Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(35)

"What would it take to move someone into one of our facilities down here?" I ask.

Robert shrugs. "If they can pay, and there's a suite available, sure. It's not a problem. They'd need a medical evaluation to see what level of care they might require."

"Okay." I nod. I can at least let Emmy know she might consider moving David closer. I wonder why she hasn't already.

When she finds him.

I grimace.

"And also to check what kind of insurance they have," Robert goes on. "Now if it's someone dependent on Medicaid or something, it's harder. We have to assign a certain number of Medicaid beds to be compliant and equal opportunity, and there's a waiting list a mile long. And frankly, my father would try to fudge those numbers a bit to make a larger profit, if you know what I mean."

The man next to me coughs and shifts, looking uncomfortable.

Robert doesn't notice or doesn't care. "And it might depend on whether they are receiving social security and how much that is."

"Fine, fine," I say. "Let’s get back to what we were looking at. Profit centers." Then I look at the accountants. Two of them, the balding man with glasses who looks uncomfortable and his colleague with dark hair who's been running his finger down sheets, his lips moving silently all meeting, but who's now looking up at me.

"Please make sure that any report you show me has the actual number of beds available, and there is never any creative accounting. Am I clear? I'll fire anyone who tries to pull that shit past me."

Robert makes a sound I can't decipher, but I don't get a chance to dwell on it because we dive right into the weeds of numbers. Pages and pages and pages.

By three in the afternoon, after a lunch of delivered sandwiches and pages and pages of more numbers, my eyes are crossing and another headache is brewing.

Suddenly, the phone is buzzing again with an incoming call. From a New York area code.

"Excuse me," I say to the room. "Hello," I answer. There's silence. Ambient noise but no speaking. Then the line goes dead.

David.

Shit.

Of course he hung up, he was expecting Emmy.

I stand, willing him to call back. What if he doesn't call back?

"Anyone know how to reverse look up a phone number?" I ask the room.





18





Trystan





David, don't hang up," I say quickly when the phone rings again.

"H-Hello?" It's a man's voice, crackled with age.

"David is that you?"

"Where's Emmy?"

"She's not here right now. David, where are you?"

"What do you mean she's not there? She said this was her mobile phone. That she had this with her all the time."

"I know, David, I just spoke with her and—"

"Who are you?"

"My name is Trystan, and I'm a friend of Emmy's. I—I'm helping her."

"Helping her with what?"

"Well, right now I'm helping her get in touch with you. She's worried because she doesn't know where you are."

"I need to talk to Emmy."

"I know, sir. She wants to talk to you too. Can you tell me where you are so she can come and meet you?"

There's quiet then the sound of sighing. "I—I'm not sure. Oh, this is so embarrassing. I—I thought I . . ." He's beginning to sound panicked.

Thinking quickly, I try to keep him distracted. "It's okay, David. Happens to all of us. Are you in a restaurant?"

"Yes," he says. "I know this place. Well, I thought I did. Miguel was the ma?tre d’. Excuse me, young man," I barely hear the last part as he's covering the phone. Then I hear talking and David saying indignantly. "No, I'm not lost!"

"David," I try and get his attention. "David! Can you listen to me?"

There's more muted sounds and then the line goes silent. I look at the phone to see he hung up.

"Shit. Anyone find out where he called from?" I ask, even as I dial the number back.

"I think it's called the Paris Cafe?" the dark haired accountant stammers.

It rings. I know the place. It's in the Seaport near the financial district. That makes sense.

"Paris Cafe, can I help you?"

"Yes, that elderly man that was there, please don't let him leave."

"Sir?"

"The man. David. Can you keep him there? I'll cover his tab. Just feed him and keep him there."

"Sir, we're not open for dinner yet. And he was belligerent and rude to—"

"This is Trystan Montgomery, I will literally read you off my credit card number and you can charge me whatever you see fit for your trouble. But he is confused, and he's a missing person. His—" Damn it. What was Emmy to him? Niece? "His family are looking for him."

"He's left, sir."

"Christ! Well, get him back and offer the poor man a safe place to wait while we get him back to his family. I don't think you want the bad press if something happens to him, do you? This is the equivalent of a lost child right now. So get off the fucking phone and go and find him."