Dead On Arrival

One

I stared down at the handwritten Jagger note that said, “Case Number 6. Practice your driving skills, Sherlock. We’ll talk in the morning-at our spot.”

Our spot.

Suddenly the noise from Goldie’s “nose-revealing” party at my parents’ house brought me back to reality. My dearest roommate and second-best friend was celebrating the success (in his opinion) of his recent plastic surgery. Gotta love dear Gold. We all did, especially my other roomie, Miles. They were two of the best guys in the world, and although each had their own little quirks, I loved them dearly. The guys, not the quirks. I had to admit that I looked forward on a daily basis to seeing Goldie’s out fits-especially when he wore Armani from the women’s department. Then again, he looked handsome in men’s Armani too, but when in his female mode, he always made some fashion statement that I later stole for myself.

Since knowing Goldie, I was looking better and better.

Maybe there was hope for me yet.

I stared at the note again and decided I had to forget that Jagger had called Dunkin Donuts “our spot,” as if he thought we really were an “our” (be still, my foolish heart), and forced my mind back to Case Number 6. That was my sixth medical fraud insurance case to investigate.

Practice my driving skills. Hmm. Okay, I’d be the first to admit I was no Mario Andretti, and, okay again, I admitted to closing my eyes when driving but only if something bad was about to happen. So what could case number six be about? Me and Jagger racing in the Grand Prix?

I had started to laugh, when I felt a presence behind me. My hormones ready to explode, I turned to see Jagger, but unfortunately-very unfortunately-saw Fabio Scarpello instead. My boss. A definite misnomer.

Then the recent revelation by none other than Jagger that he was, in fact, a Tonelli, making him my boss, hit me. Hard.

I grabbed Fabio, subsequently startling him. “Is Jagger the owner of Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Agency? Does he own it? Do you? Is he my boss?”

Normally Fabio would have called me “doll” and brushed off any of my questions with a curse or two, but he looked directly at me. Damn. Was that fear in his eyes? No one had ever been able to say who Jagger really was. What was his last name? Or first name, for that matter? And whom did he work for?

Until now.

However, I always figured Jagger intimidated Fabio.

“Well?” I yanked on the lapel of Fabio’s dark brown polyester suit. “Wel-l-l-l-l-l?”

“Ha!”

“Ha? That’s all you have to say? Ha doesn’t explain shit, Fabio. Tell me the truth!”

Finally he reached both hands up between my arms and pushed me until I lost my grip. While he tried to straighten out his always-wrinkled suit, he said, “I own it.”

With that he turned and walked down the steps, out to his car and drove off, with me standing there-back to square one.

And here I thought I’d had some information on Jagger.

Not to mention that I thought he was my boss!

What a fool! No one got any information on Jagger-unless he gave it to them.

The next morning I pulled into the parking lot of the local Hope Valley Dunkin Donuts. Hope Valley was not exactly a booming metropolis, but it was where I was born, raised and lived my entire life.

As a tiny, very ethnic town with a green in the center and bordered by Hartford, Connecticut, one of the largest insurance capitals, Hope Valley was the center of my existence-which said a lot. Sad but true.

After burning out of a very successful nursing career, I decided to throw that profession out of the proverbial window and landed (through my roomie, Miles, who had connections all over town) this job. Pauline Sokol, ex-RN, medical insurance fraud investigator.

I smiled to myself as I watched Jagger’s black Suburban pull into the spot next to me.

I licked my lips. Only because they were dry!

I couldn’t eat a thing if my mouth went as dry as the Sahara each time the guy appeared. And appeared he did. Mostly when I least expected him, but I will say, he’d taught me a lot of what I knew about investigating medical insurance fraud.

Limited amount, sure. But when he gave me his standard “Atta girl, Sherlock,” I melted-and knew I was learning and growing in this profession.

I rolled down my window. “Hey.”

Once he got out of his SUV, he nodded and paused, and when I got out of my Volvo, we both walked in to get our coffee.

Jagger did the ordering-as usual. The thing about that was, it always gave me a jolt that he knew exactly what I’d want. Hazelnut decaf, light and sweet with one Splenda, and either a Boston cream donut or a French cruller. Today I was in the mood for French.

“Give her a French cruller,” I heard him say to the clerk-and I didn’t even blink my eyes.

However, there was no denying the little hormonal surge inside me.

Yikes.

It was always a “yikes” kinda moment, whenever Jagger just about read my mind. I turned my flushed face away from him so he wouldn’t read those kinds of thoughts.

After we got our order, I followed Jagger to the last booth by the window.

Our spot.

Sometimes though, our spot was out in the parking lot-in his SUV, which was big enough for a family of four to vacation in. I actually debated about whether Jagger lived in the Suburban that wanted to be an RV.

But even if I asked as a direct question, there was no telling if he’d answer.

He was just that mysterious.

And I loved it. Damn.

He sat down and took a sip of his coffee. Black. Natch. Nothing pretentious about Jagger. “We start today on your sixth case, Sherlock.”

He used that little nickname for me in jest-at first-since I started out in the profession knowing nothing. But now he used it more as a term of respect for my learning the job.

At least that’s how I chose to view it, and I was going with that permanently.

“Yeah, six.” I took a sip of my coffee, licked my lips and broke off a piece of cruller, but before I shoved it into my mouth, I said, “What the hell did you mean about driving?”

He leaned back and looked around Dunkin Donuts as if half expecting some spies to be nibbling muffins and sipping coffee and listening to us.

When he looked back at me, my hand shook, so I shoved the donut into my mouth. The shaking wasn’t only because of him looking at me-that was normal. This time it was how his eyes grew concerned that made me shake and eat. Jagger was going to fill me in on my next case-and it troubled him.

Yikes again.

You didn’t want Jagger troubled. Although I had to say, I always felt safe with him.

I chewed and swallowed. “Come on, Jagger, tell me about my case. The driving bit. Etcetera.”

He sipped his coffee very slowly. Very deliberately. Very Jaggerlike.

“Reports are that there is some suspicious activity going on that is costing the insurance companies money. Big money.”

“Then you’re not talking about my case.”

He chuckled.

“Actually I was serious. You know I never get the big money cases.”

Over his cup he said, “You have to start somewhere, Sherlock.”

And I had. From Worker’s Comp fraud to plastic surgery fraud, and now what? What kind of fraud involved driving?

“Oh wait. Does this have to do with visiting nurses or something?” I looked at the rest of the cruller, thought about unbuttoning my size 4 jeans-but only for a deeper breath-and while looking at Jagger, stuck the rest of it into the napkin, which I methodically folded up to save for my pup, Spanky. He was a doll and I shared custody of him with my two roommates.

“So,” I said, still looking at Jagger. “You are telling me that my case number six is a big one? A costly one?” My heart started to pound when I thought I could make a killing on this case if the bonuses were in conjunction with the wins.

No one needed money like I did after cosigning a loan I got burned on and giving the term “shop until you drop” new meaning. I really couldn’t swing a place of my own yet and although I loved living with Miles and Goldie, as a thirty-something, I yearned for my own place.

“I’m telling you we start tomorrow on your case and it’s the biggest one Fabio has given you yet.”

Ugh. Fabio. “So why are you telling me about it instead of Fabio doing the deed?” I still couldn’t figure out Jagger’s place in all of this. Then again, I’d learned over time not to even try to figure him out.

“He gave me the info, since I had filed the report.”

I leaned forward. “You filed the report? What report?”

Jagger leaned back (no doubt to get out of my face or make me get out of his face) and gave me a Jagger look. You don’t even want to know. “It was brought to my attention that TLC Air and Land is making way too much dough, and may not be on the up and up.”

“TLC? The ambulance company that has the market locked in on the northern side of Hope Valley?”

“Yeah. Apparently it’s not exactly Tender Loving Care Express, Sherlock.”

“Wow. Uncle Walt has used that ambulance service a few times as have numerous friends of his. It’s not safe?”

“Relax. It’s safe enough, but someone is making money on it-”

“Off the insurance companies,” I said, worrying about my favorite, eighty-something uncle.

Jagger smiled.

My heart warmed like a puppy’s (okay, I was thinking man’s best friend, but not exactly a canine).

“So, TLC Air and Land is bilking the insurance companies-”

“For millions,” he said.

“Mill…ions? I’m getting a case to investigate medical insurance fraud in the millions?” Gulp. My mouth went dry again.

Jagger shook his head. See, when he did that once, he was perturbed. Twice meant exasperated. Three times and-well, I’d better get the hell away from him.

He leaned forward, drained his coffee cup, set it down and looked at me. “Someone inside TLC reported billing fraud. Claims of charging for oxygen that was never used, and the law only allows a flat rate charge anyway; billing for advanced life support that was never given; air ambulance charges for statute miles rather than air miles-”

I wrinkled my forehead.

“Statute: on-the-ground miles. 5,280 feet. Twists and turns on streets add plenty of mileage, which adds up. In the air would be a lot less.”

“Makes sense. Wow. How crooked.”

Jagger merely looked at me, as well he should. Every suspect I’d investigated was crooked. Duh.

Suddenly it hit me. Jagger knew way too much about my case. Jagger talked way too much about my case.

Jagger thought he was going to be part of my case.

“You’re not helping me with this one.” The words actually came out sounding very sensible (to me), logical and firm.

Jagger smiled.

I groaned.

“Tomorrow you report to TLC.”

“Oh good. You’re not going with me.” Phew. I really didn’t want to work with him. “Am I going to be doing the receptionist job or-”

Looks really do say everything. I figured that out in seconds when I stared at Jagger.

He was working with me on this one.

He’d gotten me to don my nursing scrubs and head back into a profession I’d burned out of yet again.

He was working with me!

Oh great, Jagger and me probably riding in close quarters for an entire case…on the old Tender Loving Care…or should I say “Tough Luck Charlie Ambulance Company” after we got through with them?