by Tim O'Mara
“Call the number,” Edgar said and unclipped his cell phone from his belt. Billy looked at the pay phone’s number on the small, white part above the keyboard, and when he was finished dialing, the phone rang. Edgar told me to pick it up. I did, and Edgar said, “Say hi.”
“Hello.”
Edgar handed his cell phone to Billy. “Keep talking, Ray.”
“Check. One, two, three.”
With Edgar’s cell phone up against his ear, Billy smiled and slapped Edgar on the shoulder. “All righty, then. We’re in business. What kinda range we got?”
“Not even a consideration,” Edgar said. “For all intents and purposes, they’re the same unit. I just can’t use mine at the same time as when we want to hear the talk on the pay phone.”
“Excellent.” Billy looked at his watch. “I gotta make some calls. See about getting a little help for tonight … tomorrow. Cutting it kind of close, though.”
“I know,” I said. “Edgar, can you take me home now? I’ve been wearing the same clothes since yesterday.”
“You sure it’s safe?” Edgar asked.
“Cruz has no reason to mess with me until tomorrow morning. He’s got every reason not to. I wouldn’t put it past him to have my place scoped out, but I don’t think he’ll bother me.”
Billy reached into his pocket, pulled out one of his business cards, and handed it to Edgar. “Call me in an hour, and we’ll see where we’re at.”
Edgar and I shook hands with Billy, who gave us a grin, got in his SUV, and pulled away.
“Home?” Edgar asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Please.”
*
“You’re not gonna find a place to park around here,” I told Edgar as he pulled in front of my building. “Just circle the block a couple of times. I want to get a change of clothes and maybe check my messages. I can shower at your place, right?”
“No problem,” he said.
I got out of the car, gave Edgar a wave, and unlocked the first door. I watched and listened as it clicked shut. I emptied my mailbox—nothing but junk mail—opened the second door, and headed up to my apartment. An oversized envelope was leaning against my door, addressed to me in Frankie’s handwriting. I ripped it open and found a piece of paper, another envelope, and two computer discs. I unfolded the paper and again recognized Frankie’s handwriting.
Mr. D,
This was in my dads stuff that he gave me the day he got killed. I was gonna give it to you on the bridge but those guys on the bike came and then the cop and well you know. Its got something to do with why they did that to him. Right? I didnt have a computer where I was and thought maybe you could do better then me anyway. Thanks again for taken care of Milagros. I hope I didnt cause you to much trouble.
Frankie
I ripped open the smaller envelope; a whole lot of fifties and hundreds held together by a rubber band. I’d count it later. Right now, I couldn’t wait to pack my stuff, get over to Edgar’s, and see what was on the discs.
*
I don’t have a lot of things in my apartment, but most of what I do own had been thrown around the place. Clothes, books, and papers were all over the living room and bedroom floors. The closet had been ransacked. Every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen had been emptied, the contents tossed. In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet was open, and the back of the toilet had been removed. It seemed as if Ape and Suit had left no stone unturned in their search for what they thought I had.
I looked around the apartment again. My home. The place where I convinced myself I was safe from the outside world. The one place I felt was mine and mine alone. Few people had come here, and they came only when I invited them. That’s the way I liked it, the way I needed it. Now, my home had been violated. I wanted so much to pick up some clothes and throw them against the wall, kick some books, maybe break a few dishes. I wanted to throw a fucking temper tantrum, like a kid who’d had enough of being picked on.
Instead, I found my overnight bag in the closet and packed it with enough to get me through the weekend. I left my apartment—careful to lock up behind me—and went downstairs to find Edgar. I needed his computer.
Chapter 34
EDGAR, OF COURSE, HAD A RIDICULOUS computer system and accessories that probably cost more than a midsized car.
“I already got my eye on the Twenty-two Hundred that comes out in the fall,” Edgar said, as he slipped Frankie’s disc into the Twenty-one Hundred’s drive. “A friend overseas says he might be able to get his hands on one by mid–August.”
He punched a series of buttons, and within seconds a selection of files appeared on the screen. I had no idea what was in any of them, so we clicked on the first one, and a spreadsheet came up. There were those Social Security numbers again, followed by dates, dollar amounts, and then two more multidigit numbers that meant nothing to me. We scrolled down until we ran out of numbers. Socials, dates, dollar amounts, and two other numbers.
“Any ideas?” Edgar asked.
I told him what I knew, or thought I knew, and confessed my ignorance regarding the fourth and fifth columns of numbers.
“Social Security numbers are Medicare numbers, right?” Edgar asked.
“Yeah. And…?”
Silence from Edgar. I went back to the top and then scrolled down slower this time, hoping something might click. Nothing. So I did it all again, and it started to make a little sense.
“Okay,” I said, using Edgar as a sounding board. “Patients are IDed by their Socials. Let’s go ahead and say these,” I ran my finger down the column of six-digit numbers that seemed to follow a pattern, many starting with a zero, “are dates of service. And then we have … what? Payments? To whom?”
“The providers,” Edgar said.
“That’s got to be one of the other numbers,” I said. “Get your phone, will ya?”
I dialed information and got the number for Muscles’s. The man himself picked up.
“Raymond,” he said after I identified myself. “I hope you’re calling to reschedule those appointments you missed.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I will. I got some questions for you.”
“When?”
“Right now,” I said.
“No. When are you coming in again?”
“Monday,” I said. “After school.”
“I’m writing it down,” Muscle said. “Monday, four P.M. What are your questions?”
“When you send the bill to my insurance, what info do you have to give?”
“Name, member number—in your case, your SSN—the dates of service, what service or services you received, and my name and provider number.”
“You describe the service?”
“I just give them the codes. It’s all numbers, Ray.”
“Same with the provider?”
“I am the provider. If you’re asking do they give a shit about my name, nope. As long as my number’s valid, that’s all they care about.”
“If I gave you some numbers, could you tell me who the providers are?”
“That depends,” he said. “Give me a second.” I was expecting him to ask why I would want this information, and I was prepared to lie. He didn’t want to know why, I guess, but when it came to my missing an appointment … “Whatta ya got?”
I read off the first number. I listened as he worked a keyboard on his end.
“That’s a service code,” Muscles said. “Not a provider. Respiration therapy.”
I wrote that down and read off the number next to that one.
“That’s a Medicare provider,” Muscles said and gave me the name and address of the doctor. It was not far from Roberts’s travel agency. Under the same Medicare number, I noticed all the provider numbers were the same. I read off the matching service codes, and Muscles was able to find the corresponding medical procedure. There were eight of them. I told Muscles they all had the same date, and he told me to check again.
“I did,” I said. “Twice. All eigh
t services on the fifteenth of March.”
“That’s not kosher, Raymond. Too many services for one visit.”
I scrolled down again and saw the pattern. Same patient, same provider, at least five services rendered on the same date. Quick math had each provider billing over a thousand dollars per patient, per visit. Many of the same patients were seen on the same day as each other. Mrs. Villejo told me the church sometimes took a whole group to the doctor’s.
Muscles gave me the names and addresses for all the providers listed on the first file. The other files could wait. For now.
“Thanks, Muscles,” I said. “I owe you.”
“Pay me back by getting your ass—and your knees—in here on Monday. I penned you in for four o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Hey,” Muscles said, “one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking about what the kid told you. How his dad died.”
“Go on,” I said.
“You said the kid went up to the roof for a half hour, came down, and thought his dad had been smoking some shit, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then he goes back up to the roof for another thirty minutes, and when he comes back down the dad’s got a bloody nose and he’s dead.”
“That’s what he said.”
“Right. So the injury above the ear was the first blow and not enough to kill the guy, but maybe it was enough to give him a subdural hematoma.”
I put those two words together. “Bleeding in the head?”
“Around the brain. Worse than a regular concussion, not enough to kill a guy. Usually.”
“Usually?”
“The ER docs call it ‘Talk and Die.’ You get a blow to the head—like your guy did—you shake it off and think you’re gonna be okay. After a while, you start to slur your words, your vision gets blurry. You think it’s gonna pass. What you don’t realize is you’re bleeding inside the head. If you don’t seek some professional help soon, it ain’t gonna stop on its own.”
“And a punch in the nose…”
“Pretty much seals the deal.”
“So,” I thought out loud, “the first time Frankie and his sister go up to the roof, someone clocks the dad in the head and leaves.”
“Right, with no idea what they started.”
“And the second guy comes along, gives him a punch…”
“And within minutes, your guy’s dead.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Guy couldn’t catch a break.”
“Not sure if he deserved one, Raymond. I’ll see ya Monday.”
“Absolutely.” I hoped.
After I hung up, Edgar pointed at the computer screen and said, “I put in the other disc.”
“Edgar, we don’t have the—”
“Seems like a lot of money was going from EC Medical to Around the Horn Travel.”
I slid over and took a look at where he was pointing. He was right. Again.
“I need copies of this.”
“I’ll burn it onto a CD,” he said. “How many?”
I thought about that. One for me, definitely. I figured I’d hand over the original and a copy to Cruz in the morning. And a few extra for friends and family.
“Hold on,” I said. “We got two different things going on here. One’s fraud, the other’s money laundering, right?’
“That’s what it looks like. And whatever scam Rivas was pulling with the credit cards.”
I thought about what information I’d want to get to Royce, if necessary. “Let’s keep the discs separate.”
“Why?”
“Separate crimes, separate discs. Can you do five copies each? Please.”
“It’ll take a while,” Edgar said. “But yeah, no prob.”
“Great.” I called Billy while I waited.
*
“This guy, King,” Billy said, “is a freaking miracle worker. He’s been here about an hour, and he’s almost done. Found something with my motor, too, and he’s gonna give that another look-see. I think I’m in love.”
“I’m very happy for the both of you,” I said. “Any luck getting some back-up for tomorrow morning?”
“Bad luck, yeah. Everybody I trust is on duty tonight or gone for the weekend. I got a couple more calls to make, but I’m not too optimistic.” He paused for a few seconds. “I may have to consider your geek buddy.”
I looked over at Edgar, busy copying the discs for me. Doing what he did best. What he lived for. Impressing others with his technological prowess.
“I don’t know about that, Billy.”
“Just keeping the option open, partner.” When I didn’t answer, Billy said, “We’ll talk again, Raymond. One hour. I gotta get back to my new best friend.”
“See ya.”
I hung up, and Edgar handed me a Diet Pepsi.
“That last part was about me, wasn’t it?” he asked. “About helping out with the meeting tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know, Edgar. I feel weird enough putting Billy in that situation, and he’s a cop. You’re a—”
“Nerd? Computer geek?”
“I was going to say civilian. You want me to be honest? All you know about this stuff is what you see on TV or overhear at The LineUp. Shit. I’m scared to death, and I used to do this for a living.” A long time ago. “No offense. What you’ve done for me? I owe you big. But I’m not putting you in the line of fire just so I don’t hurt your feelings.”
“What if I signed a waiver or something? You know, legally absolving you from any responsibility if I get hurt?”
“Or killed. It’s not a field trip, Edgar. Please. I don’t want to waste time on this. I’ve got to stay focused.”
His computer system made a noise, and Edgar said, “Your discs are done, Ray. I printed out the hard copies you asked for.” He handed me the pages. “Thanks for letting me help.”
He left me alone in the living room while he went into the kitchen and started moving stuff around, slamming cabinets shut, making enough noise to let me know how he felt. Better that than having to live with getting a friend into a situation I knew was more than he could handle.
I sat at Edgar’s desk, looking through the pages he’d just given me. How many years did it take Cruz to set all this up? How much money was involved? Doctors, suppliers, providers, patients. How much did Cruz get? For his church? For himself?
If this situation got to the point where I—or others—had to report this to the authorities, how many people’s lives would be screwed with? How many other people like Mrs. Villejo were out there depending on Cruz for their standard of living? On these sheets alone, I counted at least fifty patient numbers.
Was having this information enough to keep Frankie and me alive past sunrise tomorrow? I could think this out and make brilliant plans until five A.M. and still not be sure I was holding more cards than Cruz.
And he had Frankie. That much was clear to me. I needed more. I called Edgar back.
He walked in with his arms folded across his chest and said, “What?”
“Lose the attitude,” I said. “I need your help.”
“You mean you need more of my help?”
“Yes.” I put on my teacher voice, the one I use to soothe a sulking kid. “Look, Edgar, you’re the only one I know who could help me right now, okay? Shit, you’re the best at this kind of stuff.” He unfolded his arms. “You can do more from this desk to help me right now than any cop Billy can scrape up. Will you do it?”
He pretended to think about it and then pulled the other chair next to mine.
“Whatta ya need?”
“First,” I said, “an address. In Puerto Rico.”
He punched in some information, and a directory Web site came up.
“First and last name?”
“Right there’s where I’m going to need your help.”
*
Three hours later my eyes were hurting, my vision blurry, but I now belie
ved I knew more about Cruz than he knew about me. Watching Edgar work his magic on the keyboard—and acquire access to a few sites he shouldn’t have—was impressive, and I told him so. He just wiggled his fingers and smiled.
“Dinner?” he asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
He looked at his watch. “Ten hours to go. How do you feel?”
“Like I need to do more to get ready.”
“You got all this info, Ray. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “More.”
Edgar gave that some thought. “I had a Little League coach once who used to—”
“You played Little League?”
“For a couple of years, yeah. Then I gave it up.”
“What happened?”
“Video games happened. Anyway, this coach I had, Mr. Kammerer, used to tell us at the start of each season, ‘Talent doesn’t guarantee success. Preparation guarantees success.’”
“What’s your point, Edgar?”
“You say you want more. So what’s missing? What’s left you haven’t thought of?”
When did Edgar get so damned insightful? I was beating myself up because I’d overlooked something. All the times during the past two weeks I thought I was through with this mess, and here I was, a few hours away from making a trade for Frankie. What was it Royce had said about the search for redemption? It could kill you.
After all these years of hiding them from those closest to me, I’d let Cruz see my weak spots. First my sister, then Frankie. That’s how Cruz got me back in the game and kept me in. That’s how he was so sure he was going to win.
I needed to find his weak spot.
I shut my eyes and went over the details of the past twenty-four hours, and I kept coming back to the conversation in the church last night with Cruz. All the talk about faith and family and God. And Cruz’s eyes drifting up to the altar. The crucifix.
“Edgar,” I said. “Get your car keys.”
He stood up. “Why?”
“We’re going to church.”
*
Edgar did his best to walk nonchalantly down the block to Cruz’s church. He stopped once as he checked the time and then continued on to the front door. I was watching from the driver’s seat of his car as he climbed the steps and pressed the church’s buzzer. Edgar’s cell phone was up against my ear. No one was picking up inside the church. Edgar rang twice more and then knocked a few times. Getting no answer, he stepped down and made his way to the alleyway that separated the church from the apartment building next door. He bent down to tie his sneakers. When he got up, he disappeared into the alley. My breathing stopped. This was not what we’d planned. He was to make sure no one was at the church. That was all.
