Complicity in Heels (5 page)

Victor nodded.

“You know she doesn’t approve of the business I’m in or the lifestyle I lead.”

“Yet you persist.”
Fool.

“What can I say? I love her.”

Victor gestured toward the stack of money with an open hand. “Cash? Really? You can’t get a money order? Put it on a prepaid Visa? Get a bank draft or something?”

Quinn sighed. “I ask you to pay off a dirty cop, and you got no problem. I ask you to make a charitable donation, now you got problems. What gives?”

“No problem,” Victor said with a shrug. “Just seems out of the ordinary is all.”

“Well, these are extraordinary circumstances. I’m under a lot of stress here. So please take care of this for me.” Quinn grabbed the money and held it out.

Victor stood and approached the desk. “Fine.” He grabbed the stacks of cash and stuffed them inside his jacket. “Anything else?”
Hope not
, he thought.

Quinn glanced at Tony. “Not at this time.”

“Good,” Victor said, as he headed to the door.

Tony placed his coin back in his pocket, stood, and followed him out of the office.

CHAPTER FIVE

W
illard opened the passenger door from the outside. “Ms. Frank,” he called out, extending his arm to assist her out of the limousine.

Nikki stepped out of the Chrysler. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around and wait? I’m at your disposal.”

Nikki cupped her hand and tucked her auburn hair behind her ear. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I don’t know how long I’ll be or where I’m headed after this.”

“Very well.” Willard handed her a folded newspaper with thirty dollars on top. “The paper you requested earlier.”

Nikki stared at the crisp bills. “What’s this?”

“Lunch money. I heard you didn’t get a chance to eat at the Compound.”

“I couldn’t,” she replied, handing the money back. “Besides, the prison provided me with a twenty-dollar stipend.”

Willard pushed her hand away. “Take it. You can’t get a decent meal in this town for that.”

“All right.” Nikki pulled her arm back down to her side and crumpled the bills in her hand. “If you insist.”

“I do.” Willard walked back around the limousine to the driver’s side.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Frank.”

Nikki watched as the chauffeur got back in the limo and pulled into traffic. She stuffed the money down her bra and entered the main office of the assisted-living facility.

The empty waiting room was filled with Queen Anne–style furniture: a sofa with matching coffee table, two club chairs, and a love seat. A russet area rug covered most of the floor space; its large floral pattern coordinated surprisingly well with the oxblood-red furnishings. welcome to paris oaks in mustard-gold lettering was emblazoned on the wall directly behind the receptionist.

The young redhead was oblivious to Nikki’s approach.

“Good afternoon,” Nikki said.

The woman looked up from behind her computer screen. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Paris Oaks Assisted Living Facility. How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Marty Frank.”

The receptionist opened her top drawer and removed a clipboard with a form and pen attached. “Not a problem. I just need you to fill this out and bring it back up to me with your driver’s license.”

Nikki grabbed the clipboard and took a seat on the sofa. A few minutes later, she had completed the form and was at the front desk. “Excuse me.”

“Yes,” the woman replied, not bothering to look up.

“I have a slight problem.”

“Yes, ma’am. What would that be?”

“I…” Nikki hesitated. “…don’t exactly have a driver’s license.”

The receptionist stopped what she was doing and made direct eye contact with her. “Well, that
is
a problem.”

Nikki handed the clipboard back. The receptionist took it then glanced over the information provided. “Ms. Frank, if you’ll have a seat, I’ll be more than happy to see if I can help resolve this matter for you.”

Nikki forced a smile.

The woman picked up the phone and dialed a number. Moments later, an older Hispanic woman emerged from one of the back offices. Nikki recognized her: Laura Ruiz, the facility director. In her past dealings with her, the welfare of the family and her mother’s illness had taken priority. This time it would be about her and what she wanted. Mrs. Ruiz hadn’t changed much in five years: backcombed outgrown pixie hairstyle, sagging jowls with excessively caked-on makeup, and Corinne McCormack reading glasses suspended around her neck by an elegant cord. Nikki stood to greet her. “Mrs. Ruiz—”

“I’ve been expecting you,” Mrs. Ruiz interrupted her. “Come with me.”

The director made an abrupt turn and headed back in the opposite direction. Nikki followed. The two women entered an executive office decorated with elegant but modest furniture. Mrs. Ruiz circled around her desk and took a seat. “We need to talk,” she said. “Please have a seat.”

Nikki complied. “What’s going on?”

“The Department of Corrections notified me of your release earlier today. We here at Paris Oaks weren’t sure when you’d show up, but we knew you would.”

“Well, I’m here. Now how is that a concern of the Department of Corrections?”

“It’s not,” Mrs. Ruiz said. “However, it is a concern of mine.”

Nikki crossed her legs and waited for an explanation.

“Have you heard of the Hernandez Act or state statute 11825?”

Nikki shook her head, unsure where this was going.

Mrs. Ruiz donned her reading glasses and began typing on her keyboard. A couple of minutes later, she stopped, adjusted her screen, and silently read over its contents. “About a year and a half into your sentence,” she began, “a man named Alberto Hernandez went to visit his mother in an Atlanta area nursing home. While there, he tried to settle a long-time dispute between his mother and two other residents over a hairbrush. The situation escalated, and he stepped outside, removed a two-foot stake from the ground, and severely beat the other two women with it. They were eighty-one and sixty-four years old.”

Nikki’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Both women suffered severe trauma and broken bones. The investigation later revealed that Hernandez was a career criminal with a violent past. As a result, the state legislature enacted statute 11825, which requires all visitors at special care facilities to—”

“To provide some sort of identification, such as a driver’s license,” Nikki finished for her.

“Correct.” Mrs. Ruiz looked up from her computer. “We then take the ID, log in to the state’s database, and check for a criminal background. The Department of Corrections is obligated to notify all facilities statewide of current and pending offender releases, so we’re already aware of your criminal background. This brings us to an impasse.”

Nikki raised an eyebrow. “An impasse?”

“Yes. You want to see Marty, and I’m legally bound, as director of this facility, to protect him along with all the other residents here. An impasse. Anyone with a criminal background needs to be properly vetted by the state before visiting with any of the residents here at Paris Oaks.”

“So you’re telling me I can’t see my own brother because some whack job took out two elderly women?”

Mrs. Ruiz clasped her hands. “One of those elderly women happens to be the mother of the current lieutenant governor.”

Nikki was annoyed
.
“I can’t believe this.”

“You can see your brother at any time,” Mrs. Ruiz reassured her. “Once you’ve been vetted.”

“Vetted?”

“By the state’s violent-offender assessment committee. It’s a six-member panel, consisting of a judge and five other political appointees. You submit a packet for review, and then they look it over and take into account your criminal record, your conduct while incarcerated, and any other information provided by persons on your behalf. Then they make a decision. If it’s favorable, you’re clear for six months before having to repeat the process.”

“How long does this usually take?” Nikki asked.

“Sixty to ninety days, depending on the workload.”

Nikki looked up at the ceiling and blinked several times. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head.
And you won’t cut me any slack because you’re a by-the-book
bitch.

“You’re welcome to retain legal counsel,” Mrs. Ruiz suggested. “I hear it expedites the process.”

“That’s not an option for me at the moment.”

Mrs. Ruiz frowned.

“So how do I get started?” Nikki asked.

“Meet with your parole officer and mention that you’d like to submit an offender-assessment packet to the state board.”

Nikki uncrossed her legs and stood. “Bureaucracy,” she huffed.

Mrs. Ruiz paused. “Excuse me, miss, but we’re not finished yet.”

“Oh.” Nikki sat back down.

Mrs. Ruiz rifled through her top desk drawer and removed a manila folder. “There’s the matter of finances to discuss.” She opened up the file and removed a spreadsheet. After glancing over the numbers for a moment, she handed the document to Nikki. “As you can see, your mother’s trust fund is projected to be depleted within the next thirty to ninety days.”

Nikki gaped at the estimated projections.
This can’t be
right.

A grim look swept across Mrs. Ruiz’s face. “With that said,” she began, her voice cold and distant, “we’ll need an additional source of funding if Marty is to remain a resident of this facility.”

“Wait a minute,” Nikki protested. “I thought there was at least ten years’ worth of funds set aside for him?”

“In the beginning, there was.” Mrs. Ruiz leaned back in her chair to stretch. “However, your late mother initially enrolled your brother in our facility under the government health-care subsidy option.”

Nikki stared at Mrs. Ruiz for a moment then scrunched her forehead up in confusion. “English, please.”

“The health-care subsidy option provides a guaranteed set amount of money, based on current interest rates, to help provide for Marty’s care. However, since this is a private facility, the government mandates that individual funds must be utilized first before receiving the subsidy. With recent economic developments, fluctuating interest rates, and several facility fee hikes over the years, monthly deductions from the trust continually adjusted as well. Some months it was higher; some months it was lower, but the government contribution remained steady. This created a situation that accelerated the depletion of funds.”

A worried look poured over Nikki’s face. “How much are we talking here?”

“Roughly, about six thousand a month for room and board,” Mrs. Ruiz said.

“Six thousand a month!” Nikki dug her fingers into the newspaper Willard had given her.

The sound of the crumpling paper garnered the director’s attention. “I know it’s a lot. Your mother would have been better off not selecting the health-care subsidy option. The money would’ve lasted longer.” Mrs. Ruiz broke eye contact with Nikki and glanced down at her desk. “Nothing personal. Merely stating facts here.”

“What was she thinking?”

The director looked back up, surprised. “Your mother had a lot on her mind—that’s what she was thinking: the terminal cancer diagnosis, preparing her estate, Marty, you. She did the best she could with the time she had left.”

“Yeah, but it’s still a mess I’ll have to clean up.”

“As I recall, you weren’t exactly rushing over to attend the client-family support meetings with the case officer,” she reminded her. “Your input could’ve been provided then, during the methods and sources of financing session.”

An uncomfortable feeling lodged itself in the pit of Nikki’s stomach. “Business,” she admitted, forcing herself to look around instead of at Mrs. Ruiz.
You wouldn’t understand
, she thought.

“Ah, yes, business,” Mrs. Ruiz continued in a mildly condescending tone. “When we first met several years ago, I recall you had a nice, cushy job with the government in DC. You returned to Parkbridge, started associating with unsavory characters and running the streets at all hours of the night, and now you sit before me a convicted felon. What happened?”

Nikki rolled her eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“It usually is.” Mrs. Ruiz tugged on her Chanel jacket then looked back up. The emotionless shield drained from her face. “Honey, does it involve a man?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Nikki insisted.

“Relationships are messy,” Mrs. Ruiz stated in a self-critical tone. “That’s their nature. They start messy, and they end messy. Women just happen to be along for the ride. So if it’s a man—and I suspect it is—now’s the time to leap from that speeding train before it reaches its final destination.”

Nikki laughed. “No, it’s not a man. Believe me.”

Mrs. Ruiz leaned back in her chair. “If you say so, darling, but in my experience, only a man can take you further than you want to go and keep you longer than you want to stay. Besides, the changes you’ve undergone over the last four to five years since we last met have ‘man’ written all over them.”

For a moment the two sat still, staring at each other. Finally, Mrs. Ruiz broke her gaze and picked up the phone. She pressed the intercom button then dialed extension 242. “Bethany, send in Ms. Daniel.”

The door to the office opened. A petite baby-faced brunette, clutching a handheld radio, entered the room.

“Nikki, this is Ms. Daniel,” Mrs. Ruiz said. “She’s Marty’s mental health worker.”

The two women smiled at each other then shook hands.

Mrs. Ruiz glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s midafternoon. The residents of C dorm are out right now.”

“That’s correct, ma’am,” Ms. Daniel confirmed. “The bus departed an hour ago. Everyone was present and accounted for.”

“Wonderful.” Mrs. Ruiz removed her reading glasses and massaged her temples. “I don’t know why I’m even considering this, but everyone deserves a little mercy extended to them from time to time.”

Nikki perched on the edge of her seat.

Mrs. Ruiz let out a sigh. “Ms. Daniel, please give Ms. Frank here a quick tour of C dorm as well as Marty’s room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep it brief and the conversation focused on generalities. You are not to discuss medical ailments, medications being administered, behavioral issues, or treatment plans. As far as health information privacy is concerned, we’re walking a fine line here. Until Ms. Frank is properly vetted, you’ll treat her like a stranger without a need to know.”

Ms. Daniel nodded. “Understood.”

Nikki stood and followed the young woman to the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Ruiz.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, “but I didn’t do it for you. I’m doing it out of respect for your late mother. It’s the only reason I even entertained this idea.”

Nikki forced a smile.

“You ready?” Ms. Daniel asked.

“I am.”

The two women left the office together, walked back toward the waiting room, then headed across the facility grounds toward the dormitories.

“How’s Marty doing?” Nikki asked.

“Good, real good,” Ms. Daniel answered. “He’s very popular here with the staff.”

The facility worker picked up her pace; Nikki adjusted to gain ground. “Any friends?”