"What?"
"This damn shirt. I had a meeting today and the guy on my left spent two hours staring at my chest."
Nick tutted. “I'm shocked and appalled, but mostly envious."
She nudged him with her elbow. “Yeah, all right. So what have you got for me?"
"Some pretty good stuff, actually.” He told her about the family connection. Her jaw dropped open at the mention of Terence Wilson.
"Just great. If we don't pay up he's gonna break my legs or something."
"He's been known to do a lot worse. But I don't think he'd dare."
She gave him a sharp look. “You sound very confident."
"It's been quite a day. Let's start with the dubious claimants."
"Okay."
"When I first looked at the reports, I was struck by how many work in pubs, restaurants, nightclubs.” He indicated the laptop. “From what I can tell, most of them are ultimately employed by Terence Wilson."
"You think Wilson put them up to it? He's trying to profit from his son-in-law's death?"
"That's part of it, at least.” Nick was grinning broadly, a sure sign that there was more to come.
Morag drank some Guinness and wiped her upper lip in an unladylike but effective motion. “Go on then, stop teasing."
"If the claims were fraudulent it would be natural to assume that half these people weren't even on the pier at the time. But the detail in their statements is pretty convincing. Some even have photographs taken in the aftermath."
"All right, so they were on the pier ... oh my God!” She put her hand over her mouth. “That means Wilson had to know in advance."
Nick nodded. “I think he did."
"But if he knew Jimmy was intent on killing himself, why didn't he try to stop it?"
"Let's approach this from a different angle,” he said. “You know there's a really good clue in the policy records?"
She frowned. “You mean the prior accidents?"
"The first one, a car braked suddenly and Jimmy went into the back of him. The second time, he just lost control and skidded into a ditch. What does that suggest?"
Morag answered without thinking. “He wasn't a very good rider."
"Exactly. So how did he manage to negotiate his way along the pier, pull a wheelie, and flip himself into the sea?"
"What are you saying, it wasn't Jimmy on the bike?"
"Correct."
"So who...?"
Nick twisted the laptop round. “Here's the prime candidate."
She leaned forward and read from the screen. “A stuntman?"
"He started off doing special effects, but according to Elaine he's a bit of a thrill seeker."
"He'd have to be, throwing himself into the sea in the middle of winter.” She shuddered at the thought. “So how did he do it?"
"He had a wetsuit and specially adapted breathing equipment hidden under his clothes. Watch this.” He played her the news footage in slow motion. “Look how carefully he hits the water. Acrobatic training."
She eyed him suspiciously. “You're guessing all this, or you know for a fact?"
"I talked to him this afternoon,” Nick said. “He took off the helmet, which had Jimmy's blood smeared in it. Then he swam underwater for nearly a mile and came ashore at Hove. Jimmy was waiting on the beach, also in diving gear. No one would have given them a second glance."
"So Jimmy's not dead at all?"
"He's joined his brother for a taste of Hollywood. Oh, and a twenty-five-year-old wannabe actress he met on holiday last year."
"You men,” said Morag, shaking her head in disgust. “So predictable."
"I could choose to take offense at that,” said Nick primly, but as soon as he caught her eye he laughed.
Morag was still frowning. “Why would you go to such lengths to fake your own death? Why not just quietly disappear?"
"My guess is that Jimmy was too scared. I'll know more tomorrow when I see Wilson. I'm going to suggest that he withdraws the fraudulent claims."
She looked doubtful. “Better just to hand this over to the police, surely?"
Nick shrugged. “How much notice will they take? They might want to speak to Jimmy, especially if he's scammed his life insurance. But there's no solid evidence to implicate Wilson in any of this. Anyway,” he added, “you need much better leverage than that."
"And you've got it? You have, haven't you?"
Nick just winked. She punched his arm, she even promised him a kiss, but he refused to tell.
* * * *
The next morning could have been from a different season: clear skies, a light breeze carrying the fragrant promise of spring, and a temperature in the mid sixties. Crazy climate, Nick thought as he drove into Preston Park.
A few calls had traced Terence Wilson to the racetrack in the northeast corner of the park. Wilson was wearing gray sweatpants, jogging slowly while talking on a mobile phone. A young female assistant trotted at his side, while two of his men followed at a respectful distance. Nick sat on the low wall bordering the track and waited, enjoying the sun on his face.
Wilson rounded the corner, spotted him, and slowed. He handed the phone to his assistant and muttered something to the men behind him. They all hung back, leaving Wilson to approach alone.
"I hope you're here to tell me it's all sorted,” he growled as he sat down.
"Oh, I think it's all sorted,” Nick agreed. “In a fashion.” He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I've identified eleven claimants with a clear link to you. Perhaps you can point out any I've missed."
"What are you playing at?"
"My guess is that Jimmy wanted out of his marriage, but he knew he had to get your blessing, otherwise you'd have hunted him down. His brother came up with the idea of a very public death, something that no one could dispute, but you were the one who saw a way to make money out of it. All you had to do was put some of your staff on the pier at the right time."
Wilson started to protest, but Nick shook his head. “I spoke to Greg Speight yesterday. I asked him not to call you."
"So you could have your little moment of glory?"
Nick smiled. “I suppose so. You know, it was a very audacious plan. If you hadn't been so greedy it might have worked."
Wilson was silent for a moment. Sensing trouble, his men started to advance, but he waved them off.
"Their marriage was over,” he said. “Never mind what she might have told you, it was a grim place to be. But Elaine could never see it. Jimmy came to me, first time he's ever wanted a favor. It hurt like hell to agree, but living like they were ... it wasn't doing either of them any good."
"Plus you realized how a spectacular suicide could bring in a few quid."
Wilson knew better than to comment. “The thing is, I walked out on Elaine's mum, years back, for pretty much the same reason.” He sighed. “I love my daughter, Mr. Randall, same as I loved my wife. But they're a bloody nightmare to live with."
"How's Elaine going to react when she finds out what Jimmy did?"
Wilson nodded grimly. “I'll ring him tonight. Tell him to speak to her."
"Good idea. And the claims?"
"What about them? I've looked into this. Legally, the insurance company still has to pay out, even if it was Greg riding the bike instead of Jimmy."
Now Nick was slightly fazed, while Wilson crossed his arms and regarded him with a complacent smile. “So Jimmy faked his death? Can you prove I had anything to with it? No. Can you link me to any of those claims? No. Can you prove the claims aren't genuine?” He waited, grinned, shook his head slowly. “No."
He clicked his fingers, a throwaway gesture that immediately brought his men to Nick's side, each of them seizing him by the arm.
"I'm bored with this now,” said Wilson, rising to his feet. “Thinking you could outwit me. That's disrespectful."
Nick was abruptly dragged backward, his heels scudding across the running track, and thrown onto the grass. One of the men knelt down and p
inned his arms to the ground, while the other shaped up to kick him in the groin. Wilson had already turned away, beckoning to his assistant to resume where they left off.
"I'll tell her!” Nick shouted. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he didn't have much choice.
Wilson paused. He looked irritated rather than angry.
"I beg your pardon?” he said.
"Elaine will want to know how he did it. The new identity. The false passport. She'll know he had help."
Wilson said nothing, but a muscle twitched below his eye.
"She doesn't need to know it was you,” Nick added gently.
Wilson took a few seconds to absorb this, then signaled for his men to release him. Nick rose to his feet, brushing grass from his suit, trying to control his breathing. He couldn't afford to let Wilson see how scared he was.
"You're proposing a deal?"
"Drop the claims,” Nick said. “It's bad enough that you stood by and let him go. Think how she'd feel, knowing you actually helped him run out on your own daughter."
There was a moment when it could have gone either way, a dark fury in Wilson's eyes that could have spelt death for Nick. And he knew it.
"What are the claims worth, in total?” Wilson asked. “A couple of hundred grand?"
"Maybe.” Nick held the other man's gaze, not even daring to blink.
Then Wilson grunted, half turning away. “Small change, really,” he muttered.
"Compared to losing your daughter, it is. She'll be relying on you to help her get through this."
"I know.” Now he looked genuinely sad. “And that makes me a complete hypocrite."
This from a stalwart of the local Chamber of Commerce who'd almost certainly had two business rivals thrown from the roof of a multistory car park. Nick had to suppress a smile as Wilson thrust out his hand.
"I'm sure you'll cope,” he said.
Copyright (c) 2007 David Harrison
[Back to Table of Contents]
DALLAS HOEDOWN by Diana Deverell
* * * *
Edward Kinsella III
* * * *
Not cheerleader material. FBI Special Agent Dawna Shepherd had always known that about herself. A former basketball star at the University of Texas, she'd wanted to play the game, not rally the fans. Now, in her tenth day in Dallas working undercover as a newly hired medical equipment sales rep, she'd learned she wasn't cut out to sell either. She had the wrong temperament. Her jaws ached from maintaining a pleasing expression rarely required by the Bureau. And her manufactured zeal was fading faster than her smile.
Pale winter sunshine poured through the glass window-wall, warming the room. Dawna stifled a yawn and glanced at the petite brunette sitting to her left. Like the other six women in Dawna's group of new recruits at Nacere Health Management Systems, Whitney Stone was a former cheerleader. Most recently she'd been doing backflips and handsprings for the Dallas Cowboys fans. Now she stared raptly at the speaker, as if she heard destiny calling. Maybe she did. She was the ideal candidate for a career in medical sales.
After all, there are ninety thousand drug and medical equipment sales reps out in the field, all trying to reach the same doctors to make their pitches. Former cheerleaders have a superb track record when it comes to making it through the office door. They rely on exaggerated motions, exaggerated smiles, exaggerated enthusiasm—packaged with good looks and a winning personality. The skills most useful in medical sales are ones learned from the sidelines of college sports.
Dawna's glance flicked to the man sitting on her right. A recent SMU grad, Roc Jefferson had broken all school records for the hurdles. Sunlight glinted off his smooth black scalp, and he winked at her before his dark eyes slid back toward the speaker. A real charmer—and a brilliant salesman. Attractive sports stars ran second only to cheerleaders in the sales arena, which was the reason why Dawna—and the four men in her group—had been hired. The other athletes, however, showed a flair for selling that was contrary to Dawna's law enforcement mindset.
Dawna forced herself to tune back in to the speaker. She felt her little gray cells turning bone white, they were so clean. She'd been brainwashed before, but neither the Lady Longhorn basketball coaching staff nor a long string of FBI experts was a match for this outfit. The parade of marketing people had repeated the corporate message in a relentless drumbeat: Nacere's medical equipment was the best in the industry, Nacere's experience in the use of ambulatory devices was unparalleled in the world, and Nacere's approach to home health care management was a boon to all mankind.
Horse pucky. Dawna knew it. But she had to struggle to keep the facts she'd memorized about Nacere from bleaching away. She suspected that when the other eleven, less-resistant new hires opened their mouths to describe the products, the only words coming out would be those of the sales pitch. The indoctrination was that good.
The mastermind responsible stood in front of her. Kyle Forrester, Nacere's marketing czar, was exhorting the class to tell him the ten reasons why their infusion pump was superior to the one manufactured by the closest competitor.
An energetic thirty-seven year old, the former linebacker for Texas A&M had removed his jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves on his salmon-colored dress shirt, the casual look nicely displaying a hard-muscled torso. He looked good from the rear, too, his fine backside enhanced by the two-inch heels on his eminently touchable ostrich-skin cowboy boots. Forrester's well-toned body was topped by tousled curly hair that matched his dark brown eyes.
He was an altogether pleasing sight, aromatically enhanced by his cologne. The exotic odor hinted at rareness and expense. The scents emanating from Dawna's fellow trainees seemed cheap by comparison.
Did anyone besides Dawna realize how poorly they measured up to the speaker? She peeked again at Whitney. The woman seemed perkily unaware that her Giorgio was failing her. A discreet cough on Dawna's right drew her gaze to Roc. Roc and Dawna had agreed to keep each other cool during the fevered pitching. A friend, he was reminding her to look attentive.
Dawna squared her shoulders, straightened her long, trousered legs, and locked on to the lovely Forrester. That Kyle. What a heartbreaker. Literally.
The heart he'd broken most recently belonged to Dawna's sister, Crystal Gayle Allison, who spent the last three and a half months of her pregnancy with Nacere's infusion device strapped to her thigh, pumping terbutaline through her body to prevent her from going into labor too soon. After eight years trying to have a baby naturally, Crystal and her husband had resorted to in vitro fertilization. She was desperate to take her twins full term.
Happily, Crystal gave birth to two healthy girls. Less happily, one week postpartum her heart began to fail. She narrowly recovered and improved enough to make a heart transplant unnecessary, but she'd never be able to use the frozen embryos she and her husband had saved. They'd wanted more children, but Crystal's heart couldn't stand the strain of another pregnancy.
Big sister Dawna had immediately started trying to find out why things had gone so wrong for her little sister. Quick Internet research led her straight to terbutaline, a drug whose side effects included heart problems. She learned that it was approved by the Food and Drug Administration, the FDA, to treat only asthma. Yet more than half of the prescriptions for its use were to pregnant woman, written by doctors who hoped the drug would prevent preterm labor.
Dawna discovered that such “off-label” prescribing—using a drug in a manner not approved by the FDA—is legal. The American Medical Association, the AMA, estimates that doctors write forty percent of their prescriptions to treat conditions where no rigorous testing has proven the drugs will have the desired effect. Despite that lack, the prescribing doctors believe there's good reason to try the medication, based on what they've read and heard.
Health professionals argue about the safety of off-label prescribing. Each side in the debate has many examples to support its case. Proponents can point out that doctors successfully prescribed
antibiotics off-label to treat ulcers before randomized trials validated that use.
Opponents call the practice a “clinical crapshoot.” They can cite the off-label prescription of certain estrogen replacement therapies to postmenopausal women to prevent heart disease before slow and careful research proved the drugs increased the risk.
Dawna pored over Crystal's medical records. She found that her sister had consented in writing to the use of drugs “outside their labeling.” Crystal hadn't understood what she'd agreed to. Her OB/GYN—now her former OB/GYN—hadn't broken any laws when he prescribed terbutaline. Likely he agreed with the AMA spokespeople who object to waiting years for FDA approval of drugs that appear to be helpful for other ailments. Doctors argue that they decide carefully to use drugs off-label, drawing on peer-reviewed research published in medical journals. No good doctor wants to deprive a desperate patient of cutting-edge pharmaceuticals while waiting for all the data to be assessed.
Except that argument didn't apply to prescribing terbutaline for treating anything but asthma, Dawna decided. She could find no research underway on the effectiveness of terbutaline in prolonging pregnancy. None of the drug companies selling it in generic form were conducting randomized clinical trials. The only Internet references were mealymouthed statements on health Web sites that pointed out the ambivalence and inadequacy of study results, with vague references to the dangers. Darkly, Dawna concluded that the people making the drug didn't want to know if it worked.
When she zeroed in on the method of administration, she found that more than a decade earlier, in 1993, the FDA warned terbutaline pump manufacturers against promoting its use for preterm labor therapy. Marketing a medical product or device for off-label use is illegal, she learned. Against the law, pure and simple.
Precisely what Dawna was looking for. Her daddy Donny Ray Shepherd was a former Texas Ranger and currently police chief of Amity, Texas. If a crime was committed on his turf, Chief Shepherd went looking for the lawbreaker. She'd always done the same.
AHMM, September 2007 Page 6
