Boca Undercover

by Miriam Auerbach

  I shrugged.

  “You said you don’t do drugs—so why do you think your friend suggested you come here?”

  “She says I have an alcohol problem. But that’s bullshit.”

  “You do realize alcohol is a drug, right?”

  “No! I’m not a druggie like Gitta and everybody else here. I drink because I like to, not because I have to. I can quit any time I want.”

  “Have you ever tried to quit?”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  “Okay. How about if I read you a few questions from a brief screening test? This will give us an indication of whether alcohol might be a problem for you.”

  “Sure. That’s a good idea. Because I can tell you it’s not.”

  She leaned over to a file cabinet, pulled out a sheet of paper, and attached it to a clipboard. She ran through about a dozen questions about the frequency and quantity of my drinking, whether I was always able to stop once I started, whether I’d ever blacked out, and so on. I made it up as we went along.

  “Well, Hailey, according to your score, alcohol may indeed be causing some difficulties in your life.”

  Right. I bet that was the standard line they used on everybody.

  “The good news is, you’re not alone. We’re here to help. This is something you can overcome.”

  Yeah. At a price.

  “How much does it cost to get treated here?” I asked.

  “We offer a 28 day inpatient program that is completely comprehensive.”

  Completely comprehensive. Is there anything that’s comprehensive but not complete? Or complete but not comprehensive?

  People say I’m a woman of few words, just like Dirty Harry (except that he was a man). But I beg to differ. It’s not that Harry and I speak few words—we speak just the right number. No more than necessary. No redundancies like “completely comprehensive.” We’re efficient.

  “We provide a range of medical, psychiatric, psychological, social, and spiritual interventions,” Paula recited. “Each treatment plan is completely individualized to each patient’s needs.”

  There she went again. As opposed to what—partially individualized? To somebody else’s needs?

  “And we provide only the latest, cutting-edge, evidence-based approaches. We are partnered with the University of—”

  “Yeah,” I said, cutting her off. “So how much did you say it costs?”

  “The inpatient program is $25,000. Then there’s aftercare, which is—” This time she cut herself off. She must have heard the sound of my jaw hitting the marble floor. “Do you have insurance?” she asked.

  “Yup,” I said, thinking of the gun stashed in my boot. “I’m insured by Magnum Force.”

  She frowned. “I don’t think we take that plan. If cost is a concern for you, I can refer you to the county-run program. Of course, they don’t offer quite the same level of service.”

  No doubt. “That’s okay. Actually, Gitta will cover my expenses.”

  I hadn’t told Gitta that, but I was sure she wouldn’t object. Especially seeing as how she wanted me there to save her life. Besides, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be in there the whole twenty-eight . . . twenty-eight days! No way! Lior was arriving the following evening. We’d been forced apart for two months. And there was a definite, unspoken understanding about our upcoming reunion. We intended to finish what we started—our interrupted intimate encounter. Our first.

  That did it. I wasn’t about to be trapped in this world of the weird and the wacky when I should be doing the wild thing with my man. I had just over twenty-four hours to catch a killer.

  Chapter 4

  “LET ME JUST have our billing department verify your payer source,” Paula said. She made a phone call and relayed what I’d told her about Gitta covering my stay. “Yes, I’ll hold,” she said.

  A minute later she said, “Wonderful, thank you.”

  She hung up and turned to me. “Okay, then! Mrs. Castellano has agreed to pay for your treatment.” She flashed me a shark smile that said I’m about to get my hefty commission. What she actually said was, “Let’s get you checked in.”

  I half-expected her to say, “Do you prefer a king bed or a double? Smoking or non? We have free Wi-Fi, and the ice machine is just down the hall.”

  Instead, she said, “For the next forty-eight hours, you’ll be in our Total Purification Detoxification unit, where you’ll have a thorough workup done by our medical director, our psychologist, our psychiatrist, and our chaplain.”

  Perfect. As these gurus were poking and prodding my body, mind, and soul, I’d be doing the same to them (well, except the body part). After all, any of them could be the killer—or at least, hold a clue to the killer’s identity.

  “The team will develop your personalized treatment plan, and then you’ll be transferred to our Whole Wonderful Woman unit,” Paula said.

  If you ask me, they needed to fire their branding consultant. Total Purification Detoxification put me in mind of a colonic, while Whole Wonderful Woman sounded like those educational kits we received in sixth grade from Kotex and Tampax.

  Paula went to her desk, where she turned on a computer. As she logged in, I closely watched her fingers on the keyboard. She tapped out “green,” which I figured was her username, followed by “bobcats98.” Her password—probably her high school team mascot and year of graduation.

  I created a mental image of two green bobcats, each with a huge rhinestone “98” swinging from a fat gold chain around its neck. When I needed to remember that username and password, the image and its associations would pop right up.

  Paula asked a few basic questions about me—or rather, about Hailey—and entered the data into the electronic medical record. “Who would you like to put as your emergency contact?” she asked.

  Oh, shit. I hadn’t anticipated that.

  Over the last few years, I’d gone from being a total loner to having a small core of friends. I knew I could count on any of them with my life. But which of them could be the most duplicitous? Who wouldn’t hesitate a moment if asked about “Hailey?” Who could maintain my ruse, yet blow my cover if necessary?

  “Leonard Goldblatt.” My mother’s paramour. Retired CIA operative. Perhaps my soon-to-be stepfather No. 5.

  I looked up his contact info in my cell phone and recited it to Paula.

  “About your cell phone,” she said. “We’ll take it and keep it in a secure place.”

  “No!” I said in mock terror. “I can’t live without my phone.”

  “I understand. Just as you can’t live without alcohol. Mobile technology has created another form of addiction. People are constantly jonesing for that next hit, whether it’s a text, a tweet, or an Angry Bird killing a pig. These experiences light up the brain’s reward pathways just like alcohol and other drugs. If you are to truly get clean, it all has to go.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

  “I’m afraid not. Now is there anyone you’d like to call first, to let them know you’re here?”

  I got one phone call? Whoopee. Guess I’d be strip-searched next. Actually, that wasn’t so far-fetched. No doubt patients tried to smuggle their stashes in here. But surely The Oasis wouldn’t subject its high-end clientele to such humiliation. The rich just wouldn’t stand for it. Or bend over, to be accurate.

  “Yes, I will make a call,” I said.

  I expected her to leave to give me some privacy, but she didn’t budge. I was starting to realize that the staff here was wily. Not a lot of bullshit got past them. Except my fake identity, of course. They weren’t as wily as I was. Nonetheless, cracking this case would be a challenge. If the staff were behind these deaths, they had no doubt put up layers of smokescreens and firewalls to protect themselves.

  Leonard’s name w
as still up on my screen, and I tapped it to dial him.

  “Hey, Harriet,” he answered.

  “Hi Leonard, it’s Hailey Holloway.”

  There was the briefest of pauses. “Yes, Hailey. What do you need me to do?”

  “Listen, you know, uh, my friend Gitta, she went into treatment at The Oasis a couple weeks ago?”

  “The Oasis. Got it.”

  “Well, uh, I’m finally taking her advice and checking myself in here, too.”

  “You’re going undercover. Gitta’s hired you to investigate something over there.”

  “Right. I’m so glad you understand.”

  “I’ll activate the field network.”

  Huh? What the hell was he talking about? It sounded like something out of Star Trek. Activate the electromagnetic shield, Mister Spock.

  He must have picked up on my confusion. “Our assets on the ground,” he said.

  Oh shit. He intended to mobilize the team that had assisted me on my last case. That would be my mother, the Contessa von Phul, and my best buds, Chuck—my redneck motorcycle mechanic—and his husband, Enrique—the suave security chief of the Boca Beach Hilton. I did not need this ragtag band hounding me on this one.

  “That’s okay,” I started to say, but he went right on.

  “I’ll have an E & E plan in place by 1600 today.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Escape and evasion.”

  I sighed. There was no stopping this man. “Okay, Leonard. They’re taking my phone now, so you won’t be able to reach me this way.” I was about to tell him visitors were allowed, but thought better of it.

  “Not a problem. Agent Goldfinger over and out.” He hung up on me.

  Paula held out her hand, and I handed over my phone. She placed it in a baggie, tagged it, and gave me a receipt. She stood. “Let’s go get you settled in detox, and I’ll put this in our safe deposit box.”

  As we stepped outside the door, we were almost knocked over by a large woman of ample proportions who rushed down the hall. Her lavender polyester suit must have been stifling in the heat outside, because her dark complexion glistened from perspiration. Her grey-streaked black hair was unraveling from a carefully-smoothed bun and frizzing around her face. But it wasn’t just beads of sweat rolling down her cheeks. Behind her rectangular-framed filigreed glasses, her eyes floated in pools of tears.

  She barged past us and banged on the medical director’s door. “Dr. Stillwater! Open up! Come out here! My boy—my poor boy!”

  The door opened, and Hernandez stood there. “How may I help you, ma’am?”

  “I want to know what happened to my boy!”

  “And you are?”

  “Gardenia LaFleur. I sent my boy here for help, and they killed him. They killed him!”

  She leaned against the wall and collapsed to the floor. “My children,” she sobbed. “My children.”

  This must have been the dead boy’s mother. But what did she mean by my children?

  Chapter 5

  OFFICER HERNANDEZ knelt down next to Gardenia LaFleur, who sat on the floor, her back against the wall, head in her hands.

  “Ma’am, let’s get you up and into the office,” he said. “I’ll call for Dr. Stillwater.”

  He took one of her arms. Paula Green rushed over and took the other. Together they raised the distraught woman and walked her into Stillwater’s office. I stood by like the passive patient I was supposed to be rather than the active agent I am.

  Paula reemerged, closing the door behind her. “I’m sorry about that,” she said.

  “Wow, she kind of freaked me out,” I said. “What did she mean about her children?”

  “She’s clearly distraught over this horrible . . . um, event. Just as I’m sure you are, since you found the . . . uh, body. But I can’t discuss our clients. Confidentiality is paramount here at The Oasis. I’m sure you understand. You wouldn’t want us to talk about you with other patients, right?”

  “Right.” Not unless I wanted to feed misinformation to someone, that is.

  “So let’s go ahead to the Total Purification unit.” She led me to a door at the end of the corridor. She passed a magnetic key card through the reader on the door handle, and a small green light came on. She pushed down on the handle and opened the door. I followed her across the threshold and into the unknown.

  The door clicked shut behind us with a disturbing finality. The sound caused me to flash back to the brief time I’d spent in the county jail after shooting Bruce. I repressed the shudder that passed through my body at the memory of those few days in lockup.

  Looking around, I saw that the similarities between the jail and The Oasis ended at the door. Whereas the jail cell had consisted of a cot without a sheet, and a commode without a seat, this place was like the Ritz. In Morocco, I supposed. We were in a circular suite with five closed doors, each with the classic Moorish arched doorway. Instead of security cameras mounted on the walls, there were brass sconces that imparted a golden glow. The marble floor in the common area was covered in Persian rugs. Atop those sat plush velvet couches and armchairs in deep jewel tones of ruby and sapphire.

  The center of the space was occupied by what had to be the world’s most sumptuous nurses’ station. Its circular inlaid-wood counter was befitting of the concierge desk at the aforementioned hotel. Maybe The Oasis had cashed in on some resort’s going-out-of-business-everything-must-go sale.

  Another Boca Babe Wannabe replica staffed the counter. She wore brown scrubs patterned with tan Louis Vuitton knock-off logos. She looked like a walking handbag. I’d seen those scrubs at the flea market. Only a wannabe would think that the House of Vuitton would stoop to designing uniforms for working women.

  She stood and came around as we approached. “Hi, I’m Mercy. I’m one of the RNs here.” She extended her hand.

  An RN—period? No more initials than that? Wow, maybe she was an actual, normal person—as normal as they get in Boca, that is.

  I shook her hand but didn’t say anything, maintaining my spaced-out act.

  “This is Hailey Holloway,” Paula introduced me.

  “Thanks, Paula,” Mercy said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Paula gave me a squeeze on the shoulder. “Take care, Hailey. You’re in good hands. You’ll be just fine.”

  She departed the way we had entered. The only way to do so, I noted.

  “Let me show you to your room,” Mercy said, grabbing a clipboard.

  I followed her through one of the archways into yet another lavishly furnished room. The king size bed was made up with luxury linens and coverlets, including a dozen pillows in as many shapes and sizes. What is it with this particular decorating trend? Don’t you just need one pillow—two at the most? I guess they call them throw pillows because you have to throw them off the bed before you can get in.

  The room also contained a sofa with yet more pillows and a small round oak table with a couple of chairs. The floor-to-ceiling window framed by brocade drapes looked out onto the front lawn. I noted that the window was one large mullioned glass pane—it didn’t open. No way out through there.

  I looked around the room for a security camera. None. Guess the staff had some respect for patient privacy.

  There was no TV. That I wouldn’t miss, since I don’t have one in my log cabin, either. But there was no computer and, of course, no cell phone. There was a regular phone plugged into the wall, but I wasn’t the phone-chatting type. I spent my time working, working out, riding, and, most evenings, drinking my glass of Hennessy while briefing Lana on my day. The thought of being cooped up in this room without any sources of stimulation or relaxation put me on edge.

  “Um, would you happen to have any reading material?” I asked Mercy.

  “You know, it’s funny you sh
ould ask that. We do keep the patient rooms stocked with books and pamphlets on recovery, hope, and spirituality. Every room has always had a copy of The Big Book of AA. But lately, all the printed material has been disappearing. Of course, patients are free to take the materials since they are here for their benefit. But usually they don’t. Until now, I mean. So I’m sorry, but we haven’t yet had a chance to restock.”

  “So what am I supposed to do with myself in here?” I was starting to panic.

  She patted my arm. “You’ll be fine. It’s normal to feel agitated and jittery during the detoxification phase of recovery. Those are withdrawal symptoms. It means your body is adjusting to being chemical-free. We’ll be monitoring your vital signs every four hours. If you become really anxious or can’t sleep, we’ll give you some medication to help with that.”

  Say what? They got patients off drugs by giving them other drugs? Damned if they were going to shoot me up with anything.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said.

  She smiled. “We’ll see. Now I’m going to take blood and urine samples.”

  I paused. “Why?”

  “To get a general lab profile and to screen for drug metabolites.”

  “But I’m in good health, and like I told Paula, I use alcohol but no drugs. So these tests aren’t necessary.”

  “Well, Hailey, nobody’s forcing you into treatment. Of course you’re free to go at any time. But if you want to be in our program, this is part of the protocol.”

  In other words, it was their way or the highway.

  “Okay,” I sighed.

  Mercy handed me the clipboard and had me sign a consent form. Then she donned latex gloves, pulled a needle and several glass vials out of her pocket, and sucked some blood out of me. Next she produced a urine collection cup. “Let’s go into the bathroom,” she said.

  “Um, I can manage myself. Have been since I was about two.”

  Mercy smiled again. It was getting annoying. “I have to observe you void.”

  I stared at her.

  “If we don’t, patients often substitute someone else’s sample for their own.”