P is for Peril (11 page)

I blinked one eye in her direction. “I lost my contact lens. It might have popped out in the car. I only noticed it just now. I thought it might have fallen in the basket, but there's no sign of it.”

“Want me to help you look?”

“Don't worry about it. I have a whole box of 'em at home.”

“Are you here to see someone?”

“I'm here on business,” I said. I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and flipped it open. I pointed at my P.I. license. “I've been hired to look into Dr. Purcell's disappearance.”

Merry squinted at my license, holding up the postage stamp-sized photo for comparison with my face-sized face.

I said, “Are you the office manager?”

She shook her head. “I'm temping here on weekends while the other girl's out on maternity leave. Monday through Fridays, I'm Mrs. Stegler's assistant.”

“Really. That's great. And what does that entail?”

“You know, typing, filing. I answer phones and distribute mail to all the residents, whatever needs doing.”

“Is Mrs. Stegler the one I should be talking to?”

“I guess. She's Acting Associate Administrator. Unfortunately, she won't be back until Monday. Can you stop by then?”

“What about Mr. Glazer or Mr. Broadus?”

“They have an office downtown.”

“Gee, that's too bad. I was driving through the neighborhood and took a chance. Well. I guess it can't be helped.”

I saw her gaze stray to her computer. “Could you excuse me a minute?”

“Go right ahead.”

She moved around to her twelve-inch monitor with its amber print on black. She was probably using office hours to do her personal correspondence. She pressed keys until she'd backed out of the document. She returned to the counter, smiling self-consciously. “You have a business card? I can have Mrs. Stegler call you as soon as she gets in.”

“That'd be great.” I took my time fumbling through my handbag to find a business card. “How long have you been here?”

“Three months December 1. I'm still on probation.”

I put my card on the counter. “You like the work?”

“Sort of, but not really. You know, it's boring, but okay. Mrs. S. has been here forever and she started out just like me. Not that I'll stick around as long as she has. I'm two semesters short of my college degree.”

“What field?”

“Elementary ed. My dad says you shouldn't job-hop because it looks really bad on your résumé. Like you're shiftless or something, which I've never been.”

“Well yeah, but on the other hand, if you're interested in teaching, there's no point hanging on to a job that doesn't suit.”

“That's what I said. Besides, Mrs. S. is real moody and gets on my nerves. One day she's sweet, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and then she turns around and acts all crabby. I mean, what is her
problem?
”

“What's your guess?”

“Beats me. They're still looking for someone to fill the position, which gritches her but good. She thinks she should be promoted instead of just being used is how she put it.”

“If she did get promoted, who would she replace?”

“Mrs. Delacorte. She's the one who got canned.”

I kept my expression neutral. Not only was she bored, but she hadn't learned the basic rules, the most compelling of which is never, never, never confide company secrets in the likes of me. I said, “Golly, that's too bad. Why was she fired, has anybody said?” My lies and fake behavior are usually heralded by “Gollys” and “Gees.”

“She wasn't fired exactly. It's more like she was laid off.”

“Oh, right. And when was that?”

“The same time as Mrs. Bart. She's the bookkeeper since way back when. They were interviewing for her position the same time I applied for this one.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“I wonder how the bookkeeper and the administrator got laid off at the same time. Was that coincidence?”

“Not at all,” she said. “Mrs. Bart was let go and Mrs. Delacorte got upset and raised a stink. Mr. Harrington suggested she might be happier finding work somewhere else, so that's what she did. This is all stuff I heard.” She stopped what she was saying and her eyes seemed to widen behind the red plastic frames. “You're not taking notes. I'm not supposed to gossip. Mrs. S. is hell on that.”

I held up my hands. “I'm just making conversation 'til the rain lets up.”

She patted her chest. “Whew! For a minute, I got nervous. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression. I mean, it's like I told her, I'd never blab anybody's private business. It's not in my nature.”

“You and me both,” I said. “So who's Mr. Harrington? I never heard of him.”

“He works for the billing company in Santa Maria.”

“And he's the one who hired you?”

“Kind of. He interviewed me by phone, but only after Mrs. S. had already approved my application. That's the way it works around here. Make the guys think they're in charge when we're really the ones who do everything.”

“I thought Dr. Purcell did all the hiring and firing.”

“I don't know anything about that. I was here less than two weeks when he, you know, ran off or whatever. I think that's why Mr. Harrington was forced to step in.”

“Where's Mrs. Delacorte work now? Has anybody said?”

“She's over at St. Terry's. I know because last week she stopped by to visit with Mrs. S. Turns out she found a great job so it's worked out fine. Getting laid off can be a blessing, though it didn't seem like it at the time is what she says.”

“What about Mrs. Bart?”

“I don't know where she went.”

“Did you know Dr. Purcell?”

“I knew who he was, but that's about it. That's his office in there. He just like, you know, vanished. It really gives me the creeps.”

“Weird. I wonder what went on.”

“No telling. The whole staff's upset. All the residents adored him. He made sure everybody got a card on their birthday and stuff like that. He paid out of his own pocket just so all these pitiful old people would feel special.”

“Has anyone made a guess about what happened to him?”

“It's all they talked about at first. I mean, not me so much because I hardly knew him.”

“What kind of thing . . .”

I could see Merry wrestle with her conscience, deliberating a good seven seconds before She-Who-Never-Blabs leaned toward me. “Promise you won't repeat this. . . .”

“I won't even say it
once.
”

She lowered her voice. “Mrs. S. thinks he left the country.”

I lowered my voice, too. “Because of . . .”

“Medicare.”

“Oh, that's right. Someone mentioned that before, but I didn't have a chance to ask. Meaning what?”

She said,
“F-R-A-U-D.
Last winter, the OIG —”

“OIG?”

“Oh, that's the Office of Inspector General. They're part of the Department of Health and Human Services. Anyway, OIG faxed us this list of charts and billing records they wanted to see. Mrs. S. said at first Dr. Purcell didn't think anything of it. They do that sometimes just to keep you on your toes. But then they came back and he figured out how serious it was. He kept going over the information to see how it'd look to them. Not good. Up to his lower lip in poop, to coin her phrase.”

“Is that why he'd been working late the last couple of months?”

“Well, yeah.”

“So the place is under investigation?”

“Big time. It started as a desk audit. They wanted a bunch of stuff covering the past two years. That's when Dr. P. came in as the medical director. I mean, he's that and administrator with a hyphen in between. The way Mrs. S. tells it, if Pacific Meadows loses its funding, the place'll be shut down. Not to mention all the penalties—you know, fines and restitution. She says maybe even jail time, plus the public embarrassment. The Purcells are like this big-time la-di-dah social couple so you can imagine the disgrace. Dr. P. was the one lined up to take the brunt of it. Like his butt's in a sling. Those are her words, not mine.”

“What about his employers?”

“Oh, the other two don't have anything to do with the hands-on stuff. They're all over the state, taking care of other business.”

“Well, that sounds scary for Dr. Purcell,” I said.

“I'd've died if it'd been me.”

“I'll bet,” I said. “When did this first come up?”

“I think last January, way before my time. Then in March, these two guys from MFCU swooped in unannounced—that's the Medicaid Fraud Control Unit. They came loaded with questions and a list of all the charts they wanted pulled. Everybody scrambled around, practically wetting their pants. Dr. P. was notified of this big list of violations and a lot of questionable claims, meaning P-H-O-N-Y. We're talking
thousands
of dollars. Half a million at least and that's just scratching the surface. He could turn out to be a major big-time crook.”

“I'm surprised it didn't hit the papers.”

“Mrs. S. says they'll keep a lid on it 'til they see what they've got. Meantime, they're breathing down his neck and they mean business.”

“So she thinks he bolted to avoid punishment?”

“Well, I sure would if I was in his place.”

“How do you know it was him? Other people must've had access to billing records. Maybe that's why the bookkeeper was laid off,” I said.

She leaned forward and lowered her gaze. “You won't mention this, you swear? Cross your heart.”

I crossed my heart and held up my hand.

“Mrs. Dorner—she's director of Staff Development? She thinks Dr. P. could've been kidnapped. Snatched in the parking lot to keep him quiet.”

I said, “Wow,” and made a skeptical face. “Unfortunately, the cops say there's no real evidence of that.”

“It wouldn't take much. Slap tape on his mouth, throw him in the trunk, and take off,” she said. “They could have used his own car, which is why it hasn't been found.”

I saw Merry's look as she began to busy herself, fussing with the mail. “That's a very good point.”

I glanced over my shoulder. A nurse in a white uniform was standing in the doorway. She had fixed us with a look that was both shrewd and intimidating. I cleared my throat and said, “Well. Merry. I better scoot and let you get back to work. I'll stop back on Monday and chat with Mrs. Stegler.”

“I'll tell her you were here.”

The nurse turned and looked at me as I passed through the doorway within inches of her. I repressed the urge to shudder once my back was turned, wondering exactly how much she'd heard.

At the entrance, I retrieved my slicker and took a moment to reassemble myself in rain garb. When I emerged from the nursing home, the rain had slowed to a drizzle and a mist seemed to float on the tarmac like smoke. The eaves still dripped water at irregular intervals. I bypassed a puddle and crossed the parking lot to the slot I'd taken. I could see now, with fresh eyes, that the name newly painted out at the foot of the parking space was P. DELACORTE.

Once in my car, I opened the pack of index cards and started taking notes—one fact per card—until I'd emptied my brain. I couldn't help wondering why Crystal and/or the cops hadn't mentioned this fraud business when I'd talked to them.

After I left Pacific Meadows, I stopped by Kingman and Ives and let myself in the side door. I went into my office and peeled off my slicker, which I hung on my coat tree. Happily for me, the place felt deserted despite the fact there were lights on in most of the offices. The Saturday-morning cleaning crew had come and gone. Wastebaskets had been emptied. The air was scented with Pledge, and I could see rows of fresh vacuum cleaner tracks on the burnt-orange carpeting. The quiet was divine. Briefly, I conjured up an image of the new one-person office on Floresta Street. I was already feeling competitive with the other prospective tenants.

I pulled out my portable Smith-Corona and placed it on my desk. I sat down in my swivel chair and took out the file I'd opened. I sorted through the notes I'd assembled, adding the information on the index cards. Looming large in my mind was Fiona's return on Tuesday. I could already see her, arms crossed, one foot tapping with impatience while I brought her up to date. She'd have dollar signs dancing like sugarplums above her head, thinking,
Fifty bucks an hour for this?
My strategy was to outfox the woman by presenting a beautifully constructed, typewritten report that would make it look like I'd done a lot more than drive around chatting with folks. What I labored under was the burdensome sense of Fiona's disapproval, knowing she begrudged me every nickel I spent. Even if her original display of irritation had been pure manipulation, I could feel the sting of her whip on my neck. I tried not to dwell on the notion that I should have declined the job when I had the chance.

I focused my attention on the business at hand. It took me an hour to sketch out a rough draft. I typed it and did some editing, revising it twice. I kept my language neutral, being careful to avoid drawing conclusions from what I'd learned so far. I also omitted much of what Crystal had said. I was being paid to find Dow, not to tattle to Fiona on his second wife. When I was satisfied the document was as polished as I could make it, I typed the new draft. Then I got out my calculator and added up my hours. How long had I spent with Detective Odessa? I tapped with my pencil on my front teeth. Really it was twenty minutes max, which I rounded out to half an hour. Didn't want Fiona thinking I'd short-changed her with the cops. Let's see. I'd spent almost two hours with Crystal and I added another hour to cover my morning visit to Pacific Meadows. I eyeballed the numbers. So far, I'd only earned $175 out of the $1,500 she'd paid me up front, which meant I still owed her $1,325 worth of my life. At this rate, I'd never be out from under. Oh well. I typed the invoice and attached it to the original of my report, then placed the copies in the folder.