P is for Peril (32 page)

I proceeded to the ladies' room and pushed through the door. The room smelled of bleach and had only one stall. I knew from sad experience the wooden toilet seat was cracked and pinched when you sat. Mariah was standing at the basin making an adjustment to her wig. Aside from the sink, there was only a big plastic-lined waste bin and a grille-covered window that opened onto a narrow backyard. Up close, I could see that under the raincoat, she'd pulled on a bulky knit sweater and a pair of flabby blue print slacks with some form of waist-thickening padding underneath. The Birkenstocks and white socks were a nice touch. Very chic.

She said, “What do you think?”

“That disguise is lame. I've seen you once in my life and spotted you straight off the minute I walked in.”

She took a hair fork from her purse and lifted the top layers to increase the height. “Shit. This cost me a fortune and it's not even real hair.”

“What are you
doing
here? Do you know how close you've come to blowing it?”

“Tell me about it. Me and my big ideas,” she said. “I tried to call, but all I got was your answering machine. I didn't want to leave a message. It's not cool. You never know who's going to be there when those things are played back. I didn't want to take the chance Tommy'd hear my voice. I figured it'd be easier to find you here. I walk in, thinking I'm safe, and there he sits. I nearly had heart failure.”

“You and me both. How'd he miss seeing you?”

“Don't even ask. It was dumb luck, I guess. He was fussing with his raincoat so I pretended to spot a friend and headed for a back booth. I sat there for fifteen minutes, planning an exit through the kitchen. Then I happened to look up and saw you come in. What are the chances you can get him out of here?”

“I'm doing what I can, but I don't like it. Last night he stopped by my apartment. I managed to avoid a visit, but he's persistent. I'm trying to turn him off and now I have to turn around and suck up to him to cover for you.”

“Life's tough.” She rearranged a few strands of artificial hair and then smiled to herself. “Here's a piece of good news. All their credit cards are maxed out. Six to eight cards each, eighteen percent interest on the unpaid balance. They're making minimum payments, just trying to keep afloat. Fancy watches, fancy cars. The mortgage is fifteen grand a month on that monstrosity they call home. They've got their nuts in a vise and they're feeling the squeeze.”

“They're completely broke?”

“They will be if they don't act fast.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. The combination of the wig and the outfit made her seem coarse, not the cool professional she'd been in my office when she'd laid out her credentials. Maybe she was more of a chameleon than I'd given her credit for. “I don't suppose you've had time to tell Tommy about the fence.”

“I'm not going to do that. I really can't help you there. I'm sorry.”

“Don't sweat it.” She tucked the hair fork away and then turned and leaned against the sink so she could study me. “I'll get the fuckers with or without your help.”

“How'd this become so personal?”

“Murder's always personal. I take offense when I see guys like them getting off scot-free. Aside from that, Guardian's promised me a big fat bonus if I can bring this one in.” Behind the glasses, her eyes were a clear blue and very cold. She nodded at the door. “You better get out there. Prince Charming awaits.”

I left the restroom and stepped into the blast of noise unleashed by all the alcohol. Smoke was adrift in the cavernous room. I felt as though I'd been gone an hour, but a glance at my watch showed less than ten minutes had passed. I pushed my way through the crowd, returning to the table where Tommy waited. Henry had joined him and he was sipping his usual glass of Black Jack over ice. His elbows rested on the surface of a manila envelope and I wondered if he was planning to do some work later on. I experienced a momentary surge of hope. His presence would at least spare me any intimacies.

I sat down. “Hi, Henry. I knocked on your door earlier, but I couldn't seem to rouse you.” I was sounding way too perky, but I couldn't help myself.

“I popped over to the market. I needed some fresh parsley to finish off my stew.”

“Henry's stews are legendary,” I said in Tommy's direction, though I couldn't meet his eyes. I lifted the martini glass and took a sip, then steadied the wobbling glass as I set it down again. I licked at my hand where the vodka had slopped over the rim.

Henry glanced over at me and we exchanged a brief look. I knew what he was up to. He was feeling protective. He had no intention of letting me consort with the enemy unchaperoned. His gaze settled thoughtfully on his drink. He said, “By the way, I looked into that business you were asking me about.”

I said, “Ah.” Thinking,
Business?
What
business?

“The guy you want to try is Cyril Lambrou in the Klinger Building, off Spring Street in downtown Los Angeles. The woman I talked to sold him an assortment of her mother's antique jewelry. This was stuff she hardly ever wore and she was tired of paying the exorbitant insurance premiums.”

I felt myself separating from my body. I couldn't believe he was doing it. I'd backed away from Mariah's scheme and here he was laying out the bait. Henry had launched himself on his maiden lie, which he'd offered in my behalf. I knew why he was doing it. If the jeweler's name came from him, how could I be blamed for it later when the deal went sour? Henry and Tommy had spent the previous evening together. Tommy would trust him. Everybody trusted Henry because he told the truth and he was straight as an arrow.

I said, “I can sympathize. I pay a fortune for insurance and I could use the cash.” My voice sounded hollow. I moved my hand out from under Tommy's with the intention of lifting my glass for another sip of my martini, but I realized I was shaking too much to get the glass to my lips. I tucked my fingers under my thigh. I could feel how cold they were even through my jeans.

Meanwhile, Henry went on as smoothly as a con artist with an easy mark. “I called the fellow myself and described the diamond to him. He wouldn't make a commitment on the phone, but he seemed interested. I know you don't want to
give
the ring away, but you're going to have to be realistic. You'll never recoup the actual value, but he sounds a lot more generous than some. I think this would be for his personal collection, so it might be worth a shot.”

I tried to reconstruct from his comments the phony tale he must have had in mind. The implication was that I had my mother's pricey diamond ring and was in the market for some cash. Apparently, I'd consulted him about selling it and he'd asked around. So far so good, but the trick with a good lie is not to push. I thought we might go another round or two, but then we'd have to move on. String a lie out for too long and it can trip you up.

My mouth was dry.
How much?
I cleared my throat and tried it again. “How much? Did he give you any idea?”

“Between eight and ten thousand. He says it depends on the stone and whether he thinks there's any secondary market, but he swore he'd be fair.”

“The ring's worth five times that,” I said, indignantly. I knew the ring was imaginary, but it still had sentimental value. Under the circumstance, eight to ten thousand sounded like chickenshit to me.

Henry shrugged. “Check around if you want. There are other jewelers in the building, but as he says, better the devil you know.”

“Maybe. We'll see about that.”

Tommy's expression hadn't changed. He seemed to listen politely, no more and no less interested than any ordinary guy would be.

I felt a trickle of sweat inch down my spine to the small of my back. I pointed and said, “What's in the envelope?”

“Oh. I'm glad you reminded me. I have a present for you.” He passed me the envelope, watching expectantly as I undid the clasp and folded back the flap. Inside, neatly secured with a paper clip, was a handful of bills, presumably Klotilde's.

“Okay, I'll bite. What
is
this?”

“See for yourself. Go on and open one.”

I slid off the paper clip and picked up the first bill, which appeared to be a lengthy itemized list of charges, most of them for medical supplies:

There were roughly thirty items in all. The total was $99.10. None of the charges seemed out of line to me. I glanced at the next statement, a record of therapeutic exercises and physical therapy sessions, totaling 130 minutes over the last few days of July. The box for each day bore the initials
pg,
the therapist who rendered the treatment.

I looked at Henry with puzzlement.

He said, “That whole batch is hers. I came across them this morning and thought you'd be interested. Take another look.”

I picked up the next invoice. This was a claim for portable X-ray equipment, the transport for the portable X-ray, and two X-ray exams, one of the wrist and one of the hand. The total was $108.50. I glanced at the top of the form and then shuffled back through the first two. All three were generated by Pacific Meadows. “I didn't realize she'd been a patient at Pacific Meadows.”

“Neither did I. I showed them to Rosie and she said Klotilde was admitted last spring. Pacific Meadows was one of several facilities where she'd been a patient in the last few years. I don't know if you ever paid much attention, but she'd be hospitalized for something—a fall, pneumonia, that staph infection she picked up. With Medicare, she was only allowed X number of days—I think, a hundred per illness. She was so cranky and disagreeable, a couple of places refused to take her. They just claimed there wasn't room. Are you following this?”

“So far.”

“Check the date services were rendered.”

“July and August.”

Henry leaned closer. “She passed away in April. She'd been gone for months by then.”

For a moment, I let the information sink in. This was the first tangible evidence of financial shenanigans that I'd seen. But how had they managed it? Klotilde must have died at just about the same time the paper audit was being conducted at Pacific Meadows. According to Merry, a substantial number of charts had been ordered for review. Maybe hers wasn't one. I tried to recall the sequence of events whereby deaths were reported to Social Security. As nearly as I remembered, the mortuary filled out the death certificate and sent it to the local office of vital statistics, which in turn forwarded the original to the county recorder's office. The death certificate was then sent to Sacramento, where it was archived and the information sent on to Social Security.

“Henry, this is great. I wonder if there's any way to check it out?” I was of course pondering the notion of persuading Merry to do some snooping for me. I'd have to wait until the coming weekend, which was when she filled in. I didn't think it'd be politic to approach her during regular weekday hours with Mrs. Stegler standing by. Plan B was maybe doing a little search of my own if I could figure out what to look for. I glanced up to find both Tommy and Henry watching me. “Sorry. I was trying to figure out what to do with this.”

Tommy must have decided he'd been polite long enough. His hand settled over mine. His grip was firm and prevented my pulling free without being conspicuous about it. “Hey, Henry. I hate to butt in here, but this lady's promised to buy me dinner. We're just having a quick drink before we walk over to Emile's.”

Henry said, “Well, I better get back to my stew before it starts sticking to the pan.” He flicked a look at me as he rose to his feet. I knew he didn't want to leave me, but he didn't dare persist. At the prospect of his departure, I felt the same desperation I'd felt when I was five and my aunt walked me over for my first day of elementary school. I'd been fine while she lingered, chatting with the other parents, but the minute she left I had a panic attack. Now, I could feel the same roar of anxiety that dulled everything but my longing for her. Henry and Tommy exchanged chitchat and next thing I knew, Henry was gone. I had to get out of there. I tried to withdraw my hand, but Tommy tightened his grip.