Shake the Trees (17 page)

CHAPTER 24

Sandi had called back the night before, and Sam had talked to Dustin.  He’d broken the news that the Disney World trip might be postponed; he wanted to get it out on the table.  Dustin was, of course, disappointed.  He took it well, but only after confirming several times that the outing had only been postponed and not cancelled.  Sam and Sandi had talked as well.  They agreed that it was probably unwise for him to have any further discussions with the authorities until he’d seen a lawyer.  Hopefully Sandi would have a name on Monday.

A Hawaiian pizza had been delivered before Sandi called back, but Sam had only eaten a couple of bites.  Even though the ham and pineapple concoction was his favorite.  After talking to Dustin, he’d once again felt that there was some chance for normalcy in his life, and finished the pie.  Then he’d gone to bed.  He awoke only once during the night.  And as always it was to the sound of silence from his mother’s pale lips. 

Sam puttered around the condo Sunday morning and early afternoon, until the church crowd had cleared out of his favorite dive.  Then he showered, threw on a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and finally left the condo.  He wanted comfort food.  Fried chicken, mashed potatoes with milk gravy and green beans with ham hock.  The state of his arteries didn’t concern him today, and he’d acquired a taste for Southern cooking.

After eating, Sam drove down to Bayshore Boulevard, parked, and took a long walk along the bay.  The April sun was warm, but felt good.  Elderly couples were walking arm in arm.  Some with canes.  The young and not so young were running, while daredevils startled everyone as they weaved around the rest of the pedestrians on in-line skates.  Sam was not a happy man, but he was feeling a little better.

An old Chicago song about the park kept running through his head.  Except he’d replaced Saturday with Sunday.  That was a problem, since Sunday only had two syllables.  And, of course, the date was wrong. 

Dr. Bob said it was called an earworm.  That a song you couldn’t get out of your head was called an earworm, and that there was even a website dedicated to helping those afflicted with the malady.  Sam wondered how people functioned before the advent of the worldwide web.  Then shook his head in a vain attempt to dislodge the burrowing parasite, and headed back to his car. 

Upon returning home from his walk along Bayshore, Sam was met at his door by two unsmiling and well-groomed men in dark suits and ties.

“Are you Samuel Norden?”  The older of the two men asked.

“Yes.  I’m Sam Norden.”

“You are the President and Chief Executive Officer of American Senior Security.”

“Yes.  Acting President and CEO.”

“FBI.”  In a well-choreographed movement, both men flipped open their official ID at the same time, and then almost immediately flipped them shut again.  “Where have you been?”

“I went out to get something to eat, and took a walk,” Sam offered helpfully.

The two men looked at Sam with suspicion.  “We want to talk to you about the events of 4 April.”

“Friday?”

“Correct.”

“Uh.  I guess I’m not going to be able to help you with that until I’ve hired a lawyer.”  Sam mumbled.

“You’re asserting your Fifth Amendment rights?”

Sam nodded.

The two men looked at each other with stern and knowing expressions.  The younger of the men handed Sam a card.  “Have your lawyer call me.  We’ll be in touch, Mr. Norden.  We’ll be in touch soon.  Very soon.”

The two men turned and left.  Sam fumbled with his key, and as soon as he had the door open quickly made his way to the bathroom.  The greasy food had tasted better going down.

Sally found Tillis sitting on a bench staring at the water.  It was late Sunday afternoon, but the sun was still hot.

“The clerks at the drug store looked at me like I was crazy.  They sell dozens of disposable cell phones every week.  Nothing stands out about any of the customers in the last few days.”  Sally grumbled.

“Okay.  I figured,” Tillis replied.  It was obvious his mind was elsewhere.

“Then why are we here?”  Sally asked.

“Searching for inspiration.  Have you noticed all the joggers around here?  Even in this heat.”

“Runners.  People don’t jog anymore.  At least not here.  Some people like to run in the sun.  Sweat all the toxins out.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, Tillis.”

“A lot of them are girls.  I mean young women.”

“No pain.  No loss.”  Sally offered.

“Neither rain nor snow, sleet nor hail, heat nor cold . . .”

“I get it.”  Sally cut him off.

“To stay in shape.  Perfect shape.”

Tillis had entered one of his meditative states.  Sally gave him an odd look and laughed.  “I guess.”

“What’s Blue Moon?  I’ve seen the cups.”

“It’s a coffee shop, I think.  I saw the sign down the street.  An independent.” 

“No Starbucks?”  Tillis asked.

“Starbucks has become ‘The Man’.  A homogenized and pasteurized funk hole for the masses.  An after-school hangout for junior high school kids. Not cool.  Not here.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, Tillis.”

“A funk hole?”

“It’s a word.  Means a refuge.  Look it up.”

“I believe you.”  Tillis answered as he studied the scene before him.  “Were any of the clerks young guys?”

“At the drug store?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A couple, I guess.  Why?”

“Come on.”  Tillis stood up and began walking.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the drug store.”

“I told you.  Nobody remembers anything.”

“Maybe we can jog some memories.  They still jog memories here don’t they?”

With the aid of Sally, Tillis soon cornered two young male clerks who had worked Friday and Saturday.  Both were exhibiting serious tattoos, piercings, and attitude.  A couple of twenties improved their attitudes.

“I have two more twenties if either one of you saw a hot chick that bought a disposable cell yesterday.  Maybe Friday.  If you can describe her.  And if I believe you.”

The two looked at each other, and finally one of them spoke.  “I did.  Saturday morning.  Really hot.”

“Describe her.”  Tillis snapped.

“She was wearing running shorts.  Like nylon or silk or something.  Not much of it, whatever it was.  That girl didn’t have no bouncy ass, man.  Rock hard.”  The kid gestured with cupped palms.

“Anything else?  Think about it.”  Tillis peeled two twenties off a roll.

“The eyes, man.  Same color as the running shorts.  Bluest eyes ever.”

Tillis left the drug store with $80 less than when he’d entered it.  Sally trailed behind, worried that she’d screwed up during her earlier visit there.  He soon put her mind at ease.

“That wasn’t a good example of proper interviewing technique.  Lawyers call it leading the witness.  And then there’s the monetary incentive to fabricate.  But we need to keep moving.  We’re playing catch up here.  That message on the gumbo-limbo BlackBerry may be the only crack in the wall.”

“Do you think the girl that Bubba saw was the same one that bought the disposable?”

“Maybe.”

“Where next?”

“What next.”

“Okay.  What next?”

“Coffee.  Iced coffee.”

Sally led the way to the Blue Moon.  “This place has a really nice vibe,” Sally remarked as they entered the coffee shop.

It reminded Tillis of a hippie health food place he’d visited in the mountains outside of Boulder in the seventies.  He began to make the comparison, but realized Sally wouldn’t have a clue.  “I want you to stay here for a couple of days.”

“You want me to hang here?  On South Beach?”  Sally was trying to disguise her enthusiasm.  But failing.

“There’s a nice pink art deco hotel a couple of blocks down.  Just your style.”

“Cool.”

“And you may need to buy a couple of things to fit in.  Clothes.  At government expense.”

“Really?  Like what?”  She was no longer attempting to hide her excitement.

“Jogging - I mean running clothes.”

The air began to quickly bleed out of the balloon.  “Oh.  I think I see where this is going.”

“Good.  I want you here from when this place opens in the morning until at least ten.”  Tillis replied.

“This place opens at five.  They’ll throw me out.”

“Buy stuff.  Decaf.  And bring your camera phone.  Download to your laptop if it gets full.  I want a picture of this girl.”

“A stalker with a camera phone in a coffee shop.  Original.  Why here?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“What about the running stuff?”  Sally asked hesitantly.

“Take a break around ten.  Take a nap, eat lunch, shop.  Whatever.  Just be on the beach jogging - I mean running - from around three until sunset.”

“You want me to jog from three in the afternoon until dark?”  Sally asked with disbelief in her voice.

“People don’t jog on South Beach.  They run.”  Tillis flashed Sally a mischievous smile.

“I can’t run for five hours!”

“Can’t never could.”  Tillis gently scolded her.

“I’m serious.”  Sally protested more vigorously.

“Then pretend.  But stay hydrated.  I don’t want to get a call that you’ve passed out on the beach.  You’ll blow your cover as a trendy runner.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the freaking running?”  Sally raised her voice an octave.

“If this girl lives around here, you may spot her, you know, maintaining her rock-hard gluteus maximus.”  Tillis cupped his palms.  “And hopefully see where she comes from or goes to.”

“This all sounds like a long shot.  I hope you’re feeling lucky.”  Sally responded skeptically.

“Like my daddy always said, if I have to choose between lucky, good looking, or smart, I’ll choose lucky every time.”

Sally was shaking her head.  “I know.  I know. Because if you’re lucky, the other two don’t matter.”

Tillis checked Sally into the hotel.  The daily rate was at least five times the FDLE per diem, so he put the room on his personal card.

“Thanks, Tillis.  This place is great.”

“Check out the spa.  Get a massage and a cucumber whatever.  On me.”

“You mean a cucumber facial?”

“Whatever.”

“Really?”

“You’ll earn it.”

“Oh.  Yeah.”  Sally responded with noticeably less enthusiasm.

“One more thing,” Tiilis said as he tucked his credit card into a thin leather wallet.  “After you get to your room, I need for you to arrange an appointment with the top dog at The Lakes in Palm Beach.  For ten tonight.  And I may be late.  You don’t know what it’s about. Tell him to keep our meeting confidential.  Use my Special Assistant to the Governor title.  And mention that you’re with the Economic Crimes and Fraud Task Force.”

As Tillis turned away, Sally seemed a little dazed by the events of the afternoon.  “Okay.  Where are you going now?”

Tillis had already taken several steps toward the door and answered without breaking stride.  “Back to the plane.  I’m already late for the early-bird special at The Palms Gracious Living Retreat in Venice.”

CHAPTER 25

Elizabeth was pushing herself.  Waiting for the endorphins to kick in.  Running was the only way Elizabeth could deal with the waiting and the stress.  Sex worked too, but she’d ruined James.  At least for the rest of the weekend.  She needed to get out of the condo anyway.  James had been hovering - he seemed to sense that she was on edge.

Dusk was approaching.  And she hadn’t heard anything.  Dr. Bob hadn’t called her cell or the disposable.  She was becoming disheartened and paranoid, and had begun turning the disposable off and removing the battery at home.  Then replacing the battery and turning it on again when she was on the move.

After her father died, Elizabeth had been desolate.  But now after all the years of reliving the events leading to his death, she was nearly ready to move on.  A catharsis born out of released spite and hate was within reach.  An obsession built on a foundation of love and devotion replacing one built on loathing and disgust.  A euphoric refrain of obsession supplanting a dark one.  All suddenly interrupted by fear.  A drumming note of fear that reverberated more loudly with every footfall.

Tillis had radioed ahead for a cab and it was waiting when he landed at Venice Airport.  He’d called The Palms from the backseat of the taxi, and provided his credentials and a vague description of his purpose.  By the time he’d arrived, the staff had identified Dora Hufstedtler as the resident who had spoken to Sam Norden. 

Tillis found Dora, along with several other elderly women, watching a rerun of The Golden Girls on a huge plasma screen in one of the well-equipped media rooms.  When the program ended, Tillis escorted her to the on-site café. The place remained open until midnight.  Tillis was starving and ordered a steak, while Dora chose a slice of fresh strawberry pie and decaffeinated coffee.

“I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk, ma’am.  I haven’t had anything but coffee since noon.”

“Heaven’s sakes, no.  It does a woman my age good to see a man in his prime enjoy a good meal.”

‘Thank god somebody thinks I’m in my prime’, Tillis thought to himself.  “As I mentioned earlier, I’m a Special Agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.  It’s an over-simplification, but we’re sort of like the FBI.  But on a statewide level.  I wanted to ask you about American Senior Security.”

“A wonderful company.  My life is so much better now.  It’s been such a relief.  I just can’t tell you.  It’s just like I told that nice young man.”

“Sam Norden?”

“Yes!  He was such a dear.  Can you believe he came all this way just to see me?  To make sure that I didn’t feel like I’d been taken advantage of.  If you can imagine that.  He wouldn’t take a job as an executive with the company until he’d talked to me!  Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”

For a moment Tillis was taken aback.  He knew what the future held for Mrs. Hufstedtler if he was unable to fix this.  And he knew that the immediate future was bleak for Sam Norden as well.  The lush landscaping outside the café window held his gaze while his mind considered the implications.

“I hope that there isn’t a problem, Mr. Tillis.  I thought the letter was a little strange.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.  I guess I was lost in my thoughts.  Did you say something about a letter?”

“Why, yes.  A letter from American Senior Security.  I received it the day before yesterday.  It was a nice letter, I guess.  I have it right here.  In my purse.”  Dora Hufstedtler pulled the letter from its envelope and handed it to Tillis.  He unfolded the letter and read its brief contents.

Dear Client and Policyholder: 

I am writing you both as President of American Senior Security and as a duly licensed Florida attorney.  In fact, I consider each and every one of you to be my client, as well as a policyholder.  And I invite you to consider yourself as such. 

As you know, the restructuring of this company has involved many new and innovative approaches to your future financial security.  Based upon my background and training as an attorney, we are boldly challenging established legal and financial barriers to a bigger and better future for you.  I want to assure each one of you that my actions have been sound and that your future is secure.  I am personally asking each and every one of you to rely on these representations and continue to support me in these endeavors.

Marc Mason,

Attorney at Law

President and CEO, American Senior Security

A look of confusion spread across Tillis’ face.  Nothing about the letter made sense.  The letter was dated Thursday, May 3.  Marc Mason had already been in rehab for six weeks.  Supposedly no contact with the outside world had been allowed during that entire time.  And even if he had prepared the letter in advance, why would he so obviously assume such tremendous personal liability?  Tillis immediately knew there was much more to this letter than met the eye.

“Mr. Tillis?”  Dora waited for a reply, but Tillis didn’t respond.  “Mr. Tillis?  Is everything okay?”

Tillis reeled his mind back to the present.  “I’m sorry, ma’am.  I guess I was lost in thought again.  By the way, you can call me Tillis.”

“Just Tillis?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Just Tillis.  Do you mind if I take this letter with me.  I’ll make sure to return it.”

“Of course, Tillis.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Hufstedtler, but everything isn’t okay.  I can’t go into it right now, but you’re probably going to hear some upsetting news about American Senior Security tomorrow.  But I don’t want you to worry about it.  I’m going to fix it.  Your Governor and I are going to fix it.”

“Oh my.”  Dora whispered as she brought a heavily veined hand to her lips.

Tillis was forty-five minutes late for his appointment at The Lakes, but Sally had remembered to make the call, and the security guard at the gate was expecting him.

“The Director is waiting for you in the conference center.  Please stay in your vehicle and follow me, Mr. Tillis.”

The security guard climbed into an overgrown golf cart and started down a narrow paved road surrounded by thick tropical vegetation. Tillis had again borrowed an airport car, but in this case it was a shiny and relatively new black Cadillac Escalade.  Palm Beach was a long way from Ten Thousand Islands, he thought to himself as the vehicle crawled along the curving path and branches brushed against its sides.

Apparently the guard had alerted his superior when Tillis arrived; a bird-like man with thinning hair reaching out from static electricity, a prominent nose, and a shiny forehead stood waiting under the harsh glare from several outdoor security lights.  A new low-slung building sided with cedar shake shingles sprawled out behind him.  The man was sweating even though the night had cooled considerably.  Tillis thought he looked as if he had just bitten into a lemon.     

“Mr. Tillis, I presume.  I’m Francis Jensen.  Director of The Lakes.”

“I’m sorry to bring you out at this hour.  And on a Sunday evening.  I wouldn’t have bothered you this way if it wasn’t important, Mr. Jensen.”

“Let’s talk inside, Mr. Tillis.”

“You can call me Tillis.”

“Just Tillis?”

“Just Tillis.”

“Very well.”

Tillis followed the officious man into the conference center, and after Tillis declined refreshments the two sat in a pair of overstuffed chairs arranged in front of a natural rock fireplace.

“Mr. Jensen, I know you are probably aware that the FDLE Economic Fraud and Crimes Task Force has been targeting insurance fraud in the health care industry recently.”

The man suddenly looked ill.  Tillis was quite aware that rehab facilities were often creative with the coding and billing submitted to insurance companies.  The insurance companies were equally aware of the games being played.  As far as Tillis was concerned, the players were on level ground and could fight it out among themselves.  But he was setting the stage, and making certain that Mr. Jensen was in a cooperative frame of mind.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Jensen replied tentatively.

“Well, as the senior Special Agent on the Task Force, I want to put your mind at ease.  This has nothing to do with that.”

“Oh.  Yes, well, that’s certainly a relief.  Of course, that’s not to say we engage in any improper practices whatsoever, you understand.”

Tillis smiled.  “This concerns a very serious matter that may involve one of your patients.  This individual is not a suspect, but is a person of interest in an ongoing criminal investigation.  His name is Marc Mason.  He’s in the sixth week of an eight week no contact period.”

“I see.  Of course we are bound by doctor patient confidentiality.  That is sacrosanct.  I’m not able to discuss Mr. Mason’s condition or treatment plan.  But we recognize that life’s exigencies sometimes demand certain exceptions to the no contact rule.  If it’s absolutely necessary.  We want to be as accommodative to the FDLE as possible.”  The fidgeting man offered helpfully.

“Actually, Mr. Jensen, my interests are quite the opposite in this case.”

“The opposite?”  The Director of The Lakes appeared confused.

“The FDLE would like the remaining two weeks of Mr. Mason’s no contact period to be vigorously enforced.  No exceptions.”  Tillis replied sternly.

“Oh.  I see.  Well, Mr. Mason did sign himself into this facility.  We can’t legally prevent him from leaving.  But we will certainly be very strict about our policy.  The only exception would be a serious family emergency.”

“I would definitely want you to insist upon proof of that.  Of a family emergency.  Written verification of some type.  For your records.”

“Of course.  That seems prudent.”  Director Jensen was nodding the entire time he spoke.

“And may I assume that Mr. Mason would not be informed of any attempted contact that failed to meet the threshold which you’ve established?”  Tillis raised an eyebrow as he ended the question.

“You may, sir.  Such notification would defeat the purpose of the rule.  It would not be in the best interests of the patient.  In my opinion.”

“I thought so.  You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Jensen.  The FDLE is appreciative.  Will you be personally supervising any attempted contact with Marc Mason?”

“You may count on it.”  Director Jensen stated with conviction.

“Do you know whether the no contact rule has been violated to date with respect to Mr. Mason?”

“No.  No.  It has not.  I would have been informed.”  Mr. Jensen was obviously searching his memory as he spoke.

Tillis placed his card into the sweaty palm of the Director of The Lakes.  The card identified him as Special Assistant to the Governor.  “I would like our meeting tonight to remain confidential for the time being.  Our investigation is at a critical stage.”

“Certainly.”  Director Jensen was obviously relieved that the meeting was coming to an end.

“And I have one more favor to ask of you, Mr. Jensen.”

The bird-like man studied the card.  “Of course.”

Tillis paused until he’d reestablished eye contact with Jensen.  “Please call my personal cell immediately if anyone should attempt to make contact with Marc Mason.”

“Yes.  Yes, of course.  I don’t see how that information would fall within the doctor patient privilege.  I’m more than happy to be of assistance to the Governor.  I voted for him, you know.”

Orlando Executive Airport was deserted.  It was nearly one a.m. as Tillis taxied to his leased hangar.  With the plane nearly parallel to its sliding doors, he pushed hard on the left brake pedal and brought the power up on the right engine.  The King-Air spun around until the tail was pointed directly at the center of the steel double doors.  In the morning one of the field attendants would use a motorized tug that attached to the nose wheel assembly to carefully back the aircraft into the hangar.  Tillis breezed through the shutdown checklist by heart, and climbed out of the plane with his black nylon overnight bag and a beat-up brown leather flight bag that also doubled as a briefcase.

After spinning the dial on the combination lock, Tillis pushed the hangar doors in opposite directions to reveal a red convertible 1964 Pontiac GTO tripower with four on the floor and every option offered in a year when Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater fought for the hearts and minds of the American people. The classic vehicle was so perfect that Tillis had left it entirely stock, choosing to even forgo twenty-first century ignition and braking technology. 

The general aviation field was only five minutes away from Executive Palms - the exclusive condominium high rise where Tillis owned a penthouse unit.  The Orlando condo was not only centrally located and convenient, but was also his legal address for residency purposes.  Florida was one of the few states without a state income tax; Georgia was not.

Tillis put the top down and brought the 389 cubic inches to life.  Then idled past the hangars and onto the boulevard that led to his condo.  The deep and powerful notes produced by the barely taxed engine were soothing to his ears, and marked the end of a marathon weekend.