Blind-sided

by Monette Michaels

  Scott knew exactly what kind of men hung around the bars on Bourbon — pimps, panderers and perverts, plus just plain ole randy and drunk men looking to score. Bourbon Street had more than its share of men who acted as she described. It was sort of a male bonding ritual to comment on curvy rear ends and big breasts and to speculate whether a woman would swallow.

  “Darlin, lots of men do that. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “But not within the hearing of the woman in question. Not at work. You don’t. Paul never did. Charles doesn’t either. Admiring a woman’s body is one thing, but how Randolph and Monnier do it, say it… is totally something else. More nasty… violent… like verbal rape.”

  Scott wasn’t going to argue with Jeannie. Not being a woman, he couldn’t imagine what it felt like. He’d have to take her word for it.

  Just the fact that they scared the bejesus out of her gave him enough justification to seek the two men out and explain the facts of life to them. They’d treat Jeannie with respect — or they’d have to deal with him.

  Really, it was all his fault. Allowing Jeannie to grieve so long had opened her up to all sorts of importunities. If he’d marked her as taken, most men would leave her alone. Well, all that was going to change. He’d stake his claim, mark his territory, and make sure the men she worked with knew she was off-limits. Hell, he’d even caught Rutherford eyeing her up-and-down a couple of times when he’d dropped into the clinic to take her to lunch. The old fart.

  Shit. Then there was Charles. He’d like to forget about the ever-present lawyer. He was still in the picture. And she’d confided in Charles before him.

  But when she was hurt and scared, she called you. Your favor, Scott.

  Yeah, she’d called him.

  “Scott?”

  “I’ll take care of Monnier and Randolph.” He smiled. “I’ll make sure that Randolph leaves Sally alone, also. Okay?”

  “Scott,” Jeannie whispered. “You read those papers. Something is going on here. Something really bad.”

  Jeannie caught his eye. The look on her face was identical to one he’d seen on soldiers when they’d come face-to-face with war’s death and destruction. It was a look of horror, unspeakable horror.

  “Charles and I think that a man has been killed because of what is going on,” she said. “That means Randolph and Monnier are involved in more than just harassing me.”

  Chills raced down Scott’s spine. “Who got killed?”

  “A man named Stu Thomas.”

  “I know him. He’s the sales rep for Silver River.” Scott pictured the slick salesman. “I met him on one of my transplant rotations.”

  “Was the sales rep for SRP.” Jeannie turned even more white, if possible. “He’s dead. He died the day after I overheard him telling a group of doctors that SRP supplied all the corneas to the Epi Study.”

  “I saw that in the papers you’ve collected.” Scott ran his hands through his hair. “Besides lying about the failure rates of the procedures, which is enough to get their licenses suspended and them sued, you think Rutherford, Randolph and Monnier are running some sort of scam with SRP?”

  “I knew we were billing out more procedures than we were following up. I found out that patients with failed procedures were going elsewhere for treatment and that their files were destroyed. The data was made to look as if we had a high rate of success. Then I remembered overhearing Stu Thomas and some Eye Bank docs at the convention. I started checking into where we were getting corneas. I actually assisted one day when an SRP lens was used. I saved the bottle, put it in my desk drawer. Now it’s missing.”

  “So you began to think things were rotten?”

  “Like oyster shells at low tide on a July day. It gets worse. Sally then came to me and confessed that she’d been destroying patient files on Randolph’s and Rutherford’s orders.”

  “You’re sure she included Rutherford?”

  “Uh-huh. I wanted to rationalize that he was a dupe. Blame it all on Randolph and Monnier, but she was positive about it. She’d overheard Randolph bragging about their deal.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I needed legal advice, so I took my preliminary findings to Charles to get his opinion.”

  Scott sighed. She went to Charles for legal advice — and to him for safety and comfort. He could live with that.

  “I could prove through the patient billings and the study’s budget that Dr. Rutherford was misrepresenting what he was doing. Instead of donor corneas and a small processing fee, the patients were billed for a large fee labeled as processing, but in reality is the cost of the commercial corneas. He’s also charging against the project budget for the commercial corneas.”

  “And getting a clear one hundred percent profit which he pockets, since the patient pays for the lenses.”

  “Yeah. But it’s more than that. From what I can see, he’d been billing out the donor lenses the same way.” Jeannie stood up and started to pace in front of the couch. “I spoke to Dr. Beaton from the Eye Bank.”

  “The day you saw me in the deli.”

  “Exactly. He told me Walter Monnier was forced on them by Rutherford because of the project.” Jeannie paused and stared into the empty fireplace. “Dr. Beaton thinks, but can’t prove, that Walter skims donor corneas from the Eye Bank and sends them to the Epi Study. You see, Rutherford makes the same money off the donor corneas with the added advantage that he doesn’t have to hit the budget, which is way more risky.”

  “Illegal profit aside, isn’t harvesting corneas and sending them to the Study what Monnier’s supposed to do?”

  “Yeah, but the Eye Bank cut Rutherford off cold turkey, right before the annual convention, which was when Stu Thomas told everyone SRP was supplying all the corneas.”

  Scott rubbed the impending headache localizing itself over his eyes. “Okay, I’ll play devil’s advocate here.” Scott held up a finger. “One, all corneas whether commercial or donor have been billed at the same rate to the patients. The doctors and Monnier have been raking in a profit from day one of the Epi Study.”

  Jeannie nodded.

  Scott added a finger. “Two, the Eye Bank cut off the donor corneas before the annual convention, but no one knew that, so when Stu Thomas popped off his mouth, the culprits heard about it and were afraid someone might look at the books to see what was going on.”

  Jeannie nodded again.

  A third finger went up. “And three, for that injudicious bit of salesmanship, you and Charles think they had Stu Thomas killed? Honey, it just doesn’t make sense to kill someone over what is basically garden variety fraud.”

  “That’s what Charles and I told ourselves, but it just doesn’t… you know, feel right. Especially in light of the large amounts of money we found going into numbered bank accounts. Charles and I went to Rutherford’s office late one night and went through his things.”

  “You broke into the man’s office?”

  “No, Sally gave me the key.”

  “Semantics, Jeannie.” Scott sighed. “Go on.”

  “We found the SRP invoices you saw in the papers — and something else.”

  “What? A confession?”

  “Don’t be nasty. Charles found bank accounts. Numbered bank accounts with millions and millions of dollars. Lots more money than I found going through the falsified project billings.”

  Scott groaned. “Enough money to kill to protect?”

  “Exactly.” Jeannie sat on the arm of Scott’s chair and looked him in the eyes. “Today, the mugger wanted that case, not because it was heavy and he was afraid I would hit him with it, but because he was told to get that case at all costs. I don’t think he’d have killed me — hurt me maybe — as a warning, like they’ve been warning Sally. They couldn’t find the stuff in my office. They aren’t worried about the computer. That can be erased, the hard drives trashed so nothing can be found. But I had hard copies and back-ups. They had to get those before they scared
me into shutting up and going away.”

  “We’ve got to go to the cops, Jeannie.” Scott pulled her onto his lap, then took her face between his hands. “I don’t want you involved in this any longer. Quit your job, take what you have, and go to the cops. Let them handle it.”

  “The local cops can’t be trusted. You know that. Neither can the politicians, judges and prosecutors. Rutherford can buy the whole damn town off and make us look like fools.”

  “The feds then.” Scott stroked her hair, then cradled her head in the palms of his hands. “Go to the FBI. That much money — it could be money laundering.”

  “Yes, that’s what Charles thinks. He’s looking for connections between Rutherford and SRP. We found some indications that Rutherford has more than a buyer-seller relationship.”

  “Why is Charles stringing this out? What’s in it for him?”

  “Scott!” Jeannie pulled away, scrambling off his lap. “There’s nothing in it for him. He’s doing me a favor. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

  “No. He should have taken this to the feds as soon as he found the money angle.” Scott stood up and stalked over to Jeannie and grabbed her arms. “You are in danger. Little Bits could be, also. He ignored that.”

  “Scott, let go. You’re hurting me.”

  Scott blew out a disgusted breath. “Sorry, darlin’. You know I’d never hurt you. Ever.”

  “I know. You’re just worried. So am I.” Jeannie sighed. Reaching for Scott’s hands she squeezed them as if to reassure him. “In fact, I was going to call Charles today and tell him we have to take what he’s found out so far and go to the government. If not the government, maybe the news media. Sally and I can’t go on much longer. I don’t want this touching me or my child any longer. I can’t sleep, eat, and can barely stomach going into work each day.”

  “Call Charles. Arrange a meeting. I’ll go with you. I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is out of your hands and into the authorities’.”

  “What do you mean by not letting me out of your sight?”

  “Just what it sounds like. Day and night for as long as it takes, I’m staying here.” Scott looked around. “I can sleep on the couch or bring a sleeping bag and sack out on the floor. Doesn’t matter to me. All that counts is your and Little Bits’ safety.”

  “Charles might have something to say about that.”

  Scott glanced at Jeannie’s face. She was teasing him. The little minx.

  “Charles won’t say nothin’.” Scott pulled her into his arms. He bent his head until his lips were mere inches away. “You know what I learned today?”

  “No.” Jeannie’s answer was a mere whisper of sound across his lips.

  “I learned that it doesn’t pay to give the woman you’d die for too much grieving space.” Scott brushed a light kiss over her trembling lips. “I can’t wait any longer for you, Jeannie. You could’ve died today, and I would’ve died right along with you.”

  “Scott? What are you saying? I don’t understand.”

  “Of course, you don’t. I never told you. You were too busy grieving for Paul and then trying your wings with city-boy Charles.”

  “Scott, uh, I…” Jeannie shook her head slightly.

  “Shhh, darlin’. You don’t have to say anything. Just give yourself a chance to get used to the idea.” Scott feathered another kiss across her lips. “Let me court you. Let me protect you and Little Bits. I need to do that.”

  Scott held his breath. Hoping he’d not gone too far, too fast.

  “You want to court me?”

  He nodded.

  She touched her lips with trembling fingers. “I, uh, never knew you felt this way. Never dreamed… What about Charles?” She looked up — her eyes confused, seeking answers. “What do I say to him?”

  “Were you planning on marrying him?”

  Scott held his breath. Afraid of her answer. Afraid the answer would kill his dreams.

  “Well, no.” Jeannie looked away, her cheeks tinged pink.

  Scott remembered to breathe as he closed his eyes in relief. Thank God, she wasn’t serious about the man. Brushing her cheek with the back of his finger, he thought at least the conversation was putting some color back into her cheeks. Was she embarrassed? Upset? Mad?

  She was silent waiting for an answer. He gave the only one he could. “Then, tell him whatever you want. But I’m letting him know he has competition. It’s only fair.”

  “Right. It’s only fair.”

  She gazed up at him, her eyes reflecting — relief. Maybe she wanted to ease Charles out of her life and hadn’t known how to do it. Well, he’d take whatever edge he could get. By the time Charles was history, he’d be firmly entrenched. After all he had two things on his side — he’d been her husband’s best friend and Little Bits wanted him as a daddy.

  Scott smiled. “Thank you, darlin’. We’ll get through this. And, I know how to protect my own.”

  Then he took her lips in a deep and satisfying kiss.

  I’ll keep her safe, Paul. I promise.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Byron Rutherford was pissed.

  The man whom he blamed for his state of mind sat across from him — making excuses.

  “Gee, doc. You said to get the bag with the papers and to deal with Flower.” Walter squirmed in the leather chair, his leather pants making squeaking noises with each movement. “Roth just did what came naturally.”

  “Except he got caught.” Rutherford enunciated each word slowly.

  “You can’t blame me for that. He’d never been caught before. Damn, the man had a string of successful kills. Who knew Flower could take out a stone cold killer that way?” Walter glared across the desk. “Besides, there’s always the back-up plan.”

  “Back-up plan?” Rutherford sat up. His angry eyes sought and held Walter’s. “What back-up plan?”

  “Roth always has a back-up.” Walter sat back and smiled. “She’ll never testify against him. No testimony. No conviction. Maybe he’ll get a little assault and battery thrown at him, but he didn’t have a weapon. So, light time. And the kicker is they can’t hang those other cases on him either — they’d use her to show a modus operandi — no Flower, no connection to the other crimes. Roth thinks of everything.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, you cretin! What exactly is this back-up plan?”

  “Well, he didn’t tell me specifics, mind you. Just that she would die some time soon if he failed. It would be like fate, Roth said.”

  “Great.” Rutherford threw his hands up in the air and looked to the ceiling. “She’s still out there digging up evidence on our operation, and we have to depend on some low-life, murdering thug’s idea of fate as a back-up plan.” Rutherford lowered his head to glare at Walter, then slammed his fist on the desk. He’d have liked to put it in Walter’s face, but he needed the man to do the dirty work. “This operation is worth millions of dollars, Walter. I’ve made you a wealthy man. Fate is too vague for me at this point in time. Go talk to this Roth and find out what in the hell the back-up plan is. Got me?”

  “Sure, doc.” Walter stood and backed out of the room. “I know just how to do it. Be back in a few.”

  Before Walter could make his escape, Rutherford called out, “And after you find out what the back-up plan is, see about getting rid of Alex — permanently. He’s become greedy and careless. A loose end, and you know how I hate those.”

  “Yeah, doc. I know.” Walter tipped his hand to his head in a mockery of a salute and left.

  ———

  Walter left the New Orleans Police Department lock-up.

  The sweltering afternoon heat and humidity blasted him in the face. He shrugged off the blazer, then tore off the tie he’d put on to support his role as Roth’s attorney. He’d been lucky that Roth had refused a public defender and insisted on his own lawyer. Walter had passed out a few business cards, authenticated them with a fake driver’s license, and he was in. Wouldn’t the jailers be am
azed when the real legal eagle showed up? He chuckled.

  Roth’s back-up plan was a doozy. Rutherford would shit a brick. But Walter thought it had a great chance of working — and no one would be the wiser.

  Hemlock. In her allergy capsules. Genius, sheer genius.

  Roth had followed Flower for a week, peeping in her windows, going to volleyball games and the like. Then one day he broke into her apartment, in order to doctor something in her place with one of the poisons he carried. He found the capsules in a prescription bottle on her kitchen counter. He dumped them out and injected a few of them with some hemlock.

  It was Russian roulette with pills.

  Walter laughed out loud, drawing the attention of several cops going into the jail. Waving at them, he yelled, “Just got the joke.”

  Then he laughed some more. The cops smiled at him and waved back.

  Flower’s death would mimic a respiratory attack of some sort. One minute breathing, the next dead. Perfect.

  ———

  Rutherford steepled his fingers, resting his chin on top of them.

  “Hemlock. Good choice. I take back all the nasty things I said about your Mr. Roth. He is a genius. An easy, quick and natural-looking death. No way to diagnose it without running a tox screen, and coroners don’t normally unless they suspect alcohol or drugs. In this case, they wouldn’t.”

  Walter blew out a breath and visibly relaxed. “I thought so.”

  “I want you to plan something similar for Alex.” Rutherford closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Instead of hemlock, I’ve got an experimental drug that SRP has nixed because it always causes heart failure when mixed with alcohol.” Rutherford opened a locked drawer and pulled out a small bottle of capsules. He handed them to Monnier. “They knew the FDA wouldn’t allow human testing on it. Can’t count on some idiot not to take his meds with booze. Let’s use Alex as a test case, huh?”

  “Sounds good. But when and where do you want it done? In a public place? At home? Should I make it look like a sudden death? Or suicide?”

  Rutherford hesitated. “Suicide — definitely. Remorse over murdering Sally. I’ll type up and print out a note on the office printer for you to leave with the body.” He rocked back in his chair. “And let’s make it public. Why don’t you take Alex out for a nice dinner — on me, of course. Then, propose a visit to a local sex club. I believe Alex likes Lady Marmalade’s particular style of entertainment. After he has one last night of debauchery, you can slip the stuff into his drink. He always has a drink afterwards.” Rutherford’s lips twisted into a smile of remembrance. “Swears it ends the evening on a proper note. Chivas with a twist.”