P Is for Peril

against the side of my face. Impulsively, I said, "Could I come in? It's really getting chilly out here."
    "How do I know you're who you say you are?" I reached in my handbag and took out my wallet. I pulled my license from the windowed slot and pushed it through the crack to her.
    She studied it briefly and then handed it back. She closed the door long enough to undo the chain. She opened the door again.
    As soon as I stepped inside, she went through the whole process in reverse. I removed my slicker and hung it on a hat rack near the door. I paused to look around. The interior was a curious mix of old charm and annoyances: arches and hardwood floors, narrow windows with yellowing wooden Venetian blinds, a clunky-looking wall heater near the bedroom door. The living room boasted a fireplace with a grate that supported a partially charred log resting on an avalanche of ash. The air in the apartment wasn't much warmer than the air outside, but at least there wasn't any breeze. Through an arch on the far wall, I caught a glimpse of the bathroom tile, a retro maroon-and-beige mix, probably installed when the place was built. Without even seeing it, I knew the kitchen was bereft of modern conveniences: no dishwasher, no compactor, no garbage disposal. The stove would be original, a vintage O'Keefe and Merritt with two glass-fronted ovens and a set of matching salt and pepper shakers in a box on top. Rechromed and fully reconditioned, the stove would cost a fortune, though one oven would never work right and the hip young thing who bought it would unwittingly underbake her bread.
    Tina indicated that I could take a seat in a gray upholstered chair while she returned to her place on the couch. She was younger than I'd expected, in her forties and so lacking in animation I thought she might be tranquilized. Her hair was the color of oak in old hardwood floors. She wore a sweat suit: gray drawstring pants and a matching jacket with a white T-shirt visible where the front was unzipped. She had her shoes off. The shape of her foot was outlined in dust on the soles of her white cotton crew socks. She seemed undecided what to do with her hands. She finally crossed her arms and tucked her fingers out of sight, as though protecting them from frostbite. "Why come to me?"
    "Last Monday, I went over to St. Terry's and talked with Penelope Delacorte. Your name came up so I thought maybe you could fill in some blanks. May I call you Tina?" I asked, interrupting myself.
    She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug, which I took as assent. "I know you and Ms. Delacorte left Pacific Meadows at about the same time. She said the choices here were pretty limited in the health care field. Have you found another job?" I hoped to give the impression of a long, friendly chat between Ms. Delacorte and me instead of the one we'd actually had.
    "I'm still looking. I'm collecting unemployment checks until my benefits run out." Her eyes were a pale gray, her manner flat.
    "How long did you work for them?"
    "Fifteen years."
    "Doing what?"
    "Front office. I was hired as a file clerk and worked my way up. Nights, I put myself through school and finally got my degree."
    "In what?"
    "Hospital Administration and Finance, which sounds more impressive than it is. I've always been more attracted to the accounting end of the business than to management, so I was happy where I was… more or less."
    "Could I ask you some questions about Pacific Meadows?"
    "Sure. I don't work there anymore and I have nothing to hide."
    "Who owned the building before Glazer and Broadus?"
    "A company called Silver Age Enterprises. I never knew the owner's name. There might have been more than one. Before that, there was another company called the Endeavor Group."
    I reached into my handbag and took out a little spiral-bound notebook with a pencil tucked in the coil. I made a note of the two names. "With Silver Age, was the place owned and operated by the same people or were those two functions kept separate?"
    "They were separate. The Medicare and Medicaid programs were enacted in the '60s and neither had much provision for fraud prevention. The regulations about arm's-length ownership and operations probably didn't come until the late '70s, when Congress passed legislation establishing fraud control units… for all the good that did. You have no idea how many different agencies go after these guys: the Office of Inspector General, the civil and criminal divisions of the U.S.