Imperfect Defense

by Gregg E. Brickman

  CHAPTER 18

  Ray

  Mid-morning the next day, Ray tapped Sophia's name on his phone, hit send, then slipped his vehicle into reverse. He headed out of the police department parking lot and pointed the car in the direction of AMVETS to check Wayne Peers' alibi. The Taurus hesitated a bit, and he made a mental reminder to leave it for service later in the day.

  "Hey, babe," Sophia said in response to the first ring. "I was hoping you'd call."

  "What's up?"

  "Nothing special. After you left, Roxy and I had a long, rather slow walk. Now she's chasing little lizards up the tree, and I'm drinking coffee on the patio and deciding what to do with my life."

  "That sounds ominous." Ray turned onto Royal Palm, mentally cursing the midmorning traffic jam. "Thought the decision was made."

  "Was being the key word in this conversation. Suppose Melinda succeeds in getting me fired. Then what?"

  "Go down the street. Say, 'I'm a nurse.' Get another job."

  "It might not be that easy, depending on references. If the hospital is pissed, they could say I'm a troublemaker." Sophia's stress resonated in her tone.

  Ray wondered if she'd been crying. He regretted not taking more time that morning, walking the dog with her, and ensuring she felt more positive about her situation.

  He softened his voice to lighten the impact of his words. "Sweetheart, I hate to say it, but you made your decision to report the suspected abuse and suffer the consequences."

  "Uh huh."

  "A good decision, if you ask me. You made it based on solid information. If they take action against you, be reminded there are laws to prevent retaliation."

  "True," she hesitated, "but I'm not sure I want to get into a pissing contest with the hospital either. If they win, which they would eventually, I'd be an outcast."

  "Hang in. I'm with you all the way."

  "Thank you for that," Sophia said.

  The turn light at Route 441 switched to green, and Ray followed the arrow, cursed, and took the first U-turn to head south. "What time will you be home for dinner?" he asked.

  "Not too late. Nine maybe. I was going to head to Publix and get something easy," Sophia said.

  "Sounds fine."

  "Tuna steaks, baked sweets, salads."

  "Good. I'll put the potatoes in the oven at seven. Call when you leave. The grill will be hot when you get home," Ray said.

  They chatted an extra moment before disconnecting. He forced his thoughts away from Sophia and onto his case. Sally, the barmaid who usually worked Wednesdays, was scheduled to open the AMVETS Post in Margate at eleven. She, like everyone else he needed to talk to, was hard to track down.

  He pulled into the shopping center housing the Post and parked under the AMVETS sign. The American flag flew in front of the door and patriotic decorations against a plain white wall were visible through the window.

  He arrived a couple of minutes shy of opening time, so he tapped on the glass front door, holding up his badge.

  Sally glanced at the clock, shrugged, then approached, opening the door to let him enter.

  Ray followed Sally past the high tables near the entrance, slid onto a stool at the long bar, and waited for Sally to face him. "I'm Detective Stone, Coral Bay PD."

  The place was dim inside. A faint smell of stale cigarettes and beer lingered.

  Sally said, "Wayne told me to expect you."

  "You're a hard woman to find."

  "Hey, I tend bar, which is a risky business, even in a joint like this. I only give the management my cell number and P.O. box. There was a problem years ago with a customer stalking me, so now avoiding the issue works best."

  "You didn't answer your phone."

  "Didn't recognize your number. Same reason." She sighed. "Sorry."

  "Did he tell you what this is about?"

  "Yes. You consider him a suspect in his mother's murder. He came in Saturday evening after you hauled him to the station to talk about it."

  Ray nodded. "What's your opinion?"

  "Don't see it myself, hurting his mother, I mean. Wayne is a regular. Comes in most days I work, which is Wednesday through Saturday. Sometimes a Sunday if there's an event." She looked thoughtful. "He was on hard times and was forced, as he put it, to live with his old lady—mother, not wife. From how he tells the story, there had been a major unraveling of the relationship."

  "Why?"

  "Wayne is a heavy drinker. When he's drunk, he's a moaner. Complains about life, his bad choices, his bastard of a father, and the mother who supported the man's decisions. Deep down, though, he acted like he hated her from habit, but didn't really. Several of the things he mentioned led me to believe they were moving on and recapturing some of what they'd lost."

  Ray was impressed with her comments and gave them weight. He made a couple of notes. "Was he here last Wednesday?"

  "He told me he was, claims he came in at eleven. Could be. He frequently arrives at opening time. I don't keep track."

  "It was only last week."

  "I said, I don't keep track."

  The door opened, and an old man shuffled in and climbed onto a barstool.

  Sally nodded in the man's direction. "Ask Joe. He's a regular, too." She walked over to Joe. "The usual?"

  Joe put a finger to his throat. "Please." The voice was gravelly.

  Ray watched as Sally poured a cup of coffee, then set a bag of cheese snacks on the bar. She returned to face him, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Joe's on the wagon. Throat cancer changed his habits. Quit smoking, too. He leaves when the smokers come in later in the day."

  "Thanks." Ray shifted a few stools to the left, introduced himself. "I have some questions about Wayne Peers."

  "Glad to help, Detective." He paused, lifted the finger from his throat, and took several breaths. "Been trying to get Wayne to go to AA with me, but it's a no go."

  "Was he here during the day last Wednesday?"

  Joe looked toward the ceiling. "Could be. Can't be sure. He's here almost every day. Not always that early." He paused to breathe. "Depends on if he has work or not. He's a hell of a painter." Breath. "Did my house. Good job, too."

  "Nice to know. Let me know if you remember seeing him."

  "Don't know. Can't remember. Wish I did. I . . ." He gasped and took several sharp inhales. "Don't remember everything these days, not the way I used to." He stopped to breathe. "He wasn't around for a couple of days. Then he came in on Saturday." Again, Joe paused. "He told me about his mother. Said he'd been on a bender. Maybe it was time to get sober."

  "Was he drinking on Saturday?"

  "Sure was. Heavy, if you ask me."

  Ray left the Post believing Wayne Peers was still an unknown on his suspect list, and he'd exhausted the options to confirm his alibi.

  ***

  Ray found Dyer in his office. He appeared to be near fifty, and Ray guessed most of those years passed with scant exercise. Dyer looked soft. Sophia would have said fluffy. However, he was neatly dressed, and though he was in shirtsleeves, he wore a tie. There was a suit coat draped over a side chair.

  "Come in, Detective. I've been expecting you."

  The office was spacious. The credenza behind the desk held a copier, a heavy-duty printer, and a bulky fax machine. Dyer obviously did a lot of his own clerical tasks.

  Ray noted Dyer's sincere-looking smile and thought he bore the mark of a true salesman. "Why were you expecting me?"

  "Gabe called last evening. Mentioned you'd been here and were looking for me."

  "Oh, I see." So much for Gabe assuring him he wouldn't forewarn Dyer. Ray scribbled a note. "I'm investigating the murder of your client, Millie Peers."

  "Yes, Millie. That's terribly sad. She was a somewhat new client and was moving her accounts from her New Jersey financial advisor."

  "We'll get to that. Let's back up a bit first." Ray verified Dyer's full name, date of birth, home address, and phone number. "What's your role with this firm?"

&nb
sp; "I'm the branch manager. Mr. Silebi has several subsidiary businesses. We are the biggest of the South Florida Secure Financials offices and provide some centralized services for the other locations. There are three branches—this one, one in Miami, and another in Boca Raton."

  "How many people work here?"

  "I'll ask Mrs. Marshall to give you a list." He poked the intercom button and relayed the request.

  "Thank you. Meanwhile, tell me."

  Dyer looked thoughtful, sucking his cheeks, then biting his lip. "There is Mrs. Marshall, the admin assistant. Me—I do the overall management and service clients. I'm a Certified Financial Planner and hold a senior certificate. Gabriel Silebi, sales and financial planning—he's a trainee. John Coats, sales and financial planning. We also have a scheduling clerk, a website designer, and another financial planner who screens products for investment opportunities."

  "Anybody else?"

  "No, that's it."

  "Back to Gabe Silebi for a moment. Is he certified?"

  "Yes. But, his father thinks he's too young and requires supervision. The kid needs to settle down some, and I'm helping with that. It's his old man's plan to have Gabe take over one of the smaller offices when he's ready and the opportunity presents itself."

  "Big responsibility, training the boss's son."

  Dyer smiled. "I'm up for it. Now, I've been absent a few days and have plenty to do today. Can we move this along?"

  "You were on a gambling junket?"

  "True."

  "Where were you last Wednesday morning and early afternoon?"

  "On my way to Las Vegas."

  "Airline?"

  "It was a private flight, arranged for a group of us." He pulled a paper from his shirt pocket. "This is the coordinator's name and number. The pilot's name is there, too."

  Ray took the paper, studied it a moment, then slipped it into his sport coat pocket. "It is my understanding you gamble a lot."

  "I like to gamble. I'm good at it, and I had vacation time coming."

  "Do you win? Break even? Or are you in debt?"

  "The point?" Dyer was no longer smiling.

  "The point is I have questions about Millie's accounts. A man who likes to gamble and also handles other people's money raises questions." Ray placed a list of Millie's accounts on the desk in front of Dyer. "Tell me about each of these."

  Dyer started at the top. He pulled reports from his computer and discussed each account, verifying the balance online.

  When he reached the last account on the list, the F. Fodrum annuity, he retrieved a file from the cabinet, opened it, and selected the top document. "Millie chose to invest over two hundred thousand with this firm. She liked their financial history and security." He pointed to the bottom line. "I think she made a good decision. In addition to a ten percent bonus, she had already earned a tidy profit and expected to net another ten percent the first year."

  "Why, then, was she asking to liquidate the fund and move it elsewhere?" Ray laid a copy of Millie's correspondence to Dyer on the desk.

  "I'm not sure. Millie was on top of her finances, checked online information, verified account balances. I had an appointment to meet with her on the subject next week." He checked a desk calendar. "Thursday." He tipped his head side to side. "I think it bothered her that F. Fodrum doesn't have an interactive website. You have to call in, then they assign a rep to call you back at an appointed time. It's the same way with sales representatives. We have to deal with live people."

  "Sounds archaic."

  "They manage personal investments in the millions and want to give personal attention. Frankly, I think they also want to discourage withdrawals. However, it's a fine, highly-rated firm."

  "Give me a copy of the literature you provide perspective investors." He extended his hand and accepted a glossy brochure, then took a moment to look it over. "That's all? No tiny-print financial prospectus?"

  "I don't have a fresh one at the moment. I'll call them when we're finished and have them fax you a copy."

  "Why couldn't Mrs. Marshall produce copies of Millie's account yesterday in response to our search warrant?"

  "Don't know that. She should have been able to. It was in the drawer and in our system."

  "I'm also puzzled that the reports in Millie's file from F. Fodrum were on Secure Financial letterhead, rather than the annuity company's."

  "Millie had a problem with their tiny font. I reproduced the report for her as a courtesy to her age. She accessed her other reports online and enlarged the font to her liking."

  "Show me an original."

  Dyer produced a page filled with investment numbers in eight or nine-point type. The company's name and other information appeared on the top left.

  "Make a copy of your folder for me."

  Dyer drew a quick breath and turned red. "I will not." He raised his voice. "These are my personal work files, and I've been kind enough to share with you. I don't have to give you copies."

  Ray laid the search warrant on the desk and tapped the line that said personal work papers. "But you do."

  Gabriel Silebi came into the room. "What's the noise about?"

  Dyer muttered under his breath, then got up and made copies. "He wants copies of my work files."

  Ray turned to the younger man. "Tell me, Gabe, why did you tell Mr. Dyer we wanted to see him after we asked you to keep quiet?"

  Gabe, who again was dressed in young man's casual business attire—dark pants, striped dark shirt worn loose—leaned against the wall and folded his arms in a tough guy pose. "I didn't think you had the right to interfere with my communication with my boss."

  "It does show a lack of cooperation after your father pledged his full support to the investigation."

  "Whatever." Gabe left the room.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sophia

  After saying good-bye to Ray, Sophia picked up her empty coffee cup and went into the house from the screened patio. Worries about her reputation infected her thoughts, but she had no solution, no action plan, and no clue about what would happen. Ray's advice to hang in and let the situation manage itself seemed the thing to do.

  Talking to Ralph was not possible until he was clinically stable and out of ICU. Then, she'd have to manage a visit without Melinda catching her. The only way for Sophia to escape unscathed was to prove the veracity of her allegations of abuse, which would put Melinda and her family in jeopardy. Sophia felt the predicament she had created was dismal, but she remained convinced she'd done what was necessary for her patient.

  After a quick trip to the grocery store, she dressed in bright pink and teal scrubs and matching sneakers, hoping the cheerful colors would lift her mood.

  Roxy retired to her crate on command and accepted the required treat. Sophia's eight-hour shift started at noon. She hurried to the MINI.

  Arriving midday was quick, efficient, and painless. The parking lot was quiet, plenty of close-in spots—the ones the night shift vacated after the day people arrived—and no long morning conference for patient reports and assignments. Sophia stowed her purse in her locker, located the charge nurse, then went to find the person she would relieve. There were mandatory education programs running all afternoon, so the mid-shift person—Sophia—would provide relief as the staff came and went. It would be a confusing day, but it promised variety and time would pass faster than usual.

  Nancy Mitchell, looking spiffy in her manager-has-a-meeting suit, stopped Sophia as she passed her open office door. "I've been watching for you."

  "Just got here. I'm looking for Felicia to get report."

  Nancy tapped a button on her phone. "Tell Felicia that Sophia will be delayed a few minutes."

  An empty chair awaited. "What's up?"

  "Two things. One, Melinda and Franco Silebi showed up in Human Resources at nine this morning. Franco didn't say much at first, from what I understand. But Melinda demanded you be fired for unprofessional behavior. She's asserting you interfered with the family'
s relationship with their physicians by discussing Ralph with the doctors after you were no longer involved in his care. She also alleges you broke patient confidentiality in the process and held the family open to public humiliation."

  "Whoa. They're looking for revenge."

  "It appears so. They had a visit from the state and assume you made the report. Franco contradicted her in the meeting. He said he understands you needed to follow your conscience, even without evidence."

  "That's bullcrap. There's plenty of evidence Ralph was traumatized."

  "Perhaps, but Silebi is a board member and people listen. Second—"

  "I thought I already had two pieces of bad news." Sophia had snapped the comment. She took a deep breath hoping to regain a sense of cool.

  "Actually, that was the first piece." Nancy scowled. "Melinda says she's worried about her safety. She says you have a bunch of supporters, and she fears walking to and from the parking lot. Franco agreed with the idea and asked that Melinda have security escorts in and out of the building."

  "This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Sophia flinched. So much for a cool and calm resolve. "I had concerns about Ralph, who had been in my care when I observed the signs of abuse. It was appropriate to talk to his attending, Dr. Bhaduri. Then—at her suggestion—to Dr. Nathan. I didn't hold those conversations in public, and I'm not the one who put the whole damn thing on Facebook."

  "Sophia," Nancy said, her voice sharp, "we know that. We're trying to contain the situation. You're not fired, suspended, or reprimanded. Making an abuse report, even a faulty one, can't be used in any way to change the terms and conditions of your employment. It's hospital policy. At the state level, it's a protected report. It's confidential. The state can only use it to contact you for more information if necessary. They won't confirm your identity to the family. The call for the initial report could have been made by any number of other people, including the physicians."

  "True, but . . ."

  "You need to lay low. If they alleged and proved you made a malicious report, then it's a definite problem."