"Doc" Archives
Episode I (below)
Episode II
(click)
Episode
III
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Episode
IV
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Episode
V
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Episode
VI
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Epilogue
(click)
"Doc"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode I
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It was a typical grey
Carmel dawn. The fog sat on the ground with no apparent
intention to leave. Maybe Old Sol would show himself late in
the afternoon before he slipped behind the behemoth marine layer
of more greyness that was heading toward shore from the Pacific
horizon, but few would notice and fewer would be impressed.
The fog was the least of Francie's worries. Francie is Francie
LeVillard. She is, truth be told, the world’s foremost
consulting detective since the passing of Sherlock Holmes a
century ago. There aren’t a lot of women who are in this
profession, with good reason. Maybe it’s the kind of work that
traditionally lends itself to a male mind, or maybe because it
can get tough at times, and most women have more than enough
tough in their lives. Francie has never been traditional.
Francie, from Francine, is the great-granddaughter of
François Le Villard, whom Holmes' readers will remember was a
detective in the Deuxième Bureau in Paris, and worked with
Holmes on at least one case that we know about. Francie not only
inherited his name – albeit losing the space between the two
words – but also his genes. She was a television news reporter
in New York and Washington, D.C., before she found her home
south of the Carmel Highlands and took up solving problems
one-on-one. Hey, journalists – the good ones – are all about
investigating and finding the truth, and that’s what Francie
does as a detective.
Amazing! Fact
meets fiction in Monterey (See story at left)
So you can picture her in your mind as this story is told,
Francie is pushing forty and looks it around her eyes. She’s in
good shape because she trains in aikido three times a week and
spends hours walking by the Pacific; both are good for the soul
as well as the body. She’s almost five-seven, and tips the scale
at 135 because of the muscle. She has short dark hair framing an
oval-ish face with Basque-ish coloring as her friend Ariane
describes it. She’s certainly attractive, but she doesn’t make
it a highlight. While she appreciates being noticed, she wants
to be seen for who she is. It always gets light in the morning.
It was one recent morning, as she was leaving the post
office, that a friend stopped her as she was getting into her
car and asked her if she would meet privately with someone who
needed help. She didn’t know it at the time but would soon find
out that it had to do with a problem that had become epidemic in
this country – the theft of prescription drugs from doctors’
offices. The explosion in legal pharmaceuticals produced a
concomitant explosion in users – called patients in polite
society – and millions of them then became addicts. Willie
Sutton said he held up banks because that was where the money
was. Now people were stealing from doctors and pharmacies
because that was where the drugs are.
The Central Coast of California is marvelously unique in many
ways, but it is not immune from the plague of drug-hungry
criminals willing to ruin the lives of others along with their
own. It got up close and personal for Francie when she met with
that someone who needed help. That person was "Doc" Hardwicke.
(His real name was Hurlbut but he hadn’t used it except on
government documents since even his oldest patients could
remember.)
Doc was also Congressman Hardwicke. He had jumped into an
unwinnable race for Congress in the vain hope of turning the
thinking around in Washington and to upgrade the nation’s sorry
health care system. The pundits had written off Doc’s candidacy
from the get-go, terming the race unwinnable for any challenger.
The incumbent shared that view and it apparently went to his
head.
Oops. Large egos tend to crowd out real thinking. So not
everyone was surprised when it was intimated in a local
alternative weekly that the Congressman was enjoying an intimate
dalliance with one of his campaign aides. Then the story jumped
to the headlines of the mainstream media. This happened when the
husband of the aide found the dalliers twixt the sheets at a
motel in another county. He registered his displeasure by
emptying both barrels of a twelve-gauge...at the television on
which they had been watching a dirty movie. No one was hurt, but
the incumbent took the cue. He promptly and appropriately
withdraw his candidacy. He still won 20% of the vote. Linda
Lovelace fans, perhaps.
So Doc went to Washington, and though he didn't make sea
changes, he did raise high the banner of consciousness,
particularly in the area of the nation’s health. He also
remembered who had sent him to represent them, earning high
marks from his first term because he paid serious attention to
the needs of his constituents. So happy were the locals with his
service that Doc became something of a biennial favorite in the
voting booth. He was consistently in the eighty percentile in
public support, and for the second decade of his service he drew
only titular opposition. But he never let it go to his head.
Francie couldn’t imagine why Doc might need her help, or
why they should meet out of the public eye. Their mutual friend
had told Doc that one of Francie’s favorite walks was from
Monastery Beach over to the mouth of the Carmel River, so they
set up a meeting for the next morning on a bench above the
beaten path with a gorgeous view of Point Lobos – when the fog
lifted, if it lifted – and very few fellow travelers.
Francie was five minutes early and Doc was precisely on time.
She liked that. Politicians usually had egos the size of
Delaware, and doctors were notorious about keeping people
waiting. This man held both titles but didn’t suffer from either
reputation. The Congressman was an inch or two over six feet and
slightly stooped, probably from greeting and treating so many
smaller people. Thin but not gaunt, with an angular face and a
full head of greyish hair, cut shorter than long. He looked
healthier than his sixty-eight years by maybe a decade, except
this morning because worry and/or a lack of sleep had taken a
toll.
They sat down on the bench. He looked around. "Good spot," he
said.
"We shouldn't be over-heard," she said, responding to his
observation.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he peered at her briefly. She
could see that he had made a quick and affirmative judgment
about her, no doubt atop what he had heard about her from their
friend.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, respecting his time.
"Right to the point," he said. "I like that. Thank you.
She gave him a brief nod.
"You probably know that while I have been in Congress, I have
kept my medical office open. I have a young doctor and my old nurse. I
shouldn't put it that way; she's not so old but I mean that
she's been with me for years. They’ve been holding down the
fort. I don't see patients anymore, except maybe a few who
really need me, but I consult with Jeremy – Jeremy Barrett, he's
the doctor, very bright young man – Harvard and then Yale
Medical School – and I consult with him when he needs me."
Doc sighed and then continued, "And Eileen Adler is the
nurse. A real workhorse, and a favorite with the patients. She
is the epitome of the attentive health care worker who knows
everyone who walks in the door."
"And the problem?"
"The problem is that someone is stealing drugs from the
office."
"As in?"
"Vicodin and OxyContin."
"That's not good, but why haven't you called in the police?
They're pretty good about finding out who's doing that sort of
thing."
Doc was quiet. Francie suddenly knew why.
* * * * *
Why was Doc suddenly quiet? How did the ever-intuitive
consulting detective know? And what was she going to do about
it? Be sure to catch the next episode of "Doc" on
December 15th.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Doc"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode II
This is the second episode of "Doc" featuring
Francie LeVillard. But before telling this tale, you need to
hear what happened on the day of Francie’s debut...on December
First. This Monterey Mystery story is about the theft of drugs
from a doctor’s office. On the day of the first episode, a man
stole drugs from a pharmacy in Monterey. This might not seem
like a big deal to you readers in New York or Chicago, but
Monterey is a small town. It was a big deal. The guy was quickly
captured, but that didn’t stop tongues from wagging that this
was a failed marketing ploy for Monterey Mystery. Folks were
joking, of course, but they stopped when learning that the
criminal had died...possibly from having ingested what he stole.
For the earlier episode, please go to the Archives.
* * * * * * *
The drug problem in our country has climbed to such heights
that more people die from ingesting too much of the wrong drug –
usually prescription pharmaceuticals – than die on our highways.
As reported in our first episode, Doc Hardwicke discovered that
someone was stealing Vicodin and OxyContin from his office. Doc,
who spends little time treating patients since he won a seat in
Congress representing California’s Central Coast twenty years
earlier, had sought a meeting through a mutual friend with
Francie LeVillard, the eminent consulting detective. His hope
was that she could stop the theft and clean up the problem.
When she asked the Doc why he hadn’t gone to the police,
since this was something they were used to dealing with, he had
suddenly gone quiet. She gave him a moment to explain, but when
he didn’t, she did.
"Oh," she said. "You know who it is."
He looked her hard in the eyes. "I was told you were sharp. I
didn't realize..."
"It was one of two things," Francie said to him patiently.
"Either you were worried about the political repercussions, but
that didn't seem like you, or it was someone you didn't want to
confront."
He looked in her face, nodding his grey head slowly,
appreciative of her mind. "Yes, it's Eileen."
"Ouch," Francie said, sharing his pain that it was his
long-time, once-trusted nurse who was pilfering the drugs. "How
sure are you?"
"I'm sure," he told her, taking a deep breath and letting it
out again. "But I don’t have any proof. I can’t force it without
proof. That’s why I asked to see you. You have a reputation for
discretion."
Francie didn’t need to tell him that discretion was not a
likely outcome. "But she had to know that at some point the fact
that drugs were missing would be noticed." Francie knew this
from her reporter days, "You must have regular inventories of
Schedule I drugs."
"Of course, it’s required by law." He stopped there.
"Ahhh," Francie said, realizing the situation. "She’s the
person who does the inventory."
Doc nodded his head again. They were sitting on a bench
overlooking – if the fog would break – Point Lobos, from just
south of Ribera Road. It had taken Doc a while to come to grips
with the problem and now the whole story had come out in a
matter of minutes.
"Have you spoken to her about this at all, even to mention
that you thought some drugs might be missing? Or to Dr.
Barrett?" Barrett was the junior physician in the office.
He shook his head. "No, I knew it was her, but I didn’t know
what to say to her."
"So you don’t know what she is stealing the drugs for?" she
asked.
He looked at her somewhat surprised.
Francie continued, "She’s not using the stuff herself. You
would have noticed that. So is she selling it or giving it to
someone." She saw a light go on in his head and then immediately
the wheels were turning, albeit it in the wrong direction. "No,"
she insisted to him firmly, "This is not something you can
handle yourself."
His face showed surprise that she had read him, and the
surprise gave way to the deeper, unhappy second thoughts that
he’d ever opened up this Pandora’s Box. But he was also a bright
man, and not a coward, and he knew that regret would not close
the case.
She laid it on the line for him. "Surely you’ve seen enough
of this problem, Doc, to know that reason doesn’t work.
Especially with someone you’ve trusted all these years. Whoever
she’s stealing the drugs for is more important than you, than
your practice, than your position in Congress. That’s pretty
ruthless. That’s not your arena, even though you’ve been in
Washington all this time." It was a joke. It wasn’t funny.
The realization of her truth drained the energy out of him,
but then he realized that she was in fact lifting the
responsibility for dealing with the situation off of his
shoulders. A range of emotions was expressed in his features as
he looked at her. She let him look. She didn’t want him to have
any more doubts...than were necessary.
Finally, he relented against his better wishes and adjusted
himself to the new reality. "What’s next? How do you work? Do I
give you a retainer?"
That was encouraging, not about getting the money, but it
showed that he had turned responsibility of the matter over to
her. Francie replied, "I won’t tell you how I work or what’s
next. I think it’s better that you have complete deniability
about what happens."
Alarm showed on his face. She explained, "You can be assured
that I will act in your best interests, for your constituents
and your patients, but it’s not likely that this will turn out
well for your nurse. I think the best thing would be for me to
wait until you are back in Washington. When will that be?"
"We’re in recess for the rest of the month. I’ll be working
in the district until then. I‘ve got a full schedule of
constituent meetings and public events. And a fundraiser or
two."
"Does she have access to her own personnel file?"
"No," he said, smiling. "I always trusted her, but that
wouldn’t have been correct."
"I’d like to get a look at it."
The Doc chuckled for the first time since he’d sat down. "I
had a feeling you might. I have it in the car," he said, and
nodded in the direction of the parking area.
"Good for you," she told him, not in the least patronizing.
This was going to be hard for him, but not as bad as it might
have been if he had tried to deal with it himself. "And as far
as the costs, I don’t know how this will play out, but I expect
that ten thousand will cover everything. If it gets more
complicated, I’ll let you know."
He raised his eyebrows at the price. "I didn’t realize it
would be that much," he told her, but his tone was clear that he
wasn’t negotiating, just confirming verbally what his eyebrows
had indicated.
"I’d like a $2,500 retainer to start, please," Francie said
when she saw that he wasn’t changing his mind. And she added, "I
can assure you that when this is all over, you’ll be quite
satisfied with the amount you will pay."
He smiled at her. "I know that. My checkbook is also in the
car."
They got up from the bench and walked across the top of the
hill. The meadow on their right and Carmel Bay on their left
were so distant in their natural tranquility from the new
problem Francie had to face. In two minutes they arrived at the
end of a road where people parked to walk. His car was an older
BMW with a faded bumpersticker that read "Doc = Rx". Francie
recognized it from a campaign that went back several cycles. He
had indeed been a prescription, of sorts. He had gotten some
important health care legislation through the storied halls of
Congress that wouldn’t have become law if he hadn’t been there.
Not everything that the country needed – he was fighting
enormously entrenched and well-financed interests – but an
important step forward.
He took a file folder from a beaten-up leather briefcase in
the trunk, checked to make sure it was the right one and handed
it to her. Then he pulled out a checkbook and wrote out the
retainer. She watched his face as he did so. Unlike some of her
clients who had shown doubt in their eyes as they took this
first step, Doc knew what he was doing. So did Francie, but that
was for him to find out when the job was done.
As she walked back across the meadow to her own car parked by
the Bay School, she felt an unpleasant tingling at the base of
her spine. No, she knew, this wasn’t going to be an
open-and-shut case – actually, they never were – but this one
smelled of a hidden danger. Drug cases were never easy, mainly
because they often took place down the pharmaceutical rabbit
hole. That’s what drugs did to people, when they took too many
of them. Drugs not only killed pain, physical and emotional, but
they distorted reality. And with reality went reason and
morality. Francie knew that she would have to be particularly
alert, to always be vigilant and not to be sure of anything she
thought she knew.
She arrived at this conclusion and her car at the same time
as a cold breeze blew over the water. She knew it was a sign.
She didn’t know of what.
* * * * *
Who was so close to Eileen Adler that she would steal drugs?
What did the FBI know about her, if anything? Why did Francie
switch up to a .357 magnum? Those questions are answered in
Episode III, right here on New Year’s Day 2012.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Doc"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode III
This is the third episode of "Doc" from Monterey
Mystery. For the earlier episodes, please go to the Archives.
* * * * * * *
Francie LeVillard knew from her years as a television news
reporter and now as a consulting detective that the first place
to start in a case when you knew the crime and the criminal was
to figure out the motive. A nurse was stealing drugs from Doc
Hardwicke’s office where she had been a trusted employee for
more than two decades. While Doc was in Washington serving in
the House as representative of the people of the Central
California Coast, he left the operation of his medical practice
to a young doctor, Jeremy Barrett, and his once-trusted nurse,
Eileen Adler. Doc told Francie that it was Nurse Adler who had
been taking Vicodin and OxyContin from his storage locker.
Francie needed to know why. Her instincts told her that this
was personal, and she went online to see if she could find the
evidence to provide at least the preliminary confirmation of her
feelings, or maybe a new direction in which to look. Because of
prior cooperation with local law enforcement on a number of
cases that ranged across the Monterey Peninsula – and some well
beyond – Francie had earned certain discreet privileges that
were unofficial and based entirely on personal relationships.
For instance, Mike Olsen, who was attached to the FBI office
in San Jose but worked out of his home near Salinas. They had
worked together on several cases during which they had developed
mutual high regard. In one of her investigations, Francie had
turned up evidence of a terrorist ring trying to smuggle a
nuclear trigger into the United States. In another she had
discovered that a couple of Mexican cartel hit men were using
phony INS identification to operate in the southwest. They had
made the mistake of coming to Monterey.
So it was that when Francie, infrequently, asked Olsen if she
could check out some leads that normally weren’t accessible to
private investigators, he gave her the appropriate computer
access codes. To cover him and protect herself, she had set up
her computer (with the help of a her "spook" friend Ariane
Chevasse) to mask her entry to all of the places where she might
be looking. If anyone happened upon her trail, which was highly
unlikely to begin with, they would find that it led to a public
access computer in a library Fullerton.
Before she looked behind the secrets curtain, however,
Francie googled the nurse’s name and came up with...almost
nothing. Less than a handful of newspaper items that mentioned
her as one of Doc Hardwicke’s medical support staff while he was
in Our Nation’s Capitol, and one short bit from way back about
her losing her husband in a car wreck. According to that
article, Eileen Adler was driving, wearing a seatbelt, and their
infant son was in a baby seat in the back. They both came
through the accident unscathed, but the husband/father, who had
not been wearing a belt, had gone through the windshield.
It didn’t have to mean anything, but a little light went off
in the back of Francie’s suspicions-tuned brain. The accident
had occurred twenty-four years earlier, which would make the son
today of prime drug age. There was nothing else about the
accident in the news archives. It was an old story and most of
the law enforcement types working at the time would have
retired, but that didn’t mean they would have lost their memory,
nor their instincts.
Next Francie googled the son. As an infant, Garry had his
father’s last name, Debb, and nothing turned up, but then on a
hunch she checked "Garry Adler," and bang-zoom, there were a
handful of stories about arrests; three traffic stops, including
driving without a license and failure to stop, and – surprise,
surprise – two drug busts. Both were for small amounts of
heroin.
Francie knew that the newspapers only showed Adler’s name
because he was over eighteen at the time of those arrests. If
he’d been arrested earlier, the papers would have only described
him as a juvenile. She could check that later, but she already
knew that she would find that he had had prior run-ins with the
law. She shifted her attention back to the mother and plying
through county records she discovered that the widow had taken
sole title to their house in Carmel Valley after the husband was
killed. That was to be expected. Francie also read that she had
paid off the balance of the mortgage, probably with insurance
money. Not unusual, of course, but again that little light went
on.
More searching, and then she found..."Bingo." Adler’s husband
had had a half-million dollars policy on his life, with a double
indemnity payoff. That was not so usual, neither the high amount
nor the two-fer. But sweet, Francie thought, for the two
remaining Adlers. She wondered if she would turn up any evidence
of marital difficulties before the, um, accident.
As pleased as she was with what she had managed to learn in
just thirty minutes online, Francie was aware of that feeling
again...that this was more perilous than it had at first
appeared. She sat back and took a deep breath. The last time she
had felt that tingling in her lowest chakra, she had been
thinking that a sweet little old lady she was investigating
couldn’t possibly be a murderer times four.
Suddenly the woman had sprung at her with a meat cleaver,
trying to make her number five. Francie had ended the killer
granny’s career by firing her Beretta .25 Bobcat at the woman,
but it had taken three shots – all good hits – to stop her. It
was after that that she had moved up to a .357 magnum with much
more heft. The cleaver had grazed Francie’s hip.
Francie left her office and walked into the kitchen to brew a
cup of tea. Thinking back to her talk with the Doc, she realized
that he, too, had known that this wasn’t a simple case of theft.
She was clear now that she would need to find out all she could
about both this woman and her son before she took to the stage.
And it would have to be she herself who would set the scene.
A steaming mug in her hand, she returned to her desk. Her
next look was at the nurse’s bank records. What she discovered
was that even after paying off the house, she still had several
hundred thousand dollars, which she had placed in three
different banks in three states. That seemed fairly conclusive
that stealing the drugs was not about avarice. Not with what the
stolen drugs being worth under $5,000, according to Doc
Hardwicke.
Intuitively Francie had known the woman wasn’t stealing
because she couldn’t afford to give her son the money to buy the
drugs. Which still left that huge motive gap. Also disturbing
was that the nurse had to know that eventually the pilfered
drugs would be missed. It could be that there was a time factor
– some kind of urgent need for the drugs – but it didn’t feel
like that. There had to be an explanation; juries don’t convict
without a motive. From past investigations, Francie knew that
when the motive wasn’t immediately clear, she needed to tread
very carefully.
She had several options for how to proceed, and she also
wasn’t in a hurry for a confrontation. With Doc not heading back
to Washington right away, she had the time to be that very
careful. She decided to put her ear to the ground, as they say,
and listen to the rumblings. There was a fellow she knew on The
Peninsula who was well-connected in ways the police weren’t;
though they certainly wished they could be. This was a guy who
was tied into the Sicilian community where the community
telegraph knew just about everything about everyone, for better
or worse.
Francie gave a ring at his store in Sand City. He was there.
Of course, he said, he could see her. She heaved a big sigh.
This was a delicate move generally. When you ask for
information, you risk giving some away. This man heard a lot,
and "paid" for it in kind. She didn’t want her investigation to
become public, not yet.
Angelo Crespino was the large and loud owner of Big A’s
Rental in Sand City. Their motto was "You Wanna - We Gotta" and
it did very well for him. Plus, he had family working for him at
minimum wage, when they were on the books, and they did
everything from filling propane tanks to pouring at parties. His
gorgeous daughter handled outside sales and his less gorgeous
but fierce wife kept the books.
It wasn’t that Angelo was so large – he says five-ten and 250
pounds though he was a little high on the first and a bunch low
on the second – but he had natural and powerful presence. His
laughter could fill a room. More to the point, he did a lot of
favors for people. No one who knew him ever went hungry, and
others had borrowed money that they still owed years later.
Sometimes they did favors for Angelo.
He wasn’t a godfather, by any stretch of the imagination. He
didn’t have people killed, though when someone needed it, they
might be brought out behind the woodshed for a, um, talking to.
Nothing that would upset the police. In fact, they appreciated
Angelo’s role in the community. He maintained a degree of order
that law enforcement wouldn’t have been able to match if they
had tried, and they were glad they didn’t have to. He would
often provide them with information when a situation required
official intervention, especially if those involved were outside
of the Italian and Sicilian communities.
Francie spent some time in the kitchen making pans and dishes
messy and then headed to Sand City.
* * * * *
What did Angelo know about the Garry Adler and his mother the
nurse? What did Francie have to give him in exchange? The case
develops in Episode IV of "Doc" right here on January 15th.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Doc"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode IV
This is the fourth episode of "Doc"
from Monterey Mystery. For the earlier episodes, please go to
the Archives. Francie LeVillard, detective extraordinaire,
living and working on the Monterey Peninsula, has gone to see
Angelo Crespino, a man with his ear to the ground, especially
when it comes to knowing the who’s and how’s and why’s of
activities that approached and often crossed the line of
legality.
* * * * * * *
Angelo and Francie were on the same side, especially after
she had helped Sal Domenico, one of the more successful
businessman in the area, pull his daughter out from under the
influence of some nefarious con artists. Sal's imprimatur meant
a lot, so when Francie had gone to Angelo for "advice" a number
of cases back, he was interested to meet the "white girl
detective" who had scored so high with a higher-up in his
circle. And ever the businessman, he wanted to make sure that if
she needed to rent anything, she would rent from his Big A’s Rental where their motto was "You Wanna - We Gotta"
.
By the time she dropped by on the Doc Hardwicke case,
Crespino considered Francie a confidante. She would always bring
him something when she came to pick his brain, usually a
freshly-made something that he could smell when she walked
through the door. The way to a man's heart, they say, is down
the gullet. On this occasion she brought him a tub of chopped
chicken liver. It was from an abridged version of a recipe she'd
learned in New York that included bacon.
"Whassat?" he demanded, staring at the container she was
carrying with a fresh baguette she'd picked up on the way at La
Bicyclette in Carmel. Francie put the container on the counter
and waved the baguette in front of his face. "It's bread," she
told him. "What did you think it was?"
"I know that part," he said garrulously, "but what's that?"
"Close your eyes," she ordered. This was not a new routine so
he complied. She opened the lid and raised the container to a
few inches below his nose. He sniffed noisily, opened his eyes,
peered at the chopped liver, and asked in his best Brooklynese,
"Chopt livah?"
"That's right, Angelo. I thought you deserved a treat." She
broke off a piece of the bread and used it as a scoop to deliver
the treat to its destination. He took it from her, examined it,
sniffed it again, and then put a large bite in his mouth. He
chewed tentatively at first, and then with approvingly "mmm"
sounds as he masticated more enthusiastically.
"Oh, my, that is good," he said, as he tore off another piece
of bread and started the process again. This time he chewed more
slowly, savoring the textures and the flavors. When he was done,
he turned his head sideways, granted her a broad smile from both
his mouth and the facing eye. "Ya know, Francie, you cook like
this, you don't even have to be good-looking...and you are that,
too. I don't understand how you ain't married."
"Oh, Angelo, you say the nicest things...I think. But the
fact is that the guy would have to be so wonderful, I wouldn't
come to town any more and then what would you do?"
"Starve!" Angelo answered. He fed himself again. When he was
done, oohing and aahing his way through his third taste, he
said, "So you want something big, I guess, huh?"
She lowered her voice. "Not so big, Angelo. Maybe nothing at
all. I don't know. I was wondering if you knew a guy?"
"Knew a guy? Here?"
She nodded.
"Come on, I know everybody. What's his name?"
She leaned forward slightly and told him, "I know you are the
soul of discretion, but this is particularly important. If he
heard that I was asking, there could be problems, you know?"
"Trust me, Francie," he said, showing a hurt expression.
"Don't feed me that hangdog stuff, Angelo. I don't know what
I'm dealing with yet, and that's why I'm talking to you. A
really good guy is maybe in the sights of this bad guy, and I
wouldn't want anything to happen to him."
"Okay, I know, all right. So who is it?"
"Garry Alder," she told him quietly.
Crespino tilted his head back, raising his eyebrows as he
looked down his face at her. "Pericoloso," he said in a
tone she hadn't heard often from him. "Dangerous. Maybe matto,
crazy. He is not someone you want to be around, if you listen to
me.
Francie was taken aback by the sharpness in his voice.
"That's what I wanted to know, Angelo. I'll be careful. I
thought maybe that was the case. What is he into? Drugs?"
Angelo looked around to make sure that no one was in earshot.
"I don't think he sells, but maybe he uses, you know? Heroin, I
think. Maybe methamphetamines, too."
She had another question, one that she knew would tread on
his own cultural sensitivities, even though the person in
question wasn't Mediterranean. She lowered her voice further.
"Anything on Eileen Adler?"
He stared at her for a long time, or maybe it was just a few
seconds, but it was tangible.
"What?" she asked him.
"You don't want to get mixed up with her. She is maligna,"
he said. "You know that word?"
"Malignant, I'd guess."
"Yes, malignant. She is evil."
"Whew, I've really nailed it with you today, Angelo, haven't
I?"
"I'm telling you they are not good to be with, these two. I
look out for you, Francie. You listen to me."
"I appreciate that, Angelo, I really, do, and I will be
careful," she promised him. "But tell me, what do you know about
her that she is evil. I thought she was a nurse."
Angelo looked around again. "I can't say for sure, you know.
It was a long time ago..."
"But...?"
"I think maybe she murdered her husband."
"That's not nice," she said, "but lots of wives do that.
Okay, maybe not lots, but it sounds special to you. Did she do
it for the money?"
Angelo shook his head, "That's not what I heard. Not the
money, but she got a lot of it. It was how she did it."
"How did she do it?"
He tilted his head back again and said, "She crashed their
car into a tree. She had her baby in the back seat and she drove
into a tree on his side of the car."
"Ick," Francie said. "That is ugly. Sick."
"Maligna," Angelo repeated.
"But why?"
Angelo shook his head, "I don't know." He leaned forward
again. "But I don't think it's very, you know" – he looked down
at the chopped liver – "kosher, between her and the son."
Her eyes widened. "You mean...?"
Angelo cringed, "I don't know about that, you know, but you
don't have to do that for it to be weird, right?"
"Right," she agreed and thought, stealing drugs from your
boss-the-doctor for no apparent reason was weird enough, but
this, too.
* * * * * * *
Francie arrived at her humble 2,500-square foot ranch house
fifty yards back from a twenty-foot drop to the rocky coastline
that met with the Pacific Ocean. Her house, which size-wise must
have been the runt of the local domicile litter amidst the
neighboring abodes twice her footprint, was her sanctuary. She
backed up the driveway and into the garage, as she always did –
Boy Scouts weren't the only ones who thought it was important to
Be Prepared – and walked outside again and up to the front door.
She raised a three-inch square metal flap and pressed her left
thumb against the surface underneath. There was a click and she
pushed the door open. The garage door rolled down as she entered
the house.
With the kind of work she did, she had plenty of grateful
clients, but also some people – mostly non-clients – who were
not happy with the results. Most of the black-hats had the sense
to stay out of her way, but it wouldn't have been sensible on
Francie’s part not to take some basic precautions. She’d had
some very smart security folks put together a sensitive
perimeter-watch system that made her feel comfortable. She
didn't go overboard, since most of the west side of the house
was glass and not bulletproof.
The main part of the house was one large room, with the
kitchen to the east, looking up toward the coastal range that
climbed up on the other side of the Pacific Coast Highway. It
was a good-sized kitchen for someone who lived alone, with a
large prep island, Vulcan's home version of a professional
stove, and two sinks. She played a lot in that kitchen, for
which Angelo and other friends were grateful. There was a
walk-through between kitchen and the living/dining areas. On the
south side were her bedroom suite and a second bedroom that she
used as an office. On the north side was another bedroom suite
for the infrequent guests that she allowed to share her space,
along with a pantry, more storage space, and the entrance to the
garage.
She loved her house, for it was decorated to her taste with
her things, from the art on the walls to the linens on her bed
and the dishes and flatware. Every time she came home, even if
she’d just been to town on errands, she experienced a special
feeling of pleasure that she was there. She also had a deck on
the west side along the length of the house, with a hot tub out
of sight of her neighbors that served as her aqueous den; a
perfect appointment for the fog-besotted Central Coast.
If you knew how many hours she spent in the tub, you might
think she didn't get any work done, but in fact that was where
she did some of her most important thinking.
Francie went into her bedroom, shed her togs, wrapped herself
in a large towel, and headed for the tub. She eased into the
99-degree water and heaved a deep sigh. After about fifteen
minutes, she climbed out, dried herself off, and headed back
into the house. She had a plan for action.
* * * * *
What was Francie’s next step? A little black magic, maybe?
Was it time to step onto the stage and meet the other players?
The case develops in Episode V of "Doc" right here on February 1st.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Doc"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode V
This is the fifth episode of "Doc" from
Monterey Mystery. For the earlier episodes, please go to the
Archives.
* * * * * * *
There are many spiritual traditions, particularly in the
black arts, where the practitioner wants a piece of the subject
of a rite to hold in her hand, or at least to behold, up close
and personal. Maybe a lock of hair, or a piece of their
clothing. Something that brings their energy to the party, so to
speak. Francie LeVillard, the consulting detective who was
trying to put a proper end of drug thefts from Doc Hardwicke's
office, wasn't trying to get a piece of these people, at least
not yet. But she did want to get a better personal feel for whom
she was dealing with, so she drove out Carmel Valley to get a
look at their house.
Their house was actually two houses; one a smaller, carbon
copy of the other. The main house was probably 1400 square feet
and the small unit was probably half that size. The main house
sat closer to the road while the smaller unit was in a right
rear corner of the lot. They were both simple, single story
buildings with pale green aluminum siding. It looked like the
contractor had gotten a deal on materials and built the
contractee a two-fer.
Before Francie had driven out, she had checked the area for
similar addresses. Indeed, their property was on Calabasas Drive
and not too far away was Calabasas Court. She had also pulled
out one of her favorite props. It was a pad that she’d had
printed up with the name and logo of a non-existent real estate
company. On the top sheet she had written "Rental" then beneath
it the correct number of their house, and "Calabasas Court."
Francie tore off the note, as she would have gotten it from a
realtor, and set off for a look-see.
Her ride out the Valley had been delayed until Doc Hardwicke
had left Monterey for his day job, which was as a member of
Congress. Francie had told him she didn’t want to step onto the
stage, as it were, with him in town. He departed for Washington
after the end of the summer break.
Francie drove out to the address and got out of her car,
clutching the piece of paper as she walked up to the main house. It
being a Tuesday morning at 10:30, she expected the homeowner –
and drug theft suspect – Eileen Adler to be on the job at Doc's
office. She didn't just presume; she had called the Doc to
confirm her schedule. Also, there was no car in the drive-way.
Of course it was possible that the son was home – she was
guessing in the rear unit – and it was for him that she had
brought the piece of paper.
She knocked at on the front door. Waited. Knocked again. Then
she did what any potential renter would do; she walked around
the house looking through the windows. The walking she could do,
but not the looking. The blinds were lowered on all of the
windows, and there were drapes closed behind the blinds, even in
the back of the house. She had circled the house and then
stopped, pondered, and walked toward the smaller house. From
what she could see as she approached, the blinds and drapes were
the same, and similarly positioned.
When she was about ten feet away, the front door suddenly
opened wide and a young man appeared, standing on the door sill.
He was barefoot, wearing worn jeans, and no shirt. His skin was
white and looked more so because he had Goth tattoos on his arms,
chest and neck. She recognized him, however, from his booking
photo in the news accounts; he was Garry Adler.
"Oh," she said, pretending surprise. "Hi, I'm here about the
rental."
He stood still, looking her over in a way that made her want
to take a shower. "Are you the owner?" she asked brightly. She
approached gingerly. "My real estate agent said this property
was for rent." She held up the piece of paper and gave him her
best confused expression.
He didn't take the paper but he looked at it. "Ain't for
rent," he said.
"Oh, but it says..."
"You got the wrong address. This is Calabasas Drive. That
says Court."
She might have given him credit for noticing, and even asked
directions to the other location, but there wasn't the
opportunity. He stepped back and shut the door firmly.
"Oh," she said again, for effect to no one at all. She stood
for a moment, then turned and walked back to her car, as any
innocent would. In case he was watching, she took out a map and
looked at it as if she were searching for the correct address.
Then she drove off. She reflected on what she had experienced
about the house. It wasn't overtly intimidating like the house
above the Bates Motel but with all the windows covered, there
was a cloistered feeling about the place. As regards the young
man, Francie thought Angelo's description – dangerous and crazy
– were pretty much on the money. She wouldn't see him again
without a bullet in the chamber.
Next on her agenda was to see the nurse herself, and what
better venue than the Doc's office. As might be expected, his
brief time back in the district meant that he didn't see many
patients, and Francie had set it up with him that her appearance
at his office didn’t require that he be there. He would have her
come to his office to pick up a prescription for Fluocinolone
(for eczema) but he needed her to first fill out an inpatient
form at his office.
Francie knew she was taking a risk that the son would call
his mother to mention her visit, but she didn't think that she
had made such an impression on him that he needed to phone her
rather than waiting until she had come home, if ever. Still, she
took off the blue-checked shirt she'd worn to Calabasas Drive
and put on an ocher vest over her tee shirt. She also lost the
sunglasses that the son had seen her wearing. Walking into the
Doc’s waiting room, she used her energy and posture to make
herself seem unimportant.
Nurse Adler handed her a clipboard with a three-page patient
history form and a pen. Francie thanked her quietly and went
across the room to fill it out. And to check her out. She
already knew that she was 46 from scanning her records. With her
undyed hair which she wore pulled back tightly into a bun, she
looked older, and cold. The white uniform didn't help; she
needed some color but she wore no make-up. She never stood up,
but Francie’s impression was that she wasn't a large woman,
maybe a couple of inches shorter than her son who was probably
five-ten.
In the time it took Francie to carefully fill out the forms,
she watched the nurse interact with the medical assistant and
two patients, and handle a couple of calls. She was all
business, and somewhere between tired and, sigh, patient. There
was also a brief interchange with Doctor Barrett who came out
from the back. Francie wouldn’t say he seemed intimidated
talking to the nurse, but it certainly wasn't the high point of
his day. Francie noted, however, that he gave herself a pleasant
smile before he disappeared back into the examination area.
Francie didn't want to appear to be an idiot with the
paperwork – she preferred to give no impression at all – so she
didn't dawdle beyond reason. When she returned the clipboard to
Nurse Adler, she kept her eyes down, and waited for her to go
through it to clear her.
"Looks okay," she said. "Here's your prescription," she
added, handing her the slip. Then Francie noticed that the woman
narrowed her gaze at her, as though she recognized Francie, but
she didn't say anything. She managed a half-smile. Francie
returned it and left.
On her way home, Francie sorted through her observations and
feelings about the woman. She not only scanned what she had seen
and heard and felt, but she revisited the recollections from the
perspective of how she might have appeared if Francie hadn't
known anything about her. While maligna didn't rise to
the top of the list of descriptions, Francie also wouldn't have
sat next to her on a bus. From what she could tell, Francie would
have been surprised to discover that the Doc and Angelo were
wrong about the woman.
* * * * *
"Allo, fille amie," Franice said when Ariane Chevasse
answered the phone.
"I know it is you," Ariane said in her delicious French accent
which she had made no effort to shed over her decades of living
in the United States. "But what, pray tell, is ‘fille amie'?"
"Glad you asked, Ariane. You know how they use the expression
‘girlfriend' here all the time?"
"Oui, bien sûr, c'est
absurde."
"I was just trying out the French version. Fille amie...girl
friend."
"Ah, and I am of the great hope that you perhaps had another
reason to call, yes?"
"But of course...," Francie replied in her own French accent.
They both laughed.
"Here's the deal," she said. "I need you to put some
electronic gear in a doctor's office for me. Nothing fancy.
Maybe a no-light camera and a couple of ears."
"Mais, c'est possible, certainement, but will this
doctor know?"
"Actually, yes, and that's the point."
"Oh, so you want to force something, is that it?"
"You are so smart, Ariane, no wonder we are friends."
"Both ways, girlfriend," she said, and they laughed again.
Then Francie explained what she wanted Ariane to do.
* * * * *
What was the plan? Was it time to wrap up the case? Were
the police to be called in? Major developments unfold in Episode
VI of "Doc" right here on February 15th.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Doc"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode VI
This is Episode VI of "Doc" featuring consulting detective
Francie LeVillard in a Monterey Mystery. For previous episodes,
please go to the archives.
* * * * *
Francie called Doc Hardwicke to let him know what she was
doing and to have him fax a letter of authorization to Ariane,
which she could show to Doctor Barrett and Nurse Adler, to allow
her to install security devices in the medical offices. Ariane
went in to see them on Friday and informed them that she would
do the work on Saturday afternoon. Their operation would not be
disrupted because the office closed at noon. She was given a set
of keys.
Francie’s presumption was that Nurse Adler or her son would
want to go in Friday night. It should be, she told herself, a
piece of cake to make a bust. She got it partly right.
Ariane and Francie went in right after close of business on
Friday. They put in the two audio bugs, one near the front door
and one in the examining room where the drugs were kept. That
was where Ariane also placed the camera. It was a remarkably
simple operation that took only ten minutes because the devices
didn’t need to be hidden, and they were only expected to be
needed for the next twelve hours.
She got that part right.
Francie had made arrangements with a realtor friend who had a
vacant office space across the street where she could park
herself with her laptop, along with some coffee and sandwiches,
to monitor the set stage in the medical office fifty feet away.
Monterey being a fairly quiet town, at least afer five in the
doctor’s row area, she didn’t imagine that she would have to
wait until three in the morning, if they were going to be making
their entry at all.
She got that part right, too.
At eleven-thirty, she happened to be looking down Cass
Street, facing south, when along came a car, moving slowly. It
pulled over to the curb a block away, and after thirty seconds
or so, the driver’s door opened and Garry Adler emerged. He
looked all around and then walked quickly to the front door of
the doctor’s office. He had a key. He was in immediately. His
entrance was corroborated by the sound picked up by the first
office bug. Francie waited until she heard him on the second bug
and then made her way across the street.
She skirted the man’s car to make sure no one was in it; it
was empty. She had a copy of the key given to Ariane, but out of
curiosity she checked the doorknob and found that it was locked.
She didn’t know if the guy was covering his back. She suspected
that it was auto-locking. She noiselessly let herself in and
quickly checked to find that the latch was in fact auto-locking.
By the light of a fish tank in the reception area Francie made
her way to the examining room.
Garry Adler obviously wasn’t worried about being discovered.
She could hear him moving about and not far away. She eased down
the hallway and through the open door she could see a flashlight
working. There were only a couple of small windows high up, but
he wouldn’t have wanted to put on the room lights.
Francie did, closing her eyes first and then opening them
slowly. There was plenty of time. He wasn’t a deer, but the
lights had the same effect.
"Game’s up, Mr. Adler," she said, taking a step into the
room.
"Hey, what’s this?" He peered at her. There was a flash of
recognition on his face. "You’re that woman who was looking for
that house to rent back a coupla weeks." He was partly confused
and increasingly upset.
Suddenly he stood a little taller, and if she had had time to
realize it, his expression turned smug. But Francie didn’t have
time to realize what she was seeing. At that moment she felt the
cold steel of the muzzle of a gun under her left ear.
Most people using guns in nefarious fashion are amateurs.
They expect a person who has a gun pointed at them to freeze.
Francie was never one to fulfill expectations. Plus her years of
aikido training had taught her to react spontaneously. She
didn’t have to think about what was happening. Instantly she
pivoted to her right, bringing her right hand down on the arm
holding the gun. Her chop was so hard she could hear the snap as
she broke the ulna. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the
arm fall and then heard the gun clatter on the linoleum floor.
Francie didn’t watch it happen because she was following
through with her left hand. Slightly cupped she swung it against
the ear of the would-be shooter, shattering the ear drum. The
heel of her hand slammed against where the lower jaw connected
with the skull and disconnected them. The victim emitted a
strange scream that turned into a deep low moan.
Francie reached down to pick up the gun but was stopped by a
nasty voice.
"Hold it," said Garry Adler. He was pointing a small
snub-nosed revolver at her, but his attention was on the figure
crumpled on the floor moaning.
Francie had had no idea when she swung at the assailant who
it was, but after the flurry of motion and seeing her on the
floor, she recognized Eileen Adler. She must have come in
another car and seen her enter the office, she thought. Or she
saw the lights in the examining room come on. Actually those
thoughts came later. What her mind was dealing with at the
moment was a dangerous man pointing a gun at her, and leering.
Suddenly there was a shot from behind her. Francie’s first
realization was that she hadn’t been shot. Her second was
hearing a yelp from son Adler and seeing blood spurting from the
arm holding the gun, above the elbow. His forearm fell. The gun
dropped to the floor. Francie turned carefully saw, standing in
the doorway, Ariane Chevasse, holding a very unladylike
semi-automatic of the .40 caliber variety, a slight trickle of
smoke rising from the muzzle.
"Are you all right?" Ariane asked, her eyes shifting quickly
from the son holding his arm to the mother moaning on the floor,
and then to Francie.
"I’m fine," Francie said, knowing in very real terms the
meaning of understatement. She wanted to know how and why Ariane
was there, but the first step was to secure the room. While
Ariane held the gun on the young man, Francie went over and
pushed him away from his gun on the floor and picked it up. Then
she grabbed his mother’s gun and stood back.
"Glad to see you,"she told Ariane.
"What do you people say? We aim to please," she replied, her
gun held as steady as if it were sitting on a tripod.
Francie went over to a phone on the wall and dialed 911. A
lot of people do that on Friday nights, everywhere in the
country. Monterey County was no exception, but she only had to
wait for four rings before she heard "Emergency dispatch."
Sometimes the voice is even, maybe bored. Not on weekend nights.
It was a mixture of tense and tired.
"This is a code 45. I’m Francie LeVillard, a friend of the
force." That alerted the dispatcher that the caller was known to
the police and could be trusted. "Two wounded, one gun shot, not
life-threatening. Situation stabilized. We need an ambulance and
a squad car," she reported and then gave dispatch the location.
"I’ll be standing out front."
They didn’t get a lot of calls like that at emergency
dispatch so it took a few seconds for the operator to process
what he’d heard, but then he was right on it. He said, "On our
way. Do you need to stay on the line?"
"Negative. We’re all right here," she told him and hung up
the phone. It wasn’t thirty seconds later that they could hear
the sirens. The police station was four blocks away. Francie
patted down Eileen Adler and then her son. They had no more
weapons. She ordered the man to get down on the floor. Holding
his arm, blooding flowing through his fingers, he resisted with
a loud moan. She kicked him hard on the side of his right knee,
and he went down.
"You okay alone?" she asked Ariane.
"Yes, I am," Ariane replied, her voice tinged with excitement
and satisfaction. "Please go welcome the police."
* * * * * * *
"‘Girl friend’," Francie told Ariane, "it somehow seems cheap
to me." They were sitting at a table at Bellagio’s two hours
later, chewing on some gluten-free garlic-anchovy pizza and
sucking on Sierra Nevada’s. The only other place open at that
hour without loud music and raucous crowds was Franklin’s, and
besides, the pizza was quite decent. That they were done with
the two women so quickly after a shooting said a lot about the
Monterey police. At Francie’s urging, the duty commander had
called the Chief of Police who vouched for her. They took
statements from both women, confirmed that Ariane’s gun was her
own, that it was properly registered, and that she had a
concealed weapons permit. They decided they could wait until
later in the morning to call Congressman Hardwicke. Francie and
Ariane would be back at ten to provide further details.
The Adlers, mother and son, made a trip up to the hospital.
Both were going to take some time to heal, but no one on the
white-hats’ side seemed the least bothered by the fact. There
would be time for the criminals to recover in the medical
facility at the county jail pending their trials. Ariane’s
equipment had done a surprisingly good job of capturing both the
picture and sound from the moment Garry Adler had entered the
examination room. He had gone right to the medicine cabinet. He
had a key to it. Both perps had guns but no carry permits, and
they had pointed them at Francie in a way that anyone – like
twelve people in a jury box looking at the tape – would have to
think they meant to kill her.
"How was it that you were monitoring your bugs?" Francie
asked Ariane.
"It made sense, non, what you said about that they
would make a last try for drugs tonight when they thought the
security would go in tomorrow. And I knew that you, ma chere
amie not hey-girlfriend, would be there for the collar. Only
I’m glad they didn’t kill you."
"Thanks to you." Francie shook her head, "I could have sworn
he was going in alone. I could see pretty well that there was no
one in his car."
"She was in another car. She must have expected him to do
this. And then she saw you going into the office. Voila."
"I also didn’t think he was someone who would have a gun.
That seemed out of character for him. He was a nasty punk, but I
couldn’t place him with a gun."
"I think the times are changing, my woman friend."
Francie chuckled, "They sure are. I need to sharpen my wits,
or find another line of work."
Ariane waved the notion away, "Bah, non. You are a
fine consulting detective. I think maybe you shouldn’t go in
without back-up, you know?"
Francie looked at this woman who had probably saved her life.
With that look of hatred in Garry Adler’s eyes, the man who
shouldn’t have a gun but did, she knew he would not have held
back.
"I think you’re right, Ariane." She looked at her with a warm
smile. "Would that be you?"
"Ah, no, that is not my work," she said leaving no room for
argument.
"That’s right," she appreciated, "You’re a spook. Not so
gritty."
"No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that, you know that. I
will be with you whenever you need me." Her voice was as
poignantly loaded as Francie had ever heard. It resonated with
friendship, concern, and commitment.
"Ditto you, girlfriend," Francie managed, after she had
cleared her throat.
"I think fille amie is better," Ariane said. They
clinked their bottles together and drank them down.
Ariane drove Francie back to the empty office where she had
been keeping watch. Francie picked up her computer and other
items and returned to the street. Looking over at the doctor’s
office, where an hour earlier there had been an ambulance and
three squad cars, lights flashing, and yellow tape everywhere,
now everything was dark. The blood on the examining room floor
had probably dried already, Francie thought, and wondered at
where her mind sometimes took her.
"I will see you tomorrow at the police station at ten," she
told Ariane as they walked around the corner to where Francie
had left her car.
"Oui, d’accord," Ariane replied. "Now we get our
beauty sleep, I think."
"Good plan," Francie agreed, and put her things on the
passenger seat of her car. She stood next to the driver’s door
and looked at Ariane for a long moment. She reached for words,
but they didn’t come. It wasn’t that she was tired. It was that
there were no words for what she wanted to say. Ariane stepped
forward and put arms around Francie and held her. "Thank you,"
Francie said, but the words only scratched the surface.
"We are sisters, Francie," she said.
Francie let go of her, and holding back tears, she nodded.
She would have said goodnight, but she didn’t trust herself to
speak.
Ariane smiled, turned, and walked away.
Francie got into her car, and drove home, waiting until she
was in her house, all snug in my bed, before she cried.
* * * * *
Francie and Ariane face the Chief of Police in the Epilogue
of "Doc." And Francie reports to Congressman "Doc" Hardwicke,
who fills her in on some new details about the Adlers that he
had gotten from the District Attorney. All that and more in the
final episode of "Doc," right here on March 1st. And
March 15th starts a new story featuring, Francie
LeVillard, the world’s greatest consulting detective. You’re not
going to want to miss it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Doc"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Epilogue
This is the Epilogue, the final episode of "Doc" – the
premiere case of the Monterey Mystery featuring consulting
detective Francie LeVillard. For the previous episodes, please
go to the archives.
* * * * *
Ariane was just getting out of her car when Francie pulled
into the parking lot of the Monterey Police Department. She came
over and gave Francie a big hug, and with her hands holding
Francie’s upper arms she looked into her friend’s face
carefully. Then she asked, "Chere amie, you got some of
your beauty rest, yes?"
"I did, thanks to you, Ariane," Francie told her.
"Ah, we are sisters. I told you that."
She let go her, turned and as they headed for the main
entrance, she slipped her arm through Francie’s. Francie tossed
a quick glance at her and saw a broad deep smile on her face.
Another appeared on her own.
Phil Lestrade entered the reception area on the other side
of the glass as they were coming through the front door. Upon
seeing them, he reversed his step and came over to open the door
for them.
"Good morning, ladies," he said cheerfully.
"Hi, Phil," Francie said. "This is Ariane Chevasse, my close
friend and colleague."
"And life-saver," he said, shaking her hand in both of his.
"I, personally, and everyone who knows Francie, am most grateful
to you."
Ariane blushed lightly. "We are sisters," she said softly, as
though he might understand.
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then he did.
"Come in, come in," Phil said, gesturing down the hallway. "My
office, Francie," he added, since she knew where it was. It
wasn’t a large room for the Chief of Police, but it was
comfortable, and less intimidating than those of some officers
who are in greater need of feeling in control. The two women sat
in chairs in front of his desk as the chief went around and sat
in his desk chair. He leaned forward on his desk. "Can I offer
you coffee or something?"
They shook their heads.
He nodded. "Well, I’m pleased to say that there have been
some developments since you left here last night, or earlier
this morning, I should say." His face indicated that they were
positive developments. "The DA was up with Adler and his mother
at the hospital, and both are singing. The mother admitting
everything, the son taking no responsibility."
Ariane and Francie looked at each other, sharing smiles of
satisfaction.
"And there’s more," the chief said, regaining out attention.
"The accident?" Francie said. She had told Ariane about it
over their early morning pizza. "The death of the father."
Phil looked her in half-surprise. He knew her too well to be
startled any more. "Yeah, exactly." He rubbed his hands
together. "The woman from the DA’s office told the kid right up
front that he was in for three-strike sentencing for the
breaking-n-entering, attempted murder, and use of a gun, and the
kid asked for a deal. The assistant DA said maybe, and the kid
told her that his mother had told him she had deliberately
crashed the car to kill his father so they could have a better
life together. It seems that they were, um, very close." He
scrunched his face. "I don’t know how close but it seemed kinda
over the top to me. Anyway, when the Assistant DA confronted the mother,
noting that her son had ratted her out it to avoid three
strikes, she jumped on board and said it was all true. She
wasn’t angry at her son. She was still trying to protect him."
The next glance Ariane and Francie shared didn’t include
smiling.
Ariane asked, "So does that mean the man gets off leniently?"
Her displeasure was clear. "He is very dangerous, unbalanced,
you know. He was going to kill Francie, and he was going to
enjoy it. I saw that in his face."
Francie reached her hand over and gave her friend’s shoulder
a gentle squeeze. Then to the chief, "He’s a sick puppy,
Phil."
The chief nodded his head. "Yes and the DA knows that. Even
if they drop the B&E down to a misdemeanor as part of the deal,
with what he told the ADA about the murder of his father – talk
about sick and the acorn not falling far from the tree and all
that – he will probably be charged with conspiracy after the
fact, on top of everything else, he won’t be coming out at least
for twenty years, if ever."
"What about the mother?" Francie asked. "She bears most of
the responsibility, it seems."
Phil shrugged his shoulders, "With the time she’s up for, she
may never see him again."
"How do you call that," Ariane asked, "poetry and justice?"
"Poetic justice, indeed," the chief said, nodding his head
sagely. "Not a poem, but justice at last."
Ariane and Francie signed their statements and soon left the
police station. Francie invited her to have some brunch, but
Ariane took a rain check. "I feel like a nap," she said. "After
the completion, you know?"
Francie knew.
* * * * * * *
"I guess I’ll need a new head nurse," said Congressman Doc
Hardwicke from Washington.
"Yeah, Doc, sorry to put you to the trouble," Francie
replied.
"I’m so glad it’s over."
Even three thousand miles away, Francie could hear the relief
in Doc’s voice. "I think people who have that kind of condition
or whatever it might be called – bad character – give off
vibrations that make life difficult for everyone around them. I
suppose the people who came to your office for treatment didn’t
really notice, because most of them weren’t feeling so hot in
the first place."
"You did very well, Francie, and I am most grateful."
"You’ll need some bismuth when you get my bill."
Her client laughed. "Whatever it is, it will be worth it." Then
he added, "And by the way, I don’t know if you heard from the
district attorney that Eileen also admitted to fiddling with the
books."
"No, I didn’t but I guess that fills in some blanks. It
seemed like what she was taking in terms of drugs was small
time. How much did she get you for?"
There was a pause before he told her, "Upwards of $400,000."
Francie gave a long whistle. "How was it that you didn’t
notice that much was missing? Not to make you feel guilty or
anything?"
"No, no, you’re quite right, I should have been keeping a
better eye on things. But most of that money was supposed to be
going into an investment account, an emergency fund that was
supposed to be my retirement, and I just never thought about it
much, since I was getting my congressional salary."
"Are they going to be able to get it back for you? Her
property should be worth twice that?"
"The district attorney said I needed to file a civil action,
but they froze her assets so I should recover it, maybe with
interest, too."
"Oh, good, then I won’t feel guilty about my bill."
He laughed again, "But the big thing is that she gone," he
sighed deeply, "and I can’t thank you enough. For me, Doctor
Barrett, and our patients."
"I’m glad for you, Doc, and glad to get those two off the
street. No telling what harm they might have done."
He thanked her again and they ended their call. Francie got
up from her desk and went into the kitchen where she put on the
kettle to make tea. While she stood at the counter, waiting
for the water to boil, she look across her living area and out
the big glass windows toward the ocean. Her mind traveled over
time and space, as the conversation with Doc Hardwicke had
produced completion for the case.
She was pleased with the resolution, of course, for herself
and for her client. She even did her best to wish that the
Adlers would get some help in prison, though with all of the
budget cuts, that seemed unlikely. Maybe they’d find religion
and wouldn’t be so dangerous when they got out, but Francie made
a note to herself to call the DA so she would be notified when
they were to be released.
The kettle whistled, and brought her back with a smile.
* * * * *
This was the final episode of "Doc." But surprise,
surprise! A new Monterey Mystery begins right now when Francie
steps into a political miasma in "A House Divided."
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