Window of Guilt (22 page)

Brad licked his lips. “Definitely.”

“Let’s find a grocery store and grab an empty shopping bag for your jacket,” said Mitzy.

“Oh, right. So it won’t stink when we go into the restaurant.” No threat of good brain cells going to waste there.

*

Mitzy dug into her spinach salad. “Must be really stressful overseeing the activities of three sets of workers.”

“Keeping track of sales volume is the easy part,” said Brad, chowing down on a cheddar burger. “Managing the underwriters, claims processors, and adjusters is more complex.”

Mitzy whistled. “So what’s the difference between an insurance claims processor and an insurance underwriter?”

“An underwriter uses computers to analyze and rate insurance applications, and then recommend acceptance or denial according to the risk involved,” said Brad.

“Like if someone has a pre-existing condition?”

“Right.”

“Does the underwriter determine the appropriate premium to charge?”

“This is pretty dry stuff. Sure you’re interested?”

“Oh yeah.”

“An underwriter is the main link between the insurance carrier and the insurance agent.”

“And a claims processor?”

“He enters the data into the computer and keeps track of how the claims file is progressing. Oops. I said ‘he,’ didn’t I?” Brad said, a teasing lilt in his voice.

She chose to ignore his last comment. “How is that different than a claims adjuster?”

“An adjuster examines, evaluates, denies, and pays medical, behavioral health, and dental claims, as well as workman’s comp programs.”

“My friend’s husband worked as an adjuster for Great Harvest.”

“Ryan Atkins?”

Mitzy nodded. “Level with me, Brad. Did Ryan quit or did you fire him?”

Brad glanced at his sports Rolex. “We should get going. Gotta stop home and change clothes before heading into the office for a few hours.”

“What’d he do? Screw your company out of some big dollaros?”

“Atkins turned down the claims of young people requiring expensive procedures.” Brad washed down his sandwich with a stein of beer. “He was trying to save the company money, but as my father says, ‘When it comes to providing our clients with necessary medical services, Great Harvest believes profit should take a back seat.’”

Brad’s insincerity stunk as bad as his vomit-stained jacket. Yet she played along. “Any other problems you guys had with Ryan?”

“Nope. He was a diligent worker. Experienced. Knowledgeable. We allowed him to Cobra out on his insurance. I think that’s more than generous. Atkins suffered a heart attack a couple of months after he left. Only signed up for catastrophic health coverage for himself, even though he had full coverage for his wife and kid.”

“So what happened?”

“Atkins recently turned up at the office. Tells my father he’s going to blow the whistle on us. We don’t need the Insurance Board investigating us for Atkins’ mistakes. I sent a motorcycle acquaintance up to his summer home to ‘talk’ to him.”

“You hired somebody to rough him up?”

He grinned. “You didn’t hear me say that.”

“Any money change hands?”

“I said ‘rough up,’ not ‘kill.’”

“Sic an overgrown, tattooed biker after a white collar clerical, the guy’s good as dead.”

“Biker was this puny looking kid. He never got back to me.”

“You even know this thug’s name?”

“Nope,” Brad said. A slow smile ran up his face like a Cheshire cat.

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“Yeah?”

“Before I got into teaching, I was an investigative reporter for the
Chicago Tribune
.”

“You spying on me?”

“I said ‘was.’ Hey, didn’t you say you gotta get back?”

“Oh, right,” Brad said, jumping to his feet and heading for the cloak room. Two minutes later he was back at the table, empty-handed and grinning like a mischievous adolescent.

“What did you do with the shopping bag?”

“Tossed it in the john.”

“You stuffed your jacket in the trash?” Mitzy asked incredulously.

“Didn’t want you going back and telling Maggie I made you smell that thing all the way home,” Brad said. Without perusing the restaurant bill, Brad flung thirty dollars on the table and headed towards the door.

*

Gerald MacFerron paced back and forth across the executive suite at Lake Point Towers. Every now and then, he glanced out at the panoramic view of Lake Michigan’s gently washing waves framed against a powder blue sky. “Why should a man of my stature have to serve as nursemaid to you?” he said.

Brad Jr. looked chagrined. “I’m really sorry, Gerald.”

“Up until now, I’ve been able to shield your father from your unsavory mission statement. But now that you’ve loosened your tongue in the presence of a former investigative reporter, the sickening details of your clandestine activities will eventually seep into the media.”

“I told her Ryan denied those medical claims,” Brad said defensively.

“And you honestly think she believes you?”

“Maybe.”

Gerald glared at him. “Anything else?”

“I mentioned the unemployment compensation.”

Gerald breathed in sharply.

“I’m really sorry, Gerald.”

“‘Sorry’ is not the word a man desires to have written on his tombstone.”

“Huh?”

“Golden Harvest is but a carp in the insurance pool, but your father? He’s a swordfish. This is his kingdom. You have one chance to save his empire.”

“I’ll do anything. I promise.”

“Then produce for me your motorcyclist hit man. If your Tony fellow crawls out of the sewer, he could inflict serious damage upon the company.”

“But how will I find him?”

“Over the years, I’ve watched your father bail you out of many an unfortunate situation. This time you’re on your own.”

“I’ll show him I’m worthy of his love,” promised Brad.

“An exemplary goal, Bradley.”

“Guess I ought to be off.”

Gerald waved Brad Sr.’s son out of his office and firmly shut the
door.

*

“Laurie Atkins?”

An unfamiliar number appeared on her landline. Perhaps a prospective buyer for the new Lincoln Park property she’d just listed. “Hello?”

“Do you have a moment to talk?” asked a well-manicured British
voice.

“Certainly. How can I help you, Ms.?”

“It is I who may be able to help you.”

“Lovely!” Laurie said. Leads were a realtor’s manna. Every now and then, a caller preferred to remain anonymous. “Do you have a relative or friend who’s interested in purchasing a property?”

“The information I have to share with you does not concern real estate,” the woman said disdainfully.

What could possibly be more important than earning money to take care of her son, thought Laurie. If their tenuous reconciliation collapsed and she decided to divorce Ryan after all his deception, she’d need money to pay for a good attorney. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s best we meet.”

“I’m pretty busy. Is it possible we could do this over the telephone?” asked Laurie. Real estate was an opportunity to help the world, one individual at a time, and financially profit from doing so. But every now and then, she received a kook phone call. Last time, it was a guy who wanted to sell her flood insurance.

“This concerns your family, Mrs. Atkins,” the voice said tersely.

Laurie felt a sudden chill. “Are you from Nettlehorst?”

“Excuse me?” Her caller sounded perplexed.

Laurie relaxed. Not her son’s school. “Lake Shore Fitness Center?”

“I have no time for Twenty Questions,” said the woman, her tone impatient.

Laurie stared at the six hundred advertising flyers scheduled for post office delivery before noon. One more shot and then she was hanging up. “Great Harvest?”

The phone clicked in her ear.

Good. Back to work.

Laurie had just succeeded in pulling up her database when her cell phone performed the rumba across her computer table. A quick
glance at the mini-screen confirmed “caller unknown.” Laurie sighed. It could be an emergency. She clicked on the phone. “Hello?”

“Your life and that of your family is in jeopardy, Mrs. Atkins. Does that not warrant a private meeting?”

Shivers raced through Laurie’s body. “Who are you?”

“Your family is in danger as long as this person remains alive.”

“As long as who remains alive?” Laurie demanded, her voice catching in her throat.

“The friend of your enemy is your friend.”

The line went dead.

*

Gerald MacFerron sipped a shot of Dewars as he gazed out over the cloudless Chicago skyline. The horizon appeared serene from the thirty-third floor of his Lake Point Towers condo. Yet his stomach churned. He paid no heed to the impact scotch would have on him, so focused was he on the letter in his hand.

His personal secretary had been the bearer of this unlikely correspondence. Over the last twenty-five years, she had handled all his professional and personal correspondence. She’d not been much to look at, even at the beginning of her tenure. Her beauty lay in her exquisite communication skills and diplomatic demeanor.

His secretary had edited and mailed the quarterly letters he’d written his lost love during the first ten years of her return to Poland. Nary a response. The anguish he’d experienced was etched on his face. Yet his secretary remained discreet as to its cause.

Even as he climbed the ladder of financial success at Great Harvest Insurance, Gerald continued to obsess about his lost love. His motive was not to harass the girl he’d once loved, but to experience her existence through an elastic telescope. At this distance, he could be privy to her life, delivering her from danger should the need arise.

Over the years, Gerald had hired an assortment of private investigators to fulfill that mission. At least forty quarterly reports of marriage and family history, as well as financial records, had crossed his desk. Gerald learned Elizabeth had returned to Chicago, married,
purchased a two-flat, and started a cleaning service. According to his current PI, the couple had temporarily housed a young teenager. Shortly thereafter, police removed him from their premises.

Three years later, the young man returned to rent the couple’s vacant downstairs apartment. He’d accompanied the housekeeper up to Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, where she briefly worked at a group home for the mentally retarded. No sooner had they returned to Chicago then the young man purchased a single, one-way Greyhound ticket to Milwaukee.

Gerald pondered the young man’s motives. While college or a new job up north was a possibility, the PI’s notes indicated no baggage in tow. A bottomless pit of questions remained. Why would Elizabeth accept a temporary group home position in Wisconsin when she operated a thriving house cleaning business in Chicago? What relationship existed between her and the boy?

Gerald stared down at the letter that very well held the answers.

*

“You saying some kind of conspiracy is going down regarding your family,” said CPD Detective Maggie O’Connor.

Laurie wrung her hands. “The woman on the telephone sounded pretty certain. A lot of folks dislike my family.”

“Elaborate, why don’t you?”

Laurie gazed off into space. “The Wisconsin contingent, for one. Helga Beckermann hates Ryan and I for being spendthrifts. Her socially inept grandson, Arnold, hates me for rejecting him when we both worked up at Camp Briarwood. Officer Gomez hates me for nosing into her TG investigation. Then there’s TG himself, the unfortunate soul who croaked on our property, then vamoosed to Helga’s driveway and croaked again.”

“From what Officer Gomez told me, the jury’s out on whether or not this ‘TG’ was a threat to your family,” said Detective O’Connor. “Any enemies here in Chi town?”

Laurie drummed her fingers on her knee. “Only Brad Jr., Ryan’s former work supervisor at Great Harvest.

“I scoped the guy out at Mitzy’s request. Can’t get into the particulars, but the Department’s keeping an eye on him.”

“He told Mitzy he hired a hit man to get my family.”

“What about your husband?”

“Ryan? Although he’s a pain in the torso to live with, he’s strictly a non-violent guy,” said Laurie.

“West Nile Virus started with a single fly,” said the detective.

“Why would Ryan send a hit man to harm his own family?” asked Laurie.

“Happens all the time.”

“He was social action chairperson for his fraternity during college.”

“Congratulations. FYI, we’ve closed the book on the death of Shakia William’s ex-boyfriend. There’s no evidence linking him to your summer home or that of Helga Beckermann.”