Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5 Page 5

“Hey, my husband,” she said with a smile as she came through the door.

  “Hey, my wife.” I returned the smile. “I like the sound of that.”

  “Me, too.”

  “How was your day?” I asked as I paused the movie.

  “Good.” She dropped her purse near the door and kicked off her shoes. Then she gave me a long look. “What’s going on? You have a pensive look on your face. New case?”

  I nodded, and started to tell her about Hinton.

  She came over to the couch and lay down next to me. “I’m tired, hon. Would it be okay if you told me about this tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She gestured at the TV. “What’re you watching?”

  “Roadblock,” I said. “See, Peters concocted a scheme to rob a train, but he goes on his honeymoon during the robbery, and he has an alibi.”

  “Oh, they run into trouble on their honeymoon, just like we did.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She snuggled up next to me, and I wrapped my arms around her.

  “Is your case road-blocked, kind of like in the movie?”

  “Ha ha,” I said. “I just got started on the case, so what do you expect?” I sounded a little miffed…oh gawd, like my mother!

  She leaned over and kissed me. “I’m just kidding.”

  I started to talk more about the movie, but she wasn’t really listening, and she soon fell asleep. I watched the rest of the movie and held her, enjoying the moment.

  Chapter Seven

  “What’re your plans for the rest of the day?” Willie asked as she pointed my Glock at a target.

  It was early the next morning, and we were at the Silver Bullet Gun Range for some target practice. Willie had been bugging me ever since we returned from Tahiti to go to the range, and since we both had some time that morning, we’d squeezed in a short visit. On the way to the range, I’d told Willie about my case, and she too thought that Hinton’s story sounded fishy. And like me, she was curious as to why.

  I was leaning against the wall behind her, and I thought about Hinton as I watched her aim at the target. “I’d like to interview Marshall Vanderkamp, but I can’t just walk into his office and say ‘Hey, are you scamming Medicare?’ Plus, who knows how long it would take to get an appointment with him.”

  “Why don’t you see if you can get on a cancellation list?” she suggested. Then she emptied her gun at the target. “Then you could talk to him, and maybe sooner rather than later.”

  “That’s a good idea. I could fake being sick.”

  “I’d play it like you’re looking for a new doctor. Some people will interview a doctor before they actually see him or her for anything specific. And if you wanted to ask him about Medicare, you could say that your mom is moving here and you want to know if he’s accepting new Medicare patients.”

  “Doctors are turning away Medicare patients?”

  She nodded as she pressed the button that controlled the target retriever. “It’s hard to make any money with Medicare patients, especially with the new regulations, so many doctors either don’t take Medicare patients at all, or they aren’t taking any new ones.”

  “Huh.” That sounded a lot like what Hinton had said. I retrieved my target as well, then stepped over to her.

  “And then maybe you can dig for more information.”

  I studied her. She must’ve sensed my eyes on her because she looked up at me. “What?”

  “You’d make a good detective,” I said.

  She grinned. “I’ve watched you enough.”

  “There is one thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “If I really wanted to ask about my mother, she’d want to be in on the interview process,” I said. “And can you imagine that? The doctor wouldn’t get a word in.”

  She laughed. My mother was sweet, but she could be a handful.

  I thought for a second. “Is there any way that Vanderkamp would be submitting Medicare claims himself?”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  “Why so sure?”

  She turned toward me. “The billing takes a lot of time, and most doctors are going to want to keep seeing patients, so they have someone else doing the billing. Now, if Vanderkamp doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s doing, he could submit the claims himself, but then he’d have to explain to the billing person on staff why he’s not letting him or her submit the claims.”

  “They do have a woman who’s doing the billing, so is the more likely scenario that she’s in on the scam?”

  She gnawed her lower lip for a moment. “It’s possible that a billing person wouldn’t know or question all the services being billed, but yes, I would wonder if she’s involved.”

  “I’ll have to figure out a way to talk to her as well.”

  “You could pretend to be a Medicare investigator,” she suggested. “If a clinic is suspected of fraud, a private firm will investigate and report its findings to the government.”

  I eyed her. “Really?”

  She nodded. “A lot of times clinics will contract the billing work so they don’t have to pay benefits, and as long as a person has a computer and Internet connection, they can work from anywhere. So if this woman is working from home, you could talk to her without the doctor knowing, at least not until she tells him.”

  I grinned at her. “This is good.”

  “It’s kind of my area. Anyway, if you talk to her, ask about the clinic’s provider number and DEA number – they need the DEA number for narcotic prescriptions – and that’ll make you sound official. And then ask anything you want.”

  “This is good,” I repeated. “Maybe I should hire you.”

  She laughed. “I’ll stick to the job I have.”

  I moved nearer and held up the target I’d shot earlier, and then looked at hers. All my shots had landed inside the body outline on the target. Willie had missed a few.

  She frowned. “I guess I need a little more practice.” She aimed at the target again, working on her stance. “I was pretty good for a while.”

  “You don’t need to worry about it now.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she said with a laugh.

  We practiced for a while longer, then drove home and had a late breakfast. After we finished, I cleared the dishes while she worked on her laptop at the kitchen table.

  “Hey, I googled about a dead body being found in Tahiti,” she said after a minute. “Here’s another article, but it doesn’t have much more than the first one.”

  I leaned over her shoulder and scanned the article. “They’re expecting autopsy results soon. And the police still have no leads.”

  “I hope they find the murderer,” Willie said.

  “And I hope they leave us alone.”

  “Although if we had to go back to Tahiti to testify in court, that would be okay.”

  “I could go for that.” I kissed her. “I have to get going, bad guys to catch.”

  “Be careful.”

  I showered and dressed in tan slacks and a button-down shirt, then went into my office and checked my email. Cal had sent a driver’s license photo of Marshall Vanderkamp, and I took a moment to study it. Vanderkamp had receding gray hair combed straight back, a round face, and blue eyes that seemed to give an otherwise deadpan expression a little bit of life. Not bad for a driver’s license picture.

  I then googled Lakewood Medical Clinic again. It was located in Lakewood, a suburb southwest of downtown Denver, and it would be easy to find. I found the phone number and called. I reached a menu and listened to the options, then pressed the option to speak to the front desk. I was connected and asked for an appointment, explaining that I was looking for a new doctor and I wanted to interview Vanderkamp.

  “We don’t have anything available for three weeks,” a nasal-voiced woman said.

  “Could you put me on a cancellation list?”

  “Of course. May I have your name?”

  “Reed Ferguson,” I said. I usual
ly liked to use Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, famous fictional detectives and my favorite pseudonyms, but since I would be a new patient, I’d have to give them my ID and insurance information, so I couldn’t go incognito. I gave her my phone number and she said she’d call if an appointment became available.

  “Is Doctor Vanderkamp seeing patients today?” I asked hopefully.

  “Yes, he’s here until five, except for lunch from twelve to one-thirty, but we haven’t had any cancellations. If we do, we’ll call,” she said a bit impatiently.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  I ended the call. I may not have gotten an appointment, but I’d confirmed that Vanderkamp was at the office today. Time to pay him a clandestine visit. I didn’t know if I’d find out anything, but I wanted a chance to see him before he saw me, and if I got lucky, an opportunity to talk to him might present itself. I logged off, went back into the kitchen, and chatted with Willie for a while. At eleven, I left.

  I’d missed the morning rush hour, and traffic was light as I drove west on Sixth Avenue to Wadsworth, and then south to Florida Avenue. The area was mostly residential, with an apartment building and gas station on the east side of the street, and a new bank building and houses on the west. I kept driving south, and then I spotted a nondescript, single-story office building past the houses. A large sign out front read “Lakewood Medical Complex,” and it listed office names below it, but I couldn’t read them all. I turned onto a side street and into a small parking lot. Then I got a better look at the sign. Lakewood Medical Clinic was listed, along with a dental practice and a laboratory.

  You could get a checkup, get your blood drawn, and your teeth cleaned, all in one stop. How convenient.

  The building was in a U-shape, with a courtyard and a sidewalk leading up to the main door. I wanted to watch the entrance for a while, but sitting in the tiny parking lot seemed a bit conspicuous. I looked around. To the south were houses and a patch of frontage road parallel to Wadsworth. I drove out of the parking lot and onto the frontage road, then flipped a U-turn and parked where I could see the building. I glanced at the house to my left. The front door was closed and I didn’t see any movement through a large window. I hoped that no one was home. I turned off the car and then dialed my friend, Detective Sarah Spillman, of the Denver Police Department.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” she said in a clipped tone. “A new case?”

  I grinned. She acted like I irritated her, and maybe I did, but over the years, she’d grown to respect me and my sleuthing skills, and she grudgingly helped me on occasion.

  “A quick favor?” I said.

  She sighed. “What?”

  “Can you see if there was a 911 call received on Sunday night? It would’ve reported a prowler.” I gave her the address.

  “Give me a minute and I’ll call you back.” With that, she hung up.

  Wow, I thought. Spillman was being especially helpful today. I looked outside. Was the end near?

  I turned on some ’80s music, then hunkered down to wait.

  It was a beautiful day, with only a few billowy clouds in an otherwise light blue sky, so I rolled down the window and listened to a compilation of some of my favorite ’80s hits while patients came and went, many of them elderly. The parking lot and side street near the building stayed full right up until noon, when many of the cars and their elderly drivers left. I continued to watch the building. A few minutes later, a couple of nurses in light purple scrubs walked out of the building. They got into a Prius and drove off. Then a stocky, gray-haired man emerged from the building. He looked a bit older than his driver’s license photo, but he was my quarry.

  “Doctor Vanderkamp, I presume,” I said out loud. Then I scrunched down and peered over the wheel.

  Vanderkamp walked to a blue Mercedes, got in, and drove out of the parking lot. He stopped right in front of me as he waited to turn south onto Wadsworth, but he was focused on traffic, so I didn’t think he saw me. I waited until he got onto Wadsworth, then I popped up and started the 4-Runner. I paused for a lull in traffic and then I peeled onto Wadsworth.

  For a moment, I worried that I had lost the Mercedes, but then I saw it turning west onto Jewell Avenue. I followed, wondering where Vanderkamp was headed. I wasn’t in suspense for long. Less than a mile down the road, the Mercedes drove into a Wendy’s and parked.

  “Not a healthy eater, are we?” I observed, with only a touch of sarcasm.

  Vanderkamp got out, smoothed his hair, and went inside. By then, I was parking the 4-Runner. I hurried inside. The restaurant was busy, with people queueing up at two lines. The clamor of voices and an odor of grease filled the air. Vanderkamp was standing in the line farthest from me. I sauntered up and stood behind him. He was checking his cell phone and paid me no mind. A minute later, he reached the front of the line and ordered a salad and water.

  Okay, that was healthy, I begrudgingly admitted to myself.

  He got his food, made his way to a booth and sat down. I ignored a thought that I, too, should be healthy, and ordered a hamburger and Coke, justifying it with a promise to go jogging with Willie – not that I ever did. I took my lunch and slid into a booth with my back to Vanderkamp. We ate in silence, he with no idea that he was dining with me, in a manner of speaking. I tried to watch his reflection in the window, but the sun was out and I couldn’t make him out very well. It looked like I was wasting my time – except for getting lunch – when his phone rang.

  “Yes?” he said. His voice was deep and booming, and I had no trouble hearing him over the din in the restaurant. “I told you I’d take care of it.” He turned his head and lowered his voice, but I still caught every word. “Don’t threaten me.” Pause. “We’ll talk about that when I see you.”

  He suddenly got up and passed by my booth. He was carrying his half-eaten salad bowl in one hand, the phone pressed to his ear with the other. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips pressed into a harsh line. He stuffed the salad into the trashcan and rushed out the door. I waited until the Mercedes was waiting to turn onto Jewell, and then I grabbed my burger and Coke and raced out to the 4-Runner. I followed the Mercedes back to the office. Vanderkamp parked in the same spot and dashed back inside.

  I parked on the street and finished my burger, but I didn’t see Vanderkamp again. Then Spillman called back.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “There’s no call to that address on Sunday night,” she said.

  “Was a patrol car sent to the house?”

  “There’s no activity for that house on that night. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but she was gone.

  I turned back to the building. The nurses I’d seen go to lunch returned, along with some others I hadn’t seen leave earlier. Vanderkamp would soon be seeing patients again, and there wasn’t much more I could do here. I stared out the windshield, thinking about my next move. I also wondered who had gotten Vanderkamp so agitated. And why had Hinton lied to me about the police?

  I shook my head. Questions, but no answers.

  Chapter Eight

  So far, I had no idea whether Vanderkamp was doing anything illegal, or if he had hired anyone to kill Pete Hinton. I hoped I would be able to talk to Vanderkamp soon, but before that, I needed to get more information on him.

  I pictured Cherry Hills Country Club. I knew the setup; I’d golfed there before. But I wasn’t a member, and I wouldn’t be able to get past the lobby, let alone golf or talk to anyone who knew Vanderkamp. However, I might have some luck at The Ridge. I’d bet I could find a bartender or some other attendant who would talk, especially if I gave them a little money. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Almost one o’clock. Since Vanderkamp hung out at the club after work hours, I should go then to find club employees who might know him. But what to do in the meantime? I decided to stop by Pete Hinton’s house and see if I could find any evidence of an intruder or break-in.

  Hinton said he lived in Li
ttleton, which is a big suburb south of downtown, so I looked up the address he’d given me on google Maps. It was off of Santa Fe and C-470, near Chatfield State Park. I started up the 4-Runner, got onto Wadsworth, and headed south.

  Half an hour later, I was driving south on Santa Fe. Right before it turned into Canam Highway, I turned east on West Lakeside Drive and followed the meandering road past big houses on expansive lots. I grew worried as I searched for Hinton’s place. Most of the houses sat far back from the road and, although they had big yards, there were very few trees or other foliage near them. If Hinton’s place was similar, I’d have a hard time poking around without being seen. But I was in luck. Hinton’s house was surrounded by a wall of evergreen trees. I slowed as I neared a long gravel driveway that led to the house. The street was deserted, so I made a snap decision and turned into the drive. Hinton lived alone, so I was sure the house would be empty. But if a neighbor did see me, they’d likely think nothing of a car dropping by.

  The driveway curved to the left, and I parked in front of a three-car garage. I got out and surveyed the house. It was a sprawling two-story of tan brick and brown siding, with lots of windows and gables. I listened for a minute and heard only the sound of some birds chirping. Not even the sound of traffic. Living in a condo near downtown, I was used to constant noise. This was surprisingly pleasant.

  I strolled across the lawn, onto a wide front porch and up to the front door. I punched the doorbell and waited, not that I expected anyone to be home. But it paid to check before I started snooping. I waited a minute, then rang the bell again for good measure, but no one answered. Satisfied that no one was home, I proceeded.

  I first checked the doorknob and deadbolt, just in case someone had tried to get into the house after Pete had left. Neither looked tampered with. I was tempted to use my lock-pick set to break in, but I didn’t think that was necessary at this point, and I also didn’t know if an alarm was set. I moved over to a large window to the right of the door and peered past a crack in the curtains. I was gazing into a vast living room that was sparsely decorated with an overstuffed couch and loveseat, along with coffee and end tables. A painting of mountains hung behind the couch, but otherwise, the walls were bare. I cupped my hand on the glass and craned to see through an arched entryway into an empty hallway.