Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red Read online

  “He was admitted after being transported via medevac.” Her eyes, widening, froze on the screen. “Oh, I see what you mean.”

  “You were able to bring up the records?”

  “Nearly a hundred pages of them,” Drummond said, turning her monitor toward Harry. “Does this figure match the one flagged in your audit?”

  Harry whistled while squinting to better regard the bill for Tripp Van Dorn’s treatment, which stretched into the seven figures. “It does. Boy, oh, boy, right?”

  Drummond turned the monitor back around. “I think I can explain the discrepancy your system caught. Normally, convalescent and rehabilitative care is separated from the general bill. But in this case, for some reason, they were lumped together.”

  “Yes.” Harry nodded. “That makes sense. It would explain pretty much everything. Guess the machines did their job this time.”

  “Thankfully.”

  “Think you’d be able to print that file out for us, Ms. Drummond?”

  Her expression tightened, looking like that of a student who’d just gotten a bad test grade handed back to her. “Actually, Mr. Yarborough, we don’t use paper anymore. A cost-saving measure. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course I do. That was just a little test we’re required to perform. You’d be shocked at the paper expense many hospital billing systems continue to maintain. Talk about waste, right?”

  Drummond looked visibly relieved. “Indeed, sir, indeed. I can e-mail the records to you if you wish.”

  Harry stiffened a bit, having no Department of Health and Human Services e-mail address he could provide. “Well, I was actually thinking that, well . . .”

  I fished a thumb drive I always carried from my bag. “We prefer portable storage drives these days,” I explained, handing it over. “Because of the concern over viruses and our security software not letting certain attachments through.”

  “Very wise.” Frances Drummond nodded, taking the drive. “It’ll be just a few minutes.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Harry’s trademark scowl returned as soon as we were back in the elevator.

  “Had to one-up me, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know it was a competition.”

  He smirked again, something I could get used to. “I was pretty good in there. Admit it.”

  “You were terrific. You really should raise your fees, Harry.”

  “How would you know? You never pay your bills anyway.”

  “Because you never send me any.”

  “Always hiding behind the technicalities, aren’t you, Jessica?”

  While my faith in Harry’s detective prowess didn’t really need any further reinforcement, the truth was I seldom got to see him in action. I’d ask him to do something, and almost invariably, he got it done. Out of sight, out of mind, right? But today I’d witnessed firsthand the kind of magic he did that normally flew under even my radar. Along with George Sutherland, Harry was probably the best detective I’d ever worked with.

  George . . .

  I realized it had been well over an hour since I’d last tried him, and pulled out my phone as soon as we were headed back to the adjoining parking garage.

  “Damn,” Harry said, pulling the ticket from his pocket.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I forgot to ask them if they validate. Could have saved you twelve bucks.”

  “Add it to my bill,” I said.

  I was about to press George’s number again when an incoming call came in from Seth Hazlitt.

  “I’m at the Clifton Clinic, Jess. Where are you?”

  “Mass General. I’ll explain everything when I get home. Tell me about George.”

  “Just come straight here once you’re back. I’ll be waiting.”

  “That’s four hours from now, Seth.”

  “I know,” he said flatly. “Like I said, I’ll be waiting. Oh, and Mort gave me a message to relay.”

  “Pray tell.”

  “Autopsy report came back on Tripp Van Dorn. You were right about that bruise on the back of his head. Under closer examination, it was there plain as day. So consider your suspicions confirmed, Jess. The young man was murdered.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  True to his word, Seth was waiting outside the Clifton Clinic when Harry McGraw and I pulled up. My thoughts were coming so feverishly, and my heart was pounding so hard, that as I climbed out of Harry’s rental, I thought the sound of the surf pounding the rocks below was coming from inside my own head.

  As Seth approached us, I couldn’t help but consider how the sheer face and precarious grade of the bluffs on which the clinic had been constructed formed an apt metaphor for the past four days, starting with Mimi Van Dorn’s collapse at the library. I was just trying to hold on for dear life when we met Seth halfway to the clinic entrance.

  “I’ve got nothing new to tell you,” he reported. “All they’ve said is that George Sutherland is no longer a patient and they have no idea of his whereabouts.”

  “Did you try Hill House?”

  “No sign of him there either, but he hasn’t checked out.”

  “Meaning he’s disappeared,” Harry concluded.

  “Or somebody made him disappear,” I said, holding my gaze on the wide facade of the building, which narrowed to conform with the general shape of the bluffs. “You call Mort?”

  “I figured it best I wait on that for you to get here.”

  I pushed a hand into my bag. “I’ll call him.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I was trying to recall the last time Mort had used his siren, but he pulled off the road that had been built to accommodate access to the clinic with the heavy whop-whop-whop splitting the air and flashing lights piercing the darkness. He pulled right up to the no-parking zone directly in front of the entrance and practically leaped down from the driver’s seat.

  “I’m guessing you had another eventful day,” he said to me, after exchanging a nod with Harry.

  “It’s not over yet, Mort.”

  “Well, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, reverting to calling me that yet again, “let’s see what we can see.”

  The Clifton Clinic was required to remain open and accessible twenty-four hours a day, even though it lacked an emergency room. I wasn’t sure why exactly the law required that and didn’t much care at this point, as I fell into step alongside Seth, trailing Mort through the sliding glass doors into the lobby, which was bright and airy even at this hour. Harry McGraw brought up the rear.

  “Sheriff Metzger to see Dr. Clifton,” Mort announced upon reaching the front desk.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here, Sheriff, but he’s seeing patients at present.”

  “Please tell him to come down, unless he’d prefer we go up. His choice, ma’am.”

  “I understand.”

  “Make sure your boss does as well.”

  The receptionist picked up her phone, dialed two numbers, and spoke too softly for me to hear before cupping her hand over the receiver mic.

  “Dr. Clifton would like to know what this is about.”

  “His missing patient,” Mort snapped in response, before I could chime in.

  I still wanted to say something to ease the helplessness I was feeling, but remained silent, since I was well aware that nothing I could say at this point was going to make things any better.

  The lobby was so quiet at this hour that we could hear the elevator descending through the walls. We were all watching when the cab slid open and Charles Clifton emerged. He was wearing a white lab coat for the first time in my presence, his usual stoic demeanor noticeably flustered as he approached us.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?” he asked Mort, his eyes inventorying the rest of us.

  “Just hopin
g you can clear something up for us.”

  “I’d be happy to do that for you, but I’d like to keep this private if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Doctor,” Mort told him, “so long as you want me to consider this a formal investigation, as opposed to a nice friendly chat. Your choice.”

  Clifton nodded grudgingly. “If this is about George Sutherland, I really can’t help you.”

  “Is he or isn’t he your patient?” Mort asked.

  “He was. He is no longer. He had a change of heart this morning when we were about to start treatment.”

  “This happened in person.”

  “It did,” Clifton affirmed, trying very hard not to look in my direction.

  Seth, meanwhile, was glaring at him so intensely that I was glad there was nothing he could use as a weapon anywhere nearby.

  “Here at the clinic?” Mort resumed.

  Clifton nodded. “We thought it best he spend the night so we could monitor whatever infection had led to his fever. That way he’d be ready to start treatment as early as this morning.”

  “This would be treatment with a drug manufactured by LGX Pharmaceuticals,” I interjected, unable to hold back any longer. “The same company that manufactured the antiaging drug you prescribed for Mimi Van Dorn—both as part of clinical trials. Do I have that all right, Doctor?”

  Clifton looked surprised that I knew so much, no longer able to ignore me. “Mrs. Fletcher, this clinic’s dealings with such trials are strictly confidential, and as such, I’m not at liberty to discuss them. I’m sure Dr. Hazlitt here can explain the law to you, if need be.”

  “No, I understand the law, Doctor, just as I understand clinical trials can only proceed legally under the approval and supervision of the Food and Drug Administration. So when you say ‘confidential,’ it appears you mean keeping your trials a secret from the FDA as well.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t expect you to be an expert on the procedures involving clinical trials, in which—”

  “I’m not,” I interrupted, “which is why I consulted with one at the FDA itself to explain how things work. So perhaps what you should be explaining is how you’re enrolling patients like Mimi Van Dorn and George Sutherland in clinical trials that, for all intents and purposes, don’t exist.”

  “She’s got a point, Doctor,” Mort noted.

  Clifton swung his way. “Are you in the habit, Sheriff, of letting civilians participate in your investigations, even run them, by all appearances?”

  The question didn’t rattle Mort at all. “We decided not to call this an investigation, remember? That was your choice, Doctor, and that means this conversation falls under the category of a nice friendly chat between neighbors. And you and your clinic are our neighbors, no matter how much you might want to pretend otherwise. So if you’d prefer not to answer Mrs. Fletcher’s questions, that’s fine; I’ll just pose the same ones to you myself down at the station.”

  I stared at Clifton when he turned back toward me. “Well, Doctor?”

  “Was there a question somewhere in those accusations you hurled at me?”

  “How about you answer this one: How much did you charge Mimi Van Dorn to receive that antiaging drug you claim was part of a clinical trial?”

  “Even if that were the case, the clinic would be breaking no law on the books anywhere at present, as I’m sure Jeffrey Archibald would’ve told you himself.”

  “Let me try another question: What’s your relationship with LGX Pharmaceuticals?”

  “I wouldn’t have to answer that question, even if a professional had raised it, because of medical privilege.”

  “How about another question, then?” I persisted. “How much does LGX have invested in this clinic, or Clifton Care Partners as a whole?”

  “That’s two questions, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “So it is, and you know what they add up to? A pretty interesting scheme. Clifton Care Partners opens a bunch of these high-end, private clinics in order to enlist far more patients in pay-to-participate clinical trials.”

  “That’s an absurd accusation. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and whatever relationship I maintain with LGX is about the drugs we test on their behalf and nothing more.”

  “Really? Because that doesn’t jibe with the fact that you obviously spoke with the company’s CEO, Jeffrey Archibald, earlier today,” I told him. “Otherwise, how could you know he’d told me anything? I certainly didn’t mention it.”

  Clifton swallowed hard. I’d caught him and he knew it. But that meant nothing if it didn’t help me learn the fate of George Sutherland.

  Mort stepped forward between us. “When was the last time you saw George Sutherland, Doctor?”

  Clifton fingered his chin, nearly losing the tip in his deep cleft. “That would have been this morning when I informed him we couldn’t start his treatment until absolutely certain he wasn’t still suffering from the infection that caused his fever yesterday. He seemed disappointed and very perturbed. Practically stormed out of his treatment room.”

  “At which point he left the premises.”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since.”

  “No, Sheriff, I have not.”

  Harry McGraw cleared his throat. “Now, that’s funny,” he said, holding his cell phone up for us all to see a flashing dot on a grid map. “Because I just plugged his number into this locator app and, strangest thing, apparently he’s still in the building.”

  “And who are you?” Clifton demanded. “Don’t tell me: another friend of Mrs. Fletcher’s.”

  “Her private investigator, exactly. Want a card?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be retaining your services anytime soon.”

  “I’ve got too much work as it is, and I don’t have a business card to give you anyway.”

  “Dr. Clifton,” Mort said, as if it was his turn again, “why don’t you show us Mr. Sutherland’s treatment room.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Upstairs, the private treatment room where I’d seen George last night, and Clifton claimed to have seen him this morning, was exactly the same as it had been yesterday, except no George.

  I fished the phone from my bag again and touched GEORGE on my Favorites page. No phone rang, as I’d expected, but I heard the buzzing sound of a phone left on vibrate, and sure enough, Mort scooped George’s phone out from beneath a throw pillow on a love seat, finished in the same leather upholstery as the recliner in which George had been sitting when I’d last seen him.

  “Well,” I said, “guess that explains why George hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

  * * *

  • • •

  There was another explanation, though, one I dreaded beyond all measure.

  Back at Hill House, I asked the front desk to fetch the hotel manager and part owner, Seamus McGilray, for me. He appeared from his back office moments later in his ever-present bow tie, as prim and proper as always.

  “I trust there are no issues with your suite, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, his English accented with just a touch of his native Ireland.

  “Not at all, Seamus. But a friend of mine recently checked in who’s slipped out of touch. I’m afraid we need to check his room.”

  Very afraid, I might have said.

  McGilray didn’t need to hear anything further. He made sure the key card providing universal access to all the rooms was clipped to his belt, and he led me down the hall and up a short flight of stairs toward George’s room on the first floor.

  * * *

  • • •

  Fortunately, he wasn’t inside, given the condition we would’ve likely found him in if he had been.

  “Well, that’s a relief anyway,” Seamus said.

  Whatever relief I felt was temper
ed, though, by one obvious reality: George Sutherland was still missing.

  I returned to my room and plugged the thumb drive with Tripp Van Dorn’s medical file from Mass General into my computer. I intended to give it a more thorough check later, but for starters, I was just after one small bit of information to allay my suspicions about what I couldn’t quite grasp here.

  I found it on the second page of his voluminous file, just a simple notation that shouldn’t have surprised me at all, but still did.

  Because it changed everything.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I was seated in that nest of brand-new office furniture, waiting, when Fred Cooper stepped through the door at nine o’clock sharp.

  “Your assistant said you had an opening,” I said, rising.

  “For clients and potential clients only, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cooper said, clearly irked by my presence.

  “This is about a potential client, Mr. Cooper, just not me.”

  “Who, then?”

  “You, of course.”

  “Why don’t we talk in my office?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Cooper closed the door behind him. I’d come alone, unless you counted Harry waiting downstairs in his car, because I didn’t think I had anything to fear from Fred Cooper during a workday with the assistant he shared with another lawyer just steps away. Then again, I could be wrong, of course.

  I sat down in the same chair I’d occupied in my first visit to this office. “I’ve come by some new information I thought you might be interested in hearing, Mr. Cooper.”

  “And how could you possibly think that?”

  “Well, because you showed such an interest in Mimi and Tripp Van Dorn. Representing the mother and then dangling the son about for a time when he wanted to hire you, without ever telling him about your conflict of interest. You never did adequately explain that to me.”

  “But it’s not what brought you here today.”

  “Not at all. I actually just misspoke when I referred to Mimi and Tripp Van Dorn as mother and son. That’s why I’m here,” I said, getting to the point about what Tripp’s medical records from Mass General had revealed, “because, you see, Tripp Van Dorn wasn’t Mimi’s son at all.”