The Fredricksons didn’t live that far from me, and he’d probably be delighted to have me in and out of his place in the paltry fifteen minutes I had to spare. I picked up my clipboard with the notes I’d taken during my chat with his wife. My anxiety level was way up, but I had to focus on the task at hand.
The drive from my office to the Fredricksons’ naturally entailed being caught by any number of red lights. At the intersections controlled by stop signs, I’d do a quick visual survey, making sure there were no cop cars in evidence, and then I’d roll on through without bothering to stop. I turned onto the Fredricksons’ street, parked across from the house, and made my way to the front door. I nearly lost my footing on the algae-slick wooden wheelchair ramp, but I caught myself before I went down on my butt. I was pretty sure I’d wrenched my back in a way I’d have to pay for later.
I rang the bell and waited, expecting Gladys to come to the door as she had on my earlier visit. Instead, Mr. Fredrickson opened the door in his wheelchair with a paper napkin tucked in his shirt collar.
“Hello, Mr. Fredrickson. I thought I’d pop in a few minutes early, but if I interrupted your lunch, I can always come back in an hour or so. Is that better for you?” I was thinking please, please, please, but I didn’t actually clasp my hands in prayer.
He glanced down at the napkin and removed it with a tug. “No, no. I just finished. We might as well get started as long as you’re here.” He rolled himself back, made a two-point turn, and pushed himself as far as the coffee table. “Grab a chair. Gladys is off at rehab so I’ve got a couple hours to spare.”
The notion of spending two hours with the man made the panic rise anew. “It won’t take me that long. A few quick questions and I’ll get out of your hair. Is this seat okay?”
I was busy stacking magazines and mail that I moved to one side so I could sit on the couch where I’d sat before. I heard a muffled barking from a back room, but there was no sign of the bird so maybe the dog had had a nice lunch as well. I took out my tape recorder, which I hoped still had juice. “I’ll be recording this interview the same way I did with your wife. I hope you’re agreeable.” I was already punching buttons, getting properly set.
“Yes. Fine. Anything you want.”
I recited my name, his, date, time, subject matter, and other particulars talking so fast it sounded like the tape recorder was operating at twice its normal speed.
He folded his hands in his lap. “I might as well start at the beginning. I know how you people are…”
I flipped through the pages on my yellow legal pad. “I have most of the information here so all I need is to fill in a few blanks. I’ll be out of here shortly.”
“Don’t hurry on my account. We have nothing to hide. Her and me had a long talk about this and we intend to cooperate. Seems only fair.”
I dropped my gaze to the reel turning in the machine and felt my body grow still. “We appreciate that,” I said.
The phrase “we have nothing to hide” echoed through my frame. What came immediately to mind was the old saying “The louder he proclaims his honesty, the faster we count the silver.” His aside was the equivalent of someone beginning a sentence with the phrase “to be perfectly honest.” You can just about bet whatever comes next will be straddling the line between falsehood and an outright lie.
“Any time you’re ready,” I said, without looking at him.
He related his rendition of the accident in tedious detail. His tone was rehearsed and his account so clearly mimicked what I’d heard from her that I knew they’d conferred at length. Weather conditions, seat belt, Lisa Ray’s abruptly pulling into his lane, the slamming on of brakes, which he accomplished with his hand control. Gladys couldn’t possibly remember everything she’d told me, but I knew if I spoke to her again, her story would be amended until it was a duplicate of her husband’s. I scribbled as he spoke, making sure I was covering the same ground. There’s nothing worse than running into an inaudible response when a tape is transcribed.
At the back of my mind I was fretting about Gus. I had no idea how I’d get the financial data back where it belonged, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I nodded as Mr. Fredrickson went on and on. I made sympathetic noises and kept my expression a near parody of interest and concern. He warmed to the subject as he proceeded with his narrative. Thirty-two minutes later, when he started repeating himself, I said, “Well, thanks. I think this about covers it. Is there anything else you’d like to add for the record?”
“I believe that’s it,” he said. “Just a mention of where we were going when that Lisa Ray woman ran into us. I believe you asked my wife and it’d slipped her mind.”
“That’s right,” I said. He fidgeted slightly and his voice had changed so I knew a whopper was about to escape his lips. I leaned forward attentively, pen poised over the page.
“The market.”
“Ah, the market. Well, that makes sense. Which one?”
“That one on the corner at the bottom of the hill.”
I nodded, taking notes. “And the trip was to buy what?”
“Lottery ticket for Saturday’s draw. I’m sorry to say we didn’t win.”
“Too bad.”
I turned off the tape recorder and anchored my pen in the top of my clipboard. “This has been a big help. I’ll stop by with the transcript as soon as I have it done.”
I drove back to my place without much hope. It was 2:45 and Solana and Gus would probably be back from the doctor’s office. If Solana went into the living room and spotted the empty cubbyhole, she’d know what I’d done. I pulled up in front of my place, parked the car, and scanned the cars on both sides of the street. No sign of Solana’s. I could feel my heart rate accelerate. Was it possible I still had time? All I needed was to nip inside, shove everything back in the desk, and make a hasty getaway.
I put my car keys in my bag and crossed Gus’s grass, following the walkway to the back door. The checkbook register and the savings passbook were in the bowels of my bag. I had my hand on the documents as I climbed the back steps. I could see the note for the Meals on Wheels volunteer still taped to the glass. I peered in the window. The kitchen was dark.
Ten or fifteen seconds was all I required, assuming the goon wasn’t waiting for me in the living room. I took out the key, inserted it in the lock, and turned it. No deal. I held the knob and wiggled the key, by way of coaxing. I looked down in puzzlement, thinking Henry’d given me the wrong key. Not so.
The locks had been changed.
I moaned to myself as I headed down the stairs double-time, worried I’d be caught when I hadn’t actually accomplished anything. I cut through the hedge between Gus’s backyard and Henry’s, and let myself into the studio. I locked my door and sat down at my desk, panic rising in my throat like bile. If Solana realized the check register and passbook were missing, she’d know I’d taken them. Who else? I was the only one who’d been in the house except for the fellow in the bed. Henry’d been there a couple of days before so he’d come under suspicion as well. The dread in my gut felt like a bomb about to go off, but there was nothing to be done. I sat quietly for a moment until I’d caught my breath. What difference did it make now? What was done was done and as long as I was screwed, I might as well see what my thievery had netted me.
I spent the next ten minutes looking at the figures in Gus’s bank accounts. It didn’t take an accountant to see what was going on. The account that had originally held twenty-two thousand dollars had been reduced by half, all of this in the space of a month. I flipped back through the earlier pages of the passbook. It looked like Gus, in his pre-Solana days, was making deposits of two to three thousand dollars at regular intervals. His check register showed that since January 4, money had been transferred from the one savings account into his checking account with a number of checks then written to Cash. None of the canceled checks were available for inspection, but I’d have bet money his signatures were forged. At the back of the passbook, I ca
me across the pink slip to his car that must have migrated from its proper file. To date, she hadn’t transferred ownership from his name to hers. I reviewed the numbers with a shake of my head. It was time to quit cocking around.
I pulled out the phone book and turned to the listings for county offices. I found the number for the Domestic/Elder Abuse Telephone Hotline, which I couldn’t help but notice spelled the word “DEATH.” It had finally dawned on me that I didn’t have to prove Solana was doing anything abusive or illegal. It was up to her to prove she wasn’t.
22
The woman who answered the phone at the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse listened to my brief explanation of the reason for my call. I was transferred to a social worker named Nancy Sullivan and I ended up having a fifteen-minute conversation with her while she took the report. She sounded young and her phone manner suggested she was asking questions from a form she had in front of her. I gave her the relevant information: Gus’s name, age, address, Solana Rojas’s name and description.
“Does he have any known medical problems?”
“Lots. This whole situation started with a fall that dislocated his shoulder. Aside from the injury, it’s my understanding that he suffers from hypertension, osteoporosis, probably osteoarthritis, and maybe some digestive problems.”
“What about signs of dementia?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that. Solana Rojas reports signs of dementia, but I haven’t seen any myself. His niece in New York talked to him on the phone one day and thought he sounded confused. The first time I went over, he was sleeping, but when I stopped by the next morning he seemed fine. Crabby, but not disoriented or anything like that.”
I went on, giving her as much detail as I could. I didn’t see a way to mention the financial issues without admitting I’d snitched his bankbooks. I did describe his shakiness earlier that day and Solana’s report of a fall, which I hadn’t personally witnessed. “I saw the bruises and I was horrified at how thin he is. He looks like a walking skeleton.”
“Do you feel he’s in any immediate danger?”
“Yes and no. If I thought it was a life-or-death matter, I’d have called the police. On the other hand, I’m convinced he needs help or I wouldn’t be on the phone.”
“Are you aware of any incidents of yelling or hitting?”
“Well, no.”
“Emotional abuse?”
“Not in my presence. I live next door to the guy and I used to see him all the time. He’s clearly old, but he managed to get around fine. He used to be the neighborhood crank so it’s not like any of us were close to him. Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What happens now?”
“We’ll send out an investigator in the next one to five days. It’s too late to get anything on the books until first thing Monday morning, and then someone will be asked to look into it. Depending on the findings, we’ll assign a caseworker and take whatever action seems necessary. You may be called on to answer additional questions.”
“That’s fine. I just don’t want his caregiver to know I was the one who blew the whistle on her.”
“Don’t worry. Your identity and any information you give us is strictly confidential.”
“I appreciate that. She might make a guess, but I’d just as soon not have it confirmed.”
“We’re well aware of the need for privacy.”
In the meantime, come Saturday morning, I had other business to take care of, chiefly locating Melvin Downs. I’d made two trips to the residence hotel without results and it was time to get serious. I took the Missile off-ramp and swung over to Dave Levine Street. I parked around the corner on the side street, passing the same used-car lot I’d seen before. The converted milk truck/camper offered at $1,999.99 had apparently been sold and I was sorry I hadn’t stopped to take a closer look. I’m not a proponent of recreational vehicles, in part, because long-distance driving isn’t a means of travel I find amusing. That said, the milk truck was adorable and I knew I should have bought the damn thing. Henry would have let me park it in the side yard and if I’d ever found myself in financial straits, I could have given up my studio and lived in style.
When I reached the hotel I took the porch steps two at a time and went in the front door. The foyer and downstairs hall were empty so I took myself to Juanita Von’s office first floor rear. I found her shifting the past year’s files and financial records from the cabinet’s drawers to a banker’s box.
“I just did that,” I said. “How are you?”
“Tired. It’s a pain, but it has to be done and I do enjoy the feeling of satisfaction afterwards. You may be in luck this time. I saw Mr. Downs come in a while ago, though he could have gone out without my noticing if he used the front stairs. He’s a hard one to catch.”
“You know what? I really think I’ve earned the right to talk to him even if it is upstairs. This is my third trip over here and if I miss him this time, you’ll have to explain yourself to the attorney who’s handling this case.”
She considered my request, taking her time about it so it wouldn’t appear she was moved by the threat. “I suppose just this once. Hold on a second and I’ll walk you up.”
“I can manage it,” I said. Secretly, I was longing for the opportunity to snoop. She was having none of it, perhaps imagining I ran a drop-in hooker service for down-at-heel old men.
Before she left the office she paused to wash her hands and locked up her desk against the possibility of thieves. I followed her out of the office and toward the front door, responding politely as she pointed out features along the way. She began to climb the stairs, pulling herself along by the handrail. I stayed two steps behind her, listening to her labored breathing as we reached the second floor.
“This sitting area on the landing is where the tenants gather of an evening. I provide the color television set and I ask them to be considerate about what they watch. Can’t have one individual making all the choices for the group.”
The landing was large enough to accommodate two couches, a wide-armed upholstered chair, and three smaller wooden chairs, all with padded seats. I pictured a bunch of old guys with their feet on the coffee table, commenting on sports and cop shows. We turned to the right into a short corridor at the end of which she showed me a big glass-enclosed sunporch and a laundry room. We went down two steps to a hallway that extended along the length of the house. All the room doors were closed, but each had a small brass slot with a card in it, printed with the name of the occupant. I watched the brass numbers climb from 1 to 8, which meant that Melvin Downs’s room was probably at the rear of the building, near the top of the back stairs.
We rounded the corner and started up the next flight. It felt like it took six minutes getting from the first floor to the third, but eventually we reached the top. I sincerely hoped she didn’t intend to hang around to supervise my conversation with Downs. She accompanied me to his room and had me step to one side while she knocked on his door. She stood politely, with her hands crossed in front of her, giving him time to assemble himself and answer the door.
“Must have gone out again,” she remarked, as though I wasn’t bright enough to figure that out myself. She tilted her head. “Hold on a minute. That might be him now.”
Belatedly, I caught the sound of someone coming up the back stairs. A white-haired man appeared, carrying two empty cardboard wine boxes, one tucked inside the other. He had a long face and pointed elfin ears. Age had eroded channels in his face, and there were deep creases worn into each side of his mouth.
Juanita Von brightened. “There you are. I told Miss Millhone it might be you coming up the stairs. You have a visitor.”
He was wearing the rumored black wing tip shoes and the brown leather bomber jacket I’d heard about before. I felt myself smiling and realized until now, I hadn’t been convinced that he existed at all. I held my hand out. “How are you, Mr. Downs? I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m delighted
to catch up with you.”
His handshake was firm and his manner friendly, underlaid with an element of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I know what this is about.”
Mrs. Von stirred, saying, “I’ll get back to my work and leave the two of you to talk. With respect to the house rules, I don’t allow young ladies to visit in the tenants’ rooms with the doors shut. If you’ll be more than ten minutes, you can have your conversation in the parlor, which is more appropriate than standing in the hall.”
I said, “Thanks.”
“No trouble,” she said. “Long as I’m up here, I’ll look in on Mr. Bowie. He’s been under the weather.”
“Fine,” I said. “I know my way out.”
She moved down the stairs and I turned my attention to Downs. “Would you prefer to talk in the parlor?”
“The bus driver on my route told me someone had come around asking questions about me.”
“That’s all he said? Well, I’m sorry if I took you by surprise. I told him he could fill you in.”
“I saw a flyer that said something about a car crash, but I’ve never been in one.”
I took a few minutes to go through my oft-repeated tale about the accident, the lawsuit, and the questions we had about what he’d seen at the time.
He stared at me. “How did you manage to locate me? I don’t know anyone in town.”
“That was a stroke of luck. I distributed flyers in the neighborhood where the collision occurred. That must have been one of the ones you saw. I included a brief description, and a woman called me saying she’d seen you at the bus stop across from City College. I called MTA, got the route number, and then chatted with the bus driver. He was the one who gave me your name and address.”
“You go to this much trouble for something that happened seven months ago? That can’t be true. Why now, after all this time?”