A Dose of Murder (17 page)

Needless to say, I had nothing viable on Tina.

“Damn it.” I had no idea if dog pee would ruin the expensive piece of equipment. I thought of calling Goldie but realized he was on his date with Miles. Nothing short of a major world disaster could get me to interrupt those two. Besides, Goldie didn't strike me as an expert on dog pee, and I didn't think a dog peeing on your camera was a usual surveillance happening.

No, I looked from the camera to Spanky, who was jumping at my leg, and decided I'd just have to try it out to see if it still worked. Thing was, I hated to touch it. I'd touched a lot worse in my nursing career, but I drew the line at dog pee. I couldn't really wash the camera either, although I was tempted to shove it into the dishwasher. I could call the company I bought it from, but couldn't take being humiliated twice—no, three times in one day—even if it was only over the phone.

I was a professional. I had to do these things on my own. So, I decided to fix myself a cup, a big one, of green tea and try the camera out. I said a few mini novenas as the microwave heated my water. I really couldn't afford a new camera. It had to be all right. And did the warranty cover dog pee?

When the tea was done, I gave Spanky a rawhide bone to occupy him and sat at the counter staring. The camera needed more time to recover, I decided. So, I sipped and watched.

Then I took out the Windex and sprayed the camera, making sure not to soak it. I washed my hands, sat down and let it sit, airing out.

My stomach knotted when I thought of having to go to work as a nurse tomorrow. Ack. Why did I let Jagger talk me into that? Because, Pauline, the guy seems to be able to get you to do what he wants. True. There was something about Jagger that a woman just couldn't say no to, and I didn't mean in a sexual way.

Although Lord knows, if he asked, “no” wouldn't be the first word on my tongue.

Midway through my tea I thought about this past week. I left a good-paying job, got a no-paying job (so far), found great friends in Goldie and Adele, met two very opposite men—Nick and Jagger—and got my camera peed on.

I finished off my tea.

Okay. Moment of truth. I picked it up and sniffed. Smelled like metal and plastic and Windex. Good sign. Truthfully, I told myself, the dog hadn't really soaked the camera completely. Most of it had landed on the snow, since the window Jagger had formed wasn't all that large.

“Okay, Spanks, guess you're my guinea pig for tonight.” He looked at me with his dark black eyes, which were far too big for his head but gave him a rather cute (in a pathetic sort of way), look. “Come, Spanky.”

I aimed the beeper/camera at him. He gave me a lazy look and returned to gnawing on his rawhide. “Okay. You can stay there, but keep moving. Anything. Even your little jaw. Maybe an occasional ear twitch.”

I moved away, moved closer, moved to the other side of the kitchen and tried out the zoom feature. After I'd taped what I figured was enough for a test, I pressed
STOP
. Then I got the wire from my bag to connect it to my VCR. Jagger's rag sat on the floor near my bag. I lifted it to throw it out, had second thoughts and decided if I washed it I could keep it as a memento.

What for?

I shoved it into the kitchen garbage can and told myself to forget Jagger, for now anyway. I walked to the TV and connected the camera.

The picture came out fuzzy, but there sat darling Spanky, chewing to his heart's content. I sunk into the chair next to the TV. “Thank you, Saint T.”

With that dilemma solved, I went into the pantry and looked under C for canned cream of mushroom soup. There were six cans since it was my favorite. Miles hated to see me eating the soup and always insisted it was for cooking, not to be eaten plain. I loved it on string beans topped with French-fried onions too, but, still, it had been my favorite soup since being a kid, when we couldn't eat meat on Fridays.

I took a can and opened the doggie-treat container to get a biscuit for Spanky, who was fast on my heels. The little shadow didn't miss a thing. I used the electric can opener on the counter, wiped off the excess soup, since Miles was a stickler for neatness and I was inclined to agree with him on that issue, and poured the soup into a pan. As I turned on the faucet to add the required one can of water to my soup, the phone rang.

I set the can down and lifted the receiver. Before it was even at my ear, I heard, “Pepperoni all right on your pizza?”

For a fleeting second I thought someone had a wrong number, but when the voice registered in my brain, I said, “I'm a mushroom/sausage gal.”

The phone disconnected and I looked at my can of soup. I opened the cabinet, took out a container and lid and poured the soup inside to store in the refrigerator until tomorrow. No need for cream of mushroom soup, when I'd soon be eating pizza with Jagger.

I'd set the kitchen table with the china, then reset it with paper and plastic. I didn't want to give Jagger the wrong impression. Within minutes of my resetting it again with china, the doorbell chimed.

Miles had it playing a Brahms lullaby this month. He liked variety. I hurried toward the door, then decided again that I didn't want to seem overeager. I'd already stepped in it when I'd asked if it was a
date
for coffee today. I stopped to check my hair in the brass mirror that hung above the couch, then went to the door.

Spanky beat me to it and was jumping wildly as if he could smell the pizza. I opened the door.

Jagger stood with pizza box in one hand, a bag in the other. He held out the bag. “Coors.”

“We have beer, but thanks.”

He hesitated then walked in with Spanky jumping at his calves.

“Get down, Spanks.” He did and ran to the kitchen and came out with his prize rawhide in his mouth, which he dropped at Jagger's feet.

“Thanks, buddy, but I'll stick with pizza.” He followed me into the kitchen and set the box on the counter. He looked around and focused on the table. “No need to go through any trouble. Paper dishes will do.”

“I . . . er . . . Spanky wants you to throw that.” Thank goodness the dog was at Jagger's feet waiting patiently while the half-gnawed rawhide bone sat near his boot. Without another word, I scooped up the dishes, put them in the cabinet and got the paper ones out.

Jagger threw the bone seventeen times.

Then he took the beer out, held one out to me, which I took, while he popped the top on his.

“Glass?”

“I'm fine.” He brought the pizza box to the table, sat down and opened it.

Half pepperoni. Half mushroom and sausage. “You didn't have to go through any trouble—”

“I didn't make it.” He took a piece and bit off the end.

I got myself a glass and piece of pizza, then sat down. Suddenly I realized I was alone in my home with Jagger. I took a bite and tried not to stare at him.

I had noticed he had on jeans and a dark sweater of sorts under the black aviator leather jacket he always wore. A pair of black leather gloves were sticking out of his jacket pocket.

He took a long swig of beer. “We?”

I looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“You said ‘we.' ‘We have beer.' Who else lives here?”

I hesitated, caught off guard. I too took a long sip of beer, to buy time. “I would have thought you'd already have that information.”

I think his lips formed a slight grin. He knew more than he would admit, of that I was certain.

“Miles Scarpello, one of the nurses from Saint Greg's actually owns the condo. I rent from him.”

“I see. That's how you got the job.”

It wasn't a question so I didn't answer, though I wanted to shout that I could have gotten it on my own. But again, I was a lousy liar. I didn't even know what an insurance-fraud investigator was until Miles sent me to the interview.

Jagger finished his slice of pizza and took another. Before he bit into it, he said, “I wanted to go over a few things about tomorrow. Then I won't bother you.”

Bother? Bother? Having him sitting here, allowing my eyes to feast on his perfect bod was not a bother. “Good,” I managed to say although it shocked the hell out of me that a coherent thought could come out of my mouth. “I need to know why I'm actually taking this job.”

He finished his beer, got up and took another one. He popped that one open and leaned against the counter. “Doctor Macaluso is committing fraud.”

“I know. That's why I'm following Tina”—I sat up straighter and set my beer down—“ ‘Doctor'? You mean ‘Missus' Macaluso.” But I doubted Jagger ever said anything he didn't mean.

“Ever hear of a medical mill?”

“I've heard of puppy mills.”

He shook his head, sat back down and chuckled. “A medical mill,” he said, then took a sip of beer, “is when unethical medical practitioners, in this case the doctors, work in cahoots with scheming patients to create fictitious claims. They're accident-related injuries, often the soft tissue—”

“So more difficult to prove.” Wow! Where'd that come from?

Jagger stared at me. I expected him to tell me to shut up since I didn't know what I was talking about.

Instead, he said, “That's why you're working there.”

“My nursing background.”

He barely nodded but it was the same as if he did. “The claims are often fraudulent disability, Workers' Comp or personal-injury claims.”

Fascinated, I set down my beer. “I can't believe people would do things like that.”

“Then you're in the wrong business, Sherlock.”

My mind got hung up on “Sherlock.” Although my inner self tried to tell me Jagger was being facetious, I chose to think it endearing. “I know people commit fraud. It's just that—”

“You'd never do anything against the law.”

“I . . . No . I wouldn't. That's not such a bad thing. You know?” The nerve!

He grinned. “You need to see as many patients as you can, evaluate their injuries and see if their charts reflect their care and actual diagnosis and, most important, their treatment.”

“Yikes. Anything else?”

“Yeah.” He leaned over and touched my hand. “Be careful.”

With my sudden onset muteness, I could only stare at Jagger. After what seemed like hours and his possibly thinking that I, in fact, really
did
do drugs, I managed to recover. “By ‘be careful' do you mean . . . don't let them see me spying on them?”

“That too.”

“Too?” I swallowed. “Then you mean my life could be in danger?”

He let go of my hand, but it felt as if he was still touching me. That didn't surprise me. Being touched by Jagger was a mind-altering experience. Phantom touches were becoming old hat.

He ran his hand through his hair. “I wouldn't ask you to risk your life for a case, Pauline.”

“Oh. Wow. Good.” My underarms were soaked. Partly from fear of the job, partly from him being here. Forget the touching incident. With shaky hands I took my beer.

Jagger leaned over. “I said I wouldn't put you in any danger. I just need a little help.”

Help? I'm helping Jagger? My hands calmed—he didn't touch me again. I waited, took a deep cleansing breath and exhaled, cleaning out the cobwebs this guy seemed to form in my brain.

He grinned.

“Okay. I'll bite. You, Jagger with no other name knows it all. Why would you need my help?”

He laughed. “If I knew everything, would I need to send you in undercover?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Look. You, a nurse turned investigator, fell into my lap. . . .”

I knew he was talking again 'cause I saw his lips moving. But I was hung up on the “falling into his lap” part. Suddenly I saw myself falling from the ceiling into his lap. Actually saw it! Like how Ally McBeal used to have those visions on the old show with the dancing baby and all.

Suddenly I felt something.

“What?” I yelled.

I looked up to see Jagger touching my hand and staring at me. “You don't use? Do you?”

That's the second time someone had asked me that this week!

“No. I'm a nurse. I wouldn't abuse drugs.”

“Sherlock, nurses have the perfect opportunity to get drugs.”

“I wouldn't. My mind drifted off because . . . I'm tired. Not using.”

He got up and started to collect the things from the table. “I won't keep you then.”

“Wait!” Yikes. I calmed my hysterical voice. “No need to rush off. You never told me why you suspect that practice.”

He held the dirty dishes for a second and looked around.

“Under the counter.”

He opened it and dropped them into the trashcan. “One of the best sources for reporting fraud is a disgruntled employee.”

“Who? Who is the disgruntled—”

“The less you know, the safer . . . better, it is. Disgruntled employees are our best sources. They sing like canaries.”

“I see,” I said, but wasn't sure if I really did. Who would squeal on their employer? Actually, I guess I would if I found out they were breaking the law. That “safer . . . better” thing was a bit disconcerting.

“You look for what seems out of the ordinary tomorrow, then we'll talk.”

“Gotcha. Anything out of the ordinary. But nurses don't really do the billing—”

He bent his head and lifted his eyes toward me. Damn. I felt naked again. I lifted the napkin from my lap and stupidly held it in front of me, pretending to wipe my lips.

“Come on, Pauline. I've seen you in action. I'm guessing you can be resourceful when push comes to shove.”

“Resourceful. Oh. Yeah. I'll see what I can do.”

“Don't tell anyone that you are doing this. Especially anyone in that practice.” He got up. Shrugged into his jacket, took his gloves out of his pocket and put them on. “Anyone, Pauline. Anywhere.”