by Ginny Aiken
“Not directly, no.”
He turned me around in his big hands. “Are you out of your freaky, scary, wacko mind?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’m not going to confront anyone with the lab results, but I am going to hold you to that meeting with Ron. Did you ever call him? I want to check out the Weikert brothers, Dr. Dope, the HGH lab and its former owners, the furniture studio that made the chairs—even the agent in Tijuana who markets them. And yes, I want to check out Tedd’s business dealings too.”
“That I can do. And I called him the night you and I talked.”
I grabbed his forearms. “Will you give him another call?”
“Now?”
“Of course now. Why would we want to wait?”
Dutch called Ron, and in minutes we’d agreed to meet at his home within the hour. I hauled my ladder, hammer, anchors, and wall hanging back to the meeting room with a fresh apology for Tedd’s two remaining clients.
At the Richardsons’, Ron let us in before we had a chance to ring the doorbell. The men shook hands, then wrapped their free arms around each other. Quite different from the first time I came here with Dutch. That time they were bitter enemies bound by old angers and unresolved rivalries. By the grace of God, and after an unspeakable tragedy, they’d rebuilt the friendship they once shared.
Ron’s bear hug surprised me. “How’ve you been, Haley?”
“Same old, same old. Too many houses to beautify, too little time. Too many antiques to sell, too little time.”
“I know you’re not here to redo our house or sell me something ancient and fabulous, so let’s head back to my office.” When I stepped inside the large room, I took a shocked look around. “You’re as bad as Larry Weikert!”
Ron gave me a faux angry look. “You owe me an apology, young woman. I work hard for my money.”
“Meaning Larry doesn’t.”
“I could only find a bunch of Internet sales of used electronic equipment and some sporadic consulting jobs. I also tracked down his favorite electronics mart, and when I hinted I might do business with them, the manager didn’t balk at my questions. Over the years Larry has dropped close to half a million bucks there.”
I goggled. “That buys a lot of wire.”
“How did he pay for it?” Dutch asked.
“A couple of times he brought trade-ins. Other times he paid his tab over a period of time. But the bulk of his purchases were cash transactions.”
“No wonder Cissy called him a leech.” I couldn’t get my head around so much money for computers and printers and gadgets of the electronic kind. “I can’t believe a smart woman like Darlene shelled out a fortune for . . . for . . .”
Ron shot me a grin. “It takes all kinds, Haley. And the younger one, Tommy, is another mess. He’s just stupid when it comes to money. He gets suckered into every bogus scheme that comes down the pike. And his mother paid and paid, until she forced him to settle down. That’s when she put up the money for the vintage imports and agreed to pay rent for the showroom and an apartment.”
“Aside from how much Larry has sunk into his obsession,” I said, “none of this surprises me. I don’t suppose you found corpses in their shady pasts.”
“That’s the extent of the skeletons in their closets. As far as the Mexican doctor goes, he’s clean. He has a good credit history, doesn’t ever owe much—or at least, not for long—his practice is successful, and he recently invested years of profits in a manufacturing lab. It wasn’t enough, and that’s why he borrowed money from Darlene Weikert to buy the lab. I also learned he sold his home to pay off the debt, together with funding he arranged from some European pharmaceutical company.”
“So money wouldn’t be his motive, even if it is a good one for the brothers.”
“That’s how I see it,” Dutch ventured.
I took a deep breath. “What about Cissy?”
“She hit hard times right after she retired. She needed a stent about sixteen months ago. Medicare and her partial supplementary insurance didn’t cover everything. She was left with thousands of dollars worth of bills and back rent, and she lost the car she’d bought with a loan. I don’t know where she came up with the money, but she paid it all back and then bought an inexpensive used subcompact. She doesn’t owe a thing.”
My throat closed at the next name. A bullfrog with laryngitis had nothing on me when I asked, “Tedd?”
Dutch wrapped his arm around my waist. I leaned into him.
“She’s even cleaner than the others. She’s never been a big spender, donates to a number of victims’ rights charities, bought her first home three years ago at a government tax sale and paid cash. Aside from a number of flights to Tijuana in the last eighteen months, and they could have been to visit family, there’s nothing there.”
“Dr. Dope,” I murmured. “She was engaged to Dr. Dope.” Ron chuckled. “That’s what you call the guy? You’re brutal, woman!”
I shrugged. “If the pusher label fits . . .”
“Behave,” Dutch said with a squeeze. Then to Ron, “Anything on the previous owners of the lab?”
“The chemist turned seventy-one, neither his son nor daughter was qualified to run the place, and he sold it to Díaz, who’d been one of his regular customers. The guy retired to Acapulco.”
I brought my hands palm to palm, then gave a tiny bow. “I’m impressed, Mr. Richardson. You’re very, very thorough, even though I have no idea how you got access to that information.”
“I aim to please,” he said with a grin. “The info is available to me because”—he winked—“I’m no plain old builder, you know. I do some consulting work for the bank on the side—you know, appraising businesses borrowers put up as collateral. Plus, I have access to all kinds of info through my membership in an international consortium of businessmen and women.”
“He’s too modest,” Dutch said. “It’s an ethics group, and he was just elected president, even though he hasn’t been a member for long. Don’t think it’s a small deal.”
Ron blushed. “Had to make up for a lot.”
“Never crossed my mind to discount Ron’s abilities or accomplishments.” Then I sighed. “I have another favor to ask. Maybe you can use your connections to check out an artisan furniture studio in Guatemala.”
Ron looked intrigued. “I thought we were dealing with Mexico.”
I explained the connection, how the studio sold its pieces through an agent in Mexico—Tijuana, to be exact—how it did a good amount of business with various import/export places in Seattle, and he parked himself in front of a wall of monitors. He typed in a number of pieces of information, frowned, and then typed some more.
We watched him do this a number of times. Each time, his frown grew deeper and his expression more tenacious.
When my curiosity got the better of me, I blabbed. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the weirdest thing,” Ron said, a bit distracted. “I’ve found three layers of holding companies, and each one comes back to the good old U.S. of A.”
“Can you explain that in any-moron-can-get-it words?” I asked.
“You’re no moron,” he said, still typing at a fever pitch. “It means that someone has gone to great trouble to hide the owner’s identity. A holding company is nothing more than an entity that controls a certain percentage of decision-making votes in another company. Many times they’re bogus companies that do nothing much but cloud a trail of shady dealings. In this case, the owners and presidents I’ve found have names like William Cosby, Theodore Turner, and Lincoln Abraham.”
I glanced at Dutch. “Maybe this is it, the connection we were looking for.”
“Yeah, but who would it be?”
None of us had even an idea to offer, so Ron got back to his search.
About fifteen minutes later, he said, “Aha!” Dutch and I pressed closer, but then Ron’s “no go” deflated our hope. He went on.
After another twenty-five minutes, though, Ron let out a long, shrill whistle. “Yo
u are not going to believe this. Here. Get a load of this.”
He turned the nearest computer monitor so Dutch and I could better see what it showed. I dug my fingers into the hand curved around my waist. We leaned forward.
“No.”
“Can’t be.”
“Read ’em and weep,” Ron said. “I can’t make it more clear.”
The cursor on the screen blinked beside a familiar name.
I took a deep breath and read, “Jacob Weikert.”
15
I turned the key in the ignition. “Either someone stole his name, or he’s won the Oscars for the next five thousand years.”
Dutch slanted me a look. “Do you think that’s it? Identity theft? An Alzheimer’s patient is an excellent target for that kind of fraud.”
My memory kicked in. “Do you remember my close encounter with Larry’s moo goo gai pan?”
“You really think I could forget?”
“Well, forget the moo shu pork. Before I fell from the tree, Larry was staring at the computers with concentration like Ron’s. He seemed . . . I don’t know, surprised maybe, or frustrated, by two columns that popped up on one of his screens. He has the expertise to pull off that holding companies scam.”
“And he’d have easy access to his father’s records.”
I flicked my left turn signal and waited for the light. “That’s what I think.”
“Where are you going? The PD’s in the other direction.”
“The hospital. If the doctor lets us in, I have some questions for Cissy. She might have seen something that could prove whether or not Larry is the one.”
“You’re not going to harass an old lady who’s had a heart attack, are you?”
“Tommy and Larry are the creeps. Not me.”
Out the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. So what? I knew Cissy would want to help.
Our patient had been moved to the cardiac care center, a step down from the CICU. I breathed a silent thanks to the Lord. Because of Cissy’s upgraded condition, Dutch and I could both visit.
“I wish I’d bought her a balloon or something to celebrate the move,” I said.
“You can come back tomorrow, you know.”
I grinned. “Okay, Builder Boy. I’ll do that. And now we should get this gig going.”
After upbeat greetings Dutch and I sat in the available visitor chairs. Before we could say a word, Cissy beat us to the draw.
“What’s new?” she asked. “And I don’t mean in world markets.”
“Go ahead,” Dutch murmured.
I took a deep breath. “We’ve learned the weirdest thing. After enough digging to build us a trench there and back, we learned that the studio where I ordered the handmade Guatemalan chairs is owned by—you won’t believe this— Jacob Weikert. And he bought it six months ago.”
“That’s someone else’s Jacob Weikert. Ours can’t find his way to his bedroom, much less to a Guatemalan furniture store.”
“I know. But do you think Larry could use his computer skills to pull some kind of scam? He could find his way to Guatemala, Tijuana, or even Timbuktu if he wanted.”
“Those two . . .” She set her jaw, compressed her lips, shook her head. “Larry and Tommy are capable of anything. What made you check out the company?”
We told her about the tear in the leather backrest, about the vial, about the tests Lila had run, and then she beat us to the results.
“So that’s how the arsenic came,” she said. “But did it come here to Wilmont, or did it wind up in Tijuana, where the serums would have been inserted or switched?”
“You used the serum,” I countered, “and you’re still here. Does arsenic cause heart attacks in people with heart conditions?”
Deep elevens etched in over her brows. “I suppose it could, but I don’t think arsenic had anything to do with mine. I’ve been sick for years, long before I started to take the HGH.”
“And Darlene’s only taken the serum for about six months.”
She nodded and I went on. “You did tell me Jacob didn’t take the serum.” Another nod. “It makes sense that he wouldn’t if he knew it was tainted. But then again, you weren’t poisoned, and you took it. So is it possible that Larry could have helped himself to the clean meds you and Darlene bought directly from Dr. Dope—er, Dr. Díaz—and tainted them? With the contraband in the chairs, that is. Did you use the same vial for you and Darlene?”
“No. I used one for me and one for Darlene.”
“Where did you keep all this serum?”
“It has to be refrigerated, so we kept it in the kitchen fridge.” Then her anger turned to confusion. “Wait! The serum comes in glass ampoules. You have to break off the top at the neck to access the medication.”
My excitement fizzled out. “You would have known by a cracked or broken top if someone had messed with the serum.”
Nobody spoke for a while. Then Dutch shifted in his seat. I glanced his way and noticed his intense concentration. “What are you thinking?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Since the serum came in tamperproof all-glass vials, then she must have taken the tainted serum another way.”
Cissy hmphed. “Darlene wouldn’t have injected herself with arsenic. And the serum was the only thing she took by injection.”
“Okay,” Dutch said. “How about this? What if she took the serum thinking it was something else?”
“You mean like in water or food?”
“Maybe with another medication.”
“It was the only injection she took—”
“I got it!” I grabbed my chair’s steel arms. I felt dizzy from the many different pictures that clicked through my mind. “Maybe he injected a pill. What else did she take, and where did you keep it?”
“I kept their medications in a steel cabinet in the upstairs linen closet. Darlene took a dozen prescriptions each day, from cancer treatment drugs to sleeping pills at night. But you can’t inject the serum into a capsule or a tablet. It would melt.”
“That’s it! That’s really, really it! The sleeping pills. That’s how he did it.”
“But I just said you couldn’t add serum to the pills—”
“No, no. I got that. He shot her up after she took her sleep meds, once she was so zonked she wouldn’t notice the needle stick. That’s how he got it in her. And he used the serum from the different vials, the ones he snuck in on his own. No one would think twice of a needle puncture in Darlene. She must have been a medicine pincushion if you were giving her regular HGH shots.”
Even though it was somewhat of a stretch given how little actual evidence we had, I was sure I’d figured it out. When I scared up the guts to look at Dutch, I saw acceptance dawn on his face. Cissy’s eyes had opened wider, and a slow smile curved her lips.
“So?” I asked.
Dutch stood and held out a hand. “We might not have all the dots connected yet, but I think this is the right track. I want to get back to Ron’s. We need to track the chairs. You know, where they’re shipped, who buys them, do they always go to Tijuana, or do they come straight here? And which import stores buy them on a regular basis.”
I took his hand. “I ordered the ones for Tedd’s office right from the artisan studio in Guatemala, but I also spoke with the agent in Tijuana. They were the ones who would ship them here. The delay in our shipment is supposed to have happened in Guatemala, not in Tijuana. I had to make a bunch of frustrating calls down there to shake them loose.” We headed for the door. “I’ll go check with Tedd while you and Ron do your thing. We have to find out where Tedd learned about the chairs. And she needs to know what we found out about Larry.”
“We’re not sure it was Larry who set up the fake companies,” Cissy, the voice of reason, said. “Someone else who steals identities could have done it.”
“True,” I said. “But I think we’re onto something here. And it’s the serum that clinches it. Larry has the knowledge and the computer equipment to pull it off,
plus he had the access to Darlene and her medication.” I leaned over Cissy to give her a careful hug. “Keep up the good work, Mrs. Star Patient. Hurry up and get well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Dutch and I hurried to the car. “Don’t you think you should let your alter ego in on the scoop?” he asked.
“I guess you mean Lila.”
“Who else?”
So I did like a good girl and called the detective diva. In less than five minutes, I’d brought her up to speed on what Ron had learned and what Cissy had told us. Aside from a couple of “I sees” and two or three “reallys?” Lila kept her peace until I finished.
“I won’t even ask how you got into credit records, financial statements, sales transactions—whatever you tapped into. But I will admit you were thorough. And now it’s time for you to back off. We’ll continue to follow the avenues we’ve been following, and you will go back to your redesign.”
“But—”
“Want to be my guest again?”
I shuddered. “Fine. I’m on my way to Tedd’s anyway. I owe her an apology.”
“Not so fast, Haley. Don’t discuss this with her—with anyone. And whatever you do, don’t do anything stupid. I really don’t want to lock you up again.”
I blew a curl off my forehead. “A word to the wise and all that, Lila. I get your point. Just make sure you get the guy.”
“Someday you’ll figure it out. I don’t need you to do my job.”
I didn’t dignify that comment with a response. We drove to Tedd’s, where Dutch got into his trashed truck and headed back to Ron’s house.
In the office, Willa told me Tedd had gone to a lunch meeting, so I decided to come back later, closer to when she’d finish her last appointment. I still had the Rockies, the Andes, and the Alps living on my desk.
The wait—for Dutch to call with a Ron update and for Lila to tell me the chairs’ trail had led straight to Larry’s now braceleted wrists—kept me in an altered state. Well, altered in that I was twitchier than a toddler and jumpier than a pogo stick.
I know I’m impatient, but I think I exhibited a superlative abundance of patience. I did wait until late afternoon.
