J.M. Redmann - Micky Knight Mystery 7 - I'll Will

by J. M. Redmann

  But I was wasting time here. His taste in women wasn’t my concern.

  I exited his office, again carefully locked his door.

  Third try was the charm. I’d found the file room. First line to cast was to look for the two names I knew—Reginald Banks and Eugenia aka Eugene Hopkins.

  Reginald still had a file. I quickly glanced through it, most of the words a foreign language to me. But he was listed as deceased, on the day he died. I couldn’t find any indication that his insurance company had declined treatment. I did find a sheet that read pt. contacted, att. to reschedule, pt. will call later. I flipped back to the sheet before. It was a list of notes from his last visit, another flip back and another visit. Then another flip to another visit. The notes from this one were identical to the notes in the first, as if every few visits, they could just be recycled. I checked through all the visit notes. They skipped in irregular patterns, but every third to fifth visit, the notes were almost identical, just the dates changed. I also noticed a crease on the top of the page, like a bent paper clip had held it. The crease carried through several pages. It wasn’t on the page with the note, but then was on the page following. The note about trying to contact him had been added, slipped in between two other pages.

  I placed the file back where I found it and searched for Eugenia’s file. According to her file she was still in treatment, had been there last week. As I put her file back I realized how difficult it would be to sort this all out. If the records said someone was here, the only way to disprove that was to talk to each individual, one by one. And even then you’d need to speak to enough of them to prove that it wasn’t just someone misremembering, but a pattern of concocted visits and insurance payments.

  There’s a reason I didn’t go into insurance fraud, I thought. I randomly grabbed another file, wondering if anything would stand out—like the repeated notes in Reginald’s files. After glancing through ten files, I did notice one thing: no patients left the practice—at least none of these ten. Especially in post-Katrina New Orleans, that alone was odd—people moved all the time. I’d switched most of my doctors since half of them hadn’t come back and the other half had moved to either the north shore or out in the suburbs. For some it took me two or three tries to find someone I liked—and who took my insurance.

  The eleventh file showed a glaring mistake—a chart note signed by Cordelia in what was clearly not her handwriting.

  That was my fear, that whoever was doing this would be willing to implicate the innocent to cover his or her tracks.

  There was a faint rumble in the background. The air-conditioning system? No, that had clicked on and off several times. The elevator?

  I hastily shoved the file back in its place, then locked the file room. This was a multistory building with ten to fifteen offices on every floor. What were the odds that they were coming here?

  Given that they killed people, ones I couldn’t take a chance on.

  I didn’t dare risk going out of the office as I might run into them at the elevators. If these were the people who had killed Lydia, they weren’t likely to fall for my lame excuse. I couldn’t hide in any of the offices or the file room; those were the likely places they would go.

  I wished I knew where Cordelia’s office was. It would be safe there since I could be sure she wasn’t coming to visit.

  Except they might enter it to plant more phony incriminating evidence.

  The exam rooms. I could only hope that they wouldn’t check exam rooms—unless this was an affair and they were into the kinky stuff.

  I headed for the first room, the one closest to the door. I had just got the door shut and taken one deep breath when I heard a key in the lock. Sometimes, I hate it when I’m right.

  Maybe it was the cleaning crew.

  But the person who entered was quiet and didn’t turn on any lights. From the stealthy footfalls, it was just one person. I heard him—or her—shuffle by. It sounded like he went to the file room, but I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t dare look.

  Now I had another quandary—did I stay here until this silent person left or did I try and get out? And if it was the latter, should I be quiet or just make a run for it?

  I heard a sound like a copy machine. The machine had been just outside the file room, which was on a side hallway. It would be out of sightlines from here, and if I was lucky—and quiet—it would cover any sound I would make. There was a white lab coat hanging on the back of the door. I put it on. That, at least, would make it seem more like I belonged here. I caught a faint lingering perfume. Cordelia. Appropriate.

  I cautiously cracked open the door. A weak light spilled from the conference room hallway. Edging out of the room, I pulled the door almost shut, but didn’t want to risk the snick of the catch.

  “Goddamn it,” came from the hallway.

  But it was followed by a frustrated kick against a machine. The gods of copy machines were on my side and had chosen this moment to jam it. Then I heard that faint rumble again. The elevator.

  Taking a risk, I gambled that I had enough time to get out. Balancing haste and silence as best I could, I opened the main door and slid into the elevator lobby, pausing only long enough to close the door as quietly as I could. In an awkward tiptoe to keep the noise down, I hurried past the elevators to the stairs. I was just closing the door when I heard the whoosh of the elevator doors opening.

  Two people arriving on this floor at this time of night? Too suspicious. Tempted as I was to crack the door, it was too risky. Whoever got off strode quickly to the office door. He—I was guessing it was he—made no attempt at quiet, jangling the keys as he shoved one into the lock.

  I heard the door open and from inside a voice said, “Hey, we’ve got a problem. I think she moved the files.”

  Had I not put everything back correctly?

  No time to ponder. I put my hip on the banister and slid down, skating around on the landing to do it again on the next set of stairs. And the next. Much as I wanted to run, I couldn’t risk the tramp of feet on the stairs.

  At the third floor, I cut across the bridge to the garage. I’d parked on the street, but I didn’t want to be in that empty building with two possible killers. With Cordelia across the road, I had a good reason to be here in the garage, but not in the office building.

  I scanned the floor, but they wouldn’t park here. With its bridges to the office building and the hospital, this was the busiest floor. I ran up one flight of stairs and scanned the next floor. They probably parked at the top, so I ran up several flights, but police tape blocked the door, so I went down one.

  There they were; the black SUV and the red sports car. They could be back at any time and they were guaranteed to come here. I couldn’t see the license plates from where I was and I was loath to walk far enough away from the stairs to get to where I could see them. From this perch I could hear the rumble of the elevators next to the stairs or any footsteps. To get close enough to see the license plates would take me too far to hear them coming. I could at least get the make and model. A Cadillac Escapade and a Porsche Boxster. Not Bentleys, but not cheap cars either.

  That was all I could do. I needed to get out of here. I again took the stairs, now breathing hard, but I didn’t want to slow down. I’d be safe—or as safe as I was going to be only when I was out of this building, away from the possibility they might spot me.

  When I got to the bottom floor of the garage, I took off the white coat before I left the stairwell. The white would only make it easier to spot me in the dark. I walked briskly away from the lights of the hospital, breaking into a trot in the darker spots.

  My car was where I had left it all those hours ago, as if nothing had happened. I jumped in, immediately started the motor, and only managed to put on my seat belt at the first red light.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It was just as well Cordelia wasn’t here. I slept with my gun on the nightstand. The safety was on in deference to cats who liked to knock things
over, but that was my only prudent concession.

  I slept little, every noise waking me. I wondered if I could make it through until Monday—and if I did, what help could Joanne actually give?

  I had to tell Cordelia what was going on. I didn’t think I could fake it through another day. The forgery of her signature meant that she was involved. Her knowledge of both that particular office and the medical field might be useful. If she was doing okay. I gave myself that little wiggle room.

  This time I couldn’t even make myself eat a decent breakfast. It was two cups of coffee and a granola bar that felt like chewing cardboard. If this was what emotions could do to you, I could understand how adding toxic chemicals would completely ruin any desire for food.

  I barely remembered to take her old clothes out of the car and bring clean ones for her to wear.

  It was a bright and sunny day, and that at least helped dispel the demons of the night. I was again at the hospital. Again forced to park in the garage that I never wanted to see again. But if I was picking up Cordelia, I could wheel her across the walkway from the hospital to the car, and that seemed the only practical way to do it.

  When I got to her room, she was sitting on the side of the bed, talking to her doctor.

  “My chariot out of here,” she said, seeing me.

  “Great, all the paperwork is signed. We’ve rescheduled you for Tuesday, to give you an extra day to rest. Remember to eat as often as you can, small meals four to five times a day, protein drinks to supplement.”

  The doctor left. I helped Cordelia change, mostly handing her things and the ever-challenging bra fastening. Halfway through, an administrative person arrived and had her fill out a sheaf of paperwork. She was decent, just lacking socks and shoes. By the time she was fully dressed and we had gathered up her things, including the half chocolate bar still left, an orderly with a wheelchair arrived. Cordelia started to protest she could walk, but recognized he was just doing his job and it would be easier to let him do it.

  I got to carry the flowers and the chocolate.

  After the logistics of getting her into the car and us out on the street she said, “I really am okay. It was about the best case it could be, not anemia, but I wasn’t eating enough and was pushing too hard.”

  “Yeah, I know, I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Are the cats okay?”

  “The cats? Yes, they’re fine. Upset that they haven’t been able to play us against one another for treats.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “What’s going on? You seem distant. Is it Alex and Joanne?”

  “No. Or not that I know of. Joanne is in Baton Rouge this weekend.”

  “With Alex?”

  I had to admit, “I’m not sure. I assume so. We only had time for a brief conversation.”

  Again she was silent, as if hoping I would say more. When I didn’t, she asked, “What is it you’re not telling me? I know about Lydia.”

  “You do? How?”

  “So you did know.” Again a pause I didn’t fill. “Ron came by last night, not long after you left, and he told me. Said the police thought it was some stupid, random robbery.”

  Interesting that Ron was also in the area. “Let’s get home. This isn’t about us, or our friends. It’s a case I’ve been working on and it’s gotten very complicated.”

  She sighed, but didn’t ask again.

  Thankfully for us both, New Orleans is not a spread-out city and the drive was only another fifteen minutes of silence or comments about the weather.

  Once we were inside I asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “Avoiding the conversation?” she said, but with a hint of a smile.

  “No, just following doctor’s orders.”

  “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll eat after.”

  I started at the beginning, Mr. Charles Williams, then the McConkles and their questions about Nature’s Beautiful Gift. She listened carefully, occasionally asking questions, but mostly letting me talk. I ended with, “I don’t think Lydia’s death was a random robbery. She was shot execution style, close range at the base of the skull.”

  Cordelia said, “You think someone where I work is committing major insurance fraud? And that they would kill to cover it up?”

  “I think it’s enough of a possibility that I can’t rule it out.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I’ll talk to Joanne tomorrow. We’ll figure it out from there. Today, we stay in and I pamper you.”

  She smiled the smile that broke my heart. “Oh, Micky, you need to be safe. I can’t lose you now.” She reached out and touched my cheek, then as if that wasn’t enough, wrapped her arms around me. She took me by the hand to the bedroom asking, “Slow and gentle?”

  “Yes,” I agreed though I was scared to touch her, worried how fragile she had become. But she took my hands, leading them where she wanted to go. “I can’t lose this,” she murmured in my ear.

  No, we can’t let go of this, I thought as I stroked her face, running my fingers down her neck to her breast. I could lose her, could never have a moment like this again. A searing thought.

  We made love as if clocks didn’t exist and time would never catch us. First, slow, lingering, stroking everywhere, then again, with passion, a frenzy of touch as if it could last a life time. And when we were done, we lay in each other’s arms, knowing how precious and fragile this moment was.

  My exhaustion from the last few days caught up with me and I fell asleep. I vaguely remembered Cordelia murmuring, “Get some rest,” and easing out of bed.

  I knew time had passed by the changed light.

  “Honey, wake up,” Cordelia was saying. “Someone named Rafe says he needs to speak to you.”

  “What?” I mumbled, then managed to sit up. “What’s he doing calling here?”

  “He called on your cell,” she said. “It rang several times, so I finally answered it.”

  “Tell him I’ll call him back in five minutes,” I said as I swung out of bed. Talking to Rafe with a sleep-fogged brain was not a good option.

  Splashing water on my face helped to revive me. I looked at my watch. Morning had slid into midafternoon.

  When I rejoined Cordelia, I asked, “Have you eaten?”

  “I finished the chocolate bar. Does that count?”

  “No.”

  “Aren’t you going to call your friend?” she asked.

  “He’s not a friend, he’s another private investigator from Dallas,” I said. Once I called him, I’d be back in the middle of this mess, trying to explain to another skeptical man why the muddle with the insurance could be linked to Grant Walters and The Cure. What was it based on really? A red car and a black truck? “Taking care of you is more important. You need to eat and I’m hungry.”

  “Taking care of me is fine. Using me as an excuse to avoid something, not so fine.”

  Ouch. “Okay, I’ll call him. Your job is to decide what you want for lunch.”

  I picked up my cell phone and went to the bedroom, the better to blow him off.

  “I’m back in town,” he answered—caller ID. “We need to meet.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “How about right now?”

  “How about I’m home and about to eat lunch?” I countered.

  “I’ll bring pizza.”

  “No.” I wasn’t sure Cordelia could handle the smell of grease. “I’m not in the mood for pizza,” I covered. “How about a couple of hours?”

  “I know it’s a cliché, but now or never. We got intel that indicates he’ll be doing something big today or tomorrow.”

  “Bad timing for you to be out of town,” I said.

  “Was out of town to get this info.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “Don’t ask and I won’t tell.”

  Illegal wire tapping was my guess. “Can you give me an hour and can we meet at my office?”

  “You that bad a housekeeper?”

  “No, my pa
rtner is here”—Cordelia entered the room—“and I’d prefer to keep work separate from my home life.”

  “It’s okay if they come here,” she said. “I can’t stay hidden forever.”

  I nodded as if agreeing with her.

  “I can be a polite Southern gentleman,” Rafe said. “We’re right out front.”

  “You’re pushy,” I said as I got up and went to the front room. His dark blue SUV, the banged-up silver car, and a sedate sedan that said “I live in the suburbs and have two kids” were all out front.

  My other cell phone rang. The pink one.

  “Oh, fuck,” I said. “He’s calling Debbie.” I hung up on Rafe.

  Cordelia had joined me in the living room, curious and puzzled about this part of my life, a place she rarely saw.

  I picked up the pink phone and put my finger to my lip, indicating she needed to be quiet.

  Of course it wasn’t him calling. It was the same woman, vaguely polite, relentlessly professional. “Shipments have been slow, sorry it took so long,” she said in a voice that had no sorry in it. “You and your sister need to come in tonight. At nine p.m. at the same address.” She rattled it off.

  I had barely enough time to say, “Okay, we’ll be there,” before she hung up.

  Of course, we wouldn’t be there. There was no “we.” Joanne was out of town, so not a possibility. I couldn’t pass Danny off as my sister—plus she was a lawyer, not a cop or PI, and it was too risky for anyone without training. Maybe Rafe had come up with a solution.

  He was on my porch, knocking on the door.

  Cordelia looked at me and I gave her an exasperated nod. She opened the door.

  Rafe brought Joe and Gem, plus another man and an older woman.

  I told him, “If we put you in drag, you could be my sister.”

  He ignored my comment. “You remember Gem and Joe, right? This is Steve and Madeline.”

  “This is Cordelia,” I said. I could be polite back.

  “Come in,” my partner said, shaking everyone’s hand. Even the cats were friendly. No one was on my side. We arranged ourselves in our living room. I pulled a couple of chairs out of the kitchen.