Sullivan's Law (24 page)

“I sure did,” Paul said, their passion forgotten as his scientific mind resurfaced. “Let me get this straight. The guy has no formal education. How long has he been working on this project?”

“Over twenty years,” she told him. “He's invented other things as well. But all his designs were destroyed in the explosion.”

Paul was stunned. “You're telling me this was done by Metroix, your parolee?”

Carolyn placed her hand on her forehead. She hadn't meant to reveal Daniel's identity. “Yes,” she said. “He's invented other things as well. What I gave you he did in his motel room the night before the shooting.”

She didn't have time to explain the other complexities involved in Daniel's work. Her next step as far as Warden Lackner was concerned was to find out if there had actually been a joint venture program involving Metroix at the prison. Obtaining this type of information would probably require the help of the attorney general's office. She couldn't call Lackner again.

“What you told me is impossible,” Paul told her, getting up and straightening the bed linens. “No one could do this much work in one day. You must be mistaken.”

“Because all of his work was destroyed, he was attempting to reproduce it,” Carolyn told him, smiling. “I was concerned that he might not be able to do it. From what you've told me, that won't be a problem.”

J
ohn had stayed a few minutes late Tuesday afternoon to speak to Mr. Chang, his calculus teacher. He was placing some books inside his locker when he heard someone step up beside him. Most of the students had already left for the day, and the corridors were empty. “Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on people?”

“I need help,” a young man said, a panicked look on his face.

John stared at him. He looked about eighteen, so he assumed he must be a senior. He asked himself if the guy was trying to score drugs. His sweatshirt was stained, and he smelled as if he hadn't showered that day. “What's your problem?”

“My father had a heart attack. I'm supposed to meet my mother at Methodist Hospital. I transferred here from Simi Valley last week. I don't know my way around the city yet.”

“If you're looking for a ride,” John said, closing his locker and spinning the combination lock, “you're barking up the wrong tree. I don't have a car. What's your name?”

“Wade,” he told him. “Look, my mother was hysterical. This is my dad's third heart attack. She forgot to tell me how to get to the hospital.” He slammed his fist into a locker. “They're taking my dad into surgery in fifteen minutes. He might not live through the operation. I have to see him.” He scrunched up his face as if he were trying to stop himself from crying. “We had an argument last night. I said some awful things. I don't want my dad to die without telling him I love him.”

“Try to relax,” John said, caught up in the other boy's emotional outburst. He thought of his own father—the resentment he felt, the way he'd spoken to him. Would he feel the same if he knew he was dying? “I'll write down directions to the hospital. Give me some paper. You're only about ten minutes away.”

“I'm too upset,” Wade said. “I tried to find the hospital earlier. I got lost. Please, come with me. I have a car.”

“I can't,” John told him. “I have to pick up my sister from school. I'm already late. If I don't hurry, we'll miss the last bus.”

“I'm begging you, man.”

Rebecca's school was only two blocks from Methodist Hospital. Not only that, his mother had instructed her to wait in the gym until he arrived. Since the boy had a car, John would probably get to Rebecca's school sooner than if he walked. “Okay,” he said. “I'll ride with you.”

“Hurry,” Wade said, glancing down an empty hallway. “We'll go out the side door. The student parking lot was full this morning. My car's on the street.”

 

“It
does
look like a country club.”

Carolyn was speaking to Hank as they approached the front entrance of Fairview Manor. The hospital was located in the hills overlooking the UCLA campus and the area known as Westwood. The structure itself resembled an old Hollywood mansion, with lovely terraced grounds, banks of blooming flowers, and an abundance of mature trees. People were seated on the various benches and lawn furniture, some sleeping peacefully, others reading, some conversing with one another. A group of men were playing checkers at a small table. They spotted a few staff members in white uniforms.

The patients at Fairview weren't dressed in pajamas and shuffling around in a drugged-out daze. Carolyn saw a few strange looking characters, but overall, the people seemed perfectly normal.

“Shades of paradise, huh?” Hank commented as a pretty redheaded nurse strolled past them and smiled pleasantly. “Maybe we should reserve a room. I guarantee when I retire, I won't end up in a place this luxurious. I'll be lucky to afford a one-room apartment. And I won't have dozens of little darlings like that redhead tending to my every need.”

Carolyn's mind was on other things. “Even a deputy police chief doesn't make this kind of money, Hank. They must charge a grand a day, if not more. I don't know any insurance company in the world that would cover the expenses on a high-end hospital like this.”

“Maybe Blue Cross would foot the bill for a few months,” he speculated. “Like our department, though, the coverage provided by LAPD is through an HMO.”

“Good Lord,” she exclaimed, stopping and facing him, “Madeline Harrison has been here twenty years. How could her husband afford it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Hank answered, removing his jacket and flinging it over his shoulder. “Harrison had himself insured for a million dollars, listing his wife as the sole beneficiary. That may be another reason he staged his own death. He ran out of money.”

“What about the housekeeper?” Carolyn asked. “Do you think she's lying? She could be prosecuted as an accomplice. Isn't she the one who found the body?”

“Ms. Sanchez claims he was dead for several hours before she found him,” the detective related. “Something's fishy there, even if Harrison's a goner. We don't have grounds to arrest the wife, so, for now, we have to let the situation play itself out. I'm not getting much cooperation at the PD.”

Carolyn never realized what he must be going through. “They don't want to work on a case involving another cop, especially a well-respected former chief from their own department. Am I right?”

“Smack dab on the money,” Hank said. “It would have been nice if the search of Harrison's residence this morning had shed some light on his financial status. Sanchez must have swept the place clean before she called the undertaker. Even Harrison's closets were empty. She claimed she was only following his instructions to give everything to the Goodwill. My guess is Mario, the so-called gardener, walked away with a new wardrobe.”

“Did you contact the Goodwill to verify her statement?”

“Nah,” he said. “I don't really give a rat's ass what happened to Harrison's clothes and other personal belongings. What we're trying to determine is if the man withdrew a large sum of money.”

They reached the visitors' entrance to the hospital. The detective asked one of the attendants to get Mrs. Harrison. While they were waiting, they sat down on a sofa in the lobby.

“Chief Harrison was a city employee,” Carolyn said. “Finding out where he banked shouldn't be that difficult.”

“Every month he cashed his paycheck at the credit union. The money trail stops right there. We don't even know the name of Harrison's accountant. He bought some kind of prepaid burial plan six months ago.”

“How did he pay for it?”

The detective rubbed his fingers together. “Cash,” he told her. “Same way he paid the housekeeper and gardener. What medical bills his insurance didn't cover were paid with a cashier's check. That was for his treatment. I don't know who paid for Mrs. Harrison's care. All I know is, Harrison went to a lot of trouble to keep anyone from prying into his affairs.” He brushed his finger across one eyebrow. “Why would he do that if he wasn't hiding something? Even if he didn't pay Downly like you suggested, he still had to hire someone to pull off the job at the Seagull.”

“I know,” Carolyn said. “Look for a bank or trust fund under the name of Tim Harrison. The boy would have had life insurance through the department.”

Hank thought a while before responding. “Why keep a bank account in the name of your deceased son?”

“I'm certain the chief had power of attorney,” she told him. “That's where he stashed his money. Not only that, he could have put his son's death benefits in a trust. After twenty-three years, it would have added up to a hefty sum. Daniel's grandmother only left him ten thousand. He ended up with seventy thousand when he was released from prison.”

“I knew I let you hang out with me for a reason,” Hank said, messing up her hair.

She reached over and did the same to him. “I look bad enough,” she said, watching as he whipped out his comb and ran it through the thinning hair covering his bald spot.

“Mrs. Harrison will see you now,” the woman at the front desk told them. “Go down this hallway and turn left.”

Carolyn and Hank saw a large open room that must serve as a library. Bookcases lined the walls, and on one side of the room was a fireplace and a grouping of upholstered chairs. Large windows overlooked the front of the hospital, bathing the room in sunlight.

Madeline Harrison was seated in one of the high-backed chairs. The look in her eyes was lucid but guarded. A tall, slender woman, she was dressed neatly in a pair of brown slacks and a tan knit sweater. Her blond hair was silky and clean, swept back at the base of her neck and secured with a clasp.

“Why are you here?” Mrs. Harrison asked, her arms draped over the sides of the chair.

Hank and Carolyn sat down across from her. “We're making some inquiries about your husband's death. I'm Detective Sawyer, with the Ventura police, and this is Carolyn Sullivan. Ms. Sullivan is a probation officer.”

“Charles wasn't on probation,” the woman said, her eyes appearing intelligent and clear. “My husband was an alcoholic. He died from chronic liver disease. What possible reason would you have to inquire about his death?”

Perhaps Harrison's widow had tipped over the edge in the months following her son's death, but at present she showed no apparent signs of mental illness.

Hank asked, “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

“I don't recall,” she answered, picking a piece of lint off her slacks. “Charles and I were married in name only. We would have divorced except for his insurance benefits. I'm playing in a bridge tournament at four o'clock. I'd appreciate it if you would leave.”

“Are you aware that Daniel Metroix was released from prison?”

“I am now,” Mrs. Harrison said, narrowing her eyes. “I gather you're his parole officer, Ms. Sullivan. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Carolyn answered. “Someone shot him.”

“Good,” the woman answered. “Is the bastard dead?”

“No,” she said. “But he was seriously injured.”

Madeline Harrison's jaws locked in anger.

“We need to ask you some questions,” the detective continued. “Were you here at the hospital Friday?”

“Of course,” she told him. “I don't go out at night, Detective.”

“But you go out during the day, right?”

She turned and gazed out the window. Mrs. Harrison reminded Carolyn of a stone statue. Even when she spoke, it was hard to detect any movement except for her lips. Finally, she faced them again. “I don't believe I went out last Friday. You're referring to the day Charles died, I presume.”

“Yes,” he said. “This past Friday.”

“The hospital has a sign-out sheet,” Mrs. Harrison told them. “You can check that if you feel it's necessary. One of the staff members would have also had to arrange a taxi for me. We use a van for certain activities, such as visits to medical doctors, trips to museums, shows, things of that nature. I had a cold last week. I spent most of the day in my room.”

“Do you share your room with another patient?”

“I used to,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation. “Next month, I'll celebrate my twentieth anniversary as a resident of Fairview. After all the money this establishment has made off me, the hospital administrator finally agreed that I'd earned my privacy.” She looked at her watch, then stood, her back ramrod straight. “I'm sorry, but I have to go. You've already made me late. My friends are waiting.”

Hank bristled, walking over and blocking her way. “Just a minute, lady. We're investigating a number of serious crimes, all of which seem to be connected to your son's death. We didn't travel all this way for ten minutes of your time.”

“Get out of my way, Detective,” she snarled. “Either that or arrest me. I don't think you're prepared to do that, are you?”

Carolyn watched as Madeline Harrison strode boldly out of the room, her gait and body conformation more like a person in her late thirties than sixties. Whatever additional information they needed, they would obviously have to obtain from the woman's hospital records. No matter how relaxed the atmosphere at Fairview appeared, it was still classified as a psychiatric facility, and getting a court order for this type of information was similar to accessing files at the Pentagon.

At least, Carolyn thought, they'd answered Arline Shoeffel's question—there was nothing to prevent a patient from leaving the grounds. A guard shack was situated at the bottom of the hill and a five-foot metal fence encircled the property, more to keep people out than to preclude them from leaving. The hospital had informed Hank over the phone that all patients at Fairview were there by choice. A small percentage of the population suffered from classic mental illnesses such as schizophrenia and manic depression. Nonetheless, they were still voluntary admissions and could ask to be discharged whenever they desired. The rest had checked themselves into Fairview for treatment of prescription drug addictions, eating disorders, hypochondria, along with various and sundry phobias. A limited number of patients had health problems, not severe enough to merit hospitalization in a long-term care facility. Many stayed because they had nowhere else to go, and like Madeline Harrison, they'd grown accustomed to the security and routine of their surroundings.

Carolyn had been told that Mrs. Harrison had once been diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome. From what they'd seen today, and what the staff had related regarding her exercise regimen, whatever fatigue the woman had experienced in the past no longer existed.

“Is it possible she's involved?” Carolyn asked as they walked toward Hank's unmarked police unit in the visitors' parking lot.

“Who knows?” he said. “I think the probability that she did the crimes herself is remote. Could she have hired someone? No doubt about it. That woman is mean. She could stick a knife in your back and not so much as blink. God forbid she misses her stupid bridge game. When they told her the old man had croaked, she probably kept right on playing.”