Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “I don’t care about the polka,” I tell him. “I care about your ability to tell us of Albright’s comings and goings.”

  “Then why didn’t you ask that in the first place?” he grumbles. He flips back through his register and starts writing dates down on a piece of paper. “These are the nights that she’s stayed here since coming to town. She was real regular at first, but I heard she was making a play for that paralyzed man who won all the money up at the casino, the one who died in that house fire the other night. And I guess she was getting somewhere with him, because she wasn’t staying here much lately. Only about once a week or so.”

  “Did she stay here this past Monday night?” Hurley asks.

  “Sure did. Let me see. . . .” He flips forward in the register and runs a finger down the page, then across it. “She checked in at ten-thirty that night and checked out at ten forty-eight the next morning.”

  “Any idea if she left the place between those two times?”

  “Not before midnight, that’s when I went to bed. And no one rang the bell after that, so I slept all night, until seven the next morning. What she might have done between midnight and seven is anyone’s guess.”

  “How about Tuesday morning, before she checked out?” I ask. “Did you see her leave here at all?”

  “Sure did. She was in and out of here a couple of times that morning. Went out and came back around eight, carrying a bag from McDonald’s.”

  “Imagine that,” I mumble under my breath, remembering her snobby claim that pizza was subpar to her usual meals. “Last of the big spenders.”

  “Then she left again, about an hour after that, and didn’t come back until just before she checked out.”

  Hurley and I look at one another. “She lied to us,” I say.

  “Is she here now?” Hurley asks.

  Joseph shrugs. “She checked back in on Christmas Day, just a few hours after she checked out. Far as I know she’s still here, but I see her car is gone.”

  “Mind if we take a look at her room?” Hurley asks.

  Joseph narrows his eyes at us. “Yeah, I kind of do mind. People have enough invasions of their privacy these days. I don’t want to be adding to that crap.”

  Hurley starts to say something, but I beat him to it. “Is she paid up on her bill? Because she’s a suspect in two murders, and if she hasn’t flown the coop already, I suspect she will soon.” This isn’t exactly true—at least not that we know—but Joseph doesn’t need to know that.

  The gambit works. In a matter of seconds, Joseph’s expression goes from worried, to doubtful, to angry. Apparently, a threat to his wallet is enough to make him toss aside his moral indignation. He grabs a key and leads the way.

  It seems I’m an excellent predictor of behavior. Catherine’s bed is neatly made, and the room is devoid of any personal items.

  “Has a maid been in here?” Hurley asks Joseph.

  “Naw, she said she didn’t want maid service,” Joseph answers. “Said she’d come and ask me personal if she needed towels or some such. Damn.”

  I gather from Joseph’s reaction to the empty room that he did let Catherine slide on her room payment. No doubt she used her feminine wiles on him—the same way she did with Jack and every other man she’d ever met. Joseph is wilier than most, but even a crusty, old bachelor has to have a soft spot in there somewhere.

  To be thorough, we search the room’s drawers and closet, but Catherine is clearly a pro at covering her tracks. Even the trash cans are empty. When we’re done, we thank Joseph for his cooperation and head back to Hurley’s sedan.

  I’m about to get into Hurley’s car, when movement catches my eye from the end of the building to my right. When I look, I see David standing behind an SUV with its hatch up. Standing next to him is a trim woman, with blond hair. I recognize her as Patty Volker, our insurance agent.

  “Can you believe that?” I say to no one in particular, though Hurley is the only one within hearing distance. “I’ll bet he’s moving in with her already.”

  Hurley responds with a total non sequitur: “I’m going to put out an ATL on Catherine.”

  “And to think I almost fell for his sad, little plea for reconciliation,” I mutter.

  “Ignore him,” Hurley says. “He’s not worth your time.” With that, he takes out his cell phone to place a call.

  I consider Hurley’s advice and turn away from David and Patty, reaching for the passenger-side door. Something holds me back, though; and as Hurley starts talking into his phone, I let go of the car handle and look back again. The two of them are standing at the rear of the SUV, laughing, talking, and periodically touching one another with an unmistakable intimacy as they arrange items inside the car. Feeling like a lemming drawn to the cliff’s edge, I start walking toward them, though I have no idea why I’m doing it, or what I’ll do when I get to them. It’s Patty who notices me first.

  “Mattie,” she says, looking very nervous all of a sudden. She has a hand on David’s arm; and a second after she recognizes and acknowledges me, it drops down to her side. David turns to face me.

  “Hello, Patty, David,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  In true alpha-male surgeon style, David takes charge. “I’m moving out of here, and in with Patty, until we can get the new house built.”

  I hesitate a moment, wondering who the “we” is in this statement. Then I quickly decide that it doesn’t matter. “You’re moving in with Patty?” I say, looking at David. I shift my gaze to Patty. “I didn’t realize you were renting out.”

  Patty shifts her feet nervously and looks up at David for help.

  “She’s not renting to me. We’re a couple,” David says with the same level of nonchalance he might use to describe the weather. Then he adds, “I thought you knew that.”

  I had known it, but that doesn’t make me want to let them off the hook without a little more squirming. “How would I know, David? You didn’t tell me, nor did Patty.”

  “Well, given the way gossip spreads in this town, I just assumed. . . .” He trails off and shrugs.

  Patty blushes and says, “I’m sorry, Mattie. You’re right. I should have said something to you.”

  “You don’t need to apologize, Patty,” David says. “Mattie has made it very clear that I have no claims on her and she has no claims on me. We’ve both agreed that our romantic relationship is a thing of the past.”

  He’s right, of course. So why does this little scene bother me so much?

  Patty drops her gaze and stares at her feet, looking embarrassed. David turns to her, and in doing so, he effectively dismisses me. He lifts her chin with a finger, forcing her to look up at him. It triggers an odd, hollow sensation in my chest as I recall how sweetly romantic I thought that gesture was whenever David used it on me.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” David says to Patty. “I think Mattie’s feeling left out—that’s all. It’s hard to see happy couples, when you’re not a part of one.”

  The hollow ache inside me quickly turns to fury. I open my mouth to defend myself, but then realize I don’t have a defense. On some level, I know David has just hit a bull’s-eye. All my other levels are trying to figure out how I can go all Lorena Bobbitt on his ass and make it look accidental. Then all the thoughts slip away as I feel a warm arm snake around my waist and find Hurley standing beside me.

  “Hello, Doc,” Hurley says, pulling me close. “Long time, no see.”

  “Hello, Steve.” David’s face darkens; I’m not sure if it’s because Hurley is here, or because Hurley called him “Doc.” It’s probably both. These two have a complicated history—both as competitors for my affection and as doctor and patient. But even though David’s face doesn’t mask his true emotions very well, his voice is all professional and polite. “How are you?” he asks.

  “I’m doing just great, Doc. Thanks for asking.”

  David’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough for me to notice, telling me h
e doesn’t like Hurley’s little endearment. Hurley’s next question makes me suspect Hurley noticed it, too.

  “Who’s your friend, Doc?”

  David’s cheek muscles twitch and he glares at Hurley for a second longer than necessary before making the introductions. “This,” he says, gesturing toward Hurley, “is Detective Steve Hurley, with the Sorenson Police Department.” Then he wraps an arm around Patty’s waist the same way Hurley has done with mine. “And this is Patty Volker, my girlfriend and my insurance agent.”

  “Technically, she’s our insurance agent,” I toss out.

  Hurley answers with a “Hmph”; then he says, “That must be awkward.”

  Patty smiles uneasily and says, “It certainly is at the moment.”

  “Well, then, we don’t want to make things any worse than they already are,” Hurley says. He looks at me and squeezes me tight before letting go and taking one of my hands in his. “Come on, babe,” he says. “We need to get going.”

  As Hurley steers me back toward his car, leaving David and Patty in our wake, my mind momentarily turns to mush, unable to focus on anything other than our intertwined fingers and the fact that Hurley called me “babe.”

  “You can’t let him get to you like that,” Hurley says in a low voice, bringing me back into focus.

  The sharp retort of the SUV’s hatchback closing behind us makes me jump. “I know,” I say. “I don’t know why it irks me so much that he’s jumped into someone else’s bed already. I shouldn’t be surprised, given our history.”

  “You’re right, you shouldn’t. So why does it bother you so much?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, letting out a breath of exasperation. “I guess it’s because it makes me feel duped, discarded, and insignificant.”

  We have reached Hurley’s sedan when I hear both doors of the SUV slam closed and the engine start up. Hurley pulls me around in front of him and leans me back against the side of his car, locking me into place by positioning an arm on either side of me, his hands on the roof. He leans in close until his face is only inches from mine.

  “What do you say we show them you couldn’t care less what the two of them are doing?”

  With Hurley’s body hovering inches above mine, and his baby blues staring clear down to my soul, I can barely breathe. I manage to mutter, “How?”

  Hurley bends his elbows, bringing us into full-frontal contact. His lips descend and settle on mine. For a second or two, I’m vaguely aware of the SUV driving by us very slowly. Then my mind is incapable of focusing on anything but the delicious sensations running through my body. Hurley is careful not to use any tongue, but he graces my lips with a dozen tiny butterfly nips and nibbles. Then he kisses the tip of my nose. My body feels like hot molten lava. I reach up to place my hand at the nape of his neck, determined to keep him right where he is, but he backs off before I can. Just then, the SUV guns its way out of the parking lot.

  “That totally pissed him off,” Hurley says in a self-satisfied tone.

  I say nothing. I can’t. My mind is mush. All the blood in my body seems to be centered on—and pulsating—between my legs. I stand there dumbfounded, grateful Hurley’s car is behind me to hold me up.

  Hurley, on the other hand, seems annoyingly unaffected by it all. As he walks around to his side of the car, he says, “What do you say, Winston? Should we go drill some more suspects?”

  I have another kind of drilling in mind, but clearly I can’t say so. When I have my wits about me enough, I push away from the car, open my door, and drop into the passenger seat.

  I spend the time it takes us to drive to our next stop picturing Hurley and me, tanned and happy, tooling along the Florida coast inside our “Barbie and Ken Beach Cruiser.”

  Chapter 13

  The nursing agency providing Jack Allen’s home care is run out of a storefront office in a strip mall. Its overhead sign reads: FLETCHERNURSING. The interior is simply furnished with two desks—one of which is empty—a couple of file cabinets, a bookcase, and some fake plants. At the rear of the main room is a closed door, which I assume leads to a back area of the office.

  Behind the one occupied desk is a man who is a prime example of the hazards of tanning beds. The skin on his face, neck, and hands is dark brown and fibrous-looking. While I guess his age to be somewhere in his mid- to late thirties, his skin and the gray in his dark hair make him look decades older. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open much lower than need be, and his neck and fingers are adorned with jewelry. Judging from the razor burn I see on his hairless chest, I’m guessing he’s also into “manscaping.” I see several travel brochures for the Caribbean mixed in with the papers on his desk, which might explain why his skin looks like worn leather.

  “Hi, I’m Paul Fletcher,” he says with a big smile, flashing teeth that have been bleached into near transparency. “I’m the owner. How may I help you?”

  “We’re here to inquire about one of your patients, Jack Allen,” Hurley says, flashing his badge.

  Paul’s smile fades, saving us from the blinding light of his teeth. “Oh, yes, poor Mr. Allen. What a horrible thing. How can I help you?”

  “We understand one of your nurses visited Jack daily to provide care and saw him on the day he died.”

  “You mean Lisa Warden,” Fletcher says. “She was Jack’s home health aide. I was his nurse.”

  “Did you see Jack on the day of the fire?”

  “No, I only visited Jack once or twice a week, to reassess his condition, update his care plan, and supervise Lisa.”

  “So when did you see him last?”

  “I believe it was a couple of days before, but let me check.” He gets up and walks over to one of the filing cabinets, opens the second drawer, and pulls out a file. “Yes, it was the twenty-third when I last saw him,” he says upon opening the file. “Lisa saw him five days a week, sometimes six.”

  “Did you know about his big win at the casino?”

  “Sure. Everyone pretty much knew. Jack didn’t try to keep it a secret.”

  “What time was Ms. Warden there on the twenty-fifth?”

  Fletcher consults the chart again. “According to her note, she was there from eight to nine that morning.”

  “May I ask where you were on the morning of the twenty-fifth?”

  “Sure. I was here in the office finishing up some paperwork because I’m taking a vacation in a few days and needed to finish out my year-end billing. I got done around ten and then went home.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes, I do,” Fletcher says a bit irritably. “Why are you asking all these questions? I heard that the fire and Jack’s death were accidents. Is that not so?”

  “Do you have any knowledge of Ms. Warden’s whereabouts after she left Mr. Allen’s residence?” Hurley asks, ignoring Fletcher’s question.

  “I know she had two other patients she saw that morning, one at ten and one at eleven.”

  “On Christmas Day?” Hurley says skeptically.

  “Illness knows no holidays,” Fletcher shoots back.

  Hurley sighs. “Can I have the names of those patients? We’ll need to verify that Ms. Warden kept those appointments.”

  Paul shakes his head. “I can’t give out that information. Privacy laws and all, you know.”

  Ah, yes, the ever-frustrating HIPAA laws. It’s a set of rules that makes the provision of health care more of a secret than the location of CIA operatives. If bin Laden had been protected by HIPAA, he’d probably still be alive. But I’ve anticipated this objection.

  “I understand that,” I say. “I’m a nurse myself, so I respect the need for your patients’ privacy. But what if you were to call them and ask them if they’d be willing to talk to us? If they give permission, that would cover you and your agency, no?”

  Paul considers this, frowning. “I suppose that would be okay,” he says finally. We stand there, waiting, and stare at him for a few awkward seconds, befor
e he adds, “I’ll give them a call and get back to you.”

  “I also need to speak with Ms. Warden,” Hurley says.

  “She’s not in the office right now, but let me check her schedule.” He pulls up a file on his computer and then says, “Today is her day off. Hold on and I’ll see if she’s home.” He makes a call; and when Lisa Warden answers, he tells her why he’s calling. He listens for a minute and then says to Hurley, “She said she can meet with you somewhere at one, if you like.”

  Hurley nods. “I’d like to meet her at her home.”

  Fletcher frowns and relays this information to Lisa. When he hangs up, he writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to Hurley. “That’s her address,” he says.

  “One more thing, Mr. Fletcher,” I say. “I’d like a copy of Jack’s chart, please.” Fletcher purses his lips, and I suspect he’s about to throw HIPAA at us again. I head him off, though. “I’m with the medical examiner’s office,” I say, taking my turn to flash a badge. “If you check the state regs, you’ll find that the ME’s office is allowed complete access to the medical record of a deceased, when the death is suspicious. HIPAA doesn’t apply.”

  Fletcher looks skeptical of my claim.

  “I’ll be happy to show you the actual regulation, if I can borrow your computer.”

  Finally he shrugs and says, “I’ll need some time to copy it.”

  “I’ll take it to my office and copy it for you,” I offer. He doesn’t have to let me take his original chart out of the office, but I’m hoping he either doesn’t know that, or doesn’t care. “By the time I bring it back, you should have some answers for us from those other patients.”

  Fletcher is clearly annoyed by this manipulation; but in the end, he capitulates, allowing Hurley and me to leave with the chart in hand.

  Prior to hitting up the nursing agency, Hurley arranged for an officer to pick up Serena Vasquez and bring her to the police station. She is waiting there for us, along with her twin boys and the neighbor’s daughter she is again watching. We discover Serena is in the interrogation/conference room with Junior, while the kids are hanging out by themselves in the break room, surveying the contents of the station refrigerator. When we walk in, I hear one of them say, “Are these bullets?” I dash over and drag them away, shutting the refrigerator door.