Connie peered at me over her glasses. “Really?”
“Really. New information on both cases, guaranteed. In fact, I’m ready to tell the chief the whole, complete backstory, beginning to end.” This was an exaggeration, but not by much.
“My goodness,” Connie said admiringly. “You have been a busy girl. But I’ll be the first to say that new information on the Kaufman case will be welcome. The chief has been in a very bad mood about it.” She paused. “Although she’s also been worried, because she hasn’t heard from that husband of hers. I understand that your guy is with him and that they’ve both vamoosed. Mexico, was what the chief was saying. Juárez, maybe.”
“Something like that,” I said. I kept my voice level, although I was troubled to hear about Sheila’s concern. She certainly hadn’t let me see that when we’d talked. But maybe she was trying to keep me from fretting. Now, hearing that she was worried, the level of my apprehension shot up several hundred points.
“You mustn’t worry, China,” Connie advised, seeing my expression. “Those guys are smart and experienced. They know what they’re doing. Whatever comes along, I’m sure they can handle it easily.”
“That’s what everybody says,” I replied. Literally everybody. Charlie, Bob, the boys at Beans’, Ruby, Sheila, now Connie.
She raised both eyebrows. “You don’t believe it?”
“Of course I believe it. But sometimes—” I wanted to say that, as a practical matter, sometimes bad things can get so huge and hairy that even the smartest and most experienced guys are overwhelmed. But I have a habit of looking under rocks for problems, and that’s probably what I was doing here. I certainly didn’t want to seem disloyal or appear to lack faith in my husband’s ability to take care of himself. After all, he had dealt with plenty of huge, hairy bad things when he was with Houston Homicide, and he’d come through in one piece.
So I managed to find a smile and pasted it on my face. “Yes, of course I believe it,” I said confidently. “They’re big guys. I’m sure they’ll be okay.” I paused, getting away from the subject. “Say, do you happen to have a Pecan Springs phone directory handy?”
“Sure thing.” She reached into a drawer and pulled it out.
I found the names I was looking for, but the residence numbers and addresses were unlisted, which wasn’t surprising, since the people could easily be reached through their business. I handed the directory back to Connie. I was about to ask her to look up the numbers—after all, this was police business. But her phone rang. She put down her cup and reached for it.
I put down the directory and turned to go. “Thanks, Con,” I said. “I’ll see you at one thirty. On the dot.”
“Unless we call and cancel,” Connie reminded me, picking up the receiver.
I rolled my eyes. “No, not that. No, please!”
* * *
BACK in the car, I sat for a moment, thinking. It wasn’t eleven thirty yet, which meant that I had at least two hours to kill. I could go back to the shop, but it sounded like Ruby had all the help she needed. So I might as well put the time to good use. For that, I needed those addresses. I fished out my phone and called Jessica at the Enterprise.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, China,” she said briskly. “What’s up?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you on that research project. An eighteen-wheeler jackknifed on I-35 and a truck carrying dozens of crates of live chickens ran into it. The state police closed all six lanes, and it took a couple of hours to round up the chickens. Kinda fun to watch. But between that and the city council meeting, I’ve been slammed all morning.”
“No problem, Jessie, really. I owe you for the clips of those items you sent me last night. One of them, the piece on Ronald MacDonald, gave me just what I was looking for. I checked it out this morning. You can put a hold on the research project until we see how this lead pans out.”
“Awesome. And yes, you owe me. I hope you’re not forgetting our deal. When do I get my story?”
“I’m meeting with Sheila this afternoon. There may be a couple of developments later today.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt. “As soon as she gives the word, I’ll call you with details. In the meantime, I need two resident addresses. They’re unlisted in the directory. Do you think you can get them for me?”
“I’ll see,” Jessica said. “Names?”
I told her and heard keys clicking. “Looks like they’re in the same neighborhood,” Jessica said, and rattled off two street addresses. “That’s a high-end community out there, China. These folks must be doing pretty well for themselves.”
“They work in a high-profit-margin business,” I said drily, remembering that the profit on the hospice could run as high as $120,000 a month. From the honest side of the business. There was no telling how much they were raking in from the dark side.
Jessica paused. “Wait a minute. This first name you gave me, Marla Blake. She’s the owner of the Pecan Springs Community Hospice, isn’t she? And the dead guy in the story I emailed you, the one who hung around so long that they had to get the hazmat unit in for the cleanup—wasn’t he a hospice patient?” I heard the rattle of keys. “And this other address you’re asking for. He’s a hospice doctor, isn’t he?”
“Jessica,” I said grimly, “you are just too damn good.”
“You bet,” she said. “And Kelly Kaufman was a hospice nurse, wasn’t she? So if she really did sniff out a murder, maybe the victim she had in mind was this guy MacDonald, who was a hospice patient. And you’re sniffing out the hospice owner and a hospice doc, so you must think—”
“Back off, Jessie,” I cautioned. I had enough to manage without Jessica dealing herself into the game. “Just back off. You’ll get your story later. I promise.”
She didn’t back off. “So you must think you’re on the trail of whoever killed MacDonald and rammed Kaufman’s vehicle. And you’re thinking that it’s got to be Blake or Burgess or both.” I could hear the excitement in her voice. “Am I right? No, don’t answer that. I know I’m right!”
“Amazing, Sherlock,” I said with exaggerated sarcasm. “You get the prize for limitless leaps of logic, as one of my law professors used to say.”
Jessica ignored me. “I’m going with you,” she said. “You’re onto the story, China. I want to be there to see what develops.”
“No,” I said quickly and urgently. Too urgently.
“Why?” She caught my tone and her voice changed. “You’re afraid it’s too dangerous? You’re going after Kelly Kaufman’s killer and you don’t want to share the risk. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No, of course not.” I backpedaled swiftly. “It’s not necessary, that’s all.” I managed a chuckle. “Jessie, you have an overactive imagination. I’m just going sightseeing. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than tag along with me.”
Overactive imagination . . . tag along. Those were the wrong things to say. I had insulted her, and I knew it the second the words were out of my mouth.
But to my surprise, she didn’t seem to be offended. There was a brief silence. Then, “Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said lightly. “Oops, there goes my other line blinking. Maybe they’re chasing pigs this time. Gotta go.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Talk to you later. And thanks again.”
“You’re welcome,” Jessica said. “And don’t forget my story.”
* * *
ACCORDING to the addresses Jessica gave me, Marla Blake and her son, Christopher Burgess, lived about six blocks apart off Sierra Hills Drive on the far west side of Pecan Springs. Some fifteen years ago, the upscale development was carved out of beautiful, untouched ranch country—cedar-clad hills, limestone ledges, clear creeks, wooded slopes, open meadows—and to the developer’s credit, the character of the landscape was largely unchanged. There were no above
ground utilities, the lots were wide and deep, and the main street curled at a leisurely pace around and up and over Turkey Ridge, the houses becoming larger and more expensive as the road wound upward.
I found Christopher Burgess’ house first, at the far end of a cul-de-sac at the highest point of the ridge. There was a mailbox at the curb, and I checked the street number to be sure I had the right place. The house, barely visible, jutted out of a high, steep hill that lifted up and away from the street, and the curving driveway was screened from view by several strategically placed plantings of dense junipers. I drove past the place slowly, looking up at the hill, but the house offered almost no public presence. All I could see was the slope of a roof, a wide expanse of glass windows facing east, and a cantilevered wooden deck facing west, no doubt providing inspirational views of the sun rising and setting across the Hill Country.
I turned and drove back the way I had come, parking around a curve some thirty yards away from the house. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for or why I had driven up here, except that I had some free time and wanted to put it to use. When I phoned Jessica for the addresses, I had the vague idea of taking a quick look at both residences so I could provide Sheila with a little more background on the main characters when I told her the story. I imagine that most doctors are wealthy, even one who has incurred the displeasure of the Texas Medical Board. But the Burgess house, in a neighborhood where the properties are worth somewhere north of five or six million dollars, gave concrete expression to the somewhat abstract notion of Medicare fraud.
I lowered the car window and sat for a moment, enjoying the juniper-scented fresh spring breeze. The late morning sun washed the trees with a cheerful brightness, a mockingbird performed his borrowed songs on a live oak limb, and a yellow skimmer, its butterfly wings the color of ripe lemons, perched on the hood of my car. A gray cat with a bright blue collar strolled out of a nearby drive, taking his sweet time to cross the street in front of me, At the base of a mailbox, a clump of native flowers—mealy blue sage, Mexican gold poppy, and lavender prairie penstemon—brightened the curb. It was a lovely morning to simply take a deep breath, relax, and enjoy the moment. To just be in the moment, as Ruby is always advising me.
But as I have frequently admitted to Ruby, I would much rather do than be, and I often find myself doing something just because I’m curious. In fact, as McQuaid will tell you, curiosity is one of my character flaws. It has occasionally gotten me into trouble, when I’ve failed to look where I was going or forgotten that a little healthy fear can be a useful thing.
But there was nothing to fear here. The morning was pretty, the neighborhood was safe and quiet, and I wasn’t going to do anything to invite trouble. All I wanted was a closer look, so I could give Sheila a better idea of at least one of the people at the center of this case. Nothing wrong with that, was there? Like the Burgess house, the other houses were set so far back from the street or were so carefully screened with trees that they couldn’t be seen. And since it was late morning, in the middle of the week, most of the occupants would be away from home.
I mulled this over for a moment, feeling the curiosity nudging me, pushing me. If I got out and walked around, it wasn’t likely that I would be seen, much less stopped and questioned. But it might be a good idea to have a cover story, just in case. I reached over the back of the seat and snagged the green Thyme and Seasons clipboard that held extra sheets from one of my walk-and-talk sessions with an herb class in the garden. Then I fished under the passenger seat and found a navy blue cap emblazoned with the words Pedernales Electric Cooperative. It had been forgotten at our house by a friend of McQuaid’s and had made its way to my car one rainy morning. I stuck it on my head and pulled down the bill. My khaki slacks and navy blazer didn’t look much like a uniform, but I figured I could pass for a PEC employee checking out transformers.
I dropped a pen and my cell phone into my blazer pocket, stuck the clipboard under my arm, and locked my purse in the car, then walked up the street jauntily, as if I had every reason in the world for being there. At the Burgess mailbox, I paused and (in case somebody was watching from one of those concealed houses) pretended to make a note on the clipboard. A wide wooden stair with rustic cedar railings ascended the steep hill in the direction of the house high above, but I ignored it. Instead, I turned and walked up the sloping asphalt driveway, which curved to the right around a limestone outcrop bright with Texas lantana and scarlet hedgehog cactus, and then back to the left, where it widened out onto an asphalt apron in front of the garage.
I was maybe fifty yards from the street now, and well above it, on the slope of the hill. Ahead and above me, built against the hillside, was the house, the walls of limestone and glass with a wide wraparound wooden deck featuring clusters of expensive-looking deck furniture. A flight of shallow-set limestone steps angled up the hill to my right—another entrance to the house, I thought. And directly in front of me was a two-car garage built under the house. Off to my right, on a narrow slot of pavement, a twenty-foot sailboat sat on a trailer, neatly covered with a lashed-down blue tarp. On my left, a silver-gray Porsche 911 was parked in front of the garage door. It was open, giving me a clear view of everything inside.
Like most garages, this one said a lot about its owner. A snazzy blue-and-white powerboat on a trailer took up most of the left bay of the garage. Around it, hung from the walls and ceiling and stacked on the floor, was enough gear to stock a small sporting-goods shop. A pair of rugged-looking mountain bikes, snow skis, water skis, life preservers, fishing rods and nets, coiled climbing ropes and bungee cords, tennis racquets, a couple of expensive-looking compound bows, the furled yellow sail of what looked like a hang glider—Chris Burgess was obviously an outdoor guy.
And that wasn’t all. In the right bay of the garage was a late-model Hummer.
An orange Hummer.
Chapter Sixteen
Was I surprised? I was and I wasn’t.
I was already confident that both Marla Blake and her doctor son, Chris Burgess, were deeply implicated in the long-running Medicare fraud at the hospice. The scheme required a doctor’s input and the owner/manager’s collaboration in the creation of fake or doctored patient records, so it had to be a team project. After listening to Mrs. Mueller’s story that morning, it seemed clear that Ronald MacDonald had been party to the fraud and that he had been blackmailing Chris Burgess, threatening to reveal what was going on. When he made a demand that was difficult or impossible to meet, it seemed better to take him out. Marla Blake had handled that chore, if Mrs. Mueller’s testimony could be believed.
Then either mother or son or both had discovered that Kelly was putting together a whistle-blower case and that she had gotten into the office and copied the patient files. Had Charlie Lipman—deliberately or inadvertently—clued them in on what she had done and let them know that she was staying in my cottage? I didn’t think he would answer that question for me, but Sheila would no doubt put it to him, and he’d be hard pressed not to answer her.
In any event, either Blake or Burgess—Burgess, I thought—had tracked Kelly to the cottage. He tried to break in while she was asleep in the wee hours of Monday but got frightened off by little, loud Miss Lula, the neighborhood watchdog. Judging from the man-size shoe print on the bedroom carpet, he was also the one who had broken in and ransacked the place, looking for Kelly’s computer and her copy of those incriminating files. He had plenty of motivation, for the restitution, fines, and prison penalties for Medicare fraud are stiff. He wouldn’t be in prison for life, but he’d be there until he was an old, old man. And while he might have plenty of money now, between the Medicare restitution, the penalties, and the cost of his defense, he wouldn’t have a cent left when he got out.
So no, I wasn’t surprised to see, parked right in front of me, the vehicle—the orange vehicle—that might have knocked Kelly off the road. If this was it, we were back to accident
or intention. Burgess might have been trailing her, barreled up behind her, miscalculated, and struck her without intending to. That’s what the defense would argue. The prosecutor, on the other hand, would argue that he had hit her on purpose, aiming to scare her off the case or shut her up permanently. And the malfunctioning airbag did the job for him.
But I was surprised—bowled over, almost—by the breathtaking size and sheer arrogance of the vehicle. I stood for a moment, staring at it, feeling my heart knocking against my rib cage. Damn, that sucker is big. Big and intimidating. Seen from the rear, the Hummer was a massive block of automotive conspicuous consumption, nearly seven feet wide by seven feet high, unapologetically tanklike, a gas guzzler and proud of it. Off-road-worthy, capable of taking the Sierras in a single bound, but (I had read) sheer hell to maneuver on city streets and in heavy traffic. Still, it was the wet dream of every cool, hot-blooded American hero wealthy enough to indulge himself in this symbol of wretched excess and macho enough to think he could actually drive one.
As I stood there studying the thing, however, I knew it wasn’t the Hummer’s rear end I had to see. It was the front. If this was the vehicle that had struck the Astro, the damage, if there was any, would be to the front end, the right front. And surely there would be some damage, given the orange paint on the left rear of the Astro and the flecks the crime tech had found at the scene.
If I could confirm that, it would be all the evidence Sheila needed to tie Burgess to Kelly’s death. But I needed to confirm it now, as in right now, this minute. With the cops on the lookout for a damaged orange vehicle, it wasn’t likely that Burgess would be dumb enough to try to get the Hummer repaired. But it would be an easy matter for him to drive it down the street, wait until a witness—a jogger, a delivery truck—appeared on the scene, then pretend to lose control, run up over the curb, and ram it into a tree, destroying whatever damage there was and creating more. It was a wonder he hadn’t thought to do that already. So yes, I needed to check it out right now.
Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery Page 24
