“I see, I see. How about Sanguine Enterprises?”
“Mmm … never heard of it. Any reason why I should?”
“No, not at all.” Somehow, Christina sensed that lying was far beyond this man’s capabilities.
“Look, I’m tireda standin’ in the doorway. You comin’ in or not? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Christina let loose her loudest laugh yet. “Tempting, tempting. But totally against regulations. Thank you for your cooperation. Be seeing you.”
“What are you, some kind of religious freak or something?”
“No … no … but, thanks again. …”
She beat a hasty retreat down the corridor.
34
BY THE TIME CHRISTINA reached apartment 724, she was convinced that the entire Tulsa populace was comprised of fundamentalists, housewives, soap-opera addicts, and the unemployed. The hardest to shake were those determined to see her born again before she finished her survey; the hardest to rouse were those mesmerized by the thrilling exploits of All My Children.
With a weary hand, she knocked on the door of apartment 724.
The woman who opened the door wore the unflattering solid white cotton uniform that unmistakably identified her as a nurse. She was a large woman, though not a fat one; she had an imposing, big-boned figure.
“Are you affiliated with one of the hospitals in the Tulsa area?” Christina asked after running through her preliminary patter.
“I was,” the nurse said emotionlessly. “I’m retired now.” The woman was tight-lipped and uncommunicative. Nothing but the facts.
“I see. Are you now working for a private employer?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been employed in this capacity?”
“Almost two years now.”
“May I ask who your employer is?”
The woman hesitated. “That information is confidential.”
Christina tried to keep the conversation moving. “I see. Well, I don’t think it’s important that I know the name. I think the Chamber of Commerce would, however, appreciate knowing if your employer is affiliated with one of the major corporations in the city, such as … oh, the Memorex/Telex Corporation, or Sanguine Enterprises.”
The woman’s reaction was unmistakable. “Who are you?” she asked. Her face tightened up, as if drawn in by invisible strings.
“As I said, I’m just a surveyor for the Chamber of Commerce. I take it you do not live alone …?”
The woman’s irritation visibly increased. Her eyes fixed upon Christina’s. “My patient lives here, not me. I look after her nine-to-nine each and every day, including holidays. And I should be tending to her now, so, if you’ll excuse me—”
“And what is the patient’s name?” Christina asked, but it was too late. The door closed in her face midsentence.
“She’s the one, Ben, I guarantee it. When I said Sanguine’s name, she looked at me like a trapped Nazi war criminal.”
Ben stroked his steering wheel. The sun was beginning to fade behind the horizon.
“You checked the rest of the apartments in our price slot anyway?”
“Of course. No one else seemed at all suspicious, though at three of the apartments there was nobody home. But she’s the one, Ben. I guarantee it.”
Ben stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, she’s the one—but what is she? I don’t see the connection. An old nurse and her patient. How does that tie in with Sanguine?” He drummed his fingers on the dash. “Do you know what’s wrong with the patient? How old she is?”
“No, Ben. Those questions all came after she slammed the door in my face.”
Ben sighed. “Then we move to Plan B. It’s time for me to follow up.”
“Do it fast, Ben. I think she was suspicious. She might talk to her mysterious employer or someone else. Then who knows what might happen. I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
Ben saw the genuine concern in Christina’s eyes. Something about the nurse had really spooked her. “I’ll be all right,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll wait a few hours, so she won’t be too suspicious. Besides, before I go in, there’s something I need to see Mike about.”
“Why not get Mike to investigate this? He’s a cop. Cops are supposed to do things like this, not baby lawyers.”
“What grounds would he have for going in mere? How could he establish probable cause? We don’t have anything nearly concrete enough to get a warrant. Well, your honor, that nurse seemed real suspicious. Forget it.” He started the car. “If we get the cops involved in the seizure of illegal evidence, it may become impossible to nail Sanguine.”
Christina brushed her fingers against the side of Ben’s head. “Be careful, Ben. Promise.”
“Oh, yeah? Why?” Christina folded her arms across her chest. “Because you still owe me dinner, and I don’t want you to weasel out of it. Jerk!”
35
BEN KNOCKED SOFTLY ON the door. Then, remembering his role for the evening, he knocked again, with a solid insistent pounding.
The nurse opened the door a few inches. She was exactly as Christina had described her. Formidable, like a slab of granite. Ben felt his confidence dripping away like water from a wrung washrag.
“Yes?” the woman said. Her body language was a neon sign saying DON’T MESS WITH ME.
Ben reached slowly into his inside jacket pocket. Do it fast and smooth, Mike had said, like you do it every day. Don’t let her get a close look. It is a fake, after all. I can’t risk sending you out there with the real McCoy. I might get into trouble.
“Lieutenant Kincaid, Tulsa PD.” Ben flashed his badge with a quick fluid motion, barely giving the woman time to focus on the glinting metal. “Detective. Larceny. I’m investigating a series of robberies in this apartment complex.”
The woman did not open the door. “I haven’t heard about any robberies.”
“Lucky for you,” Ben bluffed. “Don’t you ever read the papers? Talk to your neighbors?”
“No,” she replied.
“May I come in?”
The woman peered at him. Her internal deliberations were almost visible. After a moment, with evident regret, she allowed Ben to pass through.
The apartment was sparingly decorated. The furniture had a higgledy-piggledy quality to it, as if it had been randomly collected from a variety of garage sales with no view toward the whole. A manteled fireplace with no grate, no screen, and no ashes. A round white acrylic dining room table, perfectly clean. Sheets draped across the bay window in place of curtains.
The nurse gestured toward the sofa. As Ben walked in that direction, he glanced down the main hallway jutting off to the left of the fireplace. At the far end of the hallway, in another room, he saw a woman sitting in an upright wicker chair, staring back at him.
She was wearing a long blue overcoat, or perhaps a bathrobe—Ben was too far away to tell for certain. Ben guessed her to be somewhere in her late thirties or early forties. Her legs were crossed at the knee and her arms were drawn tightly across her chest, each hand clinging to the opposite arm. She was barefoot.
Her features seemed pleasant enough from Ben’s distance, but her racial expression was pensive. Her skin seemed untouched by sun—a radiant, glowing ivory. It was a glow Ben thought he had seen before.
“That is Catherine … Catherine Andrews, my patient. This is her apartment. I care for her.”
Ben nodded. The woman down the hallway didn’t seem to acknowledge the introduction. Her eyes were glassy, and her gaze fixed.
As an afterthought, the nurse added, “My name is Harriet Morrison. I’m a nurse.”
Ben continued to look at Catherine. Something seemed wrong. So wrong that this tight-lipped nurse was spontaneously offering helpful information to divert his attention.