Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5

by Renee Pawlish

  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.

  “Hi,” I said to the nurse in pink.

  “Hello,” she said pleasantly.

  “Doctor Vanderkamp said I should ask you about how he is with his patients.”

  “Oh, he’s wonderful,” she said. “And they really seem to like him. He can be funny, and he makes sure they are well taken care of.”

  “Does he spend a long time with each patient?”

  She nodded. “If he needs to.” The office phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said.

  I thanked her and left. I walked outside to the 4-Runner, which I’d parked down the street, so that Vanderkamp wouldn’t see it. After all, I had been following him, and it wouldn’t do to have him recognize it. Then I drove back downtown.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I stopped at a Subway on my way home and ate lunch. While I munched on a meatball sub sandwich, my thoughts turned to Vanderkamp. He had definitely been nice, right up until the time I’d asked him about Medicare fraud. Then he’d done a one-eighty. Now, maybe Medicare was just a touchy subject. Or maybe Vanderkamp had something to hide. I’d vote for the latter. And had Karen Abram warned him about me? If Vanderkamp was scamming Medicare, did he know that Hinton had discovered what he was doing? And had he hired someone to take out Hinton? I put down my half-eaten sandwich in disgust. I suddenly wasn’t hungry, so I cleaned off the table and left the restaurant. When I got back to the condo, Willie was at the kitchen table with her laptop.

  She looked up at me, then tucked her blond hair behind her ears. “How’d it go?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “It was fine until I brought up Medicare fraud.”

  “You actually brought that up?”

  “Uh-huh.” I told her about the visit.

  “You said your mother’s name was Gladys Finch?” She laughed. “That’s funny.”

  “It was an interesting visit, but I still don’t have any indication that Vanderkamp is after Hinton.”

  “What’s the doc’s name? Marshall Vanderkamp?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I’m going to check some websites that review doctors.”

  “That was on my list.”

  She smiled. “Let me help.” She started typing, and I came around the table and looked over her shoulder. She went to RateMDs and typed in Vanderkamp’s name.

  “He’s rated five stars on helpfulness, punctuality, and knowledge,” I said. “Click on the reviews.”

  She did, and we both read several reviews that sang Vanderkamp’s praises.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?” Willie asked.

  “Yeah. How much time does he take with his patients?”

  “Okay.” She did a search on “time” and found two reviews that noted how Vanderkamp spent extra time with the patient and explained everything clearly. “Let’s try ‘rush’ next.”

  “Rush?”

  She nodded. “Does he rush with his patients?”

  “Oh, good call.”

  The search on “rush” came up with a handful of reviews, all praising Vanderkamp for not rushing through the appointment, and a couple more again talked about how he took extra time with a patient.

  I began to pace. “Vanderkamp says that he takes his time with patients.” I pointed at the computer. “And his reviews concur. So how does he manage to bill upwards of fifty patients in a day?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “That is a lot.”

  “Right.” I pulled out my phone.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “My client.” I dialed Hinton’s number and it went to voice mail. I ended the call without leaving a message and swore.

  Willie glanced at me. “Problem?”

  “Yeah, I can’t get ahold of my client.”

  She sat back. “Do you think someone got to him?”

  “As in killed him?”

  She nodded.

  I stared at the phone. “It’s possible,” I finally said.

  Willie kept typing.

  “You don’t need to search anymore.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’ll leave the detecting to you.”

  I didn’t say anything for a minute, but mulled over everything. And I was coming up blank. “What’re you doing now?” I asked Willie.

  “I’m googling the murder in Tahiti. I’m curious about what they’ve found out.”

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, opened it, and took a long pull.

  “Uh, Reed?”

  “Yeah?”

  Willie had a puzzled look on her face. “What did you say your client’s name is?”

  “Pete Hinton.”

  Her eyebrows flew up.

  “What?”

  She pointed at the computer. “I found a new article about the body on the beach. They finally identified it. His name was Peter Hinton.”

  I almost dropped my water. “What?”

  “It says he was a doctor from Denver.”

  I hurried over to the table and sat down next to her. Willie pushed the laptop toward me and I scanned the article. Along with releasing the name of the victim, the article said that Hinton worked at Lakewood Medical Clinic and that he was divorced. There was a picture of Hinton and he looked similar to the man I’d talked to at the bar in Tahiti, maybe a few years younger, but with the same brown hair that was graying at the temples and narrow jaw. Only the guy in the picture had a half-smile on his face, but the guy I remembered had looked worried.

  “That’s Pete Hinton?” I said, incredulous.

  “I guess so.”

  “Then who the hell have I been talking to?” I snapped.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I kept staring at the photo. “I don’t get it.”

  Willie took the computer from me. “You googled Pete Hinton?”


  I nodded. “The clinic website didn’t have pictures of them, and I didn’t find any others on the Internet.” I shoved back from the table and stood up. “I think it’s time I went over to Hinton’s hotel.” I threw up a hand. “Or whoever he is.”

  “Be careful,” Willie said.

  “I’m not the one who should be careful,” I said, with more than a little edge in my tone. I went into the bedroom, and grabbed my Glock from the locked box in the closet. Then I gave Willie a quick kiss and stormed out of the condo.

  Twenty minutes later, I parked on Broadway, a block down from the Twelfth Avenue Hotel. I locked the car and stomped purposefully back to the hotel. I went through a glass door with the hotel’s name on it and into the lobby.

  Twelfth Avenue Hotel isn’t known for its charm or ambiance. The lobby is simple, with a check-in counter to the left that’s enclosed in wire, like a cage, with a window to conduct business. On the wall behind the counter is a bank of cubbyholes and a pegboard with keys, and a few old wooden chairs on the opposite wall. Even though establishments in Denver are supposed to be smoke-free, a smoky odor permeated the air.

  I walked up to the counter window. An old man with wispy gray hair and a stubble of beard sat on a stool watching a television, which was propped on a battered nightstand in the corner. He glanced up at me over wire-rimmed glasses.

  “You need a room?”

  I shook my head. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pete Hinton. Can you ring his room?”

  He looked put-upon as he stood up. He wasn’t much taller than when he’d been on the stool. He pulled out a green ledger and opened it.

  I pointed to an older model computer. “You don’t have things on the computer?”

  He shook his head. “Not necessarily.” He gnawed his lip as he started thumbing through the ledger. “What day did he check in?” He talked with a slow, high-pitched drawl.

  I realized I didn’t know for sure. “Maybe Saturday or Sunday.”

  “All right.” He ran a finger down the page. “Okay, Pete Hinton. He checked out.”

  “What? When?”

  “Earlier today.” He nodded and studied me closely, but didn’t offer anything more. “You a cop?” he finally asked.

  “No, a friend. He might be in trouble.”

  “I see.”

  I gazed at him long and hard. “Did you see Hinton around here?”

  “Sure, I see people come and go.”

  I described the Pete Hinton I had met. “He had nice jeans and a white Oxford shirt, brown leather loafers.”

  He stared at me and then glanced around. The lobby was empty. “I don’t usually talk about our customers.” He was suddenly sounding official.

  Yeah, right, I thought. I pulled out my wallet and took out a twenty. “Maybe this’ll help.”

  He didn’t hesitate, but grabbed the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. I described Hinton again.

  “Oh, yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his chin, and I could hear the stubble rasp. “I know who you’re talking about. He paid with cash and kept to himself.”

  “Of course he did,” I muttered. I contemplated my next move. “What was his room number?”

  “I can’t release that,” he said.

  I gave him a hard look and took out another twenty.

  He pocketed it and said, “301.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Now?”

  “I don’t have any more money,” I said firmly. It was a lie, but I’d given him plenty already. I was tempted to pull out my Glock and threaten him. A hard glare would have to do.

  “Fine,” he finally said. “Let me get the key.” He turned around and grabbed a key from a hook on the wall.

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The clerk pulled the window shut and locked it, then exited by a door at the end of the counter. He came around to the lobby and threw me a put-upon look.

  “Come on.” He gestured at me to follow him.

  A set of stairs was at the far end of the lobby. We climbed to the third floor and walked to 301. Down the hall, voices shouted from another room.

  The clerk shook his head disgustedly. “Hold on.” He stomped to another door and pounded on it. “Shaddup,” he snarled. The yelling stopped. He came back to me, his head still wagging back and forth. He took the key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I stepped into the room. A strong odor hit me like a fist, a mix of cigarette smoke and sweat. Room deodorizer had been sprayed around, but it hadn’t helped. Shadowy light filtered in from a narrow window opposite the door: the curtains partially open. I flicked on an overhead light, then put a hand to my nose and looked around. A threadbare green comforter lay not-so-neatly on a double bed, and a layer of dust covered a nightstand and a bureau across from the bed.

  “The room’s been cleaned,” the clerk said.

  Could’ve fooled me.

  I walked over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. Empty. Not even a Gideon Bible, let alone a notepad with the hotel logo on it. I went to the window, pulled back the curtains and looked through dirty glass onto an alley below. Then I opened the window and stuck my head out. The sound of traffic from Broadway drifted up. I didn’t see anything on the fire escape, not that I’d expected to. I turned back to the room.

  “Whaddaya think you’re going to find?” the clerk asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I moved over to the other side of the bed, and got down on my knees. I grimaced at the worn carpet, then pulled back the comforter and peered under the bed. Besides numerous dust bunnies, I spotted a few pieces of paper and something black. I reached under and grabbed them all. The papers were receipts from the Corner Store, and Pizza Hut. The dark object was a disposable cell phone.

  The clerk cleared his throat. “What’s under there?”

  He couldn’t see me, and I quickly pocketed the receipts and phone. “Nothing,” I said.

  I stood up and brushed off my pants.

  “You about done?” he asked.

  “Almost.”

  I moved over to the trash can. It had been emptied. I checked the bureau drawers. Also empty. I walked into the bathroom. The sink and shower both had grime in them. I let my eyes rove around, but didn’t see anything that shouldn’t have been there.

  The clerk poked his head in the doorway. “Come on now.”

  I took another quick look around and then nodded. “All right.”

  I followed him back into the hallway and waited while he shut off the light and locked the door. He started for the stairs, then whirled around when I didn’t trail behind him.

  “Now what?” he said.

  I pointed down the hall. “Would any other guests have talked to Hinton?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. But you can’t bother them.”

  I tried to hide my disappointment. “Fine.” If he didn’t want me to ask around, I’d play along. But I’d be back.

  He tramped downstairs with me right behind him, and his grumbling let me know he still wasn’t happy with having to leave the front desk.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said when we reached the lobby.

  He grunted an unintelligible reply as he went back to his cage and I stepped outside.

  I took two steps away from the door and then broke into a run. I ran around the side of the building and into the alley. Then I looked up and spotted an open window. The clerk hadn’t noticed that I’d never shut the window in room 301.

  I hurried over to the fire escape. I’d had to climb down many fire escapes before, but never up one. The rolling ladder was out of reach, so I searched around until I found a large tin trash can. I carried it back to the fire escape, turned it over, and climbed onto it. Then I jumped up and grabbed the ladder. It gave a few feet, and when it stopped, I climbed up to the second floor landing, then took a set of steps up to
the third floor. I pressed myself against the wall by the window, and peeked into the room. It was still empty, so I climbed through the window.

  I stood for a moment and let my eyes adjust, and then I crossed to the door. I listened for a moment. The hall was quiet, so I turned the knob and let myself out. I pulled the door shut and went to the door where I’d heard people arguing. It was silent now. I knocked and waited. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a scrawny young man with greasy hair. He gazed at me with glazed eyes. Probably high.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  I jerked a thumb toward 301. “Did you see the man that stayed in that room for the last few days?” I described Hinton, or, at least, the man who’d told me he was Hinton.

  “I don’t know, man. Beat it.” He slammed the door shut.

  “So much for that,” I muttered.

  I went to another door and knocked. No one answered. I tried the last door and it opened a second later. This time the occupant was an older man who reeked of booze.

  “What’re you bothering people for?” he slurred. He glanced down the hallway. “Banging on doors like that.”

  “I’m looking for the guy who stayed in 301.” I again went through the routine of describing the so-called Hinton.

  “Yeah, I seen him.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Said hello, asked him if he had any money to spare.” He wrinkled his nose. “He looked like he had some money.” He guffawed. “Not like the others here.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  He crossed his arms and contemplated me. “Now why would he do that?”

  “Just a guess,” I said. “I’m trying to find him.”

  “Try him.” He pointed past me. “He talked to your man.” Then he shut the door.

  I turned around and looked where he’d indicated. Another young guy was standing at the top of the stairs. There was nothing noteworthy about him, except that he was staring at me warily.

  “Hey,” I said. “Are you staying here?” I started toward him.

  The guy spun around and scrammed down the stairs.

  “Hey!” I repeated as I ran after him.

  By the time I reached the stairs, he was at the second floor landing. I took the steps three at a time and sprinted down after him. When I arrived in the lobby, he was at the front door. The clerk had stood up and was staring at him. I raced across the lobby, ignoring the clerk who was now shouting obscenities at me. I banged through the front door and looked frantically up and down the sidewalk. The man was at the corner of Twelfth.