"T" is for Trespass (24 page)

Vernon Waibel was a bit more friendly than Melvin's third-floor neighbor, who'd shut the door in my face. Like Downs, Waibel was in his fifties. He had dark brows and dark eyes. His gray hair was thinning and shaved close, as though to anticipate the baldness to come. Like someone facing chemotherapy, he preferred taking charge of the hair loss himself. His skin was tawny, his neck creased from exposure to the sun. He wore a multicolored cotton sweater in earth tones, chinos, and moccasins without socks. Even the tops of his feet were brown. I wondered how he managed to tan if he seldom went out. I saw no evidence of disability, but that wasn't my concern.

I went through the usual, hi-how-are-you stuff. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Depends on what you want.”

“I understand Mr. Downs moved out. You have any idea where he went?”

“You a cop?”

“Private detective. He was supposed to be deposed as a witness to an automobile accident and I need to track him down. He's not guilty of wrongdoing. We just need his help.”

“I got a little time to talk if you want to come in.”

I thought about Juanita Von's rule about no women visitors in a tenant's room with the door shut. She and I were such good friends by now I thought I'd risk her disapproval. “Sure.”

He stepped back and I passed in front of him. His room was not as large as Downs's, but it was cleaner and it had a lived-in feel to it. The furnishings had been augmented with personal items: two plants, a sofa with throw pillows, and a quilt folded over the iron bedstead. He gestured toward the only upholstered chair in the room. “Take a seat.”

I sat down and he settled on a plain wooden chair nearby. “You the one put that flyer out about him?”

“You saw that?”

“Yes, ma'am. I did and so did he. Made him nervous, I'll tell you that.”

“Is that why he left?”

“He was here and now he's not. Draw your own conclusions.”

“I'd hate to think I was the one who scared him away.”

“I can't speak to that, but if you're here to ask questions, you might as well get to 'em.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not well. We watched television together, but he never said much. Nothing personal, at any rate. We're both fans of that channel that runs the old movie classics.
Lassie, Old Yeller, The Yearling
—things like that. Stories that broke your heart. That's about all we had in common, but it was enough.”

“Did you know he was leaving?”

“He didn't consult me, if that's what you mean. Neither one of us was looking for a friend, just someone who wouldn't hog the TV when we were hell-bent on hogging it ourselves.
Shane
was another movie he liked. Times we'd be sitting there bawling like babies. Pitiful, but there you have it. Feels good to have a reason to let it all hang out.”

“How long have you known him?”

“The five years since he moved in.”

“You must have learned something about the man.”

“Surface stuff. He was good with his hands. TV went on the blink, he'd tinker until he got it up and running again. He had a knack for anything mechanical.”

“For instance?”

He thought briefly. “The grandfather clock in the parlor quit running and Mrs. Von couldn't find anyone to come take a look. She had a couple of numbers for clock-repair guys, but one was dead and the other had retired. Melvin said he wouldn't mind having a go at it. Next thing you know he had it working again. I'm not sure he did us any favors. Middle of the night, I can hear it all the way up here. Times I can't sleep, I count every chime. Four times an hour—it's enough to drive me insane.”

“What'd he do for a living?”

“Beats me. He didn't volunteer information of that type. I live on disability so maybe he thought I'd feel bad, him working and me not. He was paid in cash, I know that much, so it might have been something under the table.”

“Someone suggested yard work or maybe household repairs.”

“I'd say more skilled, though I couldn't tell you what. Small appliances, electronics, something like that.”

“What about family?”

“He'd been married once upon a time because he mentioned his wife.”

“You know where he was from?”

“Nope. He did say he had some money saved and he had his eye on a truck.”

“I didn't think he drove. Why else would he take the bus back and forth across town?”

“He had a license, but no vehicle. That's why he was in the market for one.”

“Sounds like he meant to hit the road.”

“Might have.”

“What about the tattoo on his hand? What was that about?”

“He was an amateur ventriloquist.”

“I don't get the connection.”

“He could throw his voice, like that Señor Wences guy on the old
Ed Sullivan Show
. He'd flatten his thumb along his index finger and make it move like a mouth. The red in the web between his index finger and his thumb were the lips and the two dots on the knuckle were the eyes. He made like she was a little pal of his named Tía—“Auntie” in Spanish—the two of them talking back and forth. I only saw him do it once, but it was funny. I found myself talking to her like she was real. I guess everybody's got a talent of some kind, even if it's an act you lifted from someone else.”

“Had he been in prison?”

“I asked him about that once. He admitted he served time, but he wouldn't say what for.” He hesitated, easing a sly peek at his watch. “I don't mean to cut you short, miss, but I got a program about to come on and if I don't get down there, the other fellows on the floor will be all over the set.”

“I think that about covers it. If you think of anything else, could you give me a call?” I found a business card in my bag and gave it to him.

“Sure thing.”

We shook hands. I slung my bag across one shoulder and moved to the door. He stepped ahead of me and opened it like a gent.

He said, “I'll just follow you down the hall since I'm headed that way.”

We'd nearly reached the landing when he said, “If you want my opinion?”

I turned and looked at him.

“I'd bet you dollars to doughnuts, he didn't leave town.”

“Why?”

“He had grandsons.”

“I heard he wasn't allowed to see them.”

“Doesn't mean he didn't find a way.”

 

As it turned out, the investigator for the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse was the very same Nancy Sullivan I'd spoken to on the phone, which I learned when she appeared in my office on Friday afternoon. She must have been in her twenties, but she looked a scant fifteen. Her hair was shoulder-length and straight. She had a plain, earnest air about her, leaning forward slightly in her chair, feet together, while she explained what she'd learned in the course of her investigation. The jacket and midcalf skirt she wore looked like they'd been ordered from a travel clothing catalog, a wrinkle-free fabric you could wear for hours on a plane and later wash in a hotel sink. She wore sensible low-heeled shoes and opaque stockings through which I could see evidence of spider veins. At her age? That was troubling. I tried to picture her in a conversation with Solana Rojas, who was so much older, smarter, and wiser in the ways of the world. Solana was cunning. Nancy Sullivan seemed sincere, which is to say clueless. No contest.

After an exchange of pleasantries, she told me she was filling in for one of the investigators usually assigned to evaluate cases of suspected abuse. As she spoke, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. She went on to say she'd talked to her supervisor who'd asked her to do the preliminary interviews. Any follow-up queries deemed necessary would be referred back to one of the regular investigators.

So far it sounded reasonable, and I was politely nodding away like a bobble-head doggie on an auto dashboard. Then, as though by extrasensory perception, I started hearing sentences she hadn't actually said. I felt a small thrill of fear. I knew for a pluperfect fact she was going to drop a bomb.

She took a manila folder from her briefcase and opened it on her lap, sorting through her papers. “Now my findings,” she said. “First of all, I want to tell you how much we value the call you made…”

I found myself squinting. “This is bad news, isn't it?”

Startled, she laughed. “Oh, no. Far from it. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. I talked to Mr. Vronsky at length. Our procedure is to make an unannounced visit so the caretaker won't have an opportunity to set the scene, so to speak. Mr. Vronsky wasn't ambulatory, but he was alert and forthcoming. He did seem emotionally fragile and in moments, he was disoriented, none of which was surprising in a man of his age. I asked him a number of questions about his relationship with Mrs. Rojas, and he had no complaints. In fact, quite the contrary. I asked him about his bruises…”

“Solana was present through all of this?”

“Oh, no. I asked her to give us time alone. She had work to do so she went about her business while we chatted. Later I talked to her separately as well.”

“But she was in the house?”

“Yes, but not in the same room.”

“That's happy news. I trust you kept my name out of it.”

“That wasn't necessary. She said you told her you were the one who called.”

I stared at her. “You're kidding me, right?”

She hesitated. “You didn't tell her it was you?”

“No, dear, I didn't. I'd have to be out of my mind to do such a thing. First words out of her mouth and she's bullshitting you. That was a fishing expedition. She made an educated guess and looked to you for confirmation. Bingo.”

“I didn't confirm anything and I certainly didn't tell her who called. She mentioned your name in the context of the dispute because she wanted to set the record straight.”

“I'm not following.”

“She said the two of you had an argument. She says you distrusted her from the moment she was hired so you were constantly on her case, coming over uninvited to check up on her.”

“That's crap for starters. I'm the one who did the background investigation that cleared her for the job. What else did she tell you? I'd be fascinated to hear.”

“I probably shouldn't be repeating this, but she mentioned that the day you saw Mr. Vronsky's bruises, you accused her of hurting him and threatened to call the authorities to file a complaint.”

“She invented that story to discredit me.”

“Perhaps there was a misunderstanding between the two of you. I'm not here to judge. It's not our job to mediate in situations like this.”

“Situations such as
what
?”

“People sometimes call when a question comes up about patient care. Usually it's a disagreement between family members. In an effort to prevail…”

“Look, there was no disagreement. We never had a conversation on the subject at all.”

“You didn't go to Mr. Vronsky's house a week ago to help her get him out of the shower?”

“Yes, but I didn't accuse her of anything.”

“But wasn't it after that incident you called the agency?”

“You know when it was. You're the person I spoke to. You said the call was confidential and then you gave her my name.”

“No, I didn't. Mrs. Rojas brought it up. She said you told her you were the one who turned her in. I never responded one way or the other. I would never breach confidentiality.”

I slouched down on my spine, my swivel chair squeaking in response. I'd been screwed and I knew it, but I couldn't keep pounding on the same point. “Skip it. This is dumb. Just get on with it,” I said. “You spoke to Gus and then what?”

“After I spoke with Mr. Vronsky, I had a conversation with Mrs. Rojas and she gave me some of the specifics of his medical status. She talked about his bruises in particular. His anemia was diagnosed when he was in the hospital, and while his blood count's improved, he's still prone to bruising. She showed me the lab reports, which were consistent with her claim.”

“So you don't believe he's being physically abused.”

“If you'll bear with me, I'm getting to that. I also talked to Mr. Vronsky's primary-care physician and the orthopedist who treated him for his shoulder injury. They say his physical condition's stable, but he's frail and unable to manage on his own. Mrs. Rojas said when she was hired, he was living in such filth she had to get a Dumpster…”

“What's that have to do with it?”

“There are also questions about his mental competence. He hasn't paid his bills in months and his doctors both feel he lacks the capacity to give informed consent for his medical treatment. He's also unable to see to his daily needs.”

“Which is why she's able to take advantage of him. Don't you get that?”

Her expression became prim, nearly stern. “Please let me finish.” She shifted some papers uneasily. Her earnestness returned as though she were moving on to a far brighter note. “What I hadn't realized, and you may not have been aware of this yourself, is that Mr. Vronsky's situation has already come to the attention of the court.”

“The court? I don't understand.”

“A petition for appointment of a temporary conservator was filed a week ago, and after an emergency hearing a private professional conservator was assigned to manage his affairs.”

“A ‘conservator'?” I felt like a half-witted parrot, repeating her words, but I was too astonished to do much else. I sat upright and leaned toward her, gripping the edge of the desk. “A
conservator?
Are you nuts?”

I could tell she was flustered because half of the papers slid from her manila folder and spilled out across the floor. In haste, she bent down and swept them into a pile, trying to talk while she gathered everything together. “It's like a legal guardian, someone to oversee his health care and his finances…”