Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream

by Diane Kelly

  I swung by the audit department in Fort Worth to pick up the Rosedale Dental files and arrived at the dentist office fifteen minutes later. The practice was housed in its own freestanding one-story building, between a thrift store and a fast-food chicken joint. The brick was painted a nice, shiny white, though the exterior was marred along one side by graffiti—a crudely drawn open mouth with crooked teeth over the words “BITE ME.” Lovely. The chicken place had been hit harder. Their graffiti read: “ALL YOU CAN EAT FRIED PECKERS $1.99.”

  The sign in front of the dental office corroborated the information I’d seen in the file. The practice was operated by four dentists, three men and one woman, Drs. Barrett, Gore, Paulsen, and Walendzik. The W-2 information I’d seen indicated they employed twice as many hygienists, as well as four full-time office staff to handle appointments, billing, and bookkeeping.

  I reached the front glass door and held it open for a black man with a walker making his way out. The man was grizzled and gaunt, stooped and shuffling. A bright yellow helium balloon advertising Rosedale Dental was tied to his walker with white curling ribbon. Looked like he’d been a good boy today.

  “Bye now, Mr. Tillotson!” called the receptionist. “See you in six months.”

  “If I’m still alive,” he replied jovially, giving her a wave before turning back to me. “Thank you, young lady.” He gave me a wide smile that said not only was he friendly, but also he had just ten remaining teeth, all in front. Four on the bottom, six on top.

  If you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em.

  Once he’d klunk-klunk-klunked his way out the door, I stepped inside and over to the counter. “Hello,” I said to the tiny fortyish redhead working the desk. “I’m Tara Holloway with the IRS. I was told to ask for Patricia.”

  “Right. She’s expecting you.” The woman picked up her phone. “Let me buzz her.” She punched a four-button sequence, held the receiver to her ear, and said, “Hi, Pat. The IRS agent is here to see you.” She listened for a moment, said, “’Kay,” and hung up her phone before looking back up at me. “She’ll be right up.”

  I stepped aside to wait and glanced around. Three people sat in the waiting room, two women, one man. All of them were elderly and dressed in the well-worn attire of those in the lower income brackets.

  A moment later, a woman with large features and dark hair styled in a female version of a buzz cut pushed open the door. She looked over at me. “Miss Holloway?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Come on back.”

  I passed through the door and followed her down the hall past a series of open doors through which I could see patients reclined in the examination chairs. The sounds of swishing and spitting, gagging and gargling greeted me, along with the antiseptic smell of medicated mouthwash.

  Patricia led me to an examination room at the very end. “You can work in here.” She gestured to a computer on the counter. A rolling stool sat in front of it. “I’ve got the accounting records pulled up. Buzz me if you need anything. I’m at extension two-six-three-two.” With that she left, closing the door behind her.

  I sat my purse and briefcase on the counter, plunked my butt down on the stool, and spun myself around as if Rosedale Dental were Disneyland and the stool were the teacup ride. Hey, life’s tough. You have to grab joy where you can find it.

  Once the stool stopped spinning, I looked around. The exam room was typical. A set of sanitized tools sat on a paper-covered tray. A ceiling-mounted maneuverable light hung over the reclining chair. A box of latex gloves sat on the countertop. Metal canisters of oxygen and nitrous oxide stood in a special place under the cabinet.

  Turning to the computer, I spent several hours looking over the expense data, running a trend analysis on my laptop, stopping only to step next door for lunch. Contrary to the graffiti on the building, the place offered no $1.99 all-you-can eat special. A side salad, two biscuits, and a soda cost me $5.39.

  Toward the end of the day I finished with the expenses and decided to take a look at the revenue accounts. The practice’s biggest source of income by far was Medicaid payments. Heck, they’d received half a million in benefits in the last year alone. The place had four dentists, sure, but that amount of money had to represent a high volume of procedures. Then again, what did I know about dentistry?

  Still, something told me to take a closer look.

  I pulled up the records for the most recent payments from Medicaid. A $40 payment for a routine cleaning for a Ruth Knowles. A $260 payment for a root canal for Camille Swearingen. A $300 payment toward a crown on a molar for an Alexander Tillotson.

  Wait a minute.

  Wasn’t Tillotson the last name of the man who’d been leaving when I arrived? The man with only ten teeth left in his gums?

  HIPPA protected patient records and I had no right to access them, at least not without a court order. Luckily for me, I could glean the information I needed from the billing files, which were organized by the names of the patients.

  Pulling up the billing files, I ran down the list, searching for the name.

  Tibbets.

  Tillman.

  There it was. Tillotson. Only one patient with that last name was listed. Alexander.

  Why the heck had they ordered a crown for a molar when Alexander Ten-Teeth Tillotson had none? Had it been a mistake?

  I jotted down his home address, as well as the names and addresses of several others for whom Rosedale Dental had billed Medicaid for crowns.

  I gathered up my things and made my way to the front. I passed Patricia’s office but noticed she was on her phone. I asked the receptionist to let Patricia know that I’d be back tomorrow afternoon.

  In the parking lot, I climbed into my car and typed Alexander Tillotson’s address into my GPS.

  Time to play tooth fairy and pay him a visit.

  chapter twenty-eight

  House Calls

  Alexander Tillotson lived in a small subsidized apartment three blocks from the dental office. He was more than happy to let me take a photograph of him standing in his front hall with his mouth hanging open. In fact, he insisted I take several more, putting one hand on his hip, the other behind his head in a pinup girl pose.

  For someone who probably had trouble chewing meat, he was quite a ham.

  I slid my cell phone back into my purse. “Thank you, Mr. Tillotson. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  He grabbed the handles of his walker to steady himself. “What did you say you needed the photos for again?”

  “I’m auditing the dental practice. I just need to verify some of the procedures that were billed to Medicaid.”

  “Well, sure,” he said. “They bill my cleanings every six months.”

  That wasn’t all they’d billed. “Did you ever receive anything from Medicaid showing Rosedale Dental had billed for other procedures?”

  He looked up in thought before looking back at me. “Come to think of it, there was a time a while back I got something in the mail about a cap or crown or something.”

  “Did you ask Rosedale Dental about it? Maybe call the Medicaid office?”

  “No. I didn’t get billed for nothing myself and I guess I forgot about it until just now. Should I make a call or something?”

  “Not necessary,” I said. “I’ll see to it. You take care now.”

  I returned to my car and spent the next two hours visiting with four other patients of Rosedale Dental. All of them were happy to show me their teeth. One of them even showed me his appendix-surgery scar and an impressive plantar wart on the bottom of his foot that was roughly shaped like the state of Texas.

  Only one of them actually had the crown that Medicaid had been billed for.

  Patricia would definitely have some explaining to do tomorrow.

  * * *

  The highlight of my day was a quick phone call with Nick that evening.

  “How are things going in New Delhi?” I asked.

  He groaned in frustration. “Not good. I
spoke with an agent of the Indian equivalent of the FBI. He asked me a lot of questions but made no promises. He acted as if this whole debt collection fraud could be nothing more than a miscommunication.”

  “As if you’d travel all the way to India without conducting a preliminary investigation.” Sheez.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if the guy is over at the call center right now meeting with Sundaram, or Gupta, or Buttafuoco—”

  “Bhattacharjee,” I corrected. “Buttafuoco was that creep who cheated on his wife with that young girl who later shot his wife in the face.”

  “Oh yeah. That was some crazy shit, huh? Anyway, I’d bet my left nut the official I spoke with is over at the call center right now soliciting a bribe.”

  “Why your left nut?”

  “The right’s my favorite.”

  I pondered what Nick had just told me. Not the BS about his favorite nut, but about the Indian government official possibly accepting a bribe from the target. Damn. That could effectively put an end to the case. If the target learned the U.S. government was on to him, he’d lie low, maybe obtain yet another alias before returning to America, or maybe not return to America at all.

  Bribes, though commonplace in many third-world countries, had no place in the American economic system. To prevent those doing business in the United States from gaining an unfair advantage over those competing honestly under free-market rules, Congress had enacted the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, a broad law that imposed potential felony punishment on anyone engaging in business in the United States who had unduly influenced a foreign official for business gain. India was known as a country where practices such as bribery were common and merely considered a cost of doing business.

  Despite the fact that the law was in place, obtaining evidence of its violation was next to impossible. The exchanges often took place in the foreign countries and involved cash or property transactions that were difficult, if not impossible, to trace.

  “What’s your plan from here?” I asked.

  “I’m supposed to follow up with the guy tomorrow and find out if the Indian government is going to cooperate.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” Nick said. “I’m going to need it.”

  chapter twenty-nine

  Laughter Isn’t Always the Best Medicine

  Jeremy phoned me again Tuesday morning.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Chloe’s baby is still sick.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Jeremy said. “Chloe’s down with the flu now, too. I told Chloe I’d swing by her house to pick up the key, but she didn’t want to risk passing the flu on to me.”

  “Gee. How thoughtful,” I snapped, out of patience now. Come hell, high water, or health issues, I had a job to do. It was ridiculous that Chloe seemed to be the only one in the company with access to her office and the hard copies of the financial records. Then again, family-owned businesses didn’t always follow the best practices.

  “Don’t worry, Tara,” Jeremy said. “Chloe’s sending her husband by with the key today.”

  Oh. Now I felt a little bad for snapping at Jeremy. “All right. Call me when it gets there, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I drove through a coffeehouse and bought a skinny no-whip latte, knowing I’d need a little caffeine boost to be at my best when I confronted Patricia about the botched billings at Rosedale Dental.

  As I drove west, sipping my drink, I wondered about the extent of the Medicaid fraud. Did Patricia know what was going on? Maybe. Maybe not. After all, she’d probably trusted the doctors to properly input the procedures in their hard-copy paperwork, right? Were all of the doctors involved? Again, maybe or maybe not. I had no way of telling from the billing accounts which doctor had treated the patients I’d visited with last night. I hadn’t thought to ask them at the time. It had been early evening by then and my brain had started shutting down for the night. Oh, well. I could find out today.

  I tossed back the last of my drink in the parking lot of Rosedale Dental, watching as a schoolkid emerged with a blue balloon tied to his wrist. He yanked on the string, making the balloon bob and weave in the air.

  I climbed out of my car and went inside. The first thing I did was make a trip to the bathroom. I’d ordered a venti latte, but I apparently had only a nineteen-ounce bladder. Another minute and I’d have been in trouble.

  The receptionist buzzed Patricia, who led me back to the same room at the end of the hall where she’d taken me yesterday.

  I sat down on the stool, foregoing the teacup spin today, and got right down to business. “I’ve discovered a major problem.”

  Standing over me, she tilted her head, her face drawing inward. “In the bookkeeping?”

  “The billing,” I said. “Specifically the Medicaid billings.”

  A dark cloud seemed to pass over her face. Did this mean she knew something? Or did she simply not appreciate having her staff or record keeping criticized?

  I handed her a list of the four patients I’d visited with last night for whom Medicaid had been wrongfully billed for crowns. “Can you tell me which doctor treated these patients?”

  She looked down at the list in her hand. “Let me go get that information for you. I’ll be right back.”

  She left the room, closing the door behind her. A couple of minutes later, my cell phone rang. The readout indicated it was Eddie.

  I jabbed the button to accept the call. If his butt had dialed me again, it would soon receive a personally delivered message from my foot. “Hey, Eddie.”

  “Hey.” Given that he was on the line, it looked like this was an intentional call. “Nick tells me his trip to India might be a bust.”

  “Yeah,” I said, keeping my voice low so those in the adjacent rooms wouldn’t be able to hear. “He called me last night, too. Sucks, huh?”

  “Sure does. Luckily, we just got a hit on Sundaram’s credit card here.”

  “You did?” Instinctively I stood up, as if ready to go after the guy. Old habits die hard. “Where?”

  “Restaurant in San Francisco,” Eddie replied. “A pancake house. Of course by the time Sundaram paid he was on his way out the door of the place, but we’ve got agents there on standby in case he uses the card again for lunch or dinner or checks into a hotel tonight.”

  The news was both good and bad. Good that a potential target had been sighted. Bad because it would suck if Eddie, Nick, and I had done all the work on the case and another agent would get the thrill of making the bust. There was nothing more satisfying than slapping handcuffs on a target after a successful investigation. It was like a work-related emotional orgasm.

  “I wonder if he might have a room at a boardinghouse in San Francisco, too.” I might not be officially assigned to the investigation anymore, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t offer suggestions.

  “Good point,” Eddie replied. “I’ll make some calls today, look into it.”

  Our conversation shifted from his work to mine. I told him about my current case at Rosedale Dental, that I was waiting to find out which doctor or doctors had been behind the scheme to rip off Medicaid.

  “No kidding?” Eddie chuckled. “No matter where you go, trouble just seems to find you.”

  What could I say to that? It was true.

  The door opened and Patricia stepped in, followed by three men and one woman who I assumed were the dentists.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said into my phone.

  “Call me back as soon you’re done there,” Eddie said. “I can’t wait to hear how this goes down.”

  I glanced down as I slid my phone into my pocket. When I looked back up, I found the five of them surrounding me like a street gang in blue scrubs.

  Instinctively I reached for the hip holster that was no longer there. Damn! “What the—”

  A latex-gloved hand clamped over my mouth from behind, cutting off my speech. If I’d had my Glock, these dentists would’ve had holes in them no amount of amalg
am could fill. Without my weapon, though, I was in serious trouble.

  The man behind me crooked his other arm around my neck, cutting off my air supply as he began dragging me backward. The others shuffled along with us like a mobile human cage entrapping me.

  Panic seized me like a body-shaping undergarment. I opened my mouth and bit down hard on the hand that covered it, not stopping until I bit through latex, tasted blood, and hit bone, enjoying the oh-so-lovely scream of the doctor behind me. Neener-neener. I fisted my right hand, enclosed it with my left for extra leverage, and forced my elbow back with all my might into his soft gut.

  The cry ended with an oomph as he released me.

  Momentum carried me stumbling backward until I fell onto my ass on the floor. Before I could holler for help, the others pounced on me.

  I’d been instructed in evasive maneuvers in my special agent training, but no matter how well trained I was, five against one was simply insurmountable odds. Still, the fact that I’d surely be bested by this squad of deviant doctors wasn’t going to prevent me from giving these assholes the fight of their lives.

  I could only wonder, though. Was I fighting for mine?

  Exactly what did the doctors plan to do with me?

  They grabbed my arms and tried to grab my legs as well. I managed to kick one of them in the nose, another in the mouth, and the woman in the ear before they dragged me into the examination chair, which Patricia had reclined.

  The dentist I’d bitten sprawled across my legs and torso, pinning me to the chair, while the other two male doctors ripped yards of dental floss from the plastic containers in their hands and tied my forearms to the chair’s armrests and my lower legs to the bottom of the chair. The female doctor stood next to my head, trying to force the mask for the laughing gas onto my face. I whipped my head side to side, screaming for someone to call the police.

  Dear God! Please let someone hear me!

  My arms and legs were immobile now, thanks to twenty yards of waxed, mint-flavored floss. One male doctor put a palm on my forehead, another on my chin, forcefully holding my head still despite my efforts to turn my face. I might not be able to open my mouth, but that didn’t prevent me from telling them exactly what I thought of them through my clenched teeth. I used a number of words that would have shamed my instructor at Miss Cecily’s Charm School.