Parts Unknown (15 page)

“What’s that mean?”

“Aw, nothing. Just a little professional cattiness. Immunologists generally don’t take much interest in patient care; they tend to be research doctors.”

“The patient is an illegal alien, probably with a history of poor medical care. Would there be something special the doctor might be looking for?”

“Parasites, perhaps. Lymph problems … . There’s a variety of things he could look for. But the question, like you said, is why. Unless there was some difficulty with care for the wound, I’m not sure why all those tests would be called for.”

“AIDS?”

“Well, yes, screening for HIV is becoming routine, especially by health care personnel who deal with emergencies. But again, that’s just one test, initially.”

“Why would he go to a surgeon rather than the emergency room of a hospital?”

“Hell, Dev, you’re the detective. You’d have to ask the patient that.”

“Do you know a Dr. Morris Matheney?”

“I’ve heard of him but I don’t know him. Not my field.”

It wasn’t mine either, and the only other avenues I had into the hermetic world of professional medicine were the official ones, whose purpose was to protect doctors rather than inform nosy investigators. It looked like another expense of time, effort, and money that would lead nowhere, and despite the hard workout before a late meal and the dram or two of heavy, rich Bellehaven ale after, I slept restlessly enough to hear the thud of the milk box and the crackle of the newspaper man’s tires as he cruised leaf-strewn curbs.

My first trip in the morning was to public records, where I learned not much more about Armoor Investments than I already knew. It was a private corporation whose stock was held by unnamed principal investors, and whose chief executive officer was Sophia Evangelou. Her address was the corporation office in South Denver. I photocopied the page and headed for my office, still foggy from lack of sleep.

The phone answerer held a message from Archy. He’d located some parts for the Healey, but was having trouble with suspension and steering units. Nobody anywhere in the country had answered his inquiry on the parts wire. “But I got a lead on two Healey three thousands—one in L.A. and one up in Portland. I can put you in touch with the sellers if you want. Let me know soon.”

I called back and got the information. I didn’t have to use it—there was still a chance Archy could locate the parts he needed through the Austin-Healey club. But as the mechanic said, it would be the same car in name only, anyway.

A second voice on the answerer, one I didn’t recognize, asked that Mr. Bunchcroft call her and left a number, which I copied on a memo for him. The few other calls were offers I could refuse, and I had just settled with a cup of coffee to stare at the scant information on Armoor Investments when Uncle Wyn came in.

“What, a funeral?”

“Hi, Uncle Wyn. No—just I’ve got a couple cases that aren’t going anywhere. And I’m not sure what to kick to make them move.”

“Midseason slump, is it?” He limped over to the window and gazed at the Front Range, with its remnants of snow glowing in the morning sun. “I think the Dodgers are going to take it. The Dodgers and the Yankees. Just like the old days—except it’s not like the old days. The old days never come back. The Los Angeles Dodgers, for God’s sake.”

He was one of the few left who still remembered, let alone bemoaned, the Big Sellout. “I’ll put my money on Boston.”

“And I’ll take it. What are you giving me?”

“You give me odds—What’s the matter?”

He had grunted a sharp, involuntary sound. “Knee—damned arthritis. If I wasn’t so old, I think I’d get a new one.”

“A new what, Mr. Kirk?” Bunch closed the door behind him.

“A new knee. One of those plastic things you can’t feel.”

“Hey, why not a whole new leg while you’re at it? They’re transplanting everything else.”

“You’re right, Bunch. New leg, new heart, new lungs. I need a complete body job.”

“Yeah—just like Dev’s car.” He glanced into his in-box. “What’s this?” He held up the memo with the telephone number to call.

“Another missing Salvadoran,” I lied. “Found it on the tape when I came in.”

He grunted and dialed the number. Uncle Wyn and I talked baseball until Bunch hung up. I suspected it was Uncle Wyn’s way of pulling me out of the mopes, and it worked.

“That was a lady with a dog,” said Bunch. “Things are all set.”

“Ah.” Then, “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” He looked uncomfortable. “She says she’s coming along.”

“Wait a minute—”

“I already told her it’s not a good idea. She says she’s the only one who can handle her dog.”

“Bunch, you know what those people are like out there!”

“Yeah. I know. But she says she’s coming along anyway.”

With a twinge of pain, Uncle Wyn heaved himself to his feet. “And something tells me you boys got work to do. See you later.”

“Hey, Mr. Kirk, don’t run off—”

“I won’t run, that’s for sure. But I got work to do too.”

“Bunch, we’re not taking anyone else out to that farm.”

“We’ll talk about it. Hell, you talk about it—you tell her that tonight.”

A few minutes after Uncle Wyn left, Bunch and I followed. The landlord for Olympia Janitorial Services had her offices in a small suite of rooms on the eighth floor of a tower that overlooked the Denver Technological Center. From the large windows, we could see various glass and concrete buildings loom as widely scattered modernistic shapes across the rolling prairie south of the city. If Ms. Evangelou felt dwarfed by the room and its spacious view, she did not show it. She was a small woman, with long, slightly wild hair that spiraled out from her head. Her movements were quick and decisive, and she told us as we came in the door that she didn’t have time to waste.

“We appreciate your giving us a few minutes,” said Bunch. “It’s a routine security clearance and shouldn’t take long.” He had called to tell the woman that Mrs. Chiquichano’s firm had bid on a janitorial contract for a company that did restricted work for the government, and that we were employed by the company to run a clearance on the applicant. “How long have you known Mrs. Chiquichano?”

“A little over three years. Three years and three months, to be exact.”

“And how did you meet her?”

“We advertised office space for rent. She answered the ad.”

“Has she been good about paying her rent?”

“Every month.” A slight smile that showed two lines etched at the corners of her mouth. “We give one month’s grace—and only one.”

I asked, “Have you had any dealings with her other than the usual business contacts?”

Ms. Evangelou’s dark eyes traced my outline from face to shoes and back again, slowly. “No, Mr. Kirk. I’m very selective about who I contact in my private life.”

“Meaning you don’t like her?”

“Meaning I have no reason to meet her except on business.”

“Have you heard of anything that might disqualify her or her company from working around classified information?” Bunch asked.

The woman shook her head, lips pressed in thought. “No. But she is a recent citizen, I understand.”

“From El Salvador?”

“I think so. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Most of the traitors one reads about are born and raised in Boston or some such.”

“Does she do a lot of business out of her office?”

“I don’t know. Enough to pay the rent, at least.”

“How much is that?” Bunch asked.

She flipped through a Rolodex file. “Four twenty-five. It’s one of the smaller units.”

“Does she really need an office to run this kind of business?” I asked. “It seems she could do it by working out of her home.”

“She chooses to have an office, Mr. Kirk. Perhaps for prestige—perhaps it’s a tax advantage. I do know that she uses her garage space there to park her company van.”

“What kind of van?”

“A Dodge carryall, I think. Is that kind of information really vital to national security?” She began to busy herself with papers.

“You’re the manager of the building where Mrs. Chiquichano’s office is?”

“Among other time-consuming duties, yes.”

“It’s owned by Armoor Investments, and you’re the president of that firm as well?”

She looked up, surprised. “Yes. Why?”

Bunch said apologetically, “There’s a section on the form for evaluating respondents—it’s all routine. Can you tell us who the principals are in the investment firm?”

“I could, but I don’t know why I should. I’m the one answering questions—not them.”

“Yes ma’am. It just helps us do our job a little better—looks more complete on the form. You know how the government likes things. And it might help Mrs. Chiquichano’s application.”

“It seems rather silly … . It’s your fairly standard real estate investment company. I’m one of the partners, and the others are doctors. I used to be a nurse; they hired me to run the company when I got fed up with nursing.”

I nodded. “We’ve run across a number of businesses like that. Can you just give us some names to jot down on the form?”

“Blomquist, Butler, Fletcher, Matheney, and Zales.”

“That’s Morris Matheney?”

“Yes, and if you need their addresses, you can find them in the physicians’ section of the Yellow Pages. Now I’m quite busy, gentlemen … .”

Both of us were quiet on the way down. Finally Bunch said what I was thinking. “That guy Matheney—his name’s beginning to come up a lot of times.”

“And usually in connection with Mrs. Chiquichano. Maybe it’s just coincidence.”

“Right. And we both believe in coincidence. What time is it?”

“Close to four. Why?”

“It’s not Wednesday, so he’s not playing golf. I think we should talk to him again.” Bunch pushed open the building’s glass door and we stepped into the heat outside. “You know what Spinoza says: accident is the name we give to an event whose causes we don’t understand.”

“I didn’t know Spinoza said that.”

“Well, if he didn’t, he should have.” Bunch turned up the air conditioner as I pulled the rented Subaru into traffic. “You literary types—no imagination.”

Dr. Matheney’s receptionist looked doubtful when I admitted we didn’t have an appointment.

“It’ll only take a couple seconds, miss. Less time than a drug salesman takes. Tell him it’s about Nestor Calamaro—one of his ex-patients.”

She came back with her worry relieved. “He’s with a patient right now. He can see you in about ten minutes.”

We were moved from the general reception room to Matheney’s private waiting area, where the magazines were newer. The doctor himself came to lead us into his comfortable office. The soft brown eyes, magnified by their glasses, studied each of us for a long moment. “You were here a few days ago,” he said to me. “It was about… ?”

“Mrs. Chiquichano. You gave me some information about her.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now. What can I help you with this time?”

I showed him a copy of Calamaro’s medical form. “I understand you requested these tests?”

“May I ask how you got this?”

“Through the medical insurance underwriters, doctor. There was some question about the necessity of the tests.”

“Question? What question?” Something leapt and hardened in the man’s eyes, and his smooth, strong fingers began to stroke the fringe of chin whiskers. “There is no question—it was my judgment that he needed those tests. That’s all there is to it.”

“We understand that, doctor. We only need a little information about the basis for that judgment.”

“The basis of that judgment, Mr. Kirk, was the lab report of his blood samples. Samples which I routinely order before any type of surgery.”

“Yes sir. The lab report said … ?”

“Obviously, there were some abnormalities in his blood.”

“Yes sir. Can you amplify on that?”

The doctor smiled slightly. “Not without the patient’s permission. Do you have permission to access his medical records, Mr. Kirk?”

“No. He disappeared three weeks ago.”

“Then, without his permission—or a court order—I cannot discuss his case. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have patients waiting.”

“Perhaps your information can help us find him, doctor.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

Bunch spoke up. “How serious was his surgery?”

“What do you mean?”

“He came to you for a cut—an industrial accident. Not preplanned surgery. Why didn’t he go to the emergency room at Warner or Denver General?”

The fingers again stroked the glossy black beard. “Perhaps because he was familiar with us. I believe, Mr. Kirk, you pointed out that we did his TB screening, right?”

“Yes. But this was an emergency.”

“Since you insist: Mrs. Chiquichano telephoned me to say a friend of hers was hurt and to ask if I would take a look at him. Naturally, as she was an acquaintance … .”

“But why you? Why not an emergency room that could handle it quickly?”

“Because he was an illegal alien, Mr. Kirk! Because he was afraid to go to a hospital—afraid they would turn him in. I helped him. And, I might add, I helped him pro bono. I am not with the immigration authorities, I am not an employer of illegal aliens, and I do happen to believe that people who need medical help should receive it. In fact, I’ve taken an oath to provide it.” He stood and opened his office door. “One of the stupidities of the immigration authorities is to force into hiding people who could well have contagious diseases. That endangers public welfare far more than the presence of a few low-paid immigrants. Now if you have no other questions, I am in a hurry.”

“Have you seen or talked to Mrs. Chiquichano since her people stopped cleaning your offices?”

“No.”

“She didn’t bring in Mr. Calamaro?”

“No. I believe he came by cab or bus. And left the same way. Why?”

“One of her workers, Felicidad de Silva, needed medical treatment. She was an illegal too. I wondered if Mrs. Chiquichano brought her to you.”

The man’s brown eyes behind the heavy glasses stared levelly back. “No. I never heard of that woman.”

“T
HAT GUY LIES
like a rug.” Bunch geared the Bronco down and turned off the paved highway onto a graded dirt road that wound upward between two steep outcroppings. We were in Coal Creek Canyon, about fifteen miles west of downtown Denver, looking for a dirt driveway and the name Fairbaugh. “Matheney’s a liar, Dev. You know it and I know it.”