CHAPTER 1
BUZZZZ. BUZZ. BUZZZZ. A persistent drone interrupted my mid-morning nap.
“Are you in there, Mr. Smith?” a voice snapped at my left elbow. The sleepy haze slowly lifted, taking with it the scantily clad women dancing to the refrain of Fanta, Fanta! Don’t-cha wanna wanta Fanta.
“Mr. Smith!”
I blinked at the angry red light on my Intercom. Groggily punching buttons, I managed to announce to half the staff that I was in my office before finally hitting the right one and putting an end to the buzzing.
“It’s about time you answered.” Emma’s short-order cook voice left no doubt that she was displeased. “Your door is locked. I’ve been trying to let you know that Mr. Van Droop wants you in his office in fifteen minutes.” Click.
That was Emma’s urbane way of telling me that employees have no right to privacy, that she didn’t like me any better than she had ever liked anyone, and that I’d better hustle because you don’t keep the vice president in charge of claims waiting, especially if you are an insignificant “trainee in claims,” barely above an amoeba in the corporate ecological food chain.
Dazed but determined, I pushed myself away from my desk and willed my body to unlock the door. Then I stumbled back to my chair just in time for Emma to open the door, poke her head in and say, “That was fifteen minutes from fifteen minutes ago, and you have a red spot on your forehead.”
She disappeared before I could open my mouth to reply. The door shut with a whoosh followed by a muffled click.
Fifteen minutes from fifteen minutes ago didn’t sound so good. And something was definitely wrong with my forehead. I could feel an indentation, right in the middle, where I had been resting on my class ring. But the important thing was that the vice president wanted to see me. Right now.
I leapt up, swaying unsteadily like the proverbial sailor on shore leave. Unless we were having an earthquake, I was not yet fully functional. Mother always says that if you are groggy after coming out of a deep sleep you should have a drink. Of course, she probably means water, but if I was going to meet with the vice president, I needed something stronger.
In the bottom drawer of the ancient battleship gray filing cabinet that fills about a quarter of my modest office was a locked wooden box with a tiny hair positioned across the lid as a security measure. I glanced over my shoulder to make certain I was still alone and reached for the box. Even in my stuporous state, I remembered to check the hair before fumbling in my pockets for the key. Inside was a bottle of vodka and a single unwashed glass. The only secret I’ve managed to keep from Emma’s lyncean watchfulness.
The two-gulp shot I poured myself brought the contents down to half a bottle. Not bad. Eight months with the company, and I had only required half a fifth of reinforcement. Of course, I had never been called before the vice president. If there were going to be many such meetings, I’d have to get a larger box. Unless he was going to fire me. In that case, I’d be packing up my half-empty bottle and my unwashed glass and saying goodbye to Universal Heartland Liability and Casualty Assurance Company of America, Incorporated. Not in one breath, of course.
Just the thought of being fired was disconcerting. I didn’t want to say goodbye. My job with Universal had saved me from food stamps and generic peanut butter. How can you expect to get any nutritional value from something labeled Product 438 Crunchy!
The only other job I’d been able to land after joining the ranks of the educated unemployed was as a private detective. I always wanted to be a detective. Even as an undergraduate philosophy major, I read every classic mystery in existence, from hard-boiled to cozy. Unfortunately, things didn’t turn out as rosy as the brochure promised. Despite my unremarkable appearance, one irate ex-boxer husband had no trouble at all remembering my face. And he didn’t like me tailing his wife to get evidence against her lover. I almost had my nondescript face made descript, spent two weeks in the hospital, and promptly retired from the private detection business.
No, I didn’t want to say goodbye. I wanted to stay right where I was. So I needed to get my act together and hotfoot it over to Van Droop’s office pronto. Feeling better, I hurriedly locked up the bottle, replaced the hair, and took several loud breaths with my mouth open to dissipate the liquor odor. Worried that there might still be a slight alcohol aroma, I looked for some mints in the top drawer of my desk. Finding none, I settled for an allergy pill. They have a minty flavor and melt in your mouth. And they last for twelve hours.
There’s a mirror just to the left of my door. I paused on the way out to check how I looked. The red spot Emma mentioned was still there. I tried pulling my hair forward to conceal it. That looked stupid. Lazy or stupid—those were my choices. I brushed my hair back in place and headed for Van Droop’s office. Maybe he would think it was a birthmark.
Emma pointedly looked at the clock on the wall across from her desk as I rushed by. Van Droop’s office is just a short sprint away in the “new” section of the building. As the most recent addition to the company, I had a tiny room between a broom closet and an alcove that housed some hard copies of closed files that had not been transferred to a digital format and probably never would be. The rest of the employees on my floor were billeted in cubicles ringed with brightly colored, half-wall partitions that allow you to scratch unseen but amplify coughs and whispered confidences. It’s the kind of place that makes you aware that you are part of a team.
As I emerged from the gloom into the corridor leading to the corporate offices, heads surreptitiously turned, and curious eyes followed my progress. Feeling self-conscious, like someone caught blowing in the vichyssoise, I looked straight ahead as I marched toward the door marked, “Martin van Droop, Vice President, Claims.” I could almost hear my mother’s voice ordering me to keep my shoulders back, stomach in, chin up. Sometimes she gives good advice.
Van Droop’s office, like mine, has walls that reach the ceiling. You can’t get his attention by coughing or clearing your throat. You have to take positive action. I had read somewhere that when knocking on the door of an executive, it should be soft enough so as not to seem aggressive, yet loud enough to be heard. To get it just right requires practice and fairly fleshy knuckles. I rapped a shade too loud and didn’t have to look around to know that eyebrows were being raised. Then, after being told to “Enter!” I inadvertently let the door slam behind me. Van Droop looked up and scowled. Before I could apologize for slamming the door, for being late, or for just being me, he waved me to a seat. My knees didn’t need to be asked twice.
Once seated, Van Droop’s basset eyes roamed over me as if he’d lost something I might have. “I don’t think we’ve met…”
“At the Christmas party,” I meekly corrected. “And at my interview.” I didn’t take his forgetfulness personally; no one remembers the thousands of extras in B movies.
“Christmas party?” he echoed uncertainly.
“Yes,” I said. “The one for the employees.” Van Droop had made an appearance at the company “social hour” the Friday before Christmas. His present to the junior staff had been to let them rub elbows with him while they munched green bonsai Christmas tree cookies and drank weak punch that made some of the admins giggly. My elbows had been among those rubbed. Perhaps my elbows were as forgettable as my face.
“Ah, yes, of course,” he murmured. “You’re, ah…” He fumbled among some papers on his desk.
“John Smith,” I said. If he didn’t even know my name it seemed unlikely that I was in much trouble. Maybe I’d only needed one gulp of vodka.
“John Smith, John Smith,” he repeated, as if wondering why the name sounded familiar. Then his eyes wandered to my forehead and lingered there a moment. With luck, the blush I felt creeping up my neck would camouflage the spot.
Van Droop looked down again, found the paper he’d been searching for, and started reading. “It has been called to my attention, Mr., ah…Smith, that you have been with the company eight months now.” Once he got past my name, he knew his lines. I slowly began to relax. He hadn’t called me in to chew me out about something; he was congratulating me for making it through the company’s probationary period. If I hadn’t been awakened from a sound sleep, I might have considered this possibility sooner. Oh well, you can’t complain about happy endings.
Van Droop rambled on, pausing now and then to lick his lips and glance at my forehead. Whenever his eyes went to my spot, I reached up and rubbed it as if concentrating on what he had just said. Finally, he reached the dénouement. “So,…Mr. … Smith. We are happy to consider you a permanent employee of Universal Heartland Liability and Casualty Assurance Company of America, Incorporated.” He took a deep breath to replenish his lungs, folded his hands on his desk, and smiled.
I smiled back. I liked the sound of what he said: permanent. A permanent position with a nice safe company. I definitely had to buy some mints to make sure I didn’t ruin everything the next time I needed a pick-me-up.
After thanking him for his kind words and for the job of claims adjuster, I scurried back to my own office, made dearer by the word “permanent.” It wasn’t much. A little bigger than the closet next door, with a tiny window facing a brick wall splotched with white bird droppings. The khaki-colored paint was peppered with nail holes, an occasional nail still in place, waiting for someone to come along with a family portrait or a Demotivators Calendar. Cobwebs hung like dirty cotton candy from the high ceiling, but there didn’t seem to be any spiders, so I didn’t care. The bottom line: it was a comfortable job with a nice steady income. Who could ask for more?
Emma had invaded my domain during my absence and had left a file on my desk labeled “Marshall, Vivian.” Since this was my first case as a permanent employee, I opened the file immediately. There was a thin line between “permanent” and “adios” in an “employment at will” environment; I didn’t want to let them down.
The question was whether Universal had an obligation to pay for an accident under Mrs. Marshall’s $100,000 family auto policy, an adequate but low-limits policy. The facts seemed straightforward, but people always managed to bend them a little this way and that. Mrs. Marshall’s son Mark Jr., age 16, had been driving what he claimed was a borrowed ’91 Ford when he collided with a car driven by a woman named Pearl Rosenblatt. Rosenblatt had been well into the intersection when the Ford ran into her 2000 Corolla broadside. Two old cars, racing to their final destinations.
Rosenblatt claimed Mark had been speeding and, according to the police report, the tire marks indicated she might be right. But that would be difficult to prove with certainty. In any event, the Corolla had the right of way, so Mark was clearly at fault. The company was on the hook, but only IF the ’91 Ford was borrowed. According to Mrs. Marshall’s insurance agent, it was his understanding that the car had been purchased, not borrowed. Although no paperwork was completed before the accident, and Mrs. Marshall said that she had only asked the agent about what it would cost IF Mark decided to purchase the car. A simple accident, but too many if’s to make it an open-and-shut case.
In addition to the issue of coverage, there were a few other complicating factors. The initial medical report on Pearl Rosenblatt looked bad. She claimed that her neck had been injured in the accident, and she had already been operated on. Talk about speed! Presently she was unable to walk and was confined to a wheelchair. Some notes taken by one of the admins on a phone call to the hospital suggested there might also be a malpractice suit against the doctor who performed the operation. Universal would join the queue when the limits for the other policies were reached.
To top it all off, the Corolla wasn’t insured. That meant we would be dealing directly with Pearl Rosenblatt rather than with another insurance company. Depending on what she was like, that could either be a plus or a minus. Although I would have preferred a quick and easy win, this was definitely the most interesting file to cross my desk so far, a case befitting my new status. If I did a good job, maybe they would ask the janitor to start picking up my wastebasket instead of requiring me to dump its contents in the lunchroom garbage can and scrounge for new plastic liners.
Time to talk to Mrs. Marshall and her son.
In claims adjusters’ school, we were taught that you should surprise people by dropping in on them unannounced. That supposedly throws them off balance and makes them pliable and easier to manipulate. Of course, they didn’t use those exact words. They talked about “fast response times” and “negotiation skills.” But everyone knew what they meant. In the long run, it seldom makes much difference. The people you try to drop in on are rarely home anyway. Still, it’s company policy, and it was a beautiful day for a drive.
Universal does not issue smartphones, but it provides a city map that spans an entire wall in the fourth-floor foyer. The theory is that you can chart your route on the map and write out the directions if necessary. You can’t get reimbursed for a normal-sized map, but you can make as many copies as you want of your handwritten directions using company paper. You can also google a map and print the directions, but often times you end up going from one place to another and are then on your own. I’ve considered taking pictures of the map and piecing them together, but it seems like a lot of work. And it would be hard to spread out in the car and even harder to fold into a manageable size.
Fortunately, I was familiar with the area where the Marshalls lived, so I informed Emma that I would be out of the office on business and departed. The sun was riding high, I was on a new case, and I had been made a permanent member of the claims adjusters club. This was clearly my lucky day.
Chanting, “a-weema-weh, a-weema-weh,” I wheeled out of the parking lot and headed toward the low-income residential district where the Marshalls lived. I sang along to the song as I tapped the gas pedal to the rhythm of my music. I couldn’t remember the second verse, so returned to a few more choruses of “a-weema-weh’s.” The drive went quickly, and once in the area, it didn’t take long to locate their house.
“Marshall” was scrawled in bold, uneven letters on a mailbox in front of the gray remains of a picket fence. I pulled into the unpaved driveway and stopped just inches from a rusted pink tricycle. As I got out of the car, I noted that the unmowed lawn was competing with a host of dandelions for dominance, and a tangle of ivy and weeds had taken over the flowerbeds. But there were bright floral-patterned curtains in the windows and a welcome mat on the doorstep.
I tripped over an anatomically correct Barbie doll and started up the steps. A large calico cat was slumped over the second step, two paws hanging limply down, head turned upward into the sun. Her tail twitched as I stepped over her, but her eyes remained closed. Next to the door, there was a sign that read “Beware of the Cat.” I glanced back to make sure I hadn’t disturbed her, but she hadn’t moved. Then I pressed the doorbell.
Nothing happened. I pressed again. It’s hard to know whether a doorbell is working. If it is and you also knock, it can seem pushy. On the other hand, if it hasn’t rung and the occupant suddenly decides to leave via the front door, it can be a bit awkward for them to find you just standing there with your hands in your pockets. I opted for pushy. I knocked softly on the screen door. No one answered. I knocked just a little louder, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t disturbing the cat. Still no one answered. Surprising people can be a drag.
I was just about to give up when a small girl peeked out the front window. I smiled broadly at her and pointed to the door. She shook her head and stared at me. I showed her a few more teeth and made an exaggerated motion indicating that she should go to the front door. She remained immobile. After trying a few more hand signals, I decided to look around for someone capable of more sophisticated communication. Where there’s a child, there’s usually an adult nearby. As I turned to leave, the child suddenly disappeared from sight. Then the door rattled. She had correctly interpreted my hand signals, after all. Or so I thought.
The door opened about two inches.
“Hi,” she said in a thin, diaphanous voice.
I’ve never been adept at talking with children, but I was prepared to give it my best for Universal. Bending down to speak through the narrow opening at her level, I said, “Hi there.” I sounded like someone trying to make conversation with a parakeet. “Is your mommy home?” She gazed back at me with blank blue eyes.
“You talk funny,” she said after a few moments.
Straightening my shoulders, I got up from my crouch and peered down at the little urchin. Then I cleared my throat and addressed her in a no-nonsense, adult tone. “I’d like to speak with your mother.”
“She isn’t home.”
“Well, what about your brother then?” I caught myself wanting to stoop down again and snapped to attention.
“I’m not supposed to tell you they aren’t home.”
“That’s good advice,” I found myself agreeing. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
That did it. She closed the door and went back to the window. Not ME, I wanted to yell. I’m not a stranger; I’m a claims adjuster. She stood there staring at me. What should I have done? I asked myself. Tell her it’s okay to talk with strangers?
I glanced around the sides of the house but didn’t see anyone. It was a nice day for waiting around, so I decided to do just that. Either her mother or brother would probably return soon.
I was leaning against my car, lulled by the sun’s warmth and the distant sound of a dogfight, when a car turned into the driveway so fast I felt like I was stalled on the track at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Startled, I lost my balance and rammed my elbow into one of my car’s fenders. If the car’s body panels hadn’t been made of some dent and ding-resistant polymer, I would have damaged my car instead of rearranging the skin on my arm.
A long-haired teenager jumped out of the other car and demanded, “You looking for somebody?” He sounded like he was trying to be tough. No, on second thought, he sounded tough. He wasn’t much to look at—all bones, faded blue jeans, and acne. But he had his Clint Eastwood imitation down pat.
“Are you Mark Marshall, Jr.?” I asked, rubbing my injured elbow.
“Who’s asking?” He tried a swagger, but it came out more like a stumble. He pushed up his sleeves to give me a glimpse of a tattoo to emphasize his point. I tilted my head to see what it was, but I couldn’t tell.
“I’m with Universal Heartland Liability and Casualty Assurance Company of America, Incorporated,” I said quickly, wishing for the umpteenth time that the name was shorter.
“That’s supposed to be insurance, dude,” he challenged with a snicker.
Jeff Bridges isn’t scary like Clint Eastwood can be, but he was still trying to impress me with his ability to sound like someone he wasn’t. I needed to cut to the chase. “No, we are an insurance company,” I explained, “but the word in our name is assurance. It means we assure you of certain forms of insurance coverage.”
He seemed to accept my explanation but still looked dubious. “You don’t look like an insurance man,” he said, giving me the once-over. People always expect anyone who works for an insurance company to look like a short-haired version of the Quaker Oats Man.
“I left my ascot at home,” I quipped, but the comment was obviously lost on him. He probably ate pop tarts for breakfast. “I just have a few questions.”
“Well, I may have a few answers…or I may not,” he countered in a slow, nasal voice. I wasn’t sure who he was mimicking with that one. Maybe John Wayne. He needed to lay off the macho movies and watch some Leave It to Beaver reruns.
“Can I come inside?” I asked. I’ve never been good at taking notes while standing. Besides, my elbow hurt, and the sun was in my eyes.
“Do you want to ask your questions, or don’t you?” He was back to Eastwood again.
I was about to point out that it was he who wanted something from me, not the other way round, when a voice yelled, “Mark, who is that man?” I turned and saw a woman standing in the front doorway of the Marshall house. Had she slipped past us or come in from the back? Or had she been there all along, and her daughter was an incredibly good liar?
“Some man from the Universal Assurance Company,” Mark called back, his dark eyes laughing at the fine joke he’d made. Ignoring him, I headed toward the house. He tagged along, flexing his fingers as if in preparation for a karate chop in case I got out of line.
“Mrs. Marshall?” I asked as I tripped over the Barbie again. She had her son’s dark brown eyes, but the resemblance ended there. She was soft and smooth looking, no visible tattoos, no acne, and no apparent attitude. “I’m from Universal Heartland Liability and Casualty Assurance Company of America…Incorporated,” pausing after “America” to take a breath.
The little girl came from behind her mother, pointed a plump pink finger at me, and cried, “That’s the strange man!”
“If I could just ask you a few questions…” I began.
“About what?” Mrs. Marshall interrupted, sounding anxious.
The little girl started hopping up and down in front of me, waving her finger and chanting: “That’s him, that’s him.”
Meanwhile, Mark was cracking his knuckles, one loud crunch at a time. In spite of the distractions, I was still smiling, an unnatural smile, as if I’d been waiting too long to have my picture taken, but a smile nonetheless. Trying to display patience and strength without gritting my teeth, I finished my sentence: “About the accident your son had in the ’91 Ford.”
“Oh. That.”
“I already told him he could ask me anything he wanted,” Mark interjected, trying to make me out to be the difficult one.
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“That’s him, that’s him, that’s him…” the little girl repeated in a singsong voice. It was sounding less accusatory and more like a nursery rhyme set to music.
“Smith. John Smith.”
Mark stopped cracking his knuckles and offered up a mirror-practiced, lip-curling smirk. “Where’d you leave Pocahontas?”
Wondering what enterprising history teacher managed to instill that bit of scholarship, I stepped around him and pulled on the screen door. I didn’t realize it was locked and pulled on it hard enough to make an unpleasant screeching sound, almost ripping it off its hinges.
“Easy, man, easy.” Mark held up his hands, palms out.
I took a deep breath and waited until Mrs. Marshall opened the door and invited me in. Once inside, things improved. She offered me coffee, which I gratefully accepted. Then she perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair across from me, hands demurely folded in her lap. I noticed that she was wearing an apron. Not one with a cutesy saying appropriate for someone about to barbeque, but a retro June Cleaver apron covered with bright flowers. Surely a woman wearing an apron wouldn’t be difficult to deal with. I took a sip of lukewarm, bitter coffee.
Then the blue-eyed girl stopped singing and thrust a stuffed elephant covered with what looked like dog drool and smeared chocolate at me. I tried to decline, but she insisted. Finally, I thanked her, took it, and ditched the beast behind the couch. She retrieved it for me—three times. It was no use. In the end, I managed to balance it on the arm of my chair while the faithful retriever waited patiently for the next opportunity to fetch.
“Mandy just adores her elephant,” Mrs. Marshall said, beaming at her daughter like she had done something clever. In a way, I felt honored. Children don’t usually like me.
Mark had switched on the television, dividing his attention between what looked like men wearing camouflage struggling to make their way through a swamp and my conversation with his mother. I found my eyes irresistibly drawn to the men in the swamp. What were they up to, anyway?
As if she had been waiting for the right time to make her attack, Mrs. Marshall suddenly leaned forward and said in a firm voice, “Mark just borrowed the Ford.” As my eyes darted back and forth between the men on the screen and the woman in the apron, she repeated her assertion. “He borrowed the Ford.” Then she explained that she couldn’t afford to buy her son a car on her small income, and although he was free to use the family station wagon whenever he wanted, there were times when he needed the use of another car.
Mark corroborated his mother’s testimony with occasional grunts. “Unh,” the Ford had been borrowed. “Unh,” she couldn’t afford to buy him a car. An extra “unh” seemed to indicate that he couldn’t afford to buy himself a car either. “Unh,” he was free to use the family station wagon. But his face said who would want to?
When I addressed him directly, I also learned that “humph” he didn’t have a job, and “humph” he had no prior tickets for speeding.
There were no surprises or hiccups until I asked about Frances Metzker, the man from whom Mark allegedly borrowed the Ford. As soon as I mentioned the name, Mrs. Marshall leapt up to get more coffee, and Mark clicked the television off with the remote. Just when things were getting interesting in the swamp.
“He was confused,” Mark complained in a whiney voice that was probably his own.
“You mean he claims that he sold you the car?” It was hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Unfortunately, the information in the file wasn’t complete.
“Definitely confused when the agent first talked to him. He knows I was just borrowing it. I told him if I liked it that I MIGHT consider buying the heap, but I didn’t make any promises.”
“The report says you had the Ford almost two weeks before the accident,” I persisted. As they apparently knew, as an “additional insured,” he was probably covered for a borrowed car under his mother’s insurance, but most likely not for a purchased one, especially since he’d had it longer than the usual grace period.
“So?”
“And that you replaced the filters.”
“They needed replacing.” He was glaring at me as if he wished he could put me in a swamp with a few gators.
“Isn’t that rather a long time to borrow a car when you don’t really need one and aren’t serious about buying it?”
A red line was creeping up his neck, but he wasn’t about to back down. When the going gets tough, Clint’s jaw turns to steel. “He wasn’t in any hurry to get it back. I told him I’d do some work on the engine in exchange for driving it awhile. I like to work on cars, and he didn’t say no.”
It sounded a bit rehearsed, but a reasonable explanation. I’d seen cases like this before. The policyholder feels victimized and sees the insurance company as an amorphous rich uncle who can make everything all right. What they fail to realize is that an insurance company is a business like any other business, and it isn’t good business to pay out on phony claims. That’s where I come in. That’s why I have a permanent job in a company with a future.
It was time to talk to Frances Metzker and get his side of the story.
I flipped my notepad shut and stood up. Mrs. Marshall had come back into the room and was leaning against the side of the couch. She wiped her hands on her apron and took one step toward me, beseeching me with her eyes. “Is everything going to be all right?” It was enough to melt your heart, but claims adjusters have to be strong.
“We try to be fair,” I said. To do the line justice, I would need to turn slowly and walk off into the sunset, but it was still morning. Then, before I could say or do anything more, Mrs. Marshall began making little hiccupping sounds like she was about to lose control. Clutching my notepad to my chest, I backed away. I’m defenseless against a crying woman. Especially one wearing an apron.
The age lines around her mouth quivered. I was almost to the door. Then suddenly, her demeanor changed. Nostrils flaring, she angrily shook her head and practically shouted, “That awful woman. She’s not really hurt, you know. She just wants to make some easy money off us.”
Smoothing out her apron, she regained her composure. “Being alone with two children isn’t easy. And all I have is a little savings.” She lowered her head, tilted it to the side and peered up at me. Was she about to try the sexual come-on other adjusters were always talking about? It had never happened to me before, but I was ready with the appropriate response. It was going to be a bit awkward, though, in front of the kids.
“I couldn’t afford to buy him a car,” she repeated. Then she sighed and turned away. Mandy took that opportunity to push her favorite elephant at me again, and I took another step back. The aging mesh in the screen door made a horrible crunching noise as one corner pulled away from the metal. Stammering an apology, I pushed the pesky pachyderm aside and hastily made my exit.
The cat raised its head as if considering whether I was worth attacking, then collapsed back into her original pose. I was about to step around her when something Mrs. Marshal had said made me pause. I turned back to the house and saw her silhouetted in the doorway as if anticipating my return. Well, she needn’t get her hopes up. I definitely wasn’t going back inside.
Through the screen door, I asked, “Do you have any specific reason to believe Ms. Rosenblatt is faking her injury?” Mrs. Marshall’s face was a mosaic of thousands of tiny squares as I looked at her through the mesh. “Well?” I prompted.
After a brief hesitation, the words poured out of her as if her complaints had finally reached flood stage. “Mark told me she was fine when she first got out of the car. It wasn’t until they started talking about insurance that she grabbed her neck and began moaning.”
I started to interrupt, but she anticipated my question and continued. “It wasn’t shock.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
“Well, I can certainly tell when someone is trying to work the system….” She paused, blinking guiltily.
“You’ve talked with her, haven’t you?” It wasn’t exactly a Holmesian deduction, but a damn fine guess, nonetheless. Why didn’t clients trust the insurance company to take care of matters for them instead of muddling things up? “You shouldn’t be getting in touch with her,” I said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“She called me.” Mrs. Marshall protested. “She told me that I couldn’t weasel out of paying for what my son did. I didn’t know what to say. Mark did run into her. But why should I have to pay for it out of my savings? That just isn’t fair.” Then, remembering the key issue. “Especially since he only borrowed the car.”
I considered informing her that it was doubtful she was personally liable for Pearl Rosenblatt’s medical claims, but some people do sue everybody and anybody they consider even remotely responsible. And I didn’t want to get into a complicated discussion of the possibilities when the lines around her mouth were starting to quiver again. It was time to make a run for it.
As I drove away from the Marshall residence, I thought about what she’d said about Rosenblatt’s injuries. Not that I trusted anything Mark told her about the accident. He had lots of reasons to lie. But there might be witnesses who could either verify or disprove his story. And if the policy did apply, I would sooner or later have to determine whether Pearl Rosenblatt was, as Vivian Marshall implied, a sly old fox who was trying to take advantage of Universal. If so, it was my job to make sure she didn’t. After all, as Mrs. Marshall had so aptly put it, “That just isn’t fair.”
