Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  Before Vincent and I could introduce ourselves, Peters gestured enthusiastically at two chairs and said, “You look a bit younger than our normal clientele, so I’m guessing you’re here on behalf of a parent or grandparent.”

  “Actually,” I said, arranging myself in one of the chairs, “we’re here about renting something for ourselves.”

  “Either you’ve both aged very well, or you don’t realize this is a home for the elderly,” he quipped, chuckling.

  We laughed politely at his joke, and then Vincent managed to make an introduction before Peters spoke again. Our host flicked his eyes toward the badge Vincent displayed, but he quickly returned his focus to me. He tilted his head sideways in concentration, his stare more curious than leering, and I got the distinct impression that he was trying to place me.

  Vincent shrugged, raised an eyebrow at me, and put away his badge.

  I decided to take over since I obviously had the man’s attention.

  “Mr. Peters,” I said, “we’re investigating a workers’ comp fraud case involving a suspect in the environs of this establishment, and we were hoping to talk to you about renting a room where we could base our surveillance. On an upper floor, facing west.”

  “Well, let’s just see what we can do.” Peters flashed another smile and swiveled his chair so he faced his computer. He unearthed his keyboard from beneath a behemoth stack of papers, dropped the pile onto the floor, and began typing busily.

  “Never can remember my password,” he muttered without looking up. He tapped a few more keys, paused, tapped again. “Nope. Don’t know why they insist on passwords. Who’s going to hack an old folks home? Maybe it was…. Ah! Victory! I’m in.”

  He beamed in triumph.

  “Now, what was it you needed?” he asked, still focused on the screen. “Oh, right. West-facing room…which direction is west?”

  Vincent pointed, but Peters didn’t look up to see the gesture, so he clarified. “Facing away from the highway.”

  “Oh, okay,” Peters said, still fiddling with the keys. “Wow, we’re pretty full up. I don’t know….”

  “The Department of Insurance will pay for the room,” I assured him, in case that might help him find a vacancy. Money could be a great motivator.

  Peters’s fingers froze on the keyboard, and for the first time, he looked away from the screen. The happy was sucked right out of his face. He pressed his lips together in a slight grimace.

  And then he grinned again.

  If I hadn’t been watching him carefully, I would have missed the aberration in his expression altogether. What was all that about?

  “Ah,” he said in a carefully jovial tone. “Then you are acquainted with Ted Insley.”

  “He’s our boss,” I confirmed.

  Peters pulled his hands away from the keyboard, tucking one under his opposite armpit and pulling distractedly at an ear with the other. “Ah, well, Ted and I go way back. So far back, he might not even remember me. We knew each other back in the Stone Ages.”

  “Did you go to school together?” I asked, hoping that nostalgia might work where money had failed.

  “No, no,” he said, offering us a wavering smile. “We worked together in the mayor’s office.”

  Peters looked studiously back at the computer, his expression shuttered. He tapped some more keys and made negative noises under his breath. “Unfortunately, I cannot fulfill your request. No apartments that fit your needs are available.”

  He swiveled away from the monitor, giving me a direct look, and shrugged apologetically.

  I glanced at Vincent and saw my confusion mirrored in his expression.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “There’s nothing. I checked.”

  “Isn’t there a way to work something out? Sublet from a resident?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Peters said as he apparently thought over the question. “I don’t think it’s ethical for me to ask an elderly person to give up their home, do you?”

  I tilted my head, studying Peters. The transformation in his demeanor was minute, so subtle in fact that I could have imagined it. He still spoke politely, but his welcome and affability seemed forced now. And the metamorphosis had started with the mention of Ted Insley.

  “Is there some reason you don’t want to work with the Department of Insurance?” I asked.

  Peters ignored the question.

  “I do apologize for making your jobs more difficult,” he said, sounding and looking sincere, totally guileless. “But I cannot ask someone to vacate their home. Helping the less fortunate was my mandate when I was appointed to this job, and I take my duties seriously.”

  My head drew back slightly in surprise, and I cut my eyes toward Vincent. I hadn’t expected Peters to respond in quite that fashion. His sudden emphasis on mandates—not to mention his agitation—bewildered me. “We don’t intend to push anyone from their home,” I assured him.

  “Yes,” Vincent added, “I think you may have gotten the wrong impression. We—”

  “I’m sorry, folks,” Peters said, reaching across the messy desk for the folder he’d been holding when we entered. “But you’ll have to find somewhere else to set up your operation. We cannot accommodate you.”

  With a firm swing of his legs, Peters swiveled his chair so he faced away from us and deliberately opened the folder.

  We all froze in the tableau—Peters making a great pretense of reading and Vincent and me trying to figure out what had happened.

  Finally, Vincent stood, opened the office door, and gave me a quick shrug.

  “What was that all about?” I asked when the door clicked shut behind us.

  “Not sure,” Vincent said, following me as I wandered back into the main lobby. “He seemed intent on misunderstanding our offer. He seemed to think we were asking him to oust a resident. He was going to help us, and then Ted’s name came into it.”

  I made a mental note to look into their connection. For now, though, we needed a new plan. We had found the one and only view into Blissett’s yard, and Peters didn’t seem eager to help us make use of it.

  I looked around at the busy lobby, taking in all the people who rented apartments in this building. Surely, someone here would be interested in making a little extra money.

  “You know,” I said, drawing out the phrase. “Peters said he didn’t feel comfortable asking a resident about a sublease….”

  Vincent finished my thought. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t.”

  Nine

  Vincent and I had a new plan, a nice, legal one. After all, each apartment in Dowell Heights was technically a private residence, so even Peters himself couldn’t forbid us from approaching individual residents about a temporary sublet. We just needed to find a willing participant.

  I looked around the overflowing lobby, my eyes wandering over the elderly inhabitants.

  As Vincent and I entered the main sitting area, a small, white-haired woman crossed into my field of vision. I followed her surprisingly fast progress and suddenly realized who she was.

  A genuine smile stretched my lips.

  “Mrs. Twilley?” I murmured.

  Vincent’s head whipped up.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “Of all people….”

  “Mrs. Twilley!” I called across the room, and the older woman turned abruptly just as she reached the door.

  Beside me, I heard Vincent muffle a groan.

  “Can’t we find someone else?” he asked, retreating a step behind me.

  I grinned at the memory of little old Mrs. Twilley slamming Vincent’s fingers in her front door.

  “What?” I began, recalling Vincent’s words earlier in the elevator. “Don’t tell me you have a Twilley-phobia. Afraid the little spitfire might hurt you? Again?”

  “Ha, ha,” he returned dryly.

  As if to prove he wasn’t intimidated by the tiny woman, Vincent stepped from behind me.

  “You’re Mrs. Twilley,�
�� I said as we approached her.

  “Yeah,” returned the spitfire, eyeing us with suspicion. “Who wants to know?”

  “It’s me,” I said, coming closer. Vincent followed bravely, but I couldn’t help noticing that he tucked both hands in his trouser pockets.

  “Do you remember me? I’m Julia Jackson, and this is Mark Vincent. We’re with the Department of Insurance. We met last fall about the mix-up with your great-aunt’s remains.”

  “Oh, yes, I recall you now,” she said, squinting between us with watery eyes. “Didn’t expect I’d ever see you two hooligans again.”

  “Are you living here?” I asked, concern for her rising in my gut.

  The last time we’d seen Mrs. Twilley, she was living independently in a small house, and her situation seemed to indicate that she had enough income to remain there until her health required her to make other arrangements.

  “Here? Goodness, no,” Mrs. Twilley said with a quick shake of her white head. “I’m here doing my godly duty by visiting an old person for church. Do it every week. It’s my good deed, just in case I need some extra credit with Saint Peter when my time comes.”

  I would have laughed at her calling someone else an “old person,” but Mrs. Twilley was deadly serious.

  “Your friend wouldn’t happen to have an apartment facing that way,” Vincent said—rather timidly, I thought. He extracted a hand from his pocket and pointed in the direction of Randy’s place. “Preferably on a high floor,” he added.

  Mrs. Twilley’s eyes narrowed.

  “Why would you need to know that?” she demanded.

  “We’re with the DOI, remember,” I said as Vincent removed his badge from his belt and carefully extended it toward her.

  I nearly laughed out loud at his ginger gesture. He looked like he expected her to break his wrist in some sort of ninja maneuver.

  “We’re here investigating a fraud suspect, and we need to get a better view into his backyard,” he explained, cautiously drawing away from the old woman when she finished looking at the badge. “And this is the only building tall enough.”

  “Oh, really?” Mrs. Twilley asked, sounding wily. “Any money in it?”

  “The DOI is prepared to pay a fair rate,” I said.

  “In that case, I’ll go ahead and tell you that he’s got a penthouse apartment,” Mrs. Twilley said, her eyes brightening. “But I’m not sure which way it faces. I get all turned around in here. Besides, I don’t think he’s going to just let you come in to look out his window.”

  Mrs. Twilley’s tone carried an undeniable shrewdness, causing me to shoot Vincent a quick look. She was about to fleece us; I could feel it coming already.

  “If it’s the right location, we’d make it worth his trouble,” Vincent replied.

  I chewed my lip, hoping we could actually make good on that proposition. Offering a fair rate was one thing, but Ted wouldn’t like it if we actually made it worth the resident’s trouble. Of course, it was partly Ted’s fault that we were considering bartering with Mrs. Twilley in the first place.

  “Do you remember the apartment number?” I asked.

  “1066,” she said.

  Based on what I’d seen from our walk around the place, that apartment might have potential.

  “Would you ride up and introduce us?” Vincent asked, sending me a somewhat pained look over the older woman’s head.

  “I suppose so,” Mrs. Twilley said. She probably meant to sound hesitant and coy—a sales tactic—but instead she sounded excited, as if she were about to undertake an adventure.

  We escorted her back toward the elevator, and I grabbed the brass bar again as we vibrated and lurched upward. I made a desperate attempt to focus on the conversation and keep my mind off riding in a death trap.

  “So what’s this all about, anyway?” Mrs. Twilley asked. “I didn’t think it was legal to spy on someone, even for cops.”

  “Our surveillance is legal, I assure you,” Vincent said.

  Mrs. Twilley lowered her eyebrows. “That doesn’t tell me anything. I need to know what I’m getting my friend into, don’t I?”

  “The suspect has been getting workers’ comp payments from the state for years, and we’re trying to prove that he is physically capable of working.”

  “So some guy is faking sick and getting paid for it?” she summed up. “That’s disgraceful. I know plenty of decrepit old people who could use money and don’t get a dime.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” Vincent replied.

  “Well, in that case, I’m in,” Mrs. Twilley proclaimed, stepping out of the elevator and charging down the hall toward apartment 1066. “Plus, I’m all for legal spying.”

  I watched her go with a bemused smile.

  Mrs. Twilley was on the case.

  God help us all.

  She rapped on the door of apartment 1066 and shouted, “Sydney! It’s me again.”

  The door whipped open to reveal a man nearly as short as Mrs. Twilley, but where she was powdery and pale, he was dark and dusky. And he looked twice as shrewd.

  “What is it, old woman?” he demanded. “Didn’t I whip you at chess already today? Twice?”

  “Irrelevant,” Mrs. Twilley barked. “I’ve brought some people to meet you. They need our help spying on someone.”

  Sydney looked up at us, cocking his head sideways.

  “I don’t go for that kinky stuff,” he said, turning back to Mrs. Twilley. “I done told you that already.”

  “Oh, stop being such a pervert and listen,” she said, barreling her way into the room despite the fact that she hadn’t been invited.

  Sydney shook his head at her and sighed.

  “Old crow,” he said in a tone that blended frustration and affection. “Can’t do nothing with her. Now what is it you want?”

  Vincent presented his badge to Sydney and briefly explained who we were and what we wanted to do. Sydney studied the badge and listened, but his face gave nothing away until he returned it.

  Apparently, we passed the old man’s test because he gestured us inside, where Mrs. Twilley waited, one foot tapping on the industrial carpet that covered the floor.

  Sydney’s studio apartment was small, cluttered, and comfortable. More important, it had a window facing Randy’s house. Vincent and I walked across the room to check it out while Mrs. Twilley and Sydney talked quietly, their heads close together, no doubt plotting their bargaining strategy.

  “We’ve got a decent view into the backyard,” Vincent said to me. “At least until the trees bloom.”

  Most of Randy Blissett’s property was visible from this vantage point. The roofline blocked a small strip right beside the house, but we could see the majority of the yard.

  “Yeah,” I agreed and then looked over my shoulder at the older couple. “You know they’re going to try to take us for all we’ve got, don’t you?”

  Vincent’s grin turned subtly devious. “Poor Ted.”

  “He’s not going to be happy, but we do need this view,” I said, looking back down at Randy’s place. I squinted, hoping I might see some activity, but the yard appeared empty. It would have been nice if Randy had obliged us by digging a pool with a pickax right about then.

  “Sydney, where are your manners?” Mrs. Twilley asked loudly, jarring me from my thoughts. “You never offered your guests a glass of tea. It is customary, you know.”

  Then, quieter, I heard her add, “It’ll butter ’em up, and they’ll offer you more money.”

  “Shush, old woman,” Sydney hissed back. “We want them assuming I’m an innocent old fart.”

  Vincent grinned at me and whispered, “And here comes the hard sell.”

  “Looks like it,” I said, returning his smile. Even being on the wrong end of their con, I couldn’t help admiring their zeal.

  God, I hoped I was that feisty when I was a senior citizen.

  “So how’s the view?” Sydney asked casually as he joined us at the window.

  “Work
able,” Vincent hedged, obviously bluffing about our interest for the sake of the game.

  “Uh-huh,” Sydney said skeptically. “How much is that ‘workable’ view worth to you?”

  So much for the game.

  I cut my eyes to the older man. He didn’t mess around.

  “Twenty dollars a day,” Vincent said, “until we have what we need.”

  “Pfft,” Sydney huffed. “It’ll take way more than that. I live here, and the place ain’t exactly the Taj Mahal, you know. You two will be a huge disruption to my business schedule.”

  Mrs. Twilley arrived, carrying two glasses of iced tea, and added, “Nothing worth having comes for free. Besides, he’s got to get his rent paid.”

  Sydney paused and eyed Mrs. Twilley before turning to us with a counterproposal: “A hundred.”

  Vincent nearly did a spit take with his tea. He swallowed deliberately and then scoffed, “Oh, come on. We could rent a hotel suite for less than that.”

  That was a lie, and everyone knew it. Nothing short of a roach motel would fetch that price, even in Mercer.

  “Well, then feel free to rent one,” Sydney said, “but I don’t think it’ll have the view you’re looking for, will it?”

  He had us there.

  “Fifty dollars with twenty-four-hour access to the apartment,” Vincent countered.

  “Then I’ll have to ask for the first day’s rent up front”—here Sydney studied us as if he could see into our souls—“and a $100 security deposit.”

  “Security deposit?” I asked. “You don’t think we’re good for the money?”

  “You work for the government, right?”

  I nodded. “State government.”

  “Don’t matter,” Sydney replied, shrugging his narrow shoulders. “Government’s government. And is not to be trusted. Besides, a smart businessman gets a deposit. It’s just good business.”

  “Refundable?” I asked, sighing.

  “Hell, no,” Sydney said, laughing lightly. It was obvious that he had us right where he wanted us. “You two look like you cause havoc wherever you go.”