Ill Will (7 page)

It was Fletcher, of course, who answered. “My aunt is being swindled. I need to put a stop to it.”

“Criminal acts are a matter for the police,” I said. “If someone is taking advantage of her, you should report it to them.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he said.

Which usually meant that it wasn’t complicated at all, just massively unpleasant. I supplied the expected prompt. “Complicated how?”

“My aunt is elderly, suffers from a variety of ills, and is always looking for something that will fix those ills. Sometimes she doesn’t choose wisely. A young dude used his wiles to gain her confidence and sell her so-called natural remedies for which she is paying several hundred dollars a week.”

“Perhaps you should call elderly services,” I suggested. Fletcher spoke in an affected way, as if it made him smarter and more refined. In his Hawaiian shirt.

“Do you not want this case?” he asked. “This is the second time you’ve suggested I go elsewhere.”

“I recognize what I can and can’t do. If I feel there is a more appropriate place that can offer greater help, it’s only ethical I provide that referral,” I said calmly. However, maybe Fletcher had married Mrs. Fletch because she was an heiress and he had money to burn. I didn’t want to close out my options either. I’d be ethical and polite.

My answer seemed to satisfy him. “My aunt has all her faculties intact, and, alas, can decide for herself what she wants to do with her money.”

“If she’s spending money she doesn’t have on things she doesn’t need, then that might be an argument to intervene. Bad decisions about finances can be an early sign of dementia,” I said.

“She has the money,” Fletcher said. “If he sticks with only swindling her out of a few hundred a week, then she’ll be okay unless she lives to well over a hundred. My concern is it could escalate as he gains her confidence, and it’s not right she’s being taken advantage of even if she can afford it.”

“Not to mention you being her only living relative,” Mr. Williams chimed in.

Now
his unease made sense. He might well have been worried about his aunt, but my read was that the real concern was his possible inheritance.

I pretended to ignore Mr. Williams’s very pertinent comment. “What do you think a private investigator could do to help you?”

“Expose this charlatan. Get the evidence he’s knowingly pushing useless pills and potions. Give me enough proof I can show her he’s not some nice boy who’s genuinely concerned about old ladies, but a con man. I need to know who this man is, who he works for, and most important, get proof he’s selling worthless nostrums.”

“There are no guarantees,” I said. Remembering my conversation with Cordelia, I told him, “For many of these so-called natural remedies, there is no proof whether they work or not—only anecdotal claims that can be hard to counter. Even if I get what most people would consider evidence, your aunt may not believe it. If he is a true snake oil salesman, he may have protected himself with shell companies, false names, and other subterfuges. In short, if I take the case, I may not be able to give you the results that you want.”

“I need to do something to help protect my aunt,” he said. Then the first break in his confident tone. “Alas, I’m not a wealthy man, so my resources are limited. However, once my aunt is no longer with us, I could probably—”

I cut him off. “You want me to wait until your aunt dies to get paid? I’m afraid that’s not possible. If I incur expenses now, I get paid now.”

He chewed his lip.

His wife finally spoke. “We can afford one thousand dollars. If you can help us for that amount, we can proceed. We’ll pay half up front and the other half at the end.”

My estimate of Fletcher went up. He was at least smart enough—or experienced enough—to understand the value of a wife who could handle money and the logistics of life.

“We’ll expect a report every day, of course,” he added, his bluster back.

“It’s an hourly expense, and daily reports can eat into that,” I pointed out. “When I’m about halfway through, I’ll give you a verbal report and you can see if what I’m finding is worth your while.”

This really wasn’t a very complicated case. People who sell things—legal things anyway—have to have a method of reaching the public. That meant they left a paper trail, or increasingly these days, an electronic one. It shouldn’t be too hard to get the information they were looking for.

Mrs. McConkle and I went over the paperwork while Fletcher and Mr. Williams discussed sports scores. I liked her a lot better than I liked him. She was still shy, but had a practical and no-nonsense side to her. She probably needed it as it seemed unlikely that her husband had much common sense under the bluster. She gave me what info there was to give, the name and address of the aunt, what days I was likely to find Mr. Snake Oil there. She’d even been smart enough to grab one of the empties out of the trash. It was a generic plastic bottle (not recyclable, I noticed) with a printed label pasted on. The label had nice graphics, so money was put into marketing. It was a swirling cascade of green into yellow and blue, so it looked like an abstract green field under a bright sun. Nature’s Beautiful Gift was the brand name.

It would be a fairly easy thousand—easy enough for me to take the case.

Fletcher and Mr. Williams seemed to have run out of sports scores just as we finished up.

I happily escorted them downstairs, noting that both men were breathing rather heavily by the time we reached the bottom.

Fletcher and his wife got in their car. Mr. Williams took another deep breath. I put my hand on his arm, letting them drive away.

“So,” I said, “I threw you out on your ear. Why bring me a client?”

He shrugged. “You were the only person who actually listened to me. At least you were honest and didn’t just treat me like I was a nobody. No scratch, no time.”

It took me a moment to remember that “scratch” was slang for “money.” “How’d you hook up with the McConkles?”

“Fate was good to us. I got the call to do a lock replacement at a house they were working on. They heard me talking.”

I didn’t point out that by now most of New Orleans had heard him talking.

“I was going on about my nephew and the crap he’s taking. And he mentioned his aunt and what was going on with her. They’re both taking that Nature’s Beautiful Gift crap. So, I thought if you looked into it for them, maybe you could find out stuff I could use as well.”

No scratch, no time, just good survival instincts. “What I find out is confidential, but they might be nice enough to share.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he said as he sauntered off.

“Hey, Charles?” I called after him. “No more breaking and entering, okay? Next time I might not be so nice.”

He waved an acknowledgment. I took it to mean he wouldn’t pick the locks unless he thought it was important.

It was back up three flights of stairs for me. I made sure the outer door was shut and the lock caught, then trudged up the steps.

Just as I entered my door, my office phone rang. Like it had been when Prejean threatened me. Could he know when I entered?

I debated not answering it, then let it ring long enough for the answering machine to kick in. This was an “innocent” way of recording the phone conversation.

“Knight Agency,” I said, easing down the message volume so I wasn’t speaking over myself.

“Micky, I tried your cell but you didn’t answer.” Cordelia.

“I was just walking some clients out and left my cell up here,” I explained. And reminded myself that I needed to have my cell phone with me at all times. What if I’d found Prejean downstairs about to light a match? “What’s up?” She rarely calls me during the day.

“I need to hit you up for a detective favor.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously.

“If you can do it,” she added.

I was relieved to hear that. Even sane and sensible people like Cordelia can have TV versions of private detectives.

“Tell me what it is and I’ll let you know.”

“Some patients have gone missing. Well, not really missing, but one in particular missed his last appointment and he needs to be closely monitored.”

“Can you give me his name and address?”

“Can you come up here and meet with us?”

Other than not wanting to bother with driving there—and finding parking—there was no reason not to. I did owe her a big favor for foisting Andy—and Torbin’s worry and anger—on her last night.

“Sure, where should I meet you?”

She gave me an office address on Prytania, up near Touro Infirmary. It was one of the few that hadn’t flooded.

So, time to go down the stairs again. I double-locked my door and set the alarm. Mr. Charles Williams was less likely to stay for coffee with a high-pitched whine ringing in his ears.

It took me almost half an hour to get there, much of the time taken by red lights and idiot drivers. I had to go through the CBD, Central Business District, with its heavy traffic and skim by the French Quarter with its tourists, drunks, and worst of all, drunken tourists jaywalking off the sidewalk—yes, cars will drive down these historic streets. No, worst of all was drunken tourists at eleven in the morning. Although to be fair, more than a few tourists have been known to be merrily drinking the night away waiting for last call to send them stumbling home only to notice a new light and realize it’s the sun coming up.

What, they don’t have a twenty-four-hour bar in Oshkosh?

There is a pay lot, but I’d discovered there is free parking on the street a few blocks away for anyone willing to walk those blocks.

The address was one of the older office buildings in the area. It had a creaky elevator that took me to the fifth floor, where her office was. Technically it wasn’t her office; she was on temporary assignment, covering for a doctor on maternity leave. That was a lot of what she did these days, floating from positions like this as if she was reluctant to obligate herself to something more permanent. At times I wondered what that said about her commitment to New Orleans, or being a doctor. Or to me. But I mostly let it be. It was her path to find.

I had to wander around two corners before finding the reception desk. It was in a cramped room with tall stacks of medical records against the walls.

I gave my name and asked for Cordelia. The phone rang and the receptionist pointed me to the waiting room.

You’re making me wait to do you a favor
, I groused silently. It had been at least three minutes. She finally arrived after five minutes had passed.

“Hi, Micky, thanks for coming,” Cordelia said as she motioned me to get up and follow her.

She looked sexy in her white lab coat with a stethoscope slung around her neck. I have a thing for smart, competent women. She led me around another two corners and into a conference room, really a room with a table too big for it and chairs I had to squeeze by to get around the table.

“Let me get the other folks,” she said.

I politely moved to the far side of the table so others could easily sit. It was hard enough to get by the chairs when they were shoved in.

It was another five minutes before she reentered the room with three other people, two men and a woman.

“This is my partner, Micky,” Cordelia introduced me to them. “As I mentioned, she’s a private eye.” She edged around the chairs to the one next to me.

“You’re a woman?” the younger of the two men asked. He took the most convenient chair, forcing the others to maneuver around him. The woman gave an extra little shove to get past his chair. He seemed not to notice. His thick brown hair had been recently cut. I suspected it was cut on a regular basis to keep it as neat and conservatively short as it was now. He had regular features, not handsome especially, but pleasant enough. Clearly he worked out, but he was barely average height, a little stocky. A few years, children, a heavy work schedule and the paunch would quickly build. His tie was a boring navy strip, his shirt white, his lab coat white and starched. It was easy to imagine him voting Republican. His eyes were small, a narrow slit, gray or light brown, I couldn’t tell. The kind of guy who would assume that Micky/private eye had to equal male.

“What planet have you been on, Ron?” the woman asked him as she sat down. To me, she offered her hand and said, “Lydia Skrmetta. Thanks for meeting with us.”

Lydia was older than Ron. She was heavy, but her weight was in the right places, with a bustline and hips that could serve as launching pads. Her hair was short, practical, a sedate light blond that was either good genes or a good dye. Her clothes echoed her hair, sensible, practical, but high-end cotton, no polyester sprawl-mart for her. Her eyes were an open brown. She wore no makeup.

“Sorry,” Ron said in a totally un-sorry voice. “Can’t pay attention to all the gossip.”

“Ron Hackler,” Cordelia said, “and Brandon Kellogg.”

Brandon also shook my hand before sitting; Ron was too far away to bother.

Brandon was still handsome; he had kept middle age at bay, with wavy sandy hair, a little gray at the temples. It was just enough to make him distinguished, not yet old. He was tall, his face wide and rugged, but softened by dimples in both his cheeks and chin. His smile was easy, showing perfect white teeth. His tie was bold, good silk with a print of jazz trombones that indicated he either didn’t wear the kinds of ties his mother-in-law gave him or she liked one-of-a-kind ties. The smile reached his eyes, a clear and steady gray.