Ill Will (28 page)

“He had sickle cell anemia. It’s lifelong, chronic, and can be pretty miserable, painful, and causes infections. My guess is that he fell out of treatment, thought he’d be okay in a day or two, but got worse instead. He may have thought he’d be okay because he was taking this shit.” I tossed the pill bottle at her.

She easily caught it. Softball dyke, I guessed.

I continued, “Want to make people feel better? Like they’re cured? Crank them up. Want to lay odds on whether those things contain some ma huang and speed from below the border?”

“Could be.” She examined the bottle. “It’s not going to make the narco boys happy.”

“Why? Instead of one minor dealer, they have a major illegal drug running operation.”

“Yeah, this stuff is illegal.” She tossed the bottle in the air. “But it’s a slap on the wrist. The company claims that they had no idea how this awful stuff ended up in their perfectly legal supplement. They might pay a fine. End of case.”

“Even if someone died?”

“He took them voluntarily. Maybe if a relative has standing, he can sue the company. Still, it’s all civil, not criminal.” She shrugged. “You can report it to the FDA. They might do something.”

I started to argue, but Officer Ferguson wasn’t responsible. There was no point.

I sighed. “Let me show you where I found these.”

Covering my nose, I hurriedly took her through the house, pointing out where I’d taken everything. As best I could, I tried to remember where each bottle was placed. She noted it down, but seemed to have lost interest. No drug deal, no black-and-white criminal case, just a messy gray area. She poked around in the kitchen and bathroom as if looking for a meth lab, even though she said they hadn’t found meth.

She had no curiosity about the insurance paperwork, but took the pills. After debating for a moment, I left the documents in his office. If they were out of my hands, they were no longer my worry.

Then we were back on the doorstep on this gloomy day. She told me she’d let me know if she needed anything more from me. She kept the bottles and the key.

I slowly walked back to my car, watching her drive away. It shouldn’t be like this. Maybe Reginald Banks had made the wrong choices and those choices had led to his death. But someone had influenced those choices, someone had promised him The Cure. All they gave him was some illegal speed.

A postman was making his way down the block. I watched him as he stopped at Reginald’s place and put some mail in the box.

I started to call out, to tell him that no one was home. But it’s not my tragedy. In a few days he would notice the piled-up mail. Or a relative—maybe an uncle—would come by and claim the letters.

I got back in my car. Then got out again.
Let it go
, I told myself, but after making sure the postman was around the corner, I headed back across the street to the mailbox.
It’s probably junk, it never stops
, I told myself as I raised the lid. Three pieces of junk mail.

And something from his insurance company.

It is a federal crime to tamper with mail. Only if they catch you. I carefully edged open the flap of the envelope, hoping that it would emerge in decent enough condition so it didn’t clearly signal that someone had unfastened it. It was a standard form saying that an office visit had been paid for.

Two days before I’d found him on the verge of death.

I stared at the piece of paper. Another error? There was no way Reginald Banks had been well enough to go or do anything two days before I’d seen him. I carefully refolded the insurance form and placed it back in the envelope, smoothing over the flap, and put it back in the mailbox.

I slowly walked back to my car. This didn’t add up.

Except it did, and not in a way I liked. Eugenia, the other patient, claimed she hadn’t been to clinic visits as often as they’d listed in her charts. Now Reginald Banks’s insurance had paid for a visit he hadn’t made. Mistakes happen all the time. But when the mistakes benefit only one side and not the other, they get suspicious.

It brought up the very disturbing possibility that someone in Cordelia’s current workplace was committing insurance fraud. She wasn’t—couldn’t be—involved. While she
might
do something like let the unlucky fisherman slide by on his brother’s insurance—and she clearly hadn’t done that—claiming patients had received care when they hadn’t would be beyond wrong in her view.

My concern was she could be caught up in ugly ways. She had been placed there by an agency, so didn’t technically work for the group, but I knew at some point there had been talk about her joining them, at least part-time. I have to confess I’ve perfected the art of looking interested while she talked about office politics when my brain was actually elsewhere. Even if she hadn’t joined the practice formally, it might be tempting to forge the signature of the new and possibly temporary doctor on false claims.

The rain had changed from spitting to coming down with all the signs of an imminent downpour. If I drove in typical New Orleans fashion, I might make it back to my office before it was so heavy I’d be drenched going from my car to the door.

Why did I have to open his mail
, I castigated myself as I turned onto Esplanade.
Curiosity has messed up better cats than you
.

As I got to the light at Claiborne, my brain veered back to it maybe being a mistake. I had one drag queen claiming she’d not been to appointments, maybe as a justification for her not following an unpleasant treatment. And an insurance form claiming Reginald Banks had been seen when he clearly could not have been.

Didn’t Lydia mention they had recently fired an administrative worker for dipping into the prescriptions? Maybe she—or he, don’t be sexist—had cooked the books to pay for a habit. But that person had been let go before I searched for Reginald. Maybe she/he was lazy, too and had set up some automatic payment system for patients, one she thought she could get away with. The new people hadn’t caught it yet.

By the time I got to my office, I’d decided that it was probably either an honest mistake or one bad apple who’d already been pruned from the tree. At least I’d pretty much decided that. I just had to quiet the nagging voice in my head. I’ve done some fraud cases, but staring at piles of paper with numbers is my idea of one of the lesser circles of hell, so it wasn’t something I did on anything like a regular basis.

Any decent accounting system should have layers of protection. The person who writes the checks, for example, shouldn’t be the one who signs them. Many places require two signatures, which means at least three people have to be involved in and aware of money being spent.

I rushed through the rain to the door, my key hanging up just long enough to make sure I had a wet spot most places where water could reach. As I climbed the steps, the nagging voice got louder. Unless the accounting system is inexcusably sloppy, it’s hard for fraud to be committed by just one person. How could one low-level receptionist commit insurance fraud and not be caught at it?

Except she had been fired, according to Lydia. Not for a money mess, but drugs. Maybe they didn’t want to admit to the fraud and so just used drugs as an excuse.

But if they knew about the fraud, they’d have to assume that I might find out about it as I stumbled around looking for their patients, especially as the two I searched out had false bills sent in. It would be far better for them to clue me in than have me find out about it like I just had.

Which brought me back to them not being aware of it.

And that brought me back to it could still be going on.

Which led me to Cordelia being somehow caught in the middle of it.

Which all gave me a headache by the time I reached my office door.

This is not your case
, I told myself as I put my key in the lock.

Except my girlfriend might be snared in it. I relocked the door, then flopped in the chair behind my desk.

The girlfriend, partner, lover, who was scheduled to start chemotherapy tomorrow.

Who had cancer that might kill her.

I felt like life had just taken a shotgun and blasted me with it.

No, she said it would be okay. Not easy, not kind. But if they poisoned her enough and irradiated her enough and if she lost enough hair and threw up over and over again, someday it would be over and she would be okay.

If I wanted to stay sane, I had to believe that.

And I also had to only look at the next few steps, the doable, the possible, the daily and mundane. That would get me through day after day until we reached okay.

So I forced myself to do the tedious stuff, returning phone calls that resulted in leaving another message, filing old cases, filling out reports for other things I was working on, sending them out. All the exigencies that pulled me through the day.

Lunch was a quick sandwich I ate because my stomach growled. I called Cordelia, but could only leave a message. She was either at the lawyer’s or with a patient. I wondered how she did it—how she could be one of the sick yet have to put that all aside to take care of the sick?

I remembered Vincent’s e-mail. The meeting was at two p.m.

That should prove distracting. However, I didn’t have a vast wardrobe of pink. I had to settle for a somewhat tight pair of jeans with some rhinestones and a pink breast cancer T-shirt. That was as pink as I could get Debbie without wearing the same dress.

I printed out a copy of his e-mail. The address was out in Metairie. Of course so I had to map my way there. New Orleans proper I pretty much know, but the suburbs just didn’t stick in my brain.

The drive out there wasn’t helped by the now-pouring rain. I was tempted to turn back. It was miserable weather. But also because it was likely that few people would show up, and I didn’t want to risk a tête-à-tête with Vincent.

When I finally found the location, it was in one of those nondescript, sort of modern but made to look old without enough money to really look old buildings. There were a couple of barely-making-it storefronts anchored by a pizza place at one end and a beauty salon at the other. Sandwiched between were a title company, a payday loan place, a convenience store that seemed to do only lottery business, as everything else in the window appeared dusty, and an empty space where there once was a clothing store, as its faded sign proclaimed. Between the empty store and the pizza joint was a staircase. Vincent’s e-mail indicated that the meeting was on the second floor.

I glanced around the parking lot before ascending the stairs. There seemed to be a decent enough allotment of other cars, far more than were in the pizza place. It was possible there would be a larger number of people than just I and Vinnie alone on the second floor. I did bring the big purse, stuffing my gun in the inside pocket. I also put my cell phone in my front jeans pocket. Nine-one-one might be more useful than a bullet.

But my fears were unfounded. Neither bullets nor bracelets would be needed. The room wasn’t packed, but there were about a dozen people there.

I had deliberately—aided by the rain—timed my arrival to get here just as the meeting was supposed to start. Less time for Vincent to flirt. As I had hoped, he was already at the front of the room, adjusting a projector. He did see me and smiled a friendly smile, but was too far across the room to greet me.

I signed in using my fake name and found a seat near the back. I as Deborah would be interested, but a little skeptical, needing to be convinced. I as me wouldn’t be here. And, I decided, she’d really be here for a relative who was ill, hoping for something—like The Cure—that could help.

As I worked through my fake story, I swallowed, then choked on something that went down wrong. The closer they are to the truth, the better lies work. But the truth—I did have a relative who had cancer—felt too intimate and painful to cheapen in a ruse. If I didn’t use Cordelia and her cancer, I’d have to come up with another disease, another story, and one that I knew enough about to make it seem real. I made no decision, just veered between the two choices.

“Hi, everybody. Welcome. We’re glad you could make it through the rain.” The program—sales pitch—had started. I mentally tabled my illness search to pay attention to the show. Three men were at the front of the room, Vincent and two older men. They were all white and it was one of the older men who was speaking. As befitted selling a health product, all three of them were trim and handsome for their age, tanned, and obviously spent time doing physical exercise. The tans suggested golf for the older men.

The speaker explained what Nature’s Beautiful Gift was, pretty much a repeat of what was on the web page. The slides kept him on track. He mostly parroted what was on them, rarely adding anything. He wasn’t a great speaker, and after I’d already read what was on the screen it was hard to listen to him read it slowly.

I glanced around at the audience. It seemed more comprised of people who needed a job than true believers. About three-fourths of the people here were women, either middle-aged or young—newly divorced or just starting out. Two of the younger women seemed to be paying more attention to Vincent than to the speaker, so I gathered he was generous with his flirtations. I considered whether Deborah would be upset or relieved and finally went with my instincts that she was old enough to be mostly relieved. That also took into account my acting skills—I doubted I could be convincing at being jealous of young women who teased their hair. The few men—I counted four—were harder to peg. Needing a second job? Here with their wives/girlfriends? One was old enough that he probably needed to supplement his Social Security. Two were sitting next to women, so could be with them.