“Don’t hurry on my account. We have nothing to hide. Her and me had a long talk about this and we intend to cooperate. Seems only fair.”
I dropped my gaze to the reel turning in the machine and felt my body grow still. “We appreciate that,” I said.
The phrase “we have nothing to hide” echoed through my frame. What came immediately to mind was the old saying “The louder he proclaims his honesty, the faster we count the silver.” His aside was the equivalent of someone beginning a sentence with the phrase “to be perfectly honest.” You can just about bet whatever comes next will be straddling the line between falsehood and an outright lie.
“Any time you’re ready,” I said, without looking at him.
He related his rendition of the accident in tedious detail. His tone was rehearsed and his account so clearly mimicked what I’d heard from her that I knew they’d conferred at length. Weather conditions, seat belt, Lisa Ray’s abruptly pulling into his lane, the slamming on of brakes, which he accomplished with his hand control. Gladys couldn’t possibly remember everything she’d told me, but I knew if I spoke to her again, her story would be amended until it was a duplicate of her husband’s. I scribbled as he spoke, making sure I was covering the same ground. There’s nothing worse than running into an inaudible response when a tape is transcribed.
At the back of my mind I was fretting about Gus. I had no idea how I’d get the financial data back where it belonged, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I nodded as Mr. Fredrickson went on and on. I made sympathetic noises and kept my expression a near parody of interest and concern. He warmed to the subject as he proceeded with his narrative. Thirty-two minutes later, when he started repeating himself, I said, “Well, thanks. I think this about covers it. Is there anything else you’d like to add for the record?”
“I believe that’s it,” he said. “Just a mention of where we were going when that Lisa Ray woman ran into us. I believe you asked my wife and it’d slipped her mind.”
“That’s right,” I said. He fidgeted slightly and his voice had changed so I knew a whopper was about to escape his lips. I leaned forward attentively, pen poised over the page.
“The market.”
“Ah, the market. Well, that makes sense. Which one?”
“That one on the corner at the bottom of the hill.”
I nodded, taking notes. “And the trip was to buy what?”
“Lottery ticket for Saturday’s draw. I’m sorry to say we didn’t win.”
“Too bad.”
I turned off the tape recorder and anchored my pen in the top of my clipboard. “This has been a big help. I’ll stop by with the transcript as soon as I have it done.”
I drove back to my place without much hope. It was 2:45 and Solana and Gus would probably be back from the doctor’s office. If Solana went into the living room and spotted the empty cubbyhole, she’d know what I’d done. I pulled up in front of my place, parked the car, and scanned the cars on both sides of the street. No sign of Solana’s. I could feel my heart rate accelerate. Was it possible I still had time? All I needed was to nip inside, shove everything back in the desk, and make a hasty getaway.
I put my car keys in my bag and crossed Gus’s grass, following the walkway to the back door. The checkbook register and the savings passbook were in the bowels of my bag. I had my hand on the documents as I climbed the back steps. I could see the note for the Meals on Wheels volunteer still taped to the glass. I peered in the window. The kitchen was dark.
Ten or fifteen seconds was all I required, assuming the goon wasn’t waiting for me in the living room. I took out the key, inserted it in the lock, and turned it. No deal. I held the knob and wiggled the key, by way of coaxing. I looked down in puzzlement, thinking Henry’d given me the wrong key. Not so.
The locks had been changed.
I moaned to myself as I headed down the stairs double-time, worried I’d be caught when I hadn’t actually accomplished anything. I cut through the hedge between Gus’s backyard and Henry’s, and let myself into the studio. I locked my door and sat down at my desk, panic rising in my throat like bile. If Solana realized the check register and passbook were missing, she’d know I’d taken them. Who else? I was the only one who’d been in the house except for the fellow in the bed. Henry’d been there a couple of days before so he’d come under suspicion as well. The dread in my gut felt like a bomb about to go off, but there was nothing to be done. I sat quietly for a moment until I’d caught my breath. What difference did it make now? What was done was done and as long as I was screwed, I might as well see what my thievery had netted me.
I spent the next ten minutes looking at the figures in Gus’s bank accounts. It didn’t take an accountant to see what was going on. The account that had originally held twenty-two thousand dollars had been reduced by half, all of this in the space of a month. I flipped back through the earlier pages of the passbook. It looked like Gus, in his pre-Solana days, was making deposits of two to three thousand dollars at regular intervals. His check register showed that since January 4, money had been transferred from the one savings account into his checking account with a number of checks then written to Cash. None of the canceled checks were available for inspection, but I’d have bet money his signatures were forged. At the back of the passbook, I came across the pink slip to his car that must have migrated from its proper file. To date, she hadn’t transferred ownership from his name to hers. I reviewed the numbers with a shake of my head. It was time to quit cocking around.
I pulled out the phone book and turned to the listings for county offices. I found the number for the Domestic/Elder Abuse Telephone Hotline, which I couldn’t help but notice spelled the word “DEATH.” It had finally dawned on me that I didn’t have to prove Solana was doing anything abusive or illegal. It was up to her to prove she wasn’t.
22
The woman who answered the phone at the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse listened to my brief explanation of the reason for my call. I was transferred to a social worker named Nancy Sullivan and I ended up having a fifteen-minute conversation with her while she took the report. She sounded young and her phone manner suggested she was asking questions from a form she had in front of her. I gave her the relevant information: Gus’s name, age, address, Solana Rojas’s name and description.
“Does he have any known medical problems?”
“Lots. This whole situation started with a fall that dislocated his shoulder. Aside from the injury, it’s my understanding that he suffers from hypertension, osteoporosis, probably osteoarthritis, and maybe some digestive problems.”
“What about signs of dementia?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that. Solana Rojas reports signs of dementia, but I haven’t seen any myself. His niece in New York talked to him on the phone one day and thought he sounded confused. The first time I went over, he was sleeping, but when I stopped by the next morning he seemed fine. Crabby, but not disoriented or anything like that.”
I went on, giving her as much detail as I could. I didn’t see a way to mention the financial issues without admitting I’d snitched his bankbooks. I did describe his shakiness earlier that day and Solana’s report of a fall, which I hadn’t personally witnessed. “I saw the bruises and I was horrified at how thin he is. He looks like a walking skeleton.”
“Do you feel he’s in any immediate danger?”
“Yes and no. If I thought it was a life-or-death matter, I’d have called the police. On the other hand, I’m convinced he needs help or I wouldn’t be on the phone.”
“Are you aware of any incidents of yelling or hitting?”