"Henry, this is great. I wonder if there's any way to check it out?" I was of course pondering the notion of persuading Merry to do some snooping for me. I'd have to wait until the coming weekend, which was when she filled in. I didn't think it'd be politic to approach her during regular weekday hours with Mrs. Stegler standing by. Plan B was maybe doing a little search of my own if I could figure out what to look for. I glanced up to find both Tommy and Henry watching me. "Sorry. I was trying to figure out what to do with this."

Tommy must have decided he'd been polite long enough. His hand settled over mine. His grip was firm and prevented my pulling free without being conspicuous about it. "Hey, Henry. I hate to butt in here, but this lady's promised to buy me dinner. We're just having a quick drink before we walk over to Emile's."

Henry said, "Well, I better get back to my stew before it starts sticking to the pan." He flicked a look at me as he rose to his feet. I knew he didn't want to leave me, but he didn't dare persist. At the prospect of his departure, I felt the same desperation I'd felt when I was five and my aunt walked me over for my first day of elementary school. I'd been fine while she lingered, chatting with the other parents, but the minute she left I had a panic attack. Now, I could feel the same roar of anxiety that dulled everything but my longing for her. Henry and Tommy exchanged chitchat and next thing I knew, Henry was gone. I had to get out of there. I tried to withdraw my hand, but Tommy tightened his grip.

I tapped the manila envelope. "You know what? I really need to look into these. I'll have to take a rain check on dinner. I hope you don't mind."

Tommy minded. I watched his smile fade. "You're reneging on a promise."

"Maybe tomorrow night. I've got work to do." I knew it wasn't smart to go up against this man, but the notion of an evening alone with him was intolerable. Mariah had to be gone by now and if not, that was her problem.

He began to rub my fingers, the contact slightly rougher than was strictly necessary. The friction became uncomfortable, but he seemed unaware. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Please let go of my hand."

He was staring at me. "Has someone told you something about me?"

I could feel my jaw set. "What's there to tell, Tommy? You have something to hide?"

"No. Of course not, but people make things up."

"Well, I don't. If I say I've got work to do, you can take my word for it."

He gave my fingers a squeeze and then released my hand. "I guess I better let you go, then. Why don't I call you tomorrow? Or better yet, you call me."

"Right."

We stood at the same time. I waited while Tommy shrugged into his raincoat, picked up his umbrella, and adjusted the clasp. When we reached the entrance, I retrieved my slicker and umbrella. Tommy held the door. I made short work of the fare-thee-wells, trying to control my desire to flee. I turned toward my apartment while he walked off in the opposite direction on his way to his car. I forced myself to stroll though my impulse was to scurry, putting as much distance as possible between him and me.

Chapter 18

I went back to my apartment and locked myself in. Tommy gave me the creeps. I went from window to window, closing the latches, pulling the shutters across the panes so that no one could look in. I didn't re-until every possible bolt and bar had been secured. I sat down at my desk and found Mariah Talbot's business card, which I'd tucked in my bag. I was nervous about my association with her. Tommy'd been uncanny in his suspicions about me. I pictured him rummaging in my purse the minute my back was turned, coming across her card. People like him, obsessed with control, need the constant reassurance that no small detail has eluded them. I committed the number to memory and cut the card into small pieces. I was uncomfortably aware that he still held my rental application, which spelled out more about me than I really wanted known. He'd never fully believe I was focused on matters related to Dow Purcell. In his mind, whatever I was up to must have something to do with him. Narcissism and paranoia are flip sides of the same distorted sense of self-importance. In the eerie way of all psychopaths, he'd picked up on my newly minted fear of him. He must be wondering who or what had caused my attitude to shift.

I sat down at my desk and dialed Mariah's Texas area code and the number on the card. I knew I wouldn't reach her, but at least I could leave her a message to get in touch with me. I thought about how deftly Henry had stepped in with the name of the fence. He'd lied as well as I did and with the same finesse. The question now was whether Tommy would act on the information.

Mariah's answering machine clicked in. "Hello, this is Mariah Tal-bot. You've reached the offices of Guardian Casualty Insurance in Houston, Texas. My usual work hours are eight-thirty to five-thirty, Monday through Friday. If you're calling at any other time, please leave a message giving me your name, the time, and a number where I can reach you. I check my machine frequently and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you."

I said, "Hi, Mariah. It's Kinsey. We need to talk. Please call me at my office number. If I'm unavailable, leave me ten seconds of silence. After that, just keep checking your messages. I'll call and suggest a time and a place to meet. Thanks." As I spoke, I found myself hunched over the phone, my hand cupping the mouthpiece. What did I imagine? Tommy Hevener pressed against the outside wall with a hand-held listening device? Well, yeah, sort of. Talk about paranoid. Having placed the call to Mariah, I turned my attention to the bills Henry'd given me, sinking into the comfort and safety of the job before me. The first in the pile bore the heading "Medicare Summary Notice" and further down the page, a line that read "This is a summary of claims processed on 8/29/86." If I could lay my hands on her medical chart, I could find out what the doctors had been treating her for. I knew about some of her illnesses, but I wanted to see what medications and supplies had been ordered for her. I could then compare the actual orders to the items for which Medicare had been billed. Shuffling through, I found an Explanation of Medical Benefits form; account statements with codes, boxes for co-pays and deductibles; invoices; plus several records of daily treatment-physical therapy by my guess. No diagnosis was ever mentioned, but in the first half of August, the charges for medication alone totaled $410.95. Hundreds of additional items, many of them minor, had been billed to Medicare in the months since her death. Of course, this could be an error, a mix-up in accounts with goods and services being charged inadvertently to the wrong patient billing number. On the other hand, Klotilde's surname, with its odd, impossible Hungarian spelling, appeared throughout, so this was hardly a matter of someone misidentifying a "Smith" or "Jones," or switching one "Johnson" for another with the same first initial. Most helpful to me was the fact that while the claim number changed, Klotilde's Medicare number followed her from form to form. I made a note of the information on a scrap of paper, folded it, and slid it into my jeans pocket. I wondered whether her records were still available at Pacific Meadows. Almost had to be, I thought. She'd died in April and I assumed the facility would keep her records in their active files for at least a year before retiring them to storage.

I waited until 9:30, filling my time with various household chores. Cleaning out a toilet bowl can be wonderfully soothing when anxiety levels climb. I scrubbed the sink and the tub, and then crawled around on my bathroom floor, using the same damp sponge to wipe down the tiles. I vacuumed, dusted, and started a load of laundry. From time to time, I looked at my watch, calculating the hour at which the residents of Pacific Meadows would be bedded down for the night. Finally, I exchanged my Sauconys for black tennis shoes and then slipped into a black windbreaker, which was better for night work than my gaudy yellow rain gear. I separated the house key and the VW key from the larger collection on my key ring, transferred my driver's license and some cash from my wallet to my jeans, and then added a small leather case that contained my key picks. This particular kit had been designed by a felonious friend who'd spent his spare moments in prison fashioning an assortment of picks that looked like a manicure set. In between breaking-and-entering gigs, I could nip my cuticles and file my nails. The only other item I took with me was a flat flashlight the size of a playing card that fit neatly in my bra. On my way to the nursing home, I made a detour by the drive-through window at McDonald's, where I picked up a sack of burgers, two Cokes, and two large orders of french fries.