Dead Boogie (15 page)

He backed his car up and around to leave. He hadn’t gone twenty yards when he saw the blue-checked shirt. The punk had heard every word and made no effort to hide. Recognizing it was a perverse urge to be polite, Osborne lifted his hand in a wave and felt a curious satisfaction when he got no response. Jerk.

The Lincoln Navigator pulled to a stop just ahead of Osborne’s car. Joan was driving. She slid her window down, stuck her head out the window, and squinted toward him. “Dr. Osborne?”

“Yes, I stopped by with a few questions but you weren’t in—and now I’m afraid I have a five o’clock appointment back in town.”

“No, wait a minute, please.” She jumped down from the big SUV and ran up to lean into his window. “Did you get the news about Ed Forsyth and his clinic?” The woman’s face was moist with perspiration, causing her makeup to cake in the lines around her eyes, and he could see moist circles under the arms of her black blouse. The voice that had boomed so officiously in the morning now sounded tight, stressed.

“Just met the man. What is it?”

“Well, I had no idea and now I feel so responsible. That clinic of his has been cheating the big insurance companies—maybe even the government. We just got off the phone with our lawyer.”

“You didn’t know about this earlier?”

“After our meeting with you and Chief Ferris this morning, I called our family’s law firm for advice on making arrangements for Peg’s burial, and that’s when I heard the news. The investigators have been calling his former patients. I’m on the list because I had cheek implants done there last year. When they called our home, our housekeeper put them in touch with my lawyer.

“This is so upsetting—I can’t begin to tell you. I have to wonder how much poor Peg might have known about this. And it’s
all my fault,”
she said, emphasizing her words. “When my sister called me last year for advice on where to get a face-lift, I’m the one who insisted she see Ed.”

Her eyes searched Osborne’s as she leaned in even closer, forcing Osborne to lean back. “I am
so
worried. Our friend can be a desperate man when pushed. I’ve seen him angry …”

“You think the investigation may have something to do with Peg’s lawsuit?” said Osborne.

Joan braced herself with both arms against Osborne’s car door and dropped her head with a shake. “If I put my sister in harm’s way, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Osborne looked past her toward the car. Parker was leaning forward from the passenger seat. He called through the window. “Joan, you better tell him the rest.”

Joan stepped back from Osborne’s car and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She kicked at a stone in the road with her sandaled foot before fixing her eyes on his. “We’re investors in the clinic. He tricked us. We could be liable! We could lose everything. Parker and I had no idea what he was up to …”

Ah, thought Osborne, so much for poor Peg’s death. It was still all about Joan.

twenty-one

Fish dinners will make a man spring like a flea.

—Thomas Jordan

Osborne
hurried from his car to the back door, Mike happy at his heels. It was already past five. Sure enough, the red light on his answering machine was blinking. He had three messages, the first from Mallory.

“Dad,” she said, sounding more buoyant than she had in months, “I’m so sorry to call at the last minute like this—but I can’t make it up after all. The funniest thing happened. I was turning in my paper for that class on Human Behavior in Organizations and walked into the building at the very same time as this totally adorable man in my study group. We were chatting about how it is to be back to school after a divorce and before I knew it—he invited me to go sailing this weekend!

“Dad—the guy is so cool. I know you’ll understand. Oh, by the way, I had this long e-mail from an old friend of yours. Beebo Rowland. Her late husband, Choppy, went to boarding school with you. She wanted your phone number. Dad, that’s the Rowland family who donated the new tech building to Northwestern. Definitely take some time with Mrs. Rowland—so maybe I won’t have to support you in your old age. Just kidding! Love you, bye—”

The next message was from Ray. “Y-o-o-o, Doc. Gina and I are here in the office with Chief Ferris …” There was a long pause as if he was hoping Osborne would pick up the phone. “Okay, I give up—you are not home. Here’s the deal: As I speak, we are in the process of getting Gina set up to work from here. I will then drop her by her cabin to get settled—then pick her up at six to meet you and Chief Ferris at the Loon Lake Pub for fish fry. You catch up with us there. Six-fifteen.”

In the background as he spoke, Osborne could hear a buzz of women’s voices. He hit the button for the third and final message.

“Paul …” said a voice, ingratiating, mellifluous. “This is a friend from your past. It hasn’t been easy to find you, dear. Your darling daughter, Mallory, gave me this number.” He listened hard, hoping to hear a hint of the exuberant twelve-year-old girl he had known so long ago.

“I’m staying at the Dairyman’s in Boulder Junction this weekend. With friends. I was hoping you might join us for cocktails tomorrow evening. Mallory e-mailed that you are widowed now—so am I. It would be so lovely to catch up with one another.”

She spoke like a queen, not a kid, and left a phone number. It fit that Beebo would be staying at the private resort. The Dairyman’s had long been a haven for wealthy families from Chicago.

Osborne studied the phone for a long minute. Then he called the number she left. To his relief, an answering machine picked up. His message was brief: This was a busy weekend, and much as he would enjoy renewing their friendship, it would have to wait. “Put me on your guest list, Beebo, for the next time you’re up north. I am sure we can work something out then.” Good, that was over.

He threw Mike’s bowl down with such haste that the dog scrambled for the morsels spilling across the kitchen floor. Osborne filled his water dish, slopped that on the floor as well, then dashed for the shower.

He swung by the police department but saw no sign of Lew’s cruiser. She must have found the time to go home and change. Since he was a few minutes early, he parked and walked in. Marlene, who shared the switchboard position with her daughter-in-law, Fern, was off. Fern was on.

She was a younger version of Marlene—just as vivacious and dedicated. “Yep, she’s all set up in the large conference room,” said Fern in answer to his question about Gina and her computer. “The door is locked right now—do you need me to open it?”

“No, no—but did they say if they would be back to work later this evening?”

“I don’t think so,” said Fern. “Last I heard from Chief Ferris, she’s planning to be in first thing in the morning. Roger and Todd are on tonight. Jeez Louise—we’re all just so happy that darn Country Fest is over tomorrow. This has been one wild week.”

The Loon Lake Pub was packed when Osborne got there. But Ray, who had once shared his special beer-battered haddock recipe with the chef, had managed to snag a table for four. He was waiting with Gina when Osborne arrived.

“Doc!” Gina jumped to her feet. Gina Palmer was a petite woman with a cap of short black hair, quite straight, that set off her white skin and framed a pair of black eyes that snapped with humor and intelligence. As often as he had seen her, Osborne had never known her not to wear black, and tonight was no exception. She looked like a tiny dynamo in a long-sleeved black knit shirt over slim black pants.

Gina Palmer’s first trip to the northwoods had been to help Lew and Osborne investigate the murder of one of her close friends two years earlier, and she had fallen in love with the lake country. Or maybe it was the guy with the stuffed fish on his head. Whatever the reason, she was now the proud owner of a cabin on Loon Lake: an excellent excuse to visit at least four times a year.

“I hear you’re all set up and ready to help us out tomorrow,” said Osborne as he pulled out his chair.

“Hey, Doc, our queen of the digital crumbs has already had a breakthrough,” said Ray with quiet pride. “Go ahead, tell Doc what you told me and Chief Ferris.”

Gina glanced around the tables nearby, then pulled her chair in closer to Osborne’s. She had a voice packed in gravel and tended to fire words at you in an unrelenting staccato, which may have been the secret to her success at driving teams of investigative reporters.

“Doc, I’m a teaching fellow in the Life Sciences Communications Department at the University of Wisconsin-Madison this term. So when Ray called yesterday about the lawsuit that your victim was planning to file, I called a former colleague of mine who heads up the special projects investigative reporting team at the
Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.

“When he got on the line and I said I was looking for some background on a plastic surgeon by the name of Edward Forsyth, the first thing he said to me was ‘Are you calling because of what happened yesterday?’ And he wanted to know how I heard about it.

“Well, y’know, I had no idea what he was talking about. So I told him I was doing a friend a favor. Just a check to see if they had any stories on the doctor or his clinic, since it’s located in that area. That’s when my friend said that one of his reporters had received an anonymous tip involving insurance fraud by the clinic yesterday morning. A phone call. Then this morning the same reporter got an envelope containing a list of the names and phone numbers of dozens of clinic patients.

“The reporter called the FBI’s health fraud unit and talked to a source there—they got the same tip. The way things look right now, Forsyth’s clinic may be shut down over the weekend. If I know the Feds, they’ll want to raid the place by surprise so they can get hard drives before anyone tampers with them.”

“What kind of fraud—did the reporter say?” said Osborne, remembering Joan Nehlson’s sweaty armpits.

While Gina was talking, Lew had come into the restaurant and taken the chair to Osborne’s left. Off-duty and out of uniform, she looked radiant, crisp and refreshed in jeans and an open-collared orange shirt that set off her tan. She indicated with a quick wave that he should pay attention to the rest of what Gina had to say.

“Criminal charges could be filed as early as next week against Forsyth, two physicians he employs, and his chief administrator for fraudulent insurance claims. It seems the clinic has been recruiting people for procedures they didn’t need such as colonoscopies, endoscopies, and an unusual, very expensive procedure for sweaty palms. Each recruit would have all three of the procedures and the clinic would bill their insurers for tens of thousands of dollars.

“In return, the recruit got either a cash payment or discounts on tummy tucks, breast enhancement, or having their eyelids done. The envelope that arrived in the mail this morning contained the names of some two hundred recruits—more than a dozen from northern Wisconsin.”

“I wonder if Peg Garmin was on that list?” said Osborne.

“No. But both her friends were—Donna Federer and Pat Kuzynski.”

“I checked with the families late this afternoon,” said Lew, chiming in. “Ralph knew nothing, of course. But Pat’s mother said she thought Pat had the tests done because she needed them. From the tone of her voice, I could tell she’d been hoping we wouldn’t find out. How do you explain a stripper from Thunder Bay needing surgery for sweaty palms?”

“The question I have,” said Ray, “is who’s the tipster?” He looked around the table with a sheepish expression. “At least that’s what I always ask the warden when he catches me on private water.”

“And does he tell you?” said Lew with a knowing grin.

“Of course not—but I always have a pretty good idea. It’s the guy who hasn’t caught a walleye over three pounds in his lifetime and is jealous as hell.”

“Seriously, Gina,” said Osborne, “who do they think called in the tip?”

“My experience over twenty years of investigative reporting—it’s almost always a disgruntled employee,” she said. “Ninety-nine percent of the time that’s who blows the whistle.”

“How about a disgruntled financial partner?” said Osborne. And he related Joan Nehlson’s worry that she and her husband as investors in the clinic could be held accountable.

“Not unless it can be proven that they knew what was going on,” said Gina. “Now, if they were actively involved in recruiting patients for the procedures—that’s all the proof the authorities will need. But it is certainly not a crime to recommend a plastic surgeon to your sister.

“I have a question, though. Did Peg Garmin know about the fraud and if so—was she threatening to expose the scheme as part of her lawsuit?”

The table was quiet, then Lew said, “Ray, you may be right after all—Peg was the target. But Donna and Pat, if they had agreed to be witnesses, may well have put themselves at risk for the same reason. However, whoever shot those women, it wasn’t Dr. Edward Forsyth. The man was miles away at the time the victims were murdered.”

Osborne looked over at Lew in surprise. “So you’ve been able to fix the time of death?”

“Better than that,” said Lew with enthusiasm as she reached for the appetizer tray and helped herself to a cracker with the Pub’s famous liver spread. Osborne watched as she munched away happily, the muted lighting in the restaurant causing her dark eyes to glow amber.

As the waitress appeared to hand around drinks to the table—ginger ale to Osborne and Ray, frosty mugs of Leininkugel Original to the women—Osborne reached sideways to give Lew’s shoulders a light, quick hug. “You look stunning tonight,” he whispered.

“Thank you, Doc,” she said with a pleased smile. “Believe me, it helps that it’s been a very good day—which I deserve after a very tough week. A toast …” She raised her glass and everyone else followed suit: “To everyone here at the table. What has been accomplished over the last two days could never have happened without the help of each of you.”

“Sorry, Doc,” said Lew. “I’ll answer your question on the time of death in a minute. It’s just that I’m starving—forgot to eat lunch after you and Ray left for the casino.” She reached for more crackers, spread each with the liver paté, and chewed with delight before continuing.