Diagnosis Murder 7 - The Double LIfe (21 page)

It was Amanda and Jesse. They had a list.

They met in the morgue at Community General Hospital. Amanda and Jesse stood on one side of the autopsy table, facing Steve, their paperwork spread out in front of them like a corpse.

"Shouldn't Mark be here?" Amanda said.

"Yeah, in a hospital bed," Jesse said.

"Which is why we are going to keep him out of this," Steve said. "He's in no condition to be involved."

"He's not going to like it," Amanda said.

"It's for his own good," Steve said, glancing at Jesse for support.

"What Mark needs now is rest," Jesse said. "Susan is stopping by to check on him on her way home."

Steve could see Amanda wasn't happy about it. She sighed with resignation and directed her attention to the paperwork.

"Here's what we did. We didn't have access to the client records at Appleby Nursing Services," Amanda said, "but we were able to get into the systems at the various hospitals in the area."

"Because I have friends," Jesse said.

"So you've said," Steve replied.

"All the hospitals use the Enable software for their databases, so we knew how to find what we wanted once we got into their systems," Amanda said. "We got lists of patients who were in the intensive care or cardiac-care units of the hospitals over the last twelve months and who survived the experience."

"Then we just sifted out the people whose first or last names began with the letter V," Jesse said, handing Steve a sheet of paper. "As in, Voila."

Steve scanned the list. There were three people with first names—Vincent Kunz, Vivian Hemphill, and Victoria Samelle—and two with last names—Alan Vernon and Campbell Vroman—that began with
V.

Jesse motioned to the other papers. "That's all their medical information, insurance providers, that kind of thing."

"It shouldn't be too hard to find out if Alan Vernon or Campbell Vroman is using private nursing care," Steve said.

"How do you pick who to put under surveillance?" Amanda asked.

"Anybody have a quarter I can flip?" Steve asked.

After two hours' sleep, Mark woke up dehydrated, his lips chapped and his mouth as dry as an old dishrag, probably with the smell to match.

He got to his feet, aching in every joint, leaning on his walker, and made his way to his bedroom. The journey seemed to take hours and all the strength he had. By the time he reached his bathroom, he was beginning to second-guess the wisdom of leaving the hospital.

But after brushing his teeth, drinking two large glasses of water, and putting some ChapStick on his lips, he felt human again and more or less revived.

He was making his way back to the living room, with a bit more speed and energy than his last trip down the hall, when Susan came in the front door carrying a take-out bag from Jerry's Famous Deli.

"Dr. Sloan, you scoundrel," she admonished him. "I should have put you in restraints after all."

"You really have to start calling me Mark, especially if you're going to scold me." He tipped his head towards her bag. The smell of hot food was making him salivate and his stomach growl. "What have you got there?"

"Chicken soup with matzo balls," she said.

"The perfect prescription for what ails me."

Susan went into the kitchen to prepare the food, and he followed slowly after her. When he got to the kitchen, with its spectacular view of the beach, she already had the bowls of soup set out, along with a platter of sliced cantaloupe and watermelon.

"Do you mind if I join you?" she asked, standing behind one of the chairs.

"I'd be upset if you didn't," Mark said, taking his seat.

While the two of them ate, they engaged in pleasant small talk about the weather, the remodeling of a local grocery store, and Susan's ongoing dispute with a mechanic about the repairs on her car.

Mark enjoyed their conversation immensely. Between her company and the hot soup, his spirits and his energy were buoyed considerably. He set his spoon down and looked her in the eye.

"Do you realize that in all the years I've known you, this is the first time we've been alone together outside of the hospital?"

Susan considered that for a moment. "To be honest, Doctor—" She caught herself. "Mark—you've always intimidated me. It was nothing you did or said. I just always felt like a tagalong, an outsider, even when I was helping in one of your investigations. But now that Jesse and I are married, I see you differently."

"Really? In what way?"

She shrugged. "Like a father-in-law."

Mark smiled, reached across the table and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. "Good, because that's exactly how I want it. This is your home now, too."

She squeezed his hand back. "Thank you. So, what's your plan for the day?"

"Nothing but rest."

"I'm family now, remember? What are you really going to be doing?"

He told her.

"Could you use an able-bodied assistant?"

He wasn't sure if she was offering to help because she was interested in the case or simply to have an excuse to stay and take care of him. Either way, it didn't really matter. "Absolutely," he said.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

Steve was quickly discovering the true benefits of the Patriot Act for law enforcement. For one thing, it meant that the Anti-Terrorism Strike Force had very little direct oversight of their activities and lots of high-tech toys that made it easy for them to invade people's privacy.

Tanis met Steve outside of Alan Vernon's bungalow in Santa Monica with a trunk full of tiny video surveillance devices. The cameras could send live audio and video feeds directly to a secure Web site, where they would be digitally stored and available for access anytime, anywhere by any cop with a high-speed connection and the right password.

The two detectives, as well as Amanda and Jesse, could have multiple live surveillance feeds playing in real time in separate windows on their laptops or desktop computers, allowing them to keep a protective eye on all the potential victims at once.

Steve was looking not just into a box of electronics but at the future of surveillance. No more Porta Pottis. Soon, he'd be able to sit in Starbucks with his laptop, enjoying a cup of coffee and cinnamon cake while keeping someone miles away under surveillance at the same time.

"Is this legal?" Steve asked they at stood at the back of Tanis's car, staring into the trunk.

"It is if each person gives us permission to install the equipment in their home."

That was the tricky part.

Steve couldn't tell the potential victims the real reason he wanted to put them under surveillance, not without panicking them. Instead he would have to come up with a convincing, but less than honest, explanation and hope it wouldn't undermine the cases against Duren and Guyot when they got to court.

"What kind of trouble are you going to get into for unofficially appropriating this equipment?" Steve asked.

"Let's just say I won't be getting a promotion when my bosses eventually find out about this."

"Even if using this equipment leads to the apprehension of two serial killers?"

"Catching the Silent Partner didn't send my career soaring to new heights."

"It might have if you'd played by the rules on your subsequent cases."

"If I'd played by the rules, we wouldn't be standing here having this conversation and I wouldn't have this stuff, which, I might add, you desperately need right now."

"Good point," Steve said.

Tanis hefted the box out of the trunk and they walked together to Alan Vernon's door. Vernon had been released from John Muir Hospital two months earlier after surviving a massive heart attack. It was his second coronary episode and, given his medical history, probably wouldn't be his last. 

"How come I have to carry the stuff?" Tanis complained. 

"You brought it. It's your responsibility," Steve said. "I'm the lead investigator. My hands need to be free to deal with situations."

"What situations?"

"Like this." Steve made a show of knocking on the door. It took a few moments for Vernon to get to the door. Steve could hear him slowly approach. He was tempted to knock again impatiently, but it wouldn't get the man to the door any faster.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the door was opened by a paunchy, balding man in his sixties with a thin black mustache. He leaned on a cane, wore a Nautica pullover and leather loafers with Velcro straps, and chewed mint gum with a flavor so strong that both Steve and Tanis could taste it.

"Mr. Vernon?" Steve said.

"Yes, that's me, Alan Vernon." The man had the baritone voice of an anchorman and replied as if he was facing a camera instead of two cops.

Steve half expected Vernon to continue with, "Reporting live from Santa Monica."

Soon, with any luck, he would be.

"I'm Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD." He flashed his badge, and so did Tanis. "This is Detective Archer. May we come in?"

Vernon stepped aside. "Is this regarding my gardener?" 

"Why is that?" Steve asked as they entered his modest home.

"I think he's an illegal, from one of those Latin American countries. A lot of them sneak over the border with drugs packed in their rectums. Or worse."

Steve couldn't imagine what that other contraband might be, nor did he want to.

"We aren't with immigration or the DEA," Steve said, taking a quick glance at the decor. Most of the furniture was twenty years old. He made a mental note to himself never to buy contemporary furniture. "We're investigating a crime involving nursing services."

"I'm not surprised," Vernon said, standing in place. "What are they stealing? Cash? Jewelry? Credit cards?" 

"That's what we hope to find out," Steve said. "I understand you're a client of Appleby Nursing Services."

"Not for much longer," Vernon said. "I'm almost back to peak shape. My friends call me Mount Vernon. Get it? That's how sturdy I am."

But Vernon hadn't moved from where he stood, so as not to show his guests he was weak. He seemed to be the kind of man who found it humiliating to reveal such vulnerability. Steve understood that failing all too well.

"How do you feel about being on camera?" Steve asked.

"Radio news was my game for thirty-five years, but I always felt I would have made a fine on-camera personality," Vernon said.

Tanis took one of the tiny cameras out of the box and held it up beside her face as if she was advertising a tube of toothpaste.

"Now is your chance," she said.

Victoria Samelle was a woman who lived alone and craved company. She'd nearly died after her quadruple bypass surgery, but there was nothing frail about her now. She was a formidable and astonishingly talkative person who did everything in her power to keep Steve and Tanis from leaving after they installed the surveillance cameras. Steve was afraid he might have to shoot his way out of captivity. But they managed to escape without bloodshed.

Vincent Kunz was worried that the police would use the cameras to spy on him having sex, even though his last erotic encounter had been during the Reagan administration. That was when his ex-wife, Rhonda, used cameras to catch him cheating on her with her best friend. Steve assured Mr. Kunz that they weren't interested in his love life and talked him into granting them permission to install the equipment. Tanis predicted that the cameras would give Kunz a thrill, that they would actually motivate him to take a lover just so he could show off. Steve prayed she was wrong because he didn't want to have to watch that.

There was no answer when they pressed Vivian Hemphill's buzzer outside her apartment building in Tarzana. Steve buzzed the manager's apartment, and after a moment he heard a woman's voice crackling over the speaker.

"Yes?" Her voice was like a bark. She obviously didn't like to be bothered.

Steve looked up and addressed the large security camera positioned in a comer above the front doors. The camera was gigantic by today's standards but probably was cutting edge back in the eighties.

"I'm Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD, and this is Detective Tanis Archer." He held his badge up to the camera. "We're here to see Vivian Hemphill. She doesn't seem to be answering her buzzer, and we were wondering if you knew where she might be."

"Sure do," the woman said. "Hartley and Hartley Mortuary."

Steve and Tanis shared a glance. They were too late.

"She's dead?" he said.

"Viv isn't laying in the coffin because it's more comfortable for her back."

Score one point for Paul Guyot, Steve thought.

"When did she die?" Tanis asked.

"Yesterday," the voice said. "I hear she had another heart attack. Are either of you looking for a place to live? Viv has a corner apartment with spectacular city views."

There was no such thing as a spectacular view in the flats of Tarzana, but Steve wanted a look around the apartment.

"That would be delightful," he said.

"Did you just say delightful?" Tanis whispered.

The manager buzzed them through and was waiting in the lobby when they came in. An elderly woman with a beehive hairdo, she was wearing a housedress and a string of fake pearls the size of hard-boiled eggs. She introduced herself as Mabel Folkner and took them to the fourth floor and down a long corridor to the comer apartment.

Many of the apartment doors that they passed were ajar, affording Steve a peek inside the units. Almost all of the apartments were occupied by senior citizens sitting in recliners watching Dr. Phil.

Mabel unlocked the door to Vivian Hemphill's apartment. Steve and Tanis slipped on rubber gloves. Mabel cocked an eyebrow.

"Viv had heart disease," she said. "It's not contagious." 

"Force of habit," Steve said. "We'd appreciate it if you didn't touch anything once we're inside."

"Why?" she asked. "Has there been a crime?"

"You never know," Tanis said, letting her voice trail off mysteriously.