Boca Undercover

by Miriam Auerbach

  “Your heart rate is a little high,” she said. “Not surprising, given what you’ve just been through.”

  Oh no. Was she onto me?

  “That stabbing was extremely disturbing, and especially for you, since you were the first to help that poor girl.”

  “Oh. Yeah, right.”

  “How are you feeling now?” she asked.

  “Actually, not too good,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep without my usual nightcap. Do you have anything I can take?” Of course I had no intention of doing any such thing, but I was keeping up my alcoholic appearance.

  “Let’s see how you do, and if you need some sedative medication later, we’ll get it,” Mercy said.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  She left, and I mentally patted myself on the back. Mercy had found me right where I was supposed to be, and in an apparent state of withdrawal anxiety.

  There wasn’t anything more I could do that night. I was trapped in my room. Frustrating, but I had no choice.

  I went into the bathroom to prepare for bed. The vanity was stocked with typical spa luxury amenities—triple-milled shea butter soap, jasmine mint whitening toothpaste, gum-massaging comfort grip toothbrush, and aromatherapy shampoo, conditioner, and lotion—all bearing The Oasis’s logo, the name and a palm tree silhouette in aqua on a white circular background. Exactly the kind of stuff spa guests typically stuffed in their luggage and took home. They might not view that as stealing, but the spas sure did, building the costs of the losses into their rates. Not that rates were an issue for The Oasis’s clientele.

  The memory of Jessica’s blood still soaked my mind, if not my body. I needed to wash it off. I spotted a bottle of bubble bath. I picked it up and read: “a rich exotic blend of lavender, bee blossom honey with white orchids, and warm, woody undertones of Indian amber delicately completed with a touch of Tahitian vanilla.” Sounded like a damn wine.

  I turned on the hot water in the tub, poured the bottle under the running faucet, stripped, and slid in. I released my long hair from its ponytail and shampooed it. When I emerged from the bath, I indulged in the body lotion, face cream, and toothpaste.

  Nice. The textures and scents took me back to my Boca Babe days. Along with everything else, I’d left all that behind—I now used generic products from the Publix grocery. As I often do, I felt the tug to return to my former ways. Which is exactly why I didn’t use those luxury goodies anymore. They were an enticement, ready to suck you back into that whole soulless lifestyle.

  I left the bathroom and slid under the bed sheets. One-thousand-thread-count, I perceived immediately. Great. Another allure to relapse into self-indulgence. I slid back out, went back into the bathroom to put on a plush terry robe that hung there, then lay on top of the bed.

  And laid there.

  The bath had done nothing to remove the images of Jessica’s spurting blood from my mind. What I’d told Mercy about not being able to sleep was coming back to bite me in the ass. Jeez, maybe I did need my nightly glass of Hennessy.

  Nah. It was just the case keeping me up. If I needed anything, it was my Hog.

  So there I remained in a state of agitated wakefulness, Mercy popping in to check my vital signs every four hours as I pretended to sleep. Damned if I’d take any drugs they might offer me. That could be deadly.

  I finally drifted off just as dawn broke. I was startled awake by a much-too-cheerful “Good morning!”

  I opened my eyes to a short, bespectacled, bald guy who introduced himself as Daniel, the nurse on the new shift. “How are we feeling?” he asked.

  We? I didn’t know feelings were collective. But since he apparently thought so, I said, “You tell me.”

  “I think we’re feeling a little irritated, aren’t we?”

  A little?

  “That’s perfectly normal, Hailey,” he went on. “But congratulations—you’ve just achieved your first night of sobriety.”

  “So what, am I going to get a medal?”

  “Not just yet, but in another six days you will.”

  Seriously? Okay, get a grip, I thought. “So . . . what are our plans today?”

  “I’ll let you get dressed.”

  What, we weren’t getting dressed?

  “Then I’ll escort you to breakfast, and then you’re scheduled for a psych evaluation. After lunch, you’ll attend a group educational session.”

  “Okay.” I started to get up. “Wait. I don’t have any fresh underwear. When I arrived here, I wasn’t planning to spend the night.”

  “No problem. We have a boutique shop on site that has everything you need.”

  Oh, right. I’d forgotten about the gift shop that Mercy had told me about the day before.

  “How about I take you there first, then you can come back and change before breakfast?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He left the room, and I went to “void,” as Mercy had termed it, and brush my teeth. When I emerged from the bathroom, I saw the still-rumpled bed and thought, the help will take care of that. Oh my God, I had really slipped back into the Boca Babe worldview. Like I said, those toiletry treats were treacherous.

  I made the bed, pulled on my jeans and The Oasis polo shirt from the night before, and set off to raid the boutique on Gitta’s dime.

  THE SLEEK BOUTIQUE boasted minimalist décor in aqua and white, designed to showcase the objects of desire: Lilly Pulitzer resort wear, David Yurman jewelry, Judith Lieber handbags. One dependency The Oasis obviously wasn’t treating—but rather, was feeding—was acquisition addiction.

  Fighting the temptation to touch and admire the wares, I headed to the back, where a discreet, silver-framed sign indicated “Ladies Intimates.” When I saw the intricate, lacy La Perla thongs and bras, my vajayjay perked up, reminding me that Lior was to arrive that night. Hot damn! I had to find out what the hell was going on in this place pronto, so that I could reunite with my man.

  I snagged a matching set in black with red trim and charged the several hundred bucks to my—that is, my client’s—account. Hey, it was a legit business expense.

  The Boca Babe wannabe at the counter wrapped my purchase in tissue paper, placed it in paper bag (bearing The Oasis logo, natch), and walked around the counter to hand it to me. “Enjoy!” she chirped.

  Daniel escorted me back to my room, where I changed, and then to the dining room. It was clear the staff wasn’t going to leave me out of their sight for long. We passed a few patients along the way, but I had no opportunity to eavesdrop or interrogate.

  The dining atrium buzzed with conversation. The same patients appeared to be at the same tables they had the night before—minus, of course, Jessica and Amber. The place was just like a high school lunchroom, with cliques staking out their territories. You had your jocks (the T’ai Chi masters), your cheerleaders (the water sprites), your stoners . . . except the latter covered everyone in here.

  As before, Gitta waved frantically at me from her corner table. This time, Lars wasn’t with her. I went to join her, striding through the room with an air of smug confidence. I was my own woman—part of no supercilious in-group. Besides, there’s nothing like a new set of lingerie to make you walk tall and proud.

  Along the way to the table, I caught snatches of conversation.

  “I’m telling you, something bizarre is going on in here.”

  “Can you believe the way Amber stabbed Jessica right in the neck?”

  “All that blood—I just about passed out. I’ve already talked to my lawyer. He’s going to sue this place for infliction of extreme emotional suffering.” Leave it to a Boca Babe to focus on her own distress rather than that of the real victim.

  I reached Gitta’s table. Today she was attired in a silk, flowered form-fitting dress with gold espadrilles. But, bereft o
f makeup and showing dark under-eye circles, she looked as though she hadn’t gotten any more sleep than I had. She confirmed that when I sat down.

  “Harr . . . uh, I mean, Hailey, I couldn’t sleep all night,” she whispered forcefully. “I keep thinking they’re going to get me next. What are you doing about it?”

  Oh, great, here we went again with her paranoia.

  “Gitta, there’s no rational reason to think you will be attacked,” I whispered back with equal force. “All the victims have been teenagers. To restate the obvious, you are not. You haven’t been for twenty years. Own it.”

  She gave me a glare but then said, “Kevin told me the same thing. Except much more nicely.”

  “Oh? When did you speak with him?”

  “He came to visit me last night, to comfort me after . . . everything that happened.”

  “And did he tell you anything about the police investigation?

  “No. He just repeated what Detective Snyder said yesterday—that Kevin can’t work on the case because of his relationship with me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, I’m glad he was here to support you.” I was even more glad that I hadn’t crossed paths with him, which would have blown my cover.

  Jason, the server, appeared, bearing a large chalkboard underneath his arm. “Ladies, I apologize for last night’s disruption. And once again, I’m sorry, but the menus have gone missing. Here are this morning’s choices.” He propped the chalkboard onto an empty chair. In flowery script, it read:

  Potato, Sausage, and Spinach Breakfast Casserole

  Broiled Portabella Topped with Creamy Scrambled Eggs

  Citrus salad with Mint Sugar

  White Chocolate Raspberry Muffins

  Brown Butter, Ginger, and Sour Cream Coffee Cake

  Almond-Banana Smoothie

  All that was missing was a Mimosa or a Bloody Mary. Bloody hell.

  “Shall I bring coffee?” Jason asked.

  “Yes!” Gitta and I said in unison.

  “Regular or decaf?”

  “Regular.” In harmony again.

  Jason departed, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the foursome at the table next to ours get up and leave. Jason returned with our coffee in a silver pot and poured it into china cups set on paper doilies atop saucers. He took our orders (casserole and coffee cake for me, smoothie for Gitta), then cleared the other table.

  When he left, toting the chalkboard and tableware, two women approached. Glancing over, I saw they were Dr. Stillwater and Gardenia LaFleur, the dead teens’ foster mother. Stillwater’s pale yellow hair framed a matching pale face, while Gardenia’s caramel complexion bore ashen undertones that belied the cheerfulness of her floral chinoiserie dress. Stillwater’s hand lay on Gardenia’s back as Gardenia wiped her eyes with a tissue.

  As they sat at the next table, Stillwater smiled at us and said, “I hope you both got some rest last night.”

  We nodded and smiled back.

  As Stillwater turned away to talk to Gardenia, Gitta started to say something to me. I gave her a kick under the table and shifted my eyes to the duo next to us. I wanted to hear what they had to say. To her credit, Gitta got the message, shutting up and drinking her coffee.

  “I know what a terrible loss this is for you, Gardenia,” I heard Stillwater say.

  “Yes, they were all my kids—Demarcus, Angel, Kenyatta, Jessica, and Amber. Even though they weren’t really mine, of course, but you get attached to each one. It’s an occupational hazard.”

  “Of course. We doctors get attached to our patients, too, even though we strive to keep a professional distance. You can’t help but be human.”

  “Yes,” Gardenia sighed. “And this is taking a toll on my health. My blood pressure is sky high, and I’ve had to take more insulin shots for my diabetes.”

  “You need to take time for yourself,” Stillwater said. “What kinds of activities do you find relaxing?”

  “Oh, gardening. That’s what my mother named me for, you see. I inherited her love of flowers. I can just lose myself in a garden.”

  “Then why don’t you take some time to enjoy our beautiful grounds here?”

  Jason arrived with our meals and with the chalkboard menu for Stillwater and Gardenia. Their conversation, and my attention, turned to food.

  Stillwater remained my primary (okay, only) suspect, although I sure as hell didn’t want to tell Gitta that with the doctor sitting right there. On the other hand, Stillwater seemed very empathetic to Gardenia. Could she really be so cold as to kill the kids and then comfort the bereaved survivor?

  Did I have to ask? Of course—anyone could be a walking psychopath, a social charmer with an empty core.

  As Gitta and I finished our meals, Daniel, the nurse, approached. “Hailey, it’s time for your psych eval.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right there.” I hoped he’d leave so I could possibly do some snooping on my way to the psychologist’s office. But no such luck.

  “I’ll wait for you outside the dining area so I can show you the way,” he said.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I asked Gitta.

  “I guess so. I have an appointment for individual counseling soon.”

  “Okay then, I’ll see you later.”

  I rose, nodded to Stillwater and Gardenia, and strode toward the atrium door, still feeling good in my new unmentionables. I might be closing in on forty, but right then it didn’t look so bad. I still had my rockin’ bod, thanks to my Krav Maga workouts. And I was looking forward to a workout of a different sort with my Krav Maga instructor.

  About halfway to the door, I was intercepted by one of the water sprites. She was an ash blonde wearing a short Pucci dress. “Hey, you’re new here, right?” she asked, her voice raspy.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Want to score some dope?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whatever you want, I can get. Oxy, crack, smack, meth. Any form you want, too—swallow, smoke, snort, or shoot up. My name’s Lisa. Everyone comes to me.” Sounded like she had a flourishing drug trade going on in there.

  “Uh, how much?” I asked, playing along.

  She curled her lip. “What’s the matter with you? Girls don’t pay. Guys do. Just use your talents. You know, you service them, they pay me, and I get you what you need.”

  Oh. So she not only had a drug trade going but a prostitution ring as well. Operating her own little business-within-a-business. Quite the entrepreneur.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but I’ll pass.”

  Her gaze swept over me from head to toe, and she curled her lip again.

  I turned to go.

  “Screw you, bitch!” she growled under her breath. “You’re too old anyway!”

  Chapter 11

  TOO OLD? ME? In my hot new underthings? Who did this little pipsqueak think she was?

  Oh yeah, she was a pimp. Why was I letting her get my goat? This place was definitely messing up my mind.

  I left her and the dining atrium and followed Daniel to the office of Sanjay Singh, the psychologist who was to evaluate me. This was a prospect I did not relish. As far as I was concerned, psychology was a bunch of mumbo jumbo. Riding my Hog was the only therapy I needed.

  Daniel ushered me into an anteroom. The door to the inner office was closed. “Please have a seat,” he said. “Dr. Singh will be with you in a moment. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, and he departed.

  The room was furnished in The Oasis’s signature Moorish style. I sat on a tasseled brocade ottoman before an inlaid-tile coffee table, which I was not surprised to see was barren of reading material. However, a nice big flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall. Though it was off, it called o
ut to me: Sit! Relax! Vegetate while I fill your mind with vainglorious vapidity and create cravings for things you didn’t know you needed.

  This was why I didn’t have a TV at home. Marx had said that religion was the opium of the masses. That was before the advent of the boob tube.

  What the hell, I’d only be here a few minutes. I grabbed the remote, sat down, pressed the power button, and started channel surfing. After cycling through Millionaire Matchmaker, Who Wants To Be a Millionaire, and Secret Millionaire, I settled on the local news.

  A helmet-haired, wrinkle-free, red-lipsticked female android (would that be a gynoid?) recited the current events.

  A man had entered a McDonald’s flashing a fake gun and a badge, claiming he was a cop and deserved free food. “The man was arrested for impersonating a law enforcement officer and improper exhibition of a firearm,” the newscaster said.

  Now, wait a minute. If it wasn’t really a firearm, how could he improperly exhibit it?

  Jeez, I was strategizing the guy’s legal defense. Whatever. Not my problem. Where the hell was this Dr. Singh anyway?

  “Next,” said the newscaster, “we have some details for you about the arrest of a suspect in the murder of sixteen-year-old Demarcus Pritchett yesterday at The Oasis treatment center in Boca.”

  I sat up straight.

  “According to a police spokesman, Jacques Bertrand, a Haitian national, was discovered with the victim’s blood on his hands and clothing. Additionally, his fingerprints were found on the murder weapon. The police would not disclose a potential motive for the crime. Channel 17 had an exclusive interview with the suspect’s wife late last night. She did not wish to be identified but did agree to speak with us.”

  The scene cut to a woman’s face cast in dark shadow.

  “My husband is innocent,” she said in a thick Haitian Creole accent, her voice electronically altered. “He would not harm anyone!” she sobbed.

  “Have you had a chance to speak with your husband since his arrest?” an off-camera male voice asked.

  “Yes, I visit him in jail. He say he find stabbed boy in hedges in The Oasis. He try to help the boy, that is how he got blood on himself.”