“I like that.”
“I flashed my shield and gave them some details of another case I’m running. That medical fraud case.”
The CBI investigated financial crimes too. And the case Ramirez was referring to was a major insurance scam — the perps used identification numbers of doctors who were deceased to file bogus claims in their names.
It was the sort of thing, Dance reflected, that Chilton himself might write about in his blog. And it was a brilliant choice for Connie; staffers at the hospital were among the victims, and would have an interest in helping investigators.
“I asked them to show me the log-in sheets. The whole month’s worth, so Henry didn’t get suspicious. They were more than happy to comply. And here’s what I found: The day Juan Millar died there was one visiting physician — the hospital has a continuing-ed lecture series and he was probably there for that. There were also six job applicants — two for maintenance spots, one for the cafeteria and three nurses. I’ve got copies of their résumés. None of them look suspicious to me.
“Now, what’s interesting is this: There were sixty-four visitors at the hospital that day. I correlated the names and the people they were there to see, and every one of them checks out. Except one.”
“Who?”
“It’s hard to read the name, either the printed version or the signature. But I think it’s Jose Lopez.”
“Who was he seeing?”
“He only wrote ‘patient.’”
“That was a safe bet, in a hospital,” Dance said wryly. “Why is it suspicious?”
“Well, I figured that if somebody was there to kill Juan Millar, he or she would have to have been there before — either as visitors or to check out security and so on. So I looked at everybody who’d signed in to see him earlier.”
“Brilliant. And you checked their handwriting.”
“Exactly. I’m no document examiner but I found a visitor who’d been to see him a number of times, and I’d almost guarantee the handwriting’s the same as this Jose Lopez’s.”
Dance was sitting forward. “Who?”
“Julio Millar.”
“His brother!”
“I’m ninety percent sure. I made copies of everything.” Ramirez handed Dance sheets of paper.
“Oh, Connie, this is brilliant.”
“Good luck. If you need anything else, just ask.”
Dance sat alone in her office, considering this new information. Could Julio actually have killed his brother?
At first, it seemed impossible, given the loyalty and love that Julio displayed for his young sibling. Yet there was no doubt that the killing had been an act of mercy, and Dance could imagine a conversation between the two brothers — Julio leaning forward as Juan whispered a plea to put him out of his misery.
Kill me… .
Besides, why else would Julio have faked a name on the sign-in sheet?
Why had Harper and the state investigators missed this connection? She was furious, and had a suspicion that they knew about it, but were downplaying the possibility because it would be better publicity against the death-with-dignity act for Robert Harper to go after the mother of a state law enforcement agent. Thoughts of prosecutorial malfeasance buzzed around her head.
Dance called George Sheedy and left a message about what Connie Ramirez had found. She then called her mother to tell her directly about it. There was no answer.
Damnit. Was she screening calls?
She disconnected then sat back, thinking about Travis. If he was alive, how much longer would he have? A few days, without water. And what a terrible death it would be.
Another shadow in her doorway. TJ Scanlon appeared, “Hey, boss.”
She sensed something was urgent.
“Crime scene results?”
“Not yet, but I’m riding ’em hard. Rawhide, remember? This’s something else. Heard from MCSO. They got a call — anonymous — about the Crosses Case.”
Dance sat up slightly. “What was it?”
“The caller said he’d spotted, quote, ‘something near Harrison Road and Pine Grove Way.’ Just south of Carmel.”
“Nothing more than that?”
“Nope. Just ‘something.’ I checked the intersection. It’s near that abandoned construction site. And the call was from a pay phone.”
Dance debated for a moment. Her eyes dipped to a sheet of paper, a copy of the postings on The Chilton Report. She rose and pulled on her jacket.
“You going to go over there to check it out?” TJ asked uncertainly.
“Yep. Really want to find him, if there’s any way.”
“Kind of a weird area, boss. Want backup?”
She smiled. “I don’t think I’m going to be in much danger.”
Not with the perp presently residing in the Monterey County morgue.
THE CEILING OF the basement was painted black. It contained eighteen rafters, also black. The walls were a dingy white, cheap paint, and were made up of 892 cinder blocks. Against the wall were two cabinets, one gray metal, one uneven white wood. Inside were large stocks of canned goods, boxes of pasta, soda and wine, tools, nails, personal items like toothpaste and deodorant.
Four metal poles rose to the dim ceiling, supporting the first floor. Three were close to each other, one farther away. They were painted dark brown but they were also rusty and it was hard to tell where the paint ended and the oxidation began.
The floor was concrete and the cracks made shapes that became familiar if you stared at them long enough: a sitting panda, the state of Texas, a truck.
An old furnace, dusty and battered, sat in the corner. It ran on natural gas and switched on only rarely. Even then, though, it didn’t heat this area much at all.