Boca Undercover

by Miriam Auerbach

  I saw Daniel, the nurse, approach, and feared he was going to haul me off to the same thing. I braced myself for some Krav Maga action. I was ready to bust out of that lunatic asylum by whatever means necessary. But Daniel informed me that I was to attend an art therapy session in a half-hour.

  “Can I just have a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll wait outside the door for you. But no more than a minute. Punctuality is one of the lessons we need to learn here at The Oasis.”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  I wanted to have a word with the prostitution ring leader, or, as I now thought of her, the Shrimp Pimp. The day before, she had made it loud and clear that I was too old for her enterprise. Seeing her again had gotten me wondering whether she had recruited any of the adolescents into her business. If so, what if the girls had refused to split their drug earnings with her? What if the boys had utilized the services but then refused to pay up? Could she have killed the kids over that? After all, prostitution and violence were inextricably linked.

  I slid over to her table. She and her companions stopped talking and stared at me.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about the flying shrimp,” I said.

  “That’s okay, honey,” she said. “I’ve had worse slide down my boobs, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Eeww. Jeez. Yuck. I felt like taking a shower right then and there to wash that image out of my mind and the creepy feeling off my body.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I would have done anything myself to save that poor little dog. People? Forget about it. Most of ’em I wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire.” Or even if they weren’t, I hoped.

  “But dogs?” she said. “I’d lay down my life for them.”

  I guess everyone had a soft spot—gators being mine.

  “Could we talk a minute in private?” I asked, nodding toward her lunch companions.

  She looked me up and down. “You want to talk business? You haven’t gotten any younger since yesterday, honey.”

  God, why these constant reminders of my upcoming fortieth?

  “I know I’m too old to work for you,” I said through gritted teeth, “but how about working with you?”

  Apparently not one to bypass a professional networking opportunity, Shrimp Pimp turned to the rest of the table and said, “Scram.”

  Her companions left the dining room, and I took one of their vacated chairs.

  “So, what’d you have in mind?” she asked.

  “I see you’ve got a nice gig going in here. To tell you the truth, I’ve been in and out of all the rehab joints across the county in the last year. I know the staff in every one of them, and most of my friends are revolving through the doors, too. So it occurred to me, we could grow your business in these other markets. We could open up franchises. You get a cut, I get a cut, everyone’s happy. What do you say?”

  She pursed her lips. “I could go for that. As long as I retain majority share.”

  I paused as if considering her counteroffer. “Forty percent for me, sixty for you?”

  “Thirty-seventy.”

  “You got a deal.” I stuck out my hand.

  She shook it, and I resisted the urge to wipe it. “Now,” I said, “I think our most lucrative demographic on the supply side would be the eighteen and under.”

  “I feel you,” Shrimp Pimp said.

  Eeww. Again.

  “I hope you can recruit them in the satellite locations,” she said, “because this place is a bust.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The little rich bitches in here won’t even talk to me. I don’t blame them. They’ve got access to Daddy’s money, so they don’t need to sell their assets. What I don’t get is, even those welfare kids turned me down. Both the girls and the guys.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, you know what they told me?” She leaned forward, exposing more of her boobs. An orange blob of cocktail sauce remained stuck to her flesh.

  “What?”

  “They said they’re not interested in sex. Can you believe that?” She raised her over-plucked eyebrows. “What teenage repository of hormones isn’t interested in sex?”

  I had to agree that sounded strange—although I didn’t think sex and prostitution were the same thing. “Well, even if they weren’t interested in sex, what about drugs?” I asked.

  “Didn’t seem to care about those, either. Weird, huh? If they don’t care about drugs, why the hell are they in here?”

  That was the million-dollar question.

  BEFORE DANIEL escorted me to the art therapy session, I asked to stop in my room to brush my teeth. In reality, I wanted to see if there was a message from Enrique about the toilet cam. There wasn’t. Damn. There was no point in calling him—I knew he would have called if there’d been any action. Frustrated, I exited the room, slamming the door behind me.

  “Looks like we could use some relaxation,” Daniel chimed from behind his nurses’ station.

  I glared at him.

  “Finger painting should do the trick,”

  “Finger . . . painting. That’s a joke, right?”

  “Not at all. Come with me.”

  I had a strong urge to flee. This had to be a new low in my PI career. The Oasis was turning out to be a sinkhole. But my work here wasn’t done, so I had to tough it out.

  Daniel led me to an art studio, a room with two glass walls that made the most of the natural light streaming in. Six would-be artistes, all of them adult patients I’d encountered before, sat around a circular table. Great. We’d probably come out of here with six variations on Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Which was exactly what I felt like doing.

  However, I was rendered soundless when none other than my old friend Lupe waltzed in, a red tiered skirt brushing her ankles and chandelier earrings brushing her shoulders beneath elaborately upswept hair. Her eyes met mine in silent recognition as she proceeded to the front of the room.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” she said. “As you all know, I am Dr. Guadalupe Domingo, the volunteer chaplain here at The Oasis. One of the spiritual services we offer is art therapy, which we’ll be doing together this afternoon.”

  Figured. Lupe always was the New Age woo-woo type. She was a Mexican witch, for God’s sake.

  “Today, we’re going to set our spirits free by expressing ourselves through art,” she said. “One of the wonderful things about this process is that you don’t need any so-called artistic talent. All you need is your fingers. Or your toes. Or any other body part you want to use.”

  Oh, God, no. Please . . . no butt prints.

  “So we’re going to make a mess, but a contained mess,” Lupe said.

  She reached inside a drawer and withdrew a plastic cover, which she spread atop the table. Then she pulled out some clear plastic ponchos. “Tyler, can you hand these out to everyone?” she said.

  As Tyler did that, Lupe tore large pieces of butcher paper from a roll atop a counter. “Skyler, how about you place these in front of everyone?”

  Finally, Lupe hauled out gallon buckets of paint in primary colors and set them in the center of the table.

  “So,” she said brightly, “just take your fingers, your toes, your hair, whatever, and dip it into the colors. Don’t worry, these paints are non-toxic and will wash right off. Then apply the paints to your paper. Don’t worry about doing it right or using the right technique. There is no right way or right technique. Just let yourselves go. Set aside your conscious thoughts and allow your subconscious to emerge. Your subliminal self will guide you in your expressions. Just follow it.”

  I loved Lupe, but this was bullshit. The only thing I needed to tap into my subconscious was my Hog. But maybe something meaningful to this case would emerge from the subconscious of the ot
her participants. Yeah, I know, that was a stretch. Clearly, I was getting desperate.

  Lupe put on some loopy music of flutes and pianos and lit a few aromatic candles. The group spent the next hour dipping into paints, then swirling, swaying, splotching, squiggling, and generally acting like toddlers in a playroom. And making the same kind of mess.

  The resulting “art” was pretty much what you’d expect—the kind of masterpieces parents tack onto refrigerators. Except these were the Boca version. Instead of a little house with a picket fence, Skyler drew a faux Mediterranean McMansion with a backyard pool and lighted landscaping. Instead of a stick-figure mom standing on a porch, Tyler painted a bejeweled Barbie-shaped woman provocatively posed before a Porsche.

  When we were finished, everyone pulled off their ponchos and washed their hands in a sink in the corner of the room.

  “My manicure is ruined!” one of the Boca Babes whined. Hmm. I wondered if her subconscious was equally beauty-conscious.

  After we returned to the table, Lupe asked, “Would anyone care to share how they felt during the process?”

  A litany of expressed emotions poured out, spanning the spectrum from “free” to “liberated.”

  “And you, Harr . . . Hailey?” Lupe asked me.

  Please. The only time I felt free and liberated was on my bike. “I feel blocked,” I said.

  “Imagine your spirit soaring,” Lupe counseled.

  Sure. But what did my spirit look like?

  “Now, what insights have you all gained?” Lupe asked.

  Again with the psychobabble.

  “I’m repressed,” Tyler said.

  Maybe he longed to be a Barbie-shaped woman?

  “I don’t let people in,” Skyler said. In where—her McMansion?

  When my turn came, I gazed upon my tableau. It depicted what looked like a green water bottle melting onto a tabletop, à la Salvador Dalí. “I’m hot and thirsty,” I said. None of that Freudian mumbo-jumbo for me.

  Shortly afterward, Lupe wrapped things up, and the group shuffled out, proudly carrying their creations. Once they were discharged from The Oasis, they’d no doubt have their works placed under preservation glass, triple-matted, and encased in gilded wood frames.

  After everyone left, I lingered to talk to Lupe. I hadn’t seen her since shortly after my admission, and I knew she’d be concerned about my welfare. Plus, I hoped she could provide some insights into the bizarre things I’d uncovered.

  To my disappointment, she was unable to provide any helpful information. She had not been aware that the victims had all attended the same school. Nor did she have a clue as to why someone might have stashed printed materials in the restroom ceiling. And she didn’t know the identity of the mysterious “acquanaturale,” who had sent the celeb pics to the Inquisitor.

  “I feel like this afternoon has been a waste,” I said.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Lupe said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps this afternoon’s activity will yield some answers for you. Your subconscious holds some keys already, but that knowledge needs to bubble up into your awareness.”

  “Oh . . . kay,” I said. I didn’t dispute the theory, just the method.

  “Stay safe, chica,” Lupe said.

  “Count on it.”

  I RETURNED TO my room. Still no message from Enrique. The toilet cam seemed like another waste. I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. I’d barely slept in two nights. I’d just take a short power nap, then get back on the case.

  ROME. AGAIN. THE Piazza Navona. Sitting al fresco at a trattoria. Families taking their evening passagiata, flaunting their fashions and footwear. Pigeons fluttering. The scent of fresh-baked pizza. Bruce beside me, holding my hand.

  A waiter appears.

  “Buona sera, signori. Can I get you some bottled water? Acqua frizzante or acqua naturale?” He looks at me expectantly.

  I look to Bruce. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what he means.”

  Bruce withdraws his hand. The candlelight from the table bounces off his black pupils.

  “What did I pay that Italian tutor for all summer? Were you studying—or screwing him?”

  He turns to the waiter. “Tutti e due, per favore. Both, please.”

  “Sì, signore.”

  Bruce glares at me until the waiter returns with two green glass water bottles. The waiter opens them, pours a glass from each bottle, then leaves again. Bruce grabs one of the glasses and holds it up. Bubbles rise to the surface. “Acqua frizzante. Sparkling water.”

  He lifts up the glass, turns it, and pours the water over my head.

  He grabs the other glass and pours that one on me.

  “Acqua naturale. Still water.”

  I awoke, drenched.

  Still water. I remembered Dr. Stillwater complaining about missing her annual vacation to Italy because of the deaths at The Oasis. She was an Italiophile. She was “acquanaturale.”

  Chapter 17

  THE PHOTOS OF Cody Keys and Jordan Mitchell had been e-mailed to the Inquisitor from Dr. Stillwater’s account. Had she sent them herself, betraying her own patients’ confidentiality? If so, why?

  Most likely, to get publicity for The Oasis. Everyone would want to go where the stars went for treatment. Stillwater must have figured that the potential gains from the media attention outweighed the loss of The Oasis’s reputation for discretion. And she was probably right. Celebrity discretion meant dick these days. Disease and dysfunction were often assets rather than liabilities.

  But there went my idea that it was the teen victims who’d leaked the photos and that someone had killed them to shut them down. It was yet another dead end in this investigation, added to the toilet cam that hadn’t revealed anyone accessing the hidden reading stash. On top of that, my theory that the victims had double-crossed Shrimp Pimp had gone down the drain, too—at least if Shrimp Pimp was to be believed that the teens had expressed complete disinterest in drugs or sex.

  I was getting nowhere at The Oasis. My only remaining hope was at the school, with Lars.

  I rose unsteadily from the bed. The nightmare had shaken me. I headed for the restroom to take a shower to clear my body and mind. Before I could reach it, though, there was a frantic pounding on the door.

  “Harriet! Harriet!” Gitta’s panicked voice came from the other side.

  I opened the door. Gitta stood there, eyes wide, blonde hair askew. Daniel stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

  “Mrs. Castellano, calm down. There’s no Harriet here. This is Hailey.”

  “Let go of me!” Gitta snarled, slapping at Daniel.

  She grabbed my arm. “It’s Lars. He just called me in my room. He said he was in the school kitchen, and he thought someone was following him. Then the call was dropped. I kept calling back, but his phone just kept ringing and then going to voice mail. Something terrible has happened to my baby!”

  I felt my own panic rising. Maybe there was nothing to be alarmed about. But I couldn’t take that chance. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I should never have let the kid go into that school. What the hell had I been thinking?

  “Call Detective Reilly of the Boca Police,” I snapped at Daniel. I no longer cared about blowing my cover with Reilly. All I cared about was Lars. And Gitta needed Reilly by her side.

  “Tell Reilly what she just said,” I told Daniel. “Have him meet us at the school. Sterling Heights Academy.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Daniel sputtered.

  “Do it!” I grabbed Gitta by the elbow. “We’re outta here.”

  I grabbed my Harley key from my nightstand and ran through the halls of The Oasis, dragging Gitta behind me on her high heels. Ignoring all the staff who tried to stop us, we rushed to the front entrance, burst out, and ran across the lawn to the parking lot.r />
  My Hog sat where I’d parked it—had it been just two days before?

  I took my helmet off the backrest, dug my leather jacket out of the saddlebag, and handed the gear to Gitta. I hated to ride without protection, but I had no choice. We had to get to Lars.

  We straddled the bike, Gitta perching precariously behind me, grasping her arms around my waist so tight I could barely breathe. I stuck the key in the ignition and pushed the starter button. The bike roared like a lion awakened from slumber. Shifting into first, I opened up the throttle and let out the clutch. We thundered past the guard gate and onto the street. The wind rushed past my body as the engine rumbled, the frame vibrated, and the road spread before me. God, it felt good to be in charge again, unconstrained by institutional structures.

  I remembered the school’s address from the computer records I’d hacked. It was a couple miles away in an old section of town. I headed in that direction, Gitta screaming “Hurry!” in my ear. Like I didn’t get that.

  Twilight had descended, and with it, the day’s heat and humidity had waned. Car headlights and taillights twinkled across the roads. The lights in Boca’s sleek glass office buildings were turning off, while those in the Spanish-tile-roofed houses and balconied condos were coming on.

  We tore through town, weaving through rush-hour traffic, veering onto sidewalks, and running red lights. In ten minutes we pulled up to Sterling Heights Academy.

  Its appearance did not live up to its noble name. The building was a three-story elongated structure, its red bricks blackened with grime. Weak lighting illuminated the windows from within. Surveillance cameras were mounted on each corner of the rooftop and above the entrance. A metal fence with barbed wire across the top surrounded the building. On the scraggly front lawn, a plastic sign with missing letters spelled out “St_r_ing Hei_ht_ Ac_d_my.” The place looked more like a prison than a school.

  The building and grounds appeared deserted. The cops were nowhere in sight. In that bumper-to-bumper traffic, even a patrol car with lights flashing and sirens blaring wouldn’t have made it as fast as we had on the Hog.