by Lori L. Lake
Monique led Leo to a cubicle that was papered high and low with posters and magazine pictures from the Harry Potter movies. A man in a wheelchair sat typing at the computer. When he heard them, he spun the chair effortlessly. She guessed his age to be somewhere in the late twenties. His broad shoulders filled out a white polo shirt, and he wore gray linen slacks and shiny black oxfords with red socks. His nearly black hair was trimmed short. Tanned, freshly shaved, and smelling of expensive cologne, he sat grinning, his teeth straight and white. She was struck by how handsome he was and immediately wondered what had happened to put him in the wheelchair. She wasn't about to ask, though.
"Monique, what brings you to Potterville?" He glanced at Leo with interest.
"Did Ralph or Fred mention Leona Reese—"
"No, they didn't. And where is Fred, the shirker, today?" He raised both hands and made quote marks in the air. "Out sick?"
"Um hmmm. Ms. Reese—"
"Please," Leo said, "call me Leona."
"Leona, this is Thom Thoreson. He does investigations and is very good at intake and data analysis. Thom, Leona is our new investigator."
"Temporarily," Leo said.
He held out a hand and shook with her. "So you're the new gal stuck with Old Balderdash."
Monique said, "Thom's the one who runs the Investigation Unit up in Duluth. He does the intake and forwards the cases. He provides all the stats to the team and to management." Monique touched Leo on the shoulder. "I have to return to my post guarding the front office from wanderers and thieves, but I guarantee Thom will take care of you."
Leo thanked her and turned back to Thom.
"Yes," he said, "I guess you could say that I'm Fred's counterpart. Except I go out in the field as much as I can. So tell me, Leona, what did you do to deserve this cherry assignment?"
"Long story," she said. "I could ask you the same thing. I heard you got pulled from Duluth. How long will you be in town?"
"Long as it takes."
"I don't seem to have any cases," Leo said, "except the one Mr. Baldur assigned to me Tuesday. Have you got a few minutes to hear about it?" She sketched out the details of the case, falling into cop-speak at times, but that didn't slow Thom down. He asked a series of questions, and quickly understood the whole scope of the case.
"Everyone's been cooperative?" he asked.
"So far. I've barely started interviewing the residents and staff. Mr. Baldur hasn't given me much information about how to handle the cases."
"Did he acquaint you with that new invention the department acquired well over a decade ago, the computer?"
"There's one in the office, but I don't have any passwords."
"Figures. Okay, let's get you set up." He looked something up on his computer and paused a moment to write on a Post-it note. "Show me the way to your sumptuous digs." She led him to her cubicle where he gave her instructions on how to log in to the computer.
"Here's your password."
Leo tacked the Post-it to the side of the screen. When she opened up the department's internal intake program, she was shocked to see over two hundred blinking entries that Thom informed her needed action.
"Here's how it all works," he said. "I take phone call complaints, receive police reports in the mail, and also get occasional e-mail complaints from the DHS web site. I evaluate each piece of information based upon departmental guidelines and create an intake form for each complaint if it passes muster. We've got northern and southern offices who do the same, but we're often shifting reports and cases back and forth."
"How many come in each day?"
"Oh, maybe sixty."
"Wow, that's quite a lot."
"We classify each one by priority. See there." He pointed at a numerical column next to all the blinking entries. "One's are, of course, Priority One. Two, Three, and Four fall in decreasingly important categories. Click on the box at the top that reads Summary. Okay, see right there? You've got 6 Priority One, 33 Priority Two, 84 Priority Three, and 104 Priority Four for a total of 227."
Leo restrained herself from groaning. Was this the "paperwork" Fred Baldur had referred to yesterday? "How do I know what to do here?"
"Click to the previous page and select any random item." A new screen opened showing boxes neatly filled in with data. "This Priority Two item, for instance, is based upon a report from an administrator at a halfway house. See the details at the bottom? They've suspended an employee for physical abuse of a client. The admin people are telling us witnesses support the allegations. Since the clients are out of harm's way, it's not a Priority One, but it's still a Priority Two because there's a police report."
"When the cops get called, even if it's minor, it pops it up higher in the queue?"
"It depends. In a case like this, usually when the provider makes the report and the police get involved, you can handle it over the phone. On the other hand, if the report came in from a program participant, and the people at the halfway house weren't being cooperative, then you'd go out and do the whole official investigation."
"How the heck can anyone keep up?"
"We don't. We've got a backlog so deep, we'll never catch up. Even when we're at full staff, we don't have enough manpower to get by. Every two years the legislature further limits or cuts funding while they add more types of transgressions we're supposed to investigate. It's a losing battle. We're constantly out of compliance."
"Sounds like what happens to us cops on the street."
"I can only imagine."
"You'll have to forgive me, Thom, but my head's spinning. I've spent yesterday and today focusing on one single case, and now I find out I have 227."
"If the old Gamble-holic were here, he'd be knocking down some of this. A lot of it requires a simple phone call or two in order to complete the finalized report. Priority One and Two are the real pills. Most of them are big headaches."
Speaking of headaches, Leo's had grown worse. All she wanted to do was get up and walk out. She definitely never signed up for this mess. Writing her police reports was as far as she wanted to go with paperwork. "How do I begin to handle all this?"
"You don't. Let Fred do it. You both have access to this same database, so you can print out the ones that need a personal appearance. He should be here doing that right now. Some of these are a week old, but I don't recall any of them being huge crises, not like the one you got yesterday."
"So I should work through these twenty-six Priority Ones and make decisions?"
"No, I don't think so. You ought to finish with the murder case first. Maybe you can clear that up today?"
Leo let out a guffaw. "I wish. Unless the police get a break in the case, I don't think that one can be cleared up easily."
"At some point, you have to make a decision as to whether someone should be cited. Do you think the facility should be closed?"
"I don't know. I've got no experience with this."
"Does it seem like the staff had anything to do with the death?"
"Can't be sure yet. I've only talked with a few of them."
"First rule, as far as these cases go, is to talk to the provider and their staff as quickly as possible. If you have access to the complainant, try to see him or her first, but you want to get a quick feel for the licensee and everyone officially involved as well."
"Nobody mentioned that, so I've spent time with others, rather than with the staff so far."
Thom tugged at the collar of his polo shirt. "Tough call, then."
"I'll hit the place after lunch and interview all of them. In the meantime, what happens if an emergency is reported? An attack or another murder or something like that?"
"It's often hard to get through on the office line. Tell you what, give me your cell number, and if any critical cases come in the door, I'll call you."
"Great," Leo said. "It's a relief to have you as a contact in the office. Monique already gave me your phone number in case I had questions today. I was trying to meet with Mr. Sorenson to g
et more direction, but now I'll tell her I don't need to."
"He's not going to be much help. Ralph's role is political—ornamental, really. He's about as useful as a Buddha in front of a Chinese restaurant, except in his case, you can't even rub his stomach for good luck." With a braying laugh, Thom wheeled backwards out the door and was gone.
Leo stared at the blinking cases on the computer screen and wondered once again what the hell she'd done to deserve this situation.
For the next half hour, she reviewed Priority One and Two cases until, bleary-eyed and hungry, she decided it was time for an early lunch. She stuffed the printouts in her valise and left in search of a peaceful restaurant, preferably one without a Buddha.
Chapter Eight
ELEANOR SINCLAIR STUCK her key in the tiny mailbox slot and opened the door. Nothing. She re-locked it and frowned at the vacant reception desk behind her. A foot-tall stack of letters, magazines, circulars, and catalogs had overflowed the wooden inbox and cascaded across part of the counter.
She was sorting the items into neat piles by apartment number when Rowena Hoxley came through the front door.
"Eleanor," she said breathlessly. "Hello. How are you today? Oh, goodness, the mail. I'm sorry I didn't get to it sooner."
"It's been crazy."
"Yes, it sure has." Rowena went into her cubbyhole, dropped her purse on the desk, and returned. She seemed less scattered than she had the day before. Her blonde curls were tamed in place, and her face was no longer gray and haggard. She still had bags under her eyes, but for the time Eleanor had known her, that seemed typical.
"Don't bother with that," Rowena said.
"I've got it all separated out to put in the mailboxes now."
"Thank you. You didn't have to do the sorting, but I certainly appreciate it."
"I wanted to check through it. I need my mail, but I haven't been getting any, not even junk mail."
"I wonder if there's a problem at the post office."
"I'll have to check with them. On a different topic, do I make arrangements with you regarding Callie's situation?"
Rowena looked away, obviously uncomfortable. "You mean moving her things and so forth?"
Eleanor nodded. "And terminating the lease. I'll probably be moving out."
Rowena paused, a handful of mail slipping from her hand. As she squatted and picked up letters from the floor, she said, "Callie's passing terminates her lease on the first of the month unless the family would like to extend the provisions to give time for handling her things. But remember the terms of the contract? For you, the lease you signed stays in full force until it expires, unless you leave for a new facility due to health reasons."
Eleanor vaguely remembered those provisions she and Callie had agreed to, but she'd never imagined that either of them would die so soon before the first lease period ended. The weight of this complication settled on Eleanor's chest, and she felt weak for a moment.
"I'm sorry," Rowena said. "I don't handle the contract end of things. I'd cut you some slack if I could. You'll want to talk to the business office. I can get you their business card."
"No, no, that's all right. I have that information."
Eleanor went to her apartment. The police had taken down the crime-scene tape from her doorway. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't sleep in her own bed again. The police had hacked up the mattress looking for trace evidence. But she wouldn't have the heart anyway. Callie had died there. Without her, Eleanor didn't want to stay at Rivers' Edge any longer than she had to. She stepped into the front walk-in closet, went to a four-drawer filing cabinet, and removed the Rivers' Edge file. She located a sweater, got her bag from Callie's apartment, and left.
On the way out of the parking lot, she thought about how grim the world had become. Despite the pleasant early fall weather, the sun in the western sky seemed too hot, too unrelenting. At a stoplight, she fished around in her bag for sunglasses but couldn't find them. She had no idea where they could be, no sense of where any of the necessities of her life were. Everything was a jumble.
What should she do first? Go to the Plymouth office and straighten out the housing mess? Or stop by the church and check in again with Father Jason? Or should she visit the local post office and ask if they were holding her mail in error? She had no desire to deal with bureaucrats. She'd already spent a contentious morning with Howard and Father Jason at the church, and now she hardly had the energy to deal with anything but the most pressing items.
She decided to go to Plymouth.
Entering the Rivers' administration building gave Eleanor a strange sense of déjà vu. The last time she'd been in the building, Callie had sat on the end of the brown leather sofa, her flowered purse in her lap. She'd been happy that day—excited to be touring apartments and meeting new people. Callie had always been so friendly, so outgoing. People naturally flocked to her, to the kindness in her eyes and her open smile.
Eleanor's eyes welled up, and she fought back the tears. No good would come of her breaking down in the foyer. She had tasks to do, matters to take care of. Soon enough she could fall completely apart, but first things first. At the reception desk, she cleared her throat and called out softly.
The woman who came through the doorway was a blonde whom Eleanor had never seen before. "How may I help you?" she asked.
Eleanor outlined the situation while the woman listened, her green eyes serious.
"Are you saying you wish to move at the end of September?"
"Yes," Eleanor said. "After what's happened, I have no desire to stay at Rivers' Edge. So what do I do?"
"Give me a moment." She went through the doorway into the office, leaving Eleanor standing at the counter.
When she returned, she had two file folders in hand. "I'm afraid that you're in a tricky situation, Mrs. Sinclair. Technically, your lease runs through December."
"I'm aware of that. I'd like to break it as soon as I find new accommodations."
"Given the circumstances, I do understand." She opened both folders and arranged them next to one another on the counter. "Do you have authorization to close out Mrs. Trimble's affairs?"
"Would you like to see the power of attorney document?" She reached into her bag, but the woman stopped her.
"That won't be necessary. I see that you're listed here in the paperwork as next of kin." She scribbled some notes on the inside of the manila folder and looked up. "I can't be sure about the cleaning fee or the deposits until I speak to the manager. I'll let you know about that." She slid a business card across the counter.
"You're Ms. Ryerson?"
"Yes. But please call me Claire. You can contact me with any questions that Rowena Hoxley can't answer. I visit each of the apartment buildings during the first week of each month for a general walk-through and submit a monthly report to Martin—Mr. Rivers, I mean. I'll be over to Rivers' Edge on the first or second, so if you're still there, I can touch base with you then about the monetary angle. Otherwise, call me when you're ready to move, and I'll work out the details with you."
"Are you saying I won't be responsible for rent on the two apartments once I move? The lease is waived?"
"Yes. If you stay into October, I'll pro-rate the days. You won't owe after you move."
With relief, Eleanor said, "Thank you. I appreciate your help."
Claire Ryerson smiled, her teeth even and shiny. "Let me know if you have other questions."
Eleanor put the business card in her bag and turned to go.
"Mrs. Sinclair?"
Eleanor paused. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry for your loss."
With a terse nod, Eleanor spun and made for the door, tears brimming over. She couldn't get to the car fast enough. Oh, God, she thought. Please, please, God...
She put her forearms on the steering wheel, leaned forward, and let the sobs come.
Chapter Nine
LEO ARRIVED AT Rivers' Edge shortly after one o'clock, intent on interviewing every aide, every employee,
even if it meant driving to the houses of those who weren't on duty.
The first aide who wandered into view was Silvia Garcia, but she had no light to shed upon the situation. Silvia wouldn't say a bad word about anyone. She'd been at a Vikings preseason football game with her husband and two other couples, which she claimed the police had already verified. Leo also learned that Ernesta Campion, who usually worked the late morning/early afternoon shift four days each week, was on vacation.
Silvia strode off toward the laundry room, and Leo returned to the front foyer where Franklin Callaghan sat immersed in his newspaper.
"Anything exciting to report, Mr. Callaghan?"
He peered over the top of the Star Tribune. "Not a blessed thing."
"Have you seen Mrs. Hoxley today?"
"Not since early in the morn. Say, lass, you can call me Franklin. No need to be so formal around here."
"Great. And I'm Leona."
With a nod, he went back to his paper.
An aide Leo hadn't seen before rounded the corner from the east wing. She wasn't much over five feet tall and wore horn-rimmed glasses above a sour expression. Her smock, covered in purple and blue flowers, clashed with her rust-colored pants.
She didn't give a glance to either Franklin or Leo, but Leo stepped in her path to flag her down. "Are you Hazel Bellinger?"
"Yeah. Who wants to know?" She squared her shoulders and gazed up at Leo in defiance. Her hair was bleached blonde, but Leo noted dark roots. She had a heart-shaped face, and once upon a time, she was likely to have been quite attractive. Now she was barrel-bodied, wrinkled from too much suntanning, and resembled a cranky troll.
