A buzzer sounded to their right and the large steel-reinforced door securing the entrance to the inner sanctum of the precinct station slid open. Reese greeted them with warm, enthusiastic handshakes. He wore a white button-down shirt and red-striped tie, his imposing stature made even more so by the holstered gun tucked beneath his left arm.
“Thanks for taking the time today, Don,” Nick said after introducing him to Jillian. “I really appreciate it.”
“I gave you permission to tell your friend about us when you told me how special she is to you. Did you?”
“He did,” Jillian said, “but my memory’s been horrible lately and I already forgot it. I was intending to call you about the fire that destroyed my condo, but I’ve been waiting until I get the report from the fire investigator for the insurance company.”
“Sorry to hear about your place. I’m here for you anytime.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Like I said in the hospital, Nick, we’ve got a long way to go before I’ll call us even. That goes for your friends, too. Let’s talk in my office.”
Reese escorted the pair through the high-tech, temperature-controlled dispatch center, pointing out details along the way such as the raised floor, necessary to keep the computer systems from overheating the room. There was also a bank of television monitors, broadcasting a grim version of reality TV-the lives of the prisoners locked in the nearby detention cells.
“The heart and soul of nine-one-one,” Reese said, gesturing around the communications center. “Over three hundred thousand calls handled last year alone.”
Nick could feel the detective’s pride in the force as he explained the dispatch process. Coming here had been the right way to begin. With Reese’s help, there was a good chance they’d soon have some idea of just how big a fish they had on the line.
They exited the dispatch center and were directly in front of the door leading to the detention facilities.
“How many are in lockup here?” Jillian asked.
“Like the heart of an enlightened man,” Reese replied with a wry grin, “the chambers are full.”
Nick was impressed by Jillian’s knowledge of police procedures and her familiarity with the jargon. It was knowledge, she had explained, honed over years of dealing with mentally ill patients, whose lives were often inextricably linked to the judicial system. After they had failed to explain the six identical cases, it was Jillian who suggested they use a police database to conduct a more comprehensive investigation. That was when Nick had phoned Reese.
The lieutenant detective’s modest office was on a third-floor corner, and so had windows on two walls. The desktop, shelves, and windowsills were filled with framed photos of his children and grandchildren, as well as volumes of forensics and police law. The walls were decorated with various memorabilia highlighting a twenty- five-year career of distinction. A cop’s cop.
Nick and Jillian took seats across from Reese, and Nick immediately launched into a detailed explanation of recent events, including their history with Manny Ferris and his possible link to Umberto, as well as their growing suspicions of the Singh Clinic’s billing practices following Jillian’s installation of a rootkit into Paresh Singh’s computer.
“Mother of God, Garrity. Talk about playing fast and loose with the law. You guys make Dillinger look like Little Miss Muffett. I’m beginning to feel the return-favor jar filling up.”
“That’s fine by me,” Nick said. “We can call this the last one. But I tell you, there’s some nasty stuff going on here, Don. Take a look at these medical records.”
Nick pushed the manila folder across the desk, but Reese was clearly reluctant to review the contents.
“Do you have any idea what a sharp DA could do to us for just having these in the room?”
“Jillian will help decorate our cell.”
“Silk flowers,” she said.
“I like her,” Reese said.
“Join the crowd.”
Unable to keep his detective’s curiosity in check, Reese softened, unhooked the envelope, and leafed through the printouts. After a few minutes he locked eyes with Nick.
“Enlighten me, Nick. I got a gift B minus in college bio, so most of this medical jargon is like Sanskrit. I’ll buy what you said, that we’ve got a bunch of rubber-stamped records that have never been billed to any insurance company for reimbursement. But what does that mean?”
“It means Paresh Singh is hiding something.”
“Such as?”
“Well, that’s what we need your help figuring out. The patient IDs on these files are actually Social Security numbers. From what we’ve been able to learn, if they’re not valid numbers, the system won’t even allow the patient record to be created. But when we tried to look up these six individuals by their Social Security number, we didn’t get anywhere.”
Reese leaned back until the two front legs of his worn wooden desk chair lifted off the floor. Then he stared down at his hands, processing.
“The Singh Center would have to bill an insurance company to recoup the cost of labor and supplies, right?” he asked finally.
“That’s right,” Jillian replied.
“So technically, Singh would be out a lot of cash if he did the work but didn’t bill.”
“Well, that’s what’s even more peculiar about it,” Nick said. “It looks like they were paid for these jobs. Look, here’s the column of charges for each case, and here’s the one for receipts. They balance out. Either somebody paid for these operations, or Singh’s books have been cooked.”
“What are you suggesting? I thought you said the insurance companies weren’t billed.”
“We took advantage of the rootkit access to take a closer look at their billing and financial records.”
“Great,” Reese groaned. “Say, did you also get a glimpse of those tiny detention rooms across from our dispatch center?”
“Stick with us, Don,” Nick pleaded.
“Okay, but you guys better be ready to treat my ulcer when it erupts.”
“We did some quick math on what the average total bill for a shotgun wound to the face would be. It was anywhere between five hundred thousand and a million dollars.”
“And?”
Jillian took over for Nick. “And I had some friends at Shelby Stone who work in accounts receivable do some more digging for us. They were able to tell me how much the hospital earned from their share of the Singh medi- spa’s net profits from four years ago. If we assume these six procedures here are forgeries that generated no revenue for Paresh Singh, then Shelby Stone’s share of the take that year should have been substantially less than in subsequent years.”
“But I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”
Both Jillian and Nick nodded.
“The profit Shelby Stone made from their joint venture with the Singh Center had to have included revenue from these six bogus procedures. At least our accounting people suggest that was the case.”
“But if that was true, then somebody, probably Singh, paid Shelby Stone out of his own pocket because no insurance company reimbursed them for the procedures. Why would they do that?”
“We agree it doesn’t make sense,” Nick said. “Maybe they were concerned some astute comptroller at Shelby Stone would notice that Singh’s supply orders and purchased inventory were significantly out of proportion with what they claimed to have earned in profit.”
“Singh buys his supplies from Shelby Stone?” Reese asked.
“Yes. It’s part of their joint venture agreement. Singh gets a good price on supplies because Shelby Stone Memorial buys their inventory in larger quantities. In exchange for that perk, and of course patient referrals, Shelby Stone takes a cut of the Singh Center profits.”
“But if somebody notices they’re buying more supplies than their profits suggest they need…”
Reese’s voice trailed off as he thought through the significance.
“It might suggest to somebody that Singh was hiding money from Shelby Stone,” Nick concluded.
“Interesting theory, but what about proof?”
