In Death's Shadow

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

First thing the following morning, I telephoned Jablonsky's office.

"Mutually Beneficial Financial Services Group, Gail Parrish speaking, how may I direct your call?"

"Congratulations!" I said. "That was flawless."

Gail giggled into her end of the phone. "Who is this?"

"This is Hannah Ives. Remember me? I was there last week."

"Oh, hi, Hannah. Sure, I remember. Gil thought you might be calling back."

I'll bet, I thought. Cheeky S.O.B.

What I said was: "Well, I don't know why he'd be expecting me to call back because I've been going so wishy-washy on him. If it were just up to me, you know, I'd sign up in a second, but my husband is dead set against it. Gil said I wouldn't exactly have to tell him. But Paul and me? Our marriage has always been based on trust and I don't feel comfortable hiding stuff from him. You know what I mean?"

"Uh-huh."

"But here's the thing," I dithered on. "I've been talking to my dad about this viatical opportunity and I think he might be interested. Mom's been gone for a couple of years and Dad's been paying premiums on this policy he really doesn't need anymore.

"As it stands now, of course, I'll get something when he dies, but I don't want to be selfish. You know? He's eighty-seven," I told her, adding a couple of decades to my father's actual age. "He could go somewhere! Take a cruise!" I paused to take a breath. "Would Mr. Jablonsky be interested, do you think?"

"Gil would be interested if your parakeet wanted to sell its life insurance policy," Gail deadpanned.

"You are a hoot!" I screamed.

"Don't quote me," Gail said.

“Trust me, I won't. Parakeets!" I giggled. "Well, anyway," I forged on, like a telemarketer on commission. "My dad lives out at Ginger Cove, that retirement community off Riva Road? So, I was wondering. Are there any Ginger Cove residents Dad can talk to for references?"

Apparently Gail had never heard of HIPAA because she agreed to help me right away. "They're not organized like that in our database," she told me. "I'll have to check the contact files in Gil's office. It'll take a few minutes. Can I call you back?"

"Sure," I said, and gave her my number.

When I hung up, I felt guilty. Gail was a nice young woman. I hated lying to her. When all this was over, maybe I would be able to do something for her. Take her out for lunch or something. Try to explain.

The next thirty minutes crawled by. I loaded the dishwasher, watered my houseplants, and watched ten minutes of the Today show.

The phone sat silent.

I paced for a while, then went off in search of my knitting bag, which contained a partially completed cable-knit sweater I'd been working on since the last Winter Olympics. I plopped down on the living room sofa next to the portable phone and lengthened the back of the sweater by two rows-knit, purl, cheaper than Prozac, purl, knit-and was working in a cable when the phone finally rang. I could tell by the Caller ID it was Gail.

"Hey hey!" I said.

"Hi, it's me. Gail. As if you didn't know," she said.

"I just love Caller ID."

"I got some references for your dad," Gail said. "Got a pencil?"

"Shoot."

As Gail read, I jotted down the names. Gammel and Burns were no surprise, nor was Nadine Smith Gray, the name Mrs. Bromley's mother gave her at birth. By the time Gail was done, though, I was hardly breathing. Of the nine potential references Gail read out to me, six would never be referring anybody to anything ever again. They were numbers one, two, four, six, seven, and nine on Mrs. Bromley's obituary list.

I'd gone pretty far, but the adrenaline was pounding in my ears, and I decided, perhaps recklessly, to push it. "Gee, thanks, Gail," I gushed, "That'll help me a lot." Then added, hoping that it might sound like an afterthought, "Say, Mr. Jablonsky was telling me about the zillions of companies he was dealing with and how some were better than others. Can you tell me what companies bought these policies?"

"I'm not supposed to," Gail whispered, "but Gil almost always goes with ViatiPro, especially for the seniors."

I heard the clack of her computer keys. "Let's see now. Wyetha Hodge. That's ViatiPro. Clack-clack. Timothy Burns. ViatiPro. Clackety-clack. Parker, ditto…"

I was beginning to wonder if Gilbert Jablonsky ever did business with any companies other than ViatiPro.

Gail paused. I could hear her breathing. "Gammel, ViatiPro." Her keys clacked a few more times, then she muttered, "Say, this is odd. Let me call you back."

The telephone went dead in my ear.

I sat there on my sofa, staring at the receiver, feeling cheated. "Gail, come back!" I wailed. Nothing.

I cradled the receiver, stuffed my knitting back into the bag and set it aside.

Valerie's policy had been sold to ViatiPro. Now I knew for sure that Clark Gammel had sold his policy to ViatiPro, too. As had the late Mr. Timothy Burns.

Barbara Parker, number three on Mrs. Bromley's list, hadn't croaked-yet-but James McGowan had, and he was lucky policy holder number six.

Maybe Gilbert Jablonsky wasn't the common denominator at all, I thought. Maybe it was the folks at ViatiPro who were, in Mrs. Bromley's words, helping things along.

There's a clock mounted on the ceiling as you head down to our basement. Nobody knows why. It was there when we moved in ten years ago, and as far as I knew, nobody'd ever changed the battery, yet it continued to run, regular as, well, clockwork. As I headed down to my office to check out ViatiPro on the Internet, the clock glared at me accusingly: 8:45. I'd promised Donna I'd be in by nine. I was a professional. If I didn't hurry it up, I'd be late for work.

By taking the back roads-through West Annapolis, out Ridgely to Bestgate-I made it to Victory Mutual and was sitting in Mindy's cubicle, typing away, only seconds before Donna passed by on her way to the coffee urn.

She waved.

I waved back.

After she turned the corner, I clicked out of the Victory Mutual database and logged onto the Internet.

ViatiPro's website was slick and professional, last updated, I noticed, only the day before. Headquartered in Greenbelt, Maryland, they had offices in Frederick, Salisbury, and St. Mary's City, geographically situated to serve the entire state of Maryland, "Proudly," I noted, "since 1994."

In additional to viatical settlements, ViatiPro offered investment opportunities that included the usual stocks, bonds, mutual funds, REITs, and limited partnerships (whatever the hell they were!), as well as opportunities to invest in a proposed resort out western Maryland way at Deep Creek Lake and in an upscale restaurant in Rockville, just outside of Washington, D.C.

Investment advisers were available to talk with me from 10:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M. daily, or I could fill out the blanks in their handy online form, click Send, and information would soon be winging my way. No cost, no obligation.

For sure.

I clicked around some more and located a picture of C. Alexander Steele, founder and CEO of ViatiPro. Steele smiled out from the screen with the teeth, hairdo, and guileless blue eyes of a television evangelist. He wore a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, and looked so patriotic, I felt like saluting.

With my mouse, I circled my pointer around the CEO's face. "C. Alexander Steele," I said to his computerized image. "Look out, because I've got your number."

I picked up my cell phone and dialed.