The phone rang again. This time his eyes didn't even flicker, so I went right on. "You think she married him for his money?"
He considered the question briefly and then shook his head. "I wouldn't say that. I think she genuinely loves the guy, but she's been poor all her life. She wants to make sure she's safe just in case something happens to him."
"What about the rumors of an extramarital affair on her part?"
"You'd have to ask Dana. She's the one who spotted that piece of shenanigans. I prefer to steer clear."
"Did Dr. Purcell say anything to suggest he might flee?"
Joel shook his head. "I don't remember anything of the kind. Is that the direction the police are leaning in?"
"Well, they can't rule it out. Apparently, his passport and a substantial sum of money are missing."
Joel stared at me as though trying to take that in. "If he ran, he'd have to continue running for the rest of his life."
"Maybe that's not as bad as the alternative. From what you say, he was feeling desperate."
"Exactly. He was horrified at the prospect effacing criminal penalties."
"I talked to an attorney who thinks it wouldn't be that bad. He might have to pay restitution, but he wouldn't go to jail."
"That wasn't his perception. He was deeply depressed. The government's getting tough. He knew they might well decide to make an example of him. More than anything we're talking about the loss of face, something I'm not sure he could handle." He paused, moving four pencils from one side of his table to the other.
I saw his gaze shift. "What's going through your mind?"
He shook his head. "Something I haven't dared say to anyone else. It crossed my mind – after seeing him that day – he might have been thinking of doing himself in. He was trying to cover his distress, but it might've been too much. He wasn't sure Crystal would stick with him once the scandal came to light. You have to ask yourself just how despondent he was and how far he'd go to get relief. I should have asked how he felt. I should have done what I could to reassure him, but I didn't."
"Joel?"
We both turned to find Dana standing in the doorway.
"Harvey's on line two. This is the second time he's called."
"Sorry. I better get this."
"Sure, go ahead. I appreciate your time. It's possible I'll want to talk to you again at a later date."
"Any time," he said. He stood up when I did and the two of us shook hands across his desk. By the time I reached the door, he'd picked up the phone.
Dana walked me to the elevator with its two-person capacity, the interior about the size of the average telephone booth. I could have run down the stairs in the time it took. During its slow, whirring descent, I said, "What's the story on Glint Augustine?"
"Simple. For the six months Augustine rented from us, Dow would go off to work and the next thing you know, Crystal would come sneaking out her backdoor, through the trees, and into the cottage. She'd be there an hour or so and then slip back home. Meanwhile, Rand minded the baby, taking him for endless walks around Horton Ravine. It got to be the talk of the neighborhood." We reached the first-floor foyer.
"Couldn't there be another explanation?"
Dana's smile was jaded. "Maybe they were having tea."
Santa Teresa Hospital – St. Terry's – is located on the upper west side, a neighborhood once devoted to open farmland, working vineyards, dairies, and stables, all with sweeping views to the mountains on the northern edge of town. Early black-and-white photographs of the area show wide, dusty roads, shanties flanked by groves of citrus and walnut trees, all leveled long ago. It's a world that appears curiously bald and flat: rural expanses planted with pampas grass and star pines that look like mere sprigs. A few unpretentious structures from that era remain, tucked like vintage treasures among modern-day buildings. The rest – churches, the original county courthouse, the wooden boarding houses, the dry goods establishment, the early mission, the trolley car barn, and numerous snazzy three-story hotels – were razed by intermittent earthquakes and fires, Nature's demolition crews.
It was not quite two o'clock when I parked on a side street and walked a block and a half to St. Terry's front entrance. The wind had picked up and the trees seemed restless, stirring uneasily. Occasionally a miniature rain shower would shake loose from the upper branches. The very air seemed gray and I was happy to pass into the hospital lobby through the sliding glass doors that parted at my approach. On my left, the coffee shop was sparsely occupied by hospital employees and visitors. I inquired at the information desk and was given directions to the office of the Director of Nursing Services. I passed a ladies' restroom and made a brief detour before I continued my quest.
I found Penelope Delacorte in a small private office with a window looking out onto the street. Overhead fluorescent lights contrasted sharply with the gloom outside. She was seated at her desk, using her pencil point to trace the lines of print on a photocopied memorandum.
When I knocked on the doorframe, she peered at me above a pair of half-glasses with tortoise-shell frames. She was in her early fifties, at that stage where she hadn't quite decided whether to dye her graying hair. I pictured her in arguments with her hairdresser, unsure of herself when it came to permanent versus temporary rinses. They likely also argued about the cut; Penelope clinging to the shoulder-length page boy she'd probably been wearing for years. Her bangs were too short and I wondered if she chopped them off herself between appointments. She removed her glasses and set them aside. "Yes?"
"You're Ms. Delacorte?"
"Yes." Her attitude was cautious, as though I might be on the verge of serving her with papers.
"Kinsey Millhone," I said. "I'm a private investigator here in town and I've been hired to look into Dr. Purcell's disappearance. May I have a few minutes?"
Without much in the way of encouragement, I'd entered her office, slipped off my rain garb, and eased myself into the chair near her desk. My shoulder bag and the slicker I left in a pile at my feet.
Penelope Delacorte got up and closed her office door. She didn't seem happy with my presence. She was close to six feet tall, slim, conservatively dressed – a navy blue coat dress with small brass buttons up the front. Her low-heeled navy blue pumps were plain and looked vaguely orthotic, as though prescribed for fallen arches or excessive pronation.
She sat down and put her hands in her lap. "I'm not sure what I can tell you. I was gone by the time he... went missing."
"How long did you work for Pacific Meadows?"
"I was the administrator there for the past eight years, until August 23. I worked with Dr. Purcell for the last forty-seven months of that." Her voice, like her manner, was carefully modulated, as though she'd set her internal dial to "Pleasant."
"I thought he was the administrator."
"His title was Medical Director slash Administrator. I was the Associate Administrator, so I suppose you're correct."
"Can you tell me why you left?"
"Genesis, the management company that oversees the operation of Pacific Meadows, received notification that Medicare was conducting a rigorous audit of our records."
I raised my hand. "What prompted them to do that? Do you have any idea?"
"Probably a complaint."
"From?"
"One of the patients, a guardian, a disgruntled employee. I'm not sure what it was, but they seemed to know what they were doing. Apparently, the clinic was suspected of any number of violations, from overpaying our suppliers to submitting false or inflated claims for services. Dr. Purcell was in a panic and blamed the bookkeeper, Tina Bart, which was absurd and unfair. Ms. Bart was working for Pacific Meadows before I arrived and she was faultless in her performance. I went to bat for her. I wasn't going to let them push it all off on her. She didn't make the decisions. She didn't even pay the bills; Genesis did that. She processed purchase orders and prepared the room-and-board bills for each resident, including central supply, therapy, anything ot
her than medication. This was Medicare, Medicaid, HMOs, private insurance, and private pay. The same information crossed my desk as well. She didn't generate the paperwork. She forwarded what she was given."
"Why isn't Genesis considered responsible for the problem if they pay the bills?"
"We supply them the information. As a rule, they don't stop to verify the data, nor did Ms. Bart."
"But she was fired, anyway."
"Yes, she was, and I turned in my notice the very same day. I was determined to file a complaint with the Labor Relations Board."
"What was their response?"
"I never got that far. I had second thoughts and decided not to go through with it. Tina Bart didn't want to make a fuss. She was as reluctant as I was to call attention to Dr. Purcell's situation."
"His situation?"
"Well, yes. We're all fond of him. He's a darling human being and a wonderful doctor. If he didn't have a head for business, that wasn't an actionable offense as far as we were concerned. I'm being candid in this. He just had no clue when it came to the Medicare rules and regulations – which items were billable and which would automatically be disallowed, co-payments, deductibles, claims for fee-based services. I grant you, it's enormously complicated. Make one mistake – god forbid you put a code in the wrong place or leave even one window blank – and the form comes right back at you, usually without a hint about where you've erred."
"But Dr. Purcell didn't do the billing."
"Of course not, but it was his job to review the TARs –"
"The TARs?"
"The Treatment Authorization Requests. He was also responsible for reviewing CPT codes and approving the cost of any ancillary services or DME's. I have to emphasize, he was always genuinely concerned and very innovative when it came to patient care and well-being –"
"You don't have to work so hard to defend the man," I said. "I'll take your word for it. What I hear you saying is when it came to the day-to-day management, he was incompetent."
"I suppose, though it seems too strong a word."
"Didn't Glazer and Broadus realize what was going on?"
"It wasn't their place. They purchased the property from the previous owner, did extensive improvements, financed and built the annex. The rest was up to Genesis and Dr. Purcell. Please understand, this is just my personal opinion, but I've worked with a number of doctors over the course of my career. It almost seems that the better a man is at the practice of medicine, the worse he is at business. Most of the doctors I know have a hard time admitting this about themselves. They're used to being gods. Their judgment is seldom questioned. They have no awareness of the limits they face, so they're easily duped. They may have medical knowledge, but often not an ounce of common sense when it comes to money management. At any rate, I didn't mean to digress. I'm just trying to explain how Dr. Purcell could have gotten himself into such a mess."
"Didn't you explain it to him?"
"On numerous occasions. He seemed to listen and agree, but the errors continued to accrue."
"But if you suspected he was screwing up, couldn't you have gone to the operating company yourself?"
"Over his head? Not if I wanted to keep my job."
"Which you lost, anyway."
Mrs. Delacorte pressed her lips together, color warming her cheeks. "I felt compelled to resign when Ms. Bart was fired."
I said, "Do you think Dr. Purcell was intentionally cheating the government?"
"I doubt it. I can't see how he'd benefit unless he had some covert arrangement with Genesis or the various providers. The point is, Dr. Purcell was on the premises. Genesis wasn't, and neither were Mr. Glazer or Mr. Broadus. It was his responsibility and ultimately, he's the one who'll be held to answer."
"What do you think happened to him?"
"I can't answer that. I was gone by then."
"I'm still not clear why you didn't file a complaint. If Tina Bart was unlawfully terminated, wouldn't that constitute a legitimate grievance?" She was silent and I could see her struggle with her reply. "I suppose we were both reluctant to get into a public battle."
"With whom?"
"With anyone," she said. "Employment opportunities are limited in Santa Teresa. Talk travels fast, especially in medical circles. Despite the number of doctors, there are only three hospitals. Jobs at my level aren't easy to find. My roots here go deep. I've been in town close to thirty years. I can't afford to be labeled a troublemaker or a malcontent. You might consider that fainthearted, but I'm a widow with an aging mother to support. Now I think I've given you all the information at my disposal so if you'll excuse me..." She began to fuss with papers on her desk, lifting a stack and tamping the edges to even them up. Red patches, like moral hives, had begun to appear on her neck.
"Just one more thing. Where did Tina Bart end up?"
"You're the detective. You figure it out."
Chapter 10
* * *
When I got back to the office, I picked up a message slip on which Jeniffer had written, "Richard Heaven called. Pleas return his call." I could actually feel my heart begin to thump as I moved down the corridor to my office and unlocked the door. I hadn't expected to hear from him until Wednesday at the earliest. I dumped my shoulder bag on the desk and snatched up the telephone. I got a wrong number twice before I realized that Jeniffer had inverted the last two digits in the number she'd so laboriously copied. I reached Richard on the third try, saying, "Richard. Kinsey Millhone returning your call."
"Oh sure. Thanks for calling me back. How're you?"
"Fine. What can I do for you?"
"Uh, well, listen, I've been through the rest of these applicants and none of them panned out. Bunch of bums out there. The place is yours if you want it."
"Really? That's great. I'm really happy about that. When can I take possession?"
"I'm heading over there now. If you have a few minutes, maybe you could give me a check. That's $1,675 with the cleaning deposit, made out to Hevener Properties."
"Sure, I could do that. I'm just across the alley. The building I'm in now looks right down on yours."
"I didn't realize that. Why don't you join me in a bit and as soon as the lease is signed, I'll give you the key." Like many people, he seemed to be uncomfortable discussing money, and I wondered how much experience he had in landlord-tenant relationships.
"What time?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes?"
"I'll see you shortly. And thanks."
As soon as I hung up I did a little dance of joy, my attention already darting forward to the practicalities of moving. Fortunately, I'd never completely unpacked in the three years since I'd landed at Kingman and Ives, so that would save time. Desk, chair, daybed, phony ficus plant. This was going to be a snap. I could park in my own spot a mere fifteen steps from my office door. I could eat lunches at the table on the redwood deck...
I opened my closet door and hauled out the top two boxes, looking for my tape measure, which I found at the bottom of the second box. The tape was one of those heavy-duty metal suckers with a reel-back so fast it would slice off your little finger if you didn't watch yourself. I tucked it in my shoulder bag, grabbed a yellow legal pad and pencil, made sure my message machine was on, then shrugged into my slicker and walked to my brand-new digs. I felt like skipping and then I wondered if kids ever did that these days.
I was already feeling extraordinarily possessive as I trotted along the driveway from the rear of the lot. While I could see the bungalow from Lonnie's office, I had to go halfway around the block and cut down the alleyway to reach the place. There were lights on throughout the bungalow and by hopping up just once, I caught a glimpse of the CPA who occupied the front office. I'd have to take a moment to introduce myself when time allowed. I rounded the corner, noting a sedate-looking dark blue sedan that I assumed belonged to the CPA. Tommy's black pickup was parked two slots down.
Once inside the backdoor, I was careful to wipe my feet on the shaggy cotton door
mat provided for that purpose. The door to the back office was standing open and I could smell fresh paint. I peered in and found Tommy on his hands and knees, touching up the baseboards with a brush and a can of white latex paint. He flashed me a quick smile and continued with his work. He was wearing a khaki green coverall, and I was struck again by the vibrancy of the picture he presented. By day, his red hair carried glints of copper and a sheen of pale freckles seemed to make his skin ruddy.
I said, "Hi. How are you?"
"Doing good. Thought I'd get this finished while I had the chance. I hear you're the new tenant."
"Well, it looks that way. Richard said he'd meet me over here to do the paperwork." There was something nice about the fact that his attention was fixed on the job in front of him. It allowed me to study his shoulders and the soft reddish hair on his forearms where his sleeves were rolled up. I could see the lines in his knuckles where a fine bleed of white paint still clung to his skin. The hair along the back of his neck was in need of cutting and curled haphazardly.
He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Thought maybe you left, you're so quiet back there."
"I'm here." I moved over to the window just to have something to do. "The deck's great." Really, I was wondering if he had a girlfriend.
"I built that myself. I was thinking to add some trellising, but it seemed like overkill."
"Looks nice as it is. Is that redwood?"
"Yes ma'am. Clear heart. I don't like cheap materials. Richard bitches about that, but I figure in the end it'll save us money. Anything cheap, you end up doing twice."