Boca Undercover

by Miriam Auerbach

  “Dr. Stillwater! Mr. Evans! Thank God you’re here,” Sandy said. As if they had the power to make this tragedy disappear. Then again, this was Boca—maybe they did.

  The doctor knelt by the body, removed a stethoscope from around her neck, placed it in her ears and listened to the boy’s chest. As if it weren’t obvious that he was dead. But I guess she had to do what she was trained to. She shook her head as she removed the earpiece and replaced the instrument. “Poor Demarcus,” she murmured.

  She stood and looked at the two staff members. “What happened?” she asked.

  “When we got here,” Miss Sea World spoke up, “these two were here with . . .” she trailed off as she pointed to me, Gitta, and the body.

  “Mrs. Castellano,” the doctor nodded to Gitta. “And who are you?” she asked me.

  “Hailey Holloway,” I said. Gitta shot me a look, eyebrows raised (as far as they would go on her Botoxed forehead, that is). I shot her a discreet kick to the ankle to keep her quiet about my name change. Evidently she got the message, as she kept her lips sealed.

  “You’re not a patient,” Dr. Stillwater said. “I see all our patients on admission. Are you a visitor?”

  “Uh, I came to speak with someone about getting help for my sister.”

  “Oh please, Ms. Holloway, that’s the oldest line in the book. I’ve been in this business a long time. Don’t try that one on me, honey. It’s you who needs help, am I right?”

  If that’s what she wanted to assume, I’d go along with it. “Yes, you’re right, doctor.”

  “Well, we can help you.”

  A sales pitch at a place of slaying. Only in Boca.

  “But not right now, obviously,” she amended, apparently sensing my distaste.

  A scream of sirens sounded in the distance. It grew louder and louder, then stopped. Footsteps pounded again. The cops. Would they be ones I knew—like Reilly—who would blow my cover?

  A few moments later, two male uniformed officers and a tall, brunette woman in a grey pinstriped pantsuit with a badge clipped to her belt ran around the hedge, all panting. Either they were in sad shape for cops, or, like everyone else, they’d made a few wrong turns trying to find us in the maze.

  I let out a breath of relief. I didn’t know any of them. I could maintain my ruse, at least for a while.

  Gitta stumbled over to the plainclothes cop and grabbed her arm. That seemed to be her habit. “Janice! Where’s Kevin? I thought he would come. I need him,”

  No! I thought. Not Reilly!

  Apparently the two women were acquainted. Janice patted Gitta’s hand. “Mrs. Castellano, Detective Reilly can’t be involved in this case because his personal relationship with you would create conflict of interest. I’ll be the primary investigator here. Detective Reilly can visit you but not in an official capacity. Now please, let me do my work.” She pried Gitta’s fingers off her arm.

  “Everyone,” she announced to the group, “I’m Detective Snyder, Boca Raton PD. I need you all to please go inside the building. These officers will interview each of you. No one leaves the grounds until our crime scene investigation is complete and witness statements are taken. We have officers stationed at the exit. And we have a patrol boat on the Intracoastal side, so no one can leave that way, either. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  That was a nice way of saying we were all prisoners.

  Gitta took hold of my hand as the uniformed officers ushered everyone out of the maze. Or tried to. No one seemed to know where they were going. We kept turning corners only to find ourselves boxed in by more hedges. The patients were starting to panic, and I lost my patience.

  “Hold on, everybody,” I said. I took out my cell and accessed an aerial view of the maze from Google Earth. “Follow me.”

  The cops glared at me then at each other. “Follow her,” one of them said with a sigh. “We’ll bring up the rear.”

  Phone in hand, I led the way out. I’d never felt so much like a rat in all my life.

  Once we were on the open lawn, the officers reclaimed their control and herded us to the building. When I stepped over the threshold of that Moorish entryway, a feeling that had been nagging at the corners of my mind ever since I’d bluffed my way onto the grounds now hit me with full force. It was my Inner Vigilante, telling me I had to get justice for that poor dead boy. I couldn’t just turn my back on this vicious act and walk away. The police would pursue the official lines of inquiry. But an insider might discover something they couldn’t.

  I had to check myself—er, Hailey Holloway—into The Oasis.

  Chapter 3

  “EVERYONE, PLEASE take a seat here in the lobby,” one of the uniforms said.

  I took a look around. The Kasbah theme continued on the interior of the building, with marble tiled floors, patterned mosaic walls, and recessed seating niches plumped with rich jewel-toned pillows. No hookah pipes were in sight, though. Guess that might be just a tad inappropriate. However, I half-expected some belly dancers to come prancing out any minute.

  A receptionist came around a gleaming pink granite counter. Rather than harem pants and a bare midriff, she wore standard-issue Boca Babe wannabe attire: miniskirt and sheer top revealing a lace bra. The wannabes were the ones who had not yet mastered the distinction between sexy and skanky.

  “What’s going on?” she asked no one in particular.

  Before anyone could reply, Stillwater and Evans rushed through the door. (Hey, they sound like an old-school rock band, don’t they?) They hurried to the receptionist and started talking in hushed tones. I could just make out the words media, damage control, and corporate crisis consultant. The wheels of the spin machine were being set in motion.

  “Folks,” one of the cops said, “I’m Officer Hernandez. This is Officer Fernandez.”

  How was I supposed to keep them apart in my mind? I looked them up and down, searching for visual cues that I could pair with their names. A little mnemonic trick I learned while in PI training with Louie, my mentor.

  Both were young, in their early twenties. Same height—tall; same bearing—upright. And both had a look of suppressed excitement in their eyes that told me they were rookies working their first homicide. Okay—Hernandez had hair; Fernandez, though bald, had facial fuzz. H’s and F’s. Got it.

  “As Detective Snyder stated,” Hernandez continued, “we’ll interview each of you. First, we need to take down all your names.”

  After they did that, Hernandez said, “Now, we need everyone to wait their turn alone.” He turned to the conferring trio of staff members. “Are there holding cells . . . I mean, rooms, where we could place the suspects . . . I mean, witnesses?”

  Stillwater stepped forward. “Yes, of course. The clients can wait in their rooms. We have private accommodations only. No roommates. Please, everyone, go ahead to your quarters and stay there until you’re called.”

  “And no talking or calling each other,” Hernandez said.

  That was his first rookie mistake. Never trust a suspect—I mean, witness—to do as you say.

  The patients rose and walked off.

  Gitta grabbed my hands, crushing my fingers as she mouthed “Don’t leave me!”

  I pulled out of her grasp and patted her arm. “I won’t,” I whispered.

  After the departures, I was left in the lobby with Miss Sea World and Surfer Sandy.

  “Where can we interview the witnesses?” Fernandez asked Hall & Oates. I mean, Stillwater & Evans.

  “You may use our offices,” Stillwater said. Evans may have been the titular CEO of this operation, but it looked like Stillwater held the reins.

  “Tifanni, you’ll show the officers the way,” she commanded the receptionist.

  “Certainly, doctor.”

  “So, who was first on the scene?” Hernandez asked
.

  I raised my hand.

  “Follow me. Fernandez, you take her.” He gestured to Miss Sea World. Then he turned to Sandy. “You wait here, please.”

  I followed Hernandez, who followed Tifanni, down a short hallway. The walls were lined with the black-framed motivational posters you see in those catalogs stuffed into the backs of airplane seats: photos of eagles, mountains, and rainbows with messages like Aim High! Believe and Succeed! Dare to Soar! Gag me!

  Tifanni unlocked a door, stood aside to let us in, and left, closing the door behind her. The room had a large window looking out onto a courtyard filled with lush tropical plants and was furnished with the usual markers of corporate status: heavy, dark wood desk, high-backed leather and brass-studded chairs, sofa, coffee table, bookcases, and walls lined with diplomas, commendations, and photos of Stillwater posing with local muckety-mucks. I noticed my old friend, the Contessa von Phul, bigwig Boca philanthropist, among them. Hmm. Her connection could come in handy.

  Hernandez took the throne behind the desk and gestured for me to take one of the smaller chairs in front. Guess he’d learned all about Using Space for Power in Police Academy 101.

  The sunlight beaming through the glass behind him gave a glow to his jet-black hair. His shirt buttons and the badge on his chest pocket gleamed, and the radio clipped to his epaulet gave him an air of authority. I had to admit, there was something compelling about a man in uniform. The feeling disturbed me. After all, I was a vigilante warrior woman. I wasn’t supposed to fall prey to such sexist fairy tale fantasies.

  He whipped out a tablet and started tapping the screen. “May I see some ID, please,” he said.

  I hesitated before handing over the fake card. If I was found out, I could be charged with fraud and obstruction of justice. I’d lose my PI license. But then, I knew all about the criminal justice system—especially the Boca variety. It did not always serve the victims—particularly if they were poor, as Demarcus appeared to be. My Inner Vigilante won out, and I passed Hailey Holloway’s driver’s license to Hernandez.

  After he logged in the info he said, “So tell me exactly how you arrived on the scene, what you saw and heard.”

  I recounted everything from my entry onto the grounds to the point when he himself arrived. Of course, my story was judiciously edited and embellished. Not the facts surrounding the discovery of the boy. Just my reason for being there.

  As I talked, he tapped.

  “So, you say you’re a friend of Mrs. Brigitta Larsen O’Malley Castellano, a patient here, who has encouraged you to check yourself in?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you told the security guard and Dr. Stillwater that you were here about your sister.”

  “Well, yes . . . you know how it is . . . I wasn’t ready to admit I needed help.”

  “And now you are?”

  “Um, not really. Especially now with this killing of that poor child. What if the other patients are in danger?”

  “I have no way of knowing at this point whether this is an isolated incident. But I can assure you Detective Snyder will investigate to the fullest extent of the law. Whether you want to stay here or not, that’s up to you. We have your contact info, so we know how to reach you if we need to.”

  Right. The shit would hit the fan once the cops found out Hailey Holloway lived in a vacant lot in one of the abandoned developments that had come to dot Boca over the last few years.

  “So I’m free to go?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’ll walk back out to reception with you.”

  Guess he didn’t trust me not to make any unsanctioned detours on the way. And rightly so. I’d planned to peer into some offices and snoop through file cabinets and wastebaskets. Such fun would have to wait.

  We made our way back to Tifanni. Hernandez asked her to hail Gitta and bring her to the interrogation room, then he headed back there.

  Shit! Gitta! We had to get our stories straight before she talked to Hernandez.

  I went into a coughing fit.

  “Are you all right?” Tifanni asked.

  “No,” I gasped. “I think my asthma is acting up.” I wheezed. “Could you please bring me a glass of water?” Like that would help constricting lungs. But I was betting she didn’t know that. And I was right.

  “Of course,” she said. “Do you prefer Evian, Perrier, or San Pellegrino?”

  Jesus. “Just”—gasp—“tap water.”

  She took off for a back room.

  I whipped out my phone and pushed “redial.”

  Gitta picked up immediately. “Harriet? I—”

  “Listen very carefully,” I cut her off. “My name is Hailey Holloway. We’re old friends. I have an alcohol problem. You encouraged me to check myself in here. That is exactly what you’re telling the police officer.”

  “But—”

  “Do what I say, or I’ll end up in jail!” I said and hung up just as Tifanni came out with a glass of water, complete with lemon slice resting on the rim.

  “Thank you,” I rasped and gulped it down. “I’m okay now. Thank you so much. Um, I’ll just go sit down for a while.”

  “Certainly.”

  I made my way to one of the seating niches in the lobby, where I stayed out of sight as Tifanni phoned Gitta. A couple minutes later, I heard the tapping of heels. Peering around a potted palm, I saw Gitta arrive. Tiffani led her toward the interview room. When Tiffani returned and settled in, I approached her counter again.

  “Oh,” she said when she looked up from her phone, on which she was either texting, gaming, or doing anything else besides actually working. “I thought you’d left.” She frowned.

  “No. Um, I’d like to check myself in.”

  “I see.” Now she flashed me a bright smile. Ever since the cost of laser teeth whitening had plunged from $699 at Boca dental offices to $39.99 at the Festival Flea Market in neighboring Pompano Beach, everyone in Boca, even the Babe wannabes, had blinding choppers. And of course, everyone had a smile ready when cash was about to be forked over.

  “Stay right here,” Tifanni said, clearly not one to let a live one get away. “I’ll call one of our intake counselors, and they’ll be with you right away.”

  True to Tiffani’s word, seconds later, a thirtyish, sporty woman with short brown hair, flashing yet another laser smile, approached, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Paula.”

  I didn’t respond immediately, feigning the delayed reaction time I’d observed among various substance abusers of my acquaintance.

  “And you are?” she asked.

  “Oh. Hailey,” I said, taking her hand. She had a firm grip, perhaps from wielding a tennis racket, if her biceps and lateral delts, displayed by her sleeveless pink top, were any indication.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Hailey.”

  Spoken like a true sales pro. Always tack your mark’s name onto your utterances. It’s exactly how scam artists operate, too. Gives people a false sense of intimacy.

  “Why don’t we go to my office and chat,” Paula said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “A mojito?”

  She wasn’t fazed. “How about an herbal horehound tea?”

  Whorehound? I didn’t even want to go there. “Uh, no thanks.”

  If that’s the kind of thing the patients drank here, what the hell did they eat? Sautéed seaweed? Toasted tofu? Braised blood sausage? I might not last long without my ritual nightcap of Hennessy and my daily diet of hamburgers, ravioli, salami sticks . . . On the other hand, my big four-oh was looming. Maybe an enforced frou-frou organic regimen would drop-kick me into healthier habits.

  I followed Paula back down the same hallway I’d just left into an office a few doors down from Dr. Stillwater’s. The room was smaller than the top dog’s, and there was no picturesqu
e window. A nameplate on the desk had more initials following Paula’s name than there were letters in it: Paula Green, BA, MSW, LCSW, BCD, ACSW, LMFT, CAC. Damn, she almost had the entire alphabet covered. At this rate, she’d soon run out of characters and have to resort to Greek or Hebrew.

  People who had to advertise their status that way always made me wary. It bespoke either a lack of confidence, an abundance of arrogance, or yet again, a scam. Hey, what can I say? Seeing scams everywhere is an occupational hazard for a Scam Buster. Kind of like seeing assholes everywhere is an occupational hazard for a proctologist.

  A couple easy chairs were crammed into the corner of the room. Paula gestured to one and took the other.

  “So, Hailey, tell me what brings you here today,” she said as I sat.

  I wrung my hands as I looked down at my lap.

  “It wasn’t my idea. But my friend Gitta—she’s a patient here—she’s been ragging on me to check myself in.”

  “I see. And why do you think she’s been doing that?”

  “I’ll tell you why. Now that she’s been clean and sober for what—like, a whole two weeks?—it’s like she’s drunk the Kool Aid, and now she wants to convert everyone to her newfound lifestyle. I’m happy for her, but that doesn’t mean it’s for everyone. That girl was a cokehead. I don’t do drugs. You know what? I don’t need this crap. I’m gonna go.” I rose and headed for the door. An inspired bit of theatrics, if I do say so myself.

  “Hold on, Hailey.” Paula put a manicured hand on my arm. “You’re free to go, of course, but since you’re already here, we might as well talk a little more so that you haven’t totally wasted your time. What do you say?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I guess.” I sat back down.

  “Well, I guess,” Paula said, “that some little part of you, deep inside, is thinking that, just maybe, you might have an addiction problem. Something in what your friend said has hit home. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here at all.”