In Death's Shadow (11 page)

Brad clipped a photo name tag to the front of the yearbook he'd been working on, laid it down on the sideboard behind him and gave me his full attention. "Shoot."

"I was curious about viaticals, so I visited this guy my friend recommended up in Glen Burnie." I told Brad about my visit to MBFSG, Jablonsky's offer to buy my life insurance policy for $150,000, and about the other policies he wanted me to apply for. "I'm not going to do it, of course, but I figure if he's tried it out on me, he must have done it successfully with others."

A furrow deepened between Brad's eyebrows. He grunted.

"When your mom tossed the garbage over the fence," I continued, "I was sitting in the backyard, worrying about it. Wondering who I should report it to. Jablonsky had a whole bunch of forms, but the ones I remember were Victory Mutual, Sun Securities, and New Century."

"Oh, man!" Brad fell back against the chair rail that divided the white-painted wainscoting from the blue and white striped wallpaper of his dining room. "You're not going to believe this, but Victory Mutual is one of my clients!" He swiped his fingers through his hair. “Tell you what. As soon as the nurse gets here, let me take you to meet Harrison Garvin. He's CEO of Victory Mutual. I think he'll be very interested in what you have to say."

After I okayed his plan, Brad seemed to lose all interest in putting together yearbooks. "I'm putting a kettle on for tea," he announced.

I gave the pile with a photo of Jan Falls doing cartwheels a friendly pat. Who am I to argue with a lawyer? "I second the motion," I said.

Just five hours later, at three in the afternoon, Brad Perry and I were ushered into Harrison Garvin's corner office on the top floor of the Garrett Building adjoining the nearly derelict Parole Plaza. Garvin's office afforded him a panoramic view of Annapolis Mall's vast, meandering architecture, as well as a bird's-eye view of the restaurant park on Jennifer Road, which had its advantages, I suppose, if one didn't feel like waiting in line at Red Lobster.

With a first name like Harrison, I expected Garvin to be tall and movie-idol handsome, but the man who rose to greet us was short—no more than five-foot-six or -seven—and stocky. His hazel eyes were enormous behind thick-lensed tortoiseshell glasses.

I told my story for the second time that morning, interrupted occasionally by Brad, who made an important point or two, while Garvin listened silently, his arms folded across his chest. "So," I said, winding it up, "I asked Brad what to do, and he brought me to you."

"I have half a mind," Garvin said, "to send you back to MBFSG, have you sign up for the policy and see where it goes once it reaches us. Those other two companies you mentioned." He flapped a hand. "Big red flag. Sun is incorporated in both Texas and Arizona where the laws on viaticals are very lax."

Brad was nodding in agreement.

"When Victory Mutual was young and aggressive," Garvin continued, "we might have been willing to overlook such details as physical exams, especially for the smaller policies, but not anymore. We've recently taken steps to minimize our risk—requiring blood and urine tests, for example—but it's not foolproof. Nothing ever is."

Garvin turned to Brad. "I wonder how these policies are getting in under the radar? I'd hate to think one of our underwriters was in on this scam."

Brad shrugged.

Garvin picked up his telephone and pushed a button. "Lisa, will you track down Donna Hudgins and ask her to come up here, please? Thanks." Garvin turned to me. "Donna's our head of Policyholder Services," he explained.

I was certain Donna Hudgins would be less than pleased at being tracked down and summoned to the principal's office, and I was right. When she arrived a few minutes later, Donna turned out to be an attractive woman in her late fifties or early sixties with short, stylishly cut gray hair. She wore a navy blue pants suit—any larger than a size two and I'd eat the brass barometer sitting on Garvin's credenza—rimless eyeglasses, and a prize-winning scowl.

Donna Hudgins managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere for Harrison Garvin, then turned her cool, ice blue gaze first on me, and then on Brad. I'd seen that look before. Someone's complained to the boss about some stupid-ass thing, and now, boy-oh-boy, the shit is going to hit the fan.

"Sit down, Donna," Garvin said.

Donna sat.

Garvin summarized for Donna what I'd just told him about Jablonsky. I was grateful. In the course of the day, I'd gone from wondering whether I should even mention Gilbert Jablonsky to thinking I should do my vocal cords a favor and tape record my story.

"Do we have a large number of policies that have changed hands recently?" Garvin wondered.

Donna, I noticed, had visibly relaxed. At least she'd stopped wringing her hands. "What with the reorganization and everything, I'm afraid I've been way too busy to notice."

Garvin frowned. "Donna, you are not the problem here, I assure you. I'm looking to you for a solution."

"I'm sure we can massage the software to get at that information eventually, but my God, Harrison, I simply don't have the time if we're going to meet our July first deadline! I'm swamped as it is."

"Allow me to make a suggestion." Brad rose from his chair and stood with his thigh touching Garvin's desk. "Hannah, here, isn't just my neighbor. She was, until quite recently, records manager at Whitworth and Sullivan."

Garvin's eyes darted from Brad's face to mine. "I've heard of them, of course."

"There's not much Hannah doesn't know about databases," Brad continued.

I felt my face grow hot. "My skills may be a tad out of date."

Garvin laughed out loud. "Not with the software we've been using! Do you know SQL?"

It all came back to me in a blinding flash. The long hours I'd spent writing
SELECT column_name FROM table_name WHERE column_name BETWEEN value1 AND value2 ORDER BY
. . . "Oh, yes," I assured him. "Quite well."

Garvin twiddled a pen between his middle and index finger while he considered me silently. "So, Hannah, would you have the time to help us out?"

"Oh, I'm sure Hannah is far too busy—" Donna Hudgins began, before Garvin cut her off with a flip of the retractor end of his pen.

"How long do you think it will take?" he inquired.

Donna shrugged. "I'm just guessing, of course, because I don't know what we'll find when we actually get into the database, but—" She squinted thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Three to four days."

Garvin grunted. "Sounds reasonable." He turned to me again. "How about it, Hannah? Do you have any time to devote to this?"

I nodded, already mentally rearranging my schedule for the next week. I'd start looking like a sheepdog, but I'd call Karen James and reschedule my haircut. The farmers' market could wait. I needed to pick up the dry cleaning and return books to the library, but nothing more urgent than that. "No problem," I said.

Garvin slapped his desk. "Okay, then. Donna, have somebody clear out a cubicle, give Hannah a computer and the information she needs to get going." He turned to look at me. "You'll be identifying viaticated policies, singling them out for a closer look."

Donna gulped. "What about HIPAA?"

Garvin turned his owl-like eyes on me. "Donna means the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996, or HIPAA. By law, our records have to be kept confidential."

Brad raised a finger, but Garvin, it seemed, had anticipated him. “Take Hannah down to Personnel," he instructed. “Tell them to sign her up as a consultant through our contract with PeoplePlus. That should take care of it."

"Now?" asked Donna.

"Absolutely. Now."

"How much do you charge?" Garvin asked suddenly, taking me completely off guard.

I named a ridiculous sum, nearly twice what my hourly rate had been at Whitworth and Sullivan.

Garvin didn't even flinch. "Fine."

"And I can set my own hours?" I inquired.

"Absolutely. We'll give you a security pass so you can get in and out of the building. Just let Donna know, more or less, when she can expect to see you."

Donna's gaze was icy. “I’d appreciate that."

Garvin flipped a couple of pages forward on his desk calendar. “Today's Thursday." He glanced up from the calendar to me. "Can you start on Monday?"

I nodded.

"Good." He leaned back in his chair, fingers tented at chin level. "You'll write a report, of course."

"Of course."

"Then we'll talk."

I nodded.

"Good!" His smile broadened. "Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Brad."

Brad touched his forehead in mock salute. "I knew you'd want to know."

Garvin shook head slowly from side to side. "You get up in the morning. You think you know what you're going to be doing. Damn!"

Donna Hudgins stood, adjusting the cuffs of her jacket. "Will that be all, Harrison?"

It was. In less than thirty seconds we'd said our thank-yous and good-byes. In the hallway outside Garvin's office, Brad shook my hand and asked me to keep him in the loop.

A few minutes later I was trailing off to Personnel with Donna. Even from behind, I could tell her jaw was clenched. It would take a miracle for me to get on the good side of Victory Mutual's head of Policyholder Services.

When we stepped off the elevator on three, she spun around to face me. "You know I'm only doing this because Garvin ordered me to."

I grinned toothily. "I suppose this means we won't be sharing fashion tips over turkey roll-up sandwiches any time soon?"

As I turned and pushed my way through the door marked
human resources
, I thought I caught her smiling, too.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Over the next few days I didn't have time to worry much about strategies for softening up Donna Hudgins. Paul came home early on Friday evening with lust in his heart and his head full of sea stories. First, we took care of the lust.

On Saturday evening Daddy invited us over after dinner to see the slide show he'd rigged up on his computer, so between Paul and my father, I was ODing on pictures of mountains, cacti, sand, sea, and sky. If you've seen one cactus, you've seen them all. Ditto seagulls.

On Monday, I reported to Victory Mutual bright and early—stepping off on the right foot, I hoped—and was through security and waiting for Donna next to the potted palm outside her office when she arrived promptly at eight.

"You're early," she said, fumbling for her keys.

"I didn't want to waste your time, Ms. Hudgins."

"I appreciate that," she said, pocketing her keys. "And please, call me Donna."

Donna opened a drawer on her filing cabinet, tucked her purse inside, then slid the drawer shut. "Mr. Garvin means well, Hannah, but I don't think he truly appreciates how much work there is. Coffee?"

I nodded, pleased at the apparent thaw in our relationship.

Donna showed me where to find the mugs, waited until I'd filled mine with coffee from a large urn, then filled a mug for herself. She opened the fridge and took out a pint carton of half and half. "Cream?"

"Thank goodness! I thought I'd have to use
this
stuff," I said, picking up a cardboard container of nondairy creamer and rotating it until I could read the ingredients. "Soybean oil, mono and diglycerides, dipotassium phosphate . . . yum yum."

Donna smiled. "This is my private stash." She poured cream into my mug until I held up my hand, then returned the carton to the fridge. "Next time," she said, "just help yourself."

"Thanks, I will." I added sugar to my mug and stirred. Perhaps a future biographer would write that our friendship had been cemented over a carton of half and half.

Soon my coffee and I were installed in a cubicle that belonged, if the decorations on the walls were any indication, to someone named Mindy who enjoyed trading recipes, had a thing for Brad Pitt, and occasionally rode motorcycles.

"Mindy's on maternity leave," Donna explained. She sat in Mindy's chair, powered up the computer, assigned me a logon and a password, then left the cubicle for a moment. When she returned, she carried an oversized, fat printout spring-bound in black plastic, which she plopped onto the desk to the right of the monitor. "Data fields," she said. "More than you ever wanted to know."

"Thanks," I said.

"Call me if you need anything. My extension is 1412."

"I'll do that."

I spent the first several hours perusing the printout, familiarizing myself with Victory Mutual's databases and trying to determine what information I would be able to extract from them.

Around ten I took a break and went for more coffee. Since my last visit to the staff lounge, some angel had set a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table with a sign reading "Help Yourself." As I wound my way back to the cubicle balancing a homemade cookie on top of the steaming mug, I thought I could get used to this (again!). I was enjoying being back in an office environment: the clack of computer keyboards, the intermittent warble of office telephones, the low hum of business conversations punctuated by laughter drifting out over the sound of a radio, turned low, playing soft rock several cubicles away. I even savored the smell of Magic Marker and the way the Xerox toner stung my nose. It was like being back at Whitworth and Sullivan in the halcyon days pre-cancer, pre-RIF, but without the commute.

Reenergized, I returned to my desk and dove back into the printouts. I decided to limit my search to the last five years and to look for changes in the field having to do with reassignment of ownership. Among those, I'd look for ownership changes that went to a business or organizational name. Once I sorted those results, it would be easy to see if one particular organization name stood out.

I was jotting down my search strategy on a pad of paper and was about to try it out when Mrs. Bromley surprised me by ringing through on my cell phone.

"Hannah, could you meet me for lunch?"

I checked my watch. Eleven o'clock. I'd forgotten to ask Donna how much time Victory Mutual allowed their employees for lunch. Forty-five minutes? An hour? As a consultant, I wasn't exactly punching a time clock, but still, I didn't want to create a bad impression, especially on my first day.

I was about to beg off, but some urgency in Mrs. Bromley's voice made me hesitate.
Could you
meet me, is how she phrased it, not
would you like to
meet me. "I've just started a new project," I explained, "but I suppose they'll let me take a break." I suggested we meet at Macaroni's, a local branch of the popular Italian restaurant chain. It was just across the road, on the fringes of Annapolis Mall. "I can be there at noon."

"Wonderful!" She sounded so relieved I felt guilty about my initial lack of enthusiasm. "What's your new project, Hannah?"

"It's related to that insurance thing," I told her. "I'll fill you in over the linguini."

Perhaps it was just my cell phone, but her laughter rang hollow. "See you soon, then. And, thanks, Hannah."

At 11:55, I took my life into my hands and dashed, on foot, across six lanes of traffic on Jennifer Road, weaving my way through a long line of vehicles waiting to turn left into Sears. From there it was just a short walk across the parking lot to Macaroni's Grill.

Mrs. Bromley was waiting for me inside, near one of the deli cases that flanked the door, where fresh meat and vegetables were displayed in orderly rows. She was gazing into the case intently, as if she expected the sausages to leap up and start dancing, like the Radio City Rockettes. When I touched her shoulder, she flinched. "Hannah!"

"The very same," I said, kissing her cheek. "You look nice," I said, and she did, wearing black slacks and a peach-colored short sleeve blouse, open at the neck. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No, no. I just got here."

We presented ourselves to the hostess, who grabbed a couple of menus and escorted us past the wine and dessert islands to a table for four, covered with white paper, near a louvered window at the back of the restaurant. We had just settled into our seats and were reading the plastic tent card detailing the specials when our waiter appeared.

"Hello, my name is Davon and I'll be your server today." Using two crayons held closely together—a red and a blue—he printed his name upside down on the tablecloth.

"Very good," I said.

"Thank you." He grinned. "Wine?"

"No thanks, I'm actually working. Mrs. Bromley?" I asked, just to be polite. Mrs. Bromley rarely drank before four in the afternoon, especially outside the home.

To my surprise, she nodded. "I do believe I will. A chardonnay, I think."

Davon brought a gallon jug of wine to the table and plunked it down. Using the blue crayon, he made a hatch mark on the paper tablecloth. "We're on the honor system here," he explained. "That's one glass. Just keep track and let me know."

Mrs. Bromley eyed the gigantic bottle, then looked at me. "Sure you can't help me with that?"

"Well," I said, signaling to Davon. "Maybe half a glass."

Davon returned with a glass for me and a round loaf of herb bread. "Hot from the oven," he said. I watched, stomach rumbling, as he drizzled olive oil onto an empty plate and grated fresh pepper and parmesan cheese into it.

When Davon left with our order—linguini with clam sauce and a Caesar salad to share—I tore off a portion of bread and dipped it into the olive oil mixture. "So, how's your art show progressing?" I inquired.

"Fine," she said.

"Need any help?" I asked around a savory mouthful of bread.

"No, my students are doing most of that."

Two tables over somebody named Tom was being serenaded by a dark-haired waitresses in a clear, high soprano.
Happy Birthday
, she sang, to the tune of "Ridi, Pagliaccio." A single candle stood in a piece of cheesecake on the table in front of the honoree. The flame wavered as the soprano really got into it, belting out the last
il cor
with such enthusiasm that I thought she'd beat the birthday boy to the punch and blow the darn thing out.

"She's so skinny," I commented,
sotto voce
, to Mrs. Bromley, "that if she turned sideways she'd disappear."

Mrs. Bromley looked up from her wine. "What was that, dear?"

"I said . . . never mind. It wasn't important." I reached out and touched her hand. "You seem distracted today, Mrs. B. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," she said. She set her glass down on the table and pinched off a morsel of bread. "So, tell me about your new project, Hannah."

Unless I'd completely misread her, everything was not "fine." I'd never seen Mrs. Bromley acting so squirrelly.

Davon brought our linguini, and while we dug into it, I explained about my undercover assignment at Victory Mutual and my relationship with Donna Hudgins. "What I'm hoping to find, in the final sort, is a high number of policies that have changed from private ownership to corporate ownership, to companies like ViatiPro."

"What then?" she asked.

"Then I turn the information over to Donna Hudgins and her claims review people. They'll dig up the actual policies, look at the death certificates, and compare the time that elapsed between the signing of the policy and the death of the insured person."

Mrs. Bromley laid her fork and spoon across her dish and pushed her linguini, half eaten, to the center of the table. "I'm embarrassed to tell you that I wasn't entirely truthful with you the other day." Tears shimmered in her eyes. "I've been agonizing over whether to tell you or not."

“Tell me what?"

She picked up a green crayon and doodled little circles on the tablecloth. "I'm just a foolish old woman."

"That's the silliest thing you've ever said to me, Mrs. Bromley."

"It's true, I'm afraid. Why else would I have fallen for the sales pitch of that dreadful man?"

I had been leaning forward over my linguini, but I fell back into my chair. "Jablonsky?"

My friend laid down her crayon and nodded.

I couldn't believe it. If someone as level-headed as Mrs. Bromley had snapped up the bait, what hope was there for the average senior citizen when the likes of Jablonsky oozed under the door?

"I had two policies," she said, "so I sold one of them." She looked away from me, out the narrow slats in the window and into the parking lot. "I'm not going to tell you what I invested the proceeds in."

Now it was my turn to feel embarrassed. Here I'd spent days rattling on and on about the evils of buying and selling viaticals. It was as if I'd spent hours complaining about what a lemon my new car was, only to find out that Mrs. Bromley'd gone out and bought exactly the same model.

Mrs. Bromley looked so stricken that I moved quickly to soften the blow. "I'm sure it made sense at the time, Mrs. B. It's not like you're disinheriting your children or anything."

She turned to face me again, and I noticed for the first time a slight puffiness in her eyelids. She
had
been crying. "Now I'm either paranoid or losing my mind," she whispered. "A few months ago, I was playing croquet on the green at Ginger Cove."

"Yes?" Ginger Cove residents played an annual match with the students from St. John's College. St. John's usually got trounced.

"While I was lining up a shot," Mrs. Bromley continued, "I noticed this cable TV installer coming out of Clark Gammel's building." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "That was the same day they found Clark's body. I didn't make a connection between the two events at the time. But then, just last week, I could have sworn I saw the same man delivering an armchair to Building 8100." She paused and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Tim Burns lived in 8100, Hannah, and he died, too. He died the same day I saw that chair being delivered. And yesterday," she continued, her words tumbling rapidly over one another, "I saw a gardener working on the tulip beds just outside my building, and he looked a lot like that cable guy, too."

I'd never seen Mrs. Bromley so rattled, and it worried me. When my mother died, she'd been there for me. When my father disappeared into a bizarre alcohol rehabilitation program without telling anybody, she'd been my rock. I found myself a bit bewildered by the role reversal.

I watched a tear roll down her pale cheek. Nobody really notices the faces of people in uniform, I thought. Nobody, that is, except my friend, Mrs. Bromley, who in nearly half a century as a mystery novelist tended to notice everything. It would be a mistake to minimize her concerns.

Mrs. Bromley extracted her hand—I'd been holding it tightly—and bent to retrieve her handbag from the floor. She set the bag on her lap and slipped two photographs out of an envelope in the outside pouch. She laid the photos on the table in front of me. "I took these with my digital camera when I thought he wasn't looking."