harwell the first time they appeared in my office. Just because they flashed some IDs and said they were from the DEA, I believed them. I don’t trust anyone now. That’s why I told all this to the detective yesterday.”
“Any word from him? What’s his name?”
Caden picked up a plastic glass and drained the iced tea. “Caruso. Not yet. But it feels good to let someone else from law enforcement in on what the DEA agents are doing at my office.” He set down the glass. “But I only found out about Harwell this morning, so the detective doesn’t know that.”
Beth crumpled her paper napkin and stuffed it in her empty plastic glass. “I suppose I can see Nielson’s point about not bringing in anyone else on this part of the investigation, but what if he’s lying?”
“On any or all of it.” He started putting the remnants of lunch back in the hamper. “I’d better keep Caruso informed, and I trust he’ll do the same for me.” Caden moved items around so he could fit everything in the basket. “I’ll be glad when this is over, so I can go back to a normal life.”
“That’s not going to happen for a while,” Beth cautioned. “Let the authorities handle this. You need to focus on your father’s diagnosis.”
“I guess you’re right. And I still think Jean’s trying to worm her way into his life. That way, when he dies she’ll be able to live like a doctor’s rich widow.” Caden closed the lid of the picnic hamper with a bit more force than necessary. “And despite my father’s refusal to believe it, or even allow an investigation, I still think Jean had a hand in killing my mother.”
Before Beth could speak, Caden’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. “I don’t recognize this. But with things the way they are, I guess I’d better answer it.”
The conversation was short, and the part Beth heard gave her no clue as to its content. But when Caden ended the call, she noticed his expression had changed—and not for the better.
17
“When was this discovered?” Caden’s voice was remarkably calm as he addressed the two policemen standing just outside the yellow crime scene tape that barred the entrance to his professional building.
The firemen leaving the site seemed to pay no attention to the small group’s conversation. They continued to stow the three extinguishers they carried on the large truck behind Caden. Its diesel engine idled, producing a low, thrumming noise that made it necessary for him to speak loudly to the police officer with two stripes on his sleeve. Beth leaned closer to hear. “I said, when was this discovered? And by whom?”
“Our unit was driving by when we heard the smoke alarm blaring. As we got closer, we could see a wisp of smoke coming from underneath the front door, which was unlocked when we checked it.”
“Anyone inside when you got here?”
“No, sir. We notified the fire department, and they were able to put out the flames with hand-held extinguishers before it spread beyond a very limited area.”
At that moment, a fireman with CAPTAIN on his helmet walked up and addressed Caden. “Are you the man who owns this building.”
“Yes.” Caden offered his hand, but the fireman showed his own hands covered in soot.
“Captain Higgins. I serve as one of the arson investigators for the department.” He pointed at the building. “The fire seems to have been confined to your record room, and it’s out now. Would you like to look around and tell me if anything else has been affected by the fire?”
Beth had been standing next to Caden, and when she started to follow him in, the captain stopped her. “Sorry, ma’am. No civilians in here right now.”
Caden turned around. “She’s my wife. She’s also a
nurse here and may be able to spot something I might miss.”
The fireman nodded. He and the patrolman ducked under the yellow “crime scene” tape, leading the way. Caden stopped at the front door. “This door was unlocked when you arrived?”
“Yes, sir.”
Caden thought about pursuing that fact, but decided he’d look at what the arsonist had done first.
Beth followed Caden inside, through the undamaged reception room and past the door that led to the record room. When she first started work here, she had noticed that one room stored the records for every doctor, and decided it made sense to have them all in one location. Of course, the practice had switched to electronic medical records after less than a year, so the ones left here were primarily those of inactive patients. And those were the ones that burned. All the others were stored in the “Cloud.”
The fire in the records room seemed to have been started by pulling out a couple of dozen or so folders, piling them on the floor next to the open shelves that held the remaining records, and setting them afire. About forty records in all had been partially or completely consumed and others scorched and covered with white foam. Beth hoped these were indeed patients who hadn’t been seen in the past year or two.
She moved to the far corner of the room where a communal computer was utilized by all the nurses. When she entered her password, she was pleased to find the machine operating normally, undamaged by the flames and smoke. She recalled a few names from recent appointments, and when she entered them, Beth heaved a sigh of relief as each patient’s record came up on the screen.
“What do you think?” Caden asked when Beth returned to where the small group stood near the now-extinguished fire.
“All the active and recent records seem okay. Just some of the folders for inactives appear to be burned.”
“Why would someone set such a localized fire?” Caden said.
Guarded Prognosis Page 14