CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Visiting rights? What is this, the state pen? Is there any intelligent reason I can’t see Mrs. Capriati?”

  “I gave you my reasons.”

  “No, you gave me some official-sounding gobbledygook that might work on a salesman but not with a private detective working a missing person’s case. And since my missing person happens to be the target of an ongoing F.B.I. search, that’s who I’ll call if you continue obstructing my investigation. The bureau wrote the book on gobbledygook and all yours will do is get them mad. Given what scrutiny nursing homes are under nowadays you might want to avoid that. I might even mention the dozen code violations I’ve seen since I came here.”

  Most of what I said was my own gobbledygook, including the part about obstructing an investigation. I was pretty sure the F.B.I. could care less about Capriati and his ancient embezzlement. And piles of leaves, overflowing trash and a sour smell didn’t mean the place was overdue for a visit by the health authorities. But from his nervous glance at the nurses I suspected I’d struck a nerve.

  “Well, listen Mr. Rhode, no need to become confrontational. I’m sure you understand my desire to protect my patients, some of whom are very fragile.”

  I was getting very tired of Earl Patchett.

  “Will Mrs. Capriati know who I am?”

  “No.”

  “Does she even know who you are?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Does she recognize anyone?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Has anybody visited her recently?”

  He looked over at the nurses. They shook their heads.

  “So, what possible harm can there be if I see her for a moment?”

  He took a last shot.

  “What good will it do you?”

  It was the first sensible thing the jerk said.

  “I don’t know, Earl. But I’ve come a long way to see her, so I might as well. She’s a lonely old lady. Maybe it will be good for my soul. By the way, I understand someone sends her cash, which you handle. Gee, you think it might be a kin? How much is she getting? And what is it used for?”

  “Patient finances are confidential,” he said, looking sharply at the two nurses. “Reciprocity or no, you’ll need a court order.”

  He was probably on firm ground about that. I had to bend a little.

  “The amount isn’t important. I’m more interested in any return address on the envelopes you get. I’m sure you understand. That can’t be confidential, unless the sender gave you specific instructions. And if that’s the case a court order would probably supersede those instructions.”

  Patchett was in a bind. I was guessing he didn’t want any courts involved.

  “The money comes in plain white envelopes, no return address. I throw them away. As for the amount, it’s a pittance, enough for some sundries and other things to make her more comfortable, or to spruce up the room.”

  Betty coughed. He looked at both nurses.

  “Isn’t that right?

  They both quickly said yes.

  “Did either of you ever see a return address?”

  They both said no and he turned back to me.

  “Were the letters addressed by hand,” I asked. “Do you remember the postmarks?”

  Patchett gave me an elaborate sigh. I was obviously becoming tiresome.

  “The addresses are typed. I don’t remember anything specific about the postmarks, but seem to recall the letters came from several different locales.”

  I do tiresome much better than winsome.

  “What happens if Mrs. Capriati dies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, do you expect the letters and cash to continue for eternity?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure the sender keeps up on the woman. Perhaps he calls.”

  I looked at the nurses.

  “She get many calls?”

  “None that I’ve handled,” Betty said.

  “Me, either,” Irene added. “But anyone calling would get the operator and could just ask how a patient is doing.”

  “Any way to check if any calls were put through to her?”

  “She doesn’t have a phone in her room,” Betty said.

  “Who will pay for her, er, final arrangements, Mr. Patchett?”

  “I believe there is a small insurance policy?”

  “Who is the beneficiary?”

  “I believe the corporation that owns this facility. She signed it over before being admitted.” He anticipated my next question. “Before her disease advanced to the point where it would have become an issue. Now, is that all? Do you still want to see the poor woman? You may upset her. I doubt that she will provide any useful information about her son or his whereabouts. But if you find him, I hope you will let me know.”

  I’d bet Patchett knew where every farthing related to his patients was, and viewed a possible heir as a royal pain in the ass. Time to shove something else up there.

  “I sure will. It appears he may have a child he doesn’t know about. That would be Mrs. Capriati’s granddaughter. I may try to arrange a visit. I presume that won’t be a problem. I believe grandchildren enjoy reciprocity.”

  The little twerp looked like he wanted to slug me. Being a little twerp, he didn’t. The shoulders on both nurses shook with repressed laughter. Faced with the possibility of two Capriati heirs, he might have to re-cook the books.

  “Miss Evans, please take Mr. Rhode in to see Mrs. Capriati. And stay with him. I don’t want him wandering around disturbing other patients.”

  Or finding roaches. He turned back to me.

  “You can have 15 minutes.”

  He walked away without shaking hands. I stuck my tongue out at his back, just for the benefit of the two nurses, who both laughed. Betty came around the counter and punched me lightly on the arm.

  “I like your style. Follow me.”

  “I hope I didn’t get you gals in trouble with the envelope thing.”

  “Don’t sweat it, good lookin’. There’s a nursing shortage. And the last time they fired a black woman my age was never. Don’t worry about the 15 minutes. Stay as long as you want. Patchett was on his way out when he spotted you. Only stops by for a couple of hours at each facility.”

  We took an elevator to the second floor and walked down a hallway. I tried to ignore the occasional cries that came from some of the rooms.

  “Can’t be easy working in a place like this,” I said.

  “It’s not so bad,” Betty said. “We have a good staff. And it helps to remember that these folks could be ours.” She paused outside a room. There were two name tags on the door, and one of them said F. Capriati. “But just between us, I wouldn’t mind if someone dropped a dime on Patchett. We been after him for months to clean this place up. And I saw one of those envelopes. It was damn thick. Unless it contained all dollar bills, it coulda bought more than what he call them, sundries?”

  “I like your style, too, Betty.”

  Mrs. Capriati shared the room with another woman who was staring blankly at the screen of a small color TV on a dresser at the foot of her bed. Betty greeted both women cheerfully, but neither gave any indication that they noticed our arrival.

  “Both these ladies have advanced Alzheimer’s,” she said. “They don’t have much to say to each other.”

  She went over to the TV, which was tuned to a talk show, and lowered the volume.

  “I doubt she understands a word of it,” she said.

  “That doesn’t mean she has Alzheimer’s.”

  “True that.” She fluffed Mrs. Capriati’s pillow. “Flo, you have a visitor.”

  Florence Capriati could not have weighed more than 80 pounds. She made Christian Bale look obese. But her hair, while completely white, was thick and had obviously been carefully tended by the nursing staff. She turned her rheumy eyes toward me and seemed to make an effort to focus. One spider-like hand started moving toward me across the sheet. I took it. It was cold and
trembling. She worked her lips.

  “Billy?”

  She smiled. Even though I had been warned I felt terrible.

  “No, Mrs. Capriati. But I hope to find him.”

  “Billy!”

  She was becoming agitated. Her hand gripped my wrist with surprising strength. Maybe Patchett was right. Once I found out her memories were gone I should leave without disturbing the poor woman. I looked to Betty for help. She went to a small cabinet next to the bed and pulled out an album. She riffed through the pages and then leaned down and pointed at a photo.

  “Look Flo. This is Billy, in here. This nice man is looking for him. Maybe he can find him for you.”

  Mrs. Capriati looked at the photo, then at me. She sank back against her pillow and seemed to lose interest. I took the album from the nurse and looked at the photo of William Capriati. It was even older than the one I had. I flipped through the album. There were other family photos, some of them Polaroids, rapidly fading. None showed Billy as an adult. Shots of Flo, her husband and the boy in a park, on a beach, first communions, birthday parties, a grade school graduation. Other people, presumably friends and family. Dogs and cats. Young Billy and friends eating cupcakes, most of which were smeared across their smiles. Billy coming down garlanded stairs sleepy but excited on Christmas morning. Under a tree surrounded by toys and wrapping paper, the flash from a camera reflected in a mirror on a wall. There was nothing of use for me. It was like every happy family album I had ever seen. My throat felt constricted.

  Florence Capriati suddenly sat up and grabbed my arm.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said uncertainly. I was trying to figure a way to gently disengage my hand, when she added. “I like oranges.”

  “Yes,” I said, slowly rising. “I do to. And they are good for you.”

  “Give me an orange.”

  I turned to Betty.

  “Mrs. Capriati would like an orange.”

  “No! You!”

  She was becoming agitated again. Betty came over.

  “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll go get you one.”

  “Now! My oranges!”

  “Listen, why don’t you get her an orange or something.” I said. “I’ll stay with her.”

  “I just hope there is an orange left in the box. We keep the gifts separate but sometimes people help themselves. A lot of the stuff would just go bad if they didn’t.”

  She was almost out the door when it hit me.

  “Somebody sent her a box of oranges?”

  “Yes. I think she gets them every few months.” It dawned on her. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m as bad as some of these folks. I forgot about that.”

  “Start about the same time as the money?”

  “I’m not sure, but, yes, I think so.”

  “Addressed to her?”

  “Well, yes, care of the nursing home.”

  “Return address?”

  “I don’t know. I think I would have noticed that.”

  “Do you have the box?”

  “When there’s only a couple left I think they throw it out.”

  “Could you check, please?”

  She was back in a few minutes, smiling triumphantly, with a cut-up orange and a box.

  “Still a bunch left.”

  She placed the box on the table next to the bed. I twirled it around. There was no return address. But there was a label: Wiggins Citrus Groves, Naples, FL (Orange You Glad You Stopped By!)

  Betty gave Mrs. Capriati a quarter of the orange and she began sucking on it. Tears started running down her cheeks and mingled with the juice around her mouth.

  “Billy,” she said, but not to me.

  “Will she be OK?” My voice was a little thick.

  “Sure. I’ll watch her eat. She’ll fall asleep soon. You can go.”

  As I stepped into the hallway I heard Florence Capriati sobbing.

  “My baby Billy.”

  CHAPTER 20 – NAUGHTY BITS

  I had no proof that the oranges came from Billy Capriati or, if they did, that he was in Florida. If it was him, he might have ordered them over the Internet. But that probably would mean leaving a trail, and he didn’t seem to be the kind to do that. If he was in Florida, I had only about 22 million people to work through, although given his sex and age I could probably wean that down to about a million. Got you cornered, pal. Of course, if he was in Naples, that improved the odds.

  It was no use speculating until I got back to the office and worked the computer and phone. I probably should have been more elated, but no one leaves a nursing home skipping the light fantastic. That reminded me. I got out my cell phone and called the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. I asked for Tim Condon. As was the case with most of the cops I knew, our relationship had cooled since I went private. But it wasn’t personal with Tim and he always took my calls. I asked him if his office had a section that handled nursing homes.

  “White Collar Crime Unit handles elder abuse. I think they do homes, too. Why? You find your car keys in the freezer?”

  I told him what I saw.

  “That’s Ocean County. They have their own prosecutor’s office.”

  “I know. But maybe somebody in your shop knows somebody in that one and can make a call. Might just be some health violations but I got some bad vibes. I wasn’t there long and still spotted enough to make me uneasy. Can’t imagine what an expert might find.” I also didn’t like Patchett handling Flo’s cash envelopes, but didn’t mention that. “If they are stingy on upkeep maybe somebody’s skimming Medicare money.”

  “I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked.”

  “Will you talk to someone?”

  “Sure. You have a dog in the fight? A relative?’

  “No, just back-tracking a missing person. His mother is in the home.”

  “Any luck with mom?”

  “She thought I was him.”

  Condon laughed. But he was the kind of cop who would follow up, especially where kids or old people were concerned. Somebody in Ocean County would look into Shady View. My dime, Patchett. Your ass.

  I called Ellen James. I certainly didn’t want to get their hopes up based on a box of oranges, but she had a right to know about Billy’s mother. So did Savannah. Ellen didn’t answer her cell and I left a message. I next called Wiggins Citrus. I was rewarded with a recorded message: the farm was closed from June 30 to November 15, a few days hence. I comforted myself by thinking that I probably wouldn’t get much information from the citrus grove anyway. If Capriati sent the oranges and was true to form he probably paid cash. There would be no record. I could FAX his old photo, but that would be a million-to-one shot. I could hire someone to computer “age” the photo. In fact, there were probably programs I could use myself. But he might have colored his hair, had plastic surgery or gained 500 pounds.

  I’d dealt with a couple of ship-trace outfits in Miami that specialized in Florida searches. But Ellen James said she had already hired some big investigative outfits and that base was probably already covered. I thought about contacting some local PI’s in southwest Florida and farming out the search. But even if I claimed urgency who knew how much effort they would put into it. They might drag it out just to run up the bill. And what if they got lucky? There was a reason Capriati was so hard to find. He might take off. All indications pointed to my undertaking a probably fruitless trip to Florida. Well, maybe not fruitless. I could always buy some oranges.

  My cell phone buzzed.

  The caller ID said “A. Carmichael.”

  I had a bad feeling as I answered.

  “Mr. Rhode.” I knew the voice. “This is Angela Carmichael.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carmichael.”

  “Porgie is in the hospital. He would like to see you.”

  I made it to the Richmond Medical Center in Grant City in under 15 minutes. I didn’t even bother checking for a tail. When I walked into his room, Porgie was sipping out of a straw held in place by a pretty woman
with a worried, strained look on her face. At least I assumed it was Porgie. His features were indistinct and his head was swelled up to the size of a soccer ball. His left arm was in a sling cast.

  “Mrs. Carmichael?”

  Before she could answer a man sprang out of a chair in the far corner and moved toward me.

  “Who are you, pal?”

  He looked familiar. I had only caught a glimpse of the other man in Porgie’s car on the day of the chase but I was pretty sure this was his dim friend, the one whose name he wouldn’t give up.

  “Back off, Cosmo, it’s OK.” It was Porgie, rasping through grotesquely swollen lips. “I asked to see him.”

  One of the remaining bulbs in Cosmo’s almost vacant chandelier blinked on.

  “You’re the bastard we were following. The one that chased us.”

  “Cosmo!” Porgie started coughing. His wife wiped his mouth. “Angie, maybe you could get a cup of coffee or something. I gotta talk to Mr. Rhode.”

  “Sure, honey.” As she walked past me she said, “Can I get you something Mr. Rhode.” Her eyes were glistening and I felt like a heel.

  “No, thank you. And I’m sorry about all of this.”

  “Not your fault,” she said.

  When she was gone Cosmo resumed his rant.

  “It is your fucking fault. None of this woulda happened if you’d let us tail you.”

  I had no answer to that so I merely said, “Cosmo, why don’t you go look after Angie. She shouldn’t be alone after what happened.”

  I didn’t even know what had happened but that seemed to make sense to Cosmo. He looked concerned and headed out the door. I went over to the bed.

  “I’ve known him since we were kids,” Porgie said.

  “A friend is a friend. So, tell me what’s going on.”

  He pushed a button lying by his good hand and the bed started whirring as it elevated his upper torso. It was hard to tell through the swelling but I think he grimaced. I was worried about his arm in the sling but it worked out OK. When he was comfortable, he said, “I guess I don’t look so good.”

  “Be thankful for that, Porgie. Dead men don’t swell. At least not for a while.”