Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(104)

“When did it start, when did it end?”

Greg had to think about it. “September last year. Couldn’t give you an exact date. Soon after they discharged Ozzie. It lasted nine months, then Patrick lost his job, and respite wasn’t an option anymore.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“They fired you,” D.D. stated impatiently. “What’d you do?”

“Fired me? They ran out of money. Not their fault. Frankly, I felt bad for them. Life was already tough. But they were good people. And Ozzie was doing a lot better by then. I figured they’d be okay.”

“What do you mean, ‘Ozzie was doing a lot better’?”

“You know, with Andrew.”

D.D. cocked her head to the side. Studied Danielle and Greg. “That’s right. The Harringtons were using services from both Gym Boy and Healer Boy. Any other additional services?” She stared at Danielle.

Danielle shook her head. “I’m a nurse. Even to babysit, you couldn’t afford me.”

Greg, however, had turned a deep, dark shade of red.

D.D. leaned forward, regarded him steadily. “Come on, spit it out. Confession’s good for the soul.”

“There, um, there might be a reason the Harringtons used both me and Andrew.”

“Really? Do tell.”

Danielle was staring at him, too, the expression on her face wide-eyed, the person standing on the tracks seeing the train coming.

“Andrew found out about my respite work. Coincidentally, a family who hired me also hired him. He put the pieces together.”

D.D. arched a brow. So Lightfoot had something on the good-looking MC. So much for Karen’s little spiel about knowing everything about her staff.

“So, um …” Greg closed his eyes, blew out a breath. “Andrew suggested that when I worked with a family, particularly a wealthy family, I could recommend his services. If the family ended up hiring him, he’d then throw a little something my way. Like a finder’s fee.”

“Cash, you mean. More money.”

“Generally fifty bucks.”

“My, my, my,” D.D. mused. She turned to Alex. “And here Lightfoot told us he was giving his gift away.”

“Oh sure,” Greg said sarcastically. “To the tune of a hundred an hour.”

“Anyone else in on this?” D.D. asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Other MCs moonlighting as respite workers? Other therapists asking you to refer their services?”

“None that I know of. But again, not exactly something anyone can talk about on the floor. Maybe other staff members work outside the unit. Maybe not. You’d have to ask them.”

Alex spoke up. “Wait a minute. First the Harringtons are paying you thirty an hour to take Ozzie to the park. Then they’re paying Lightfoot a hundred an hour for counseling. They didn’t have that kind of money.”

“They’d submit the bills to the state, which generally covers a couple of hours of respite care a month. So the state paid for half my time, with the Harringtons making up the difference. As for Andrew, I don’t know, but I’m betting they put it under ‘psychiatric services.’ I saw paperwork once, on the kitchen table. It didn’t look like an invoice from a spiritual healer, but more like a clinical doctor. Andrew had initials after his name and everything. I’m guessing that was his way of finessing the system for people like the Harringtons.”

“People like the Harringtons maybe,” Alex said, still not sounding convinced, “but what about Tika’s family? No way they could afford even a fraction of your bill.”

“No, they couldn’t,” Greg agreed. “And they didn’t. I saw Tika four times. Same deal. Established a rapport with her here, got to feel like she was making progress. When she was discharged, the dad asked if I could stop by from time to time. The mother was about to have a baby, she could use the break, yada yada yada.

“So I stopped by. First time I entered the house, I about lost my lunch. The dad was passed out on the couch, obviously stoned, the mom’s ankles were so swollen from the pregnancy, she couldn’t get out of bed. I propped up her feet, got her some water, then I took all the kids to the park. Kept them for four hours. When I returned, the father seemed to have gotten himself together. He thanked me profusely and offered me a baggie for my troubles.”

“He paid you in drugs?” Danielle asked sharply.

Greg shot her a look. “I turned him down.”

“Oh, well, so you do have standards after all.”

He flushed, squared his jaw, then returned his attention to the cops. “I turned down the drugs,” he repeated stiffly. “What’s-his-name said he’d pay me next week. I almost refused, but then Tika ran over and gave me this great big hug, and … I don’t know. That house. I knew I was screwed, but sometimes … It’s tough to walk away.”

“So what’d you do?” D.D. pressed.

“Played sucker three more weeks. Showed up, took all the kids to the park, never got a dime. And just so you know, it’s not all about the money. If I thought I could’ve helped Tika—hell, I would’ve continued. But man, that family … Her stepfather … They’re the kind of people you learn quickly to avoid. They’re not interested in getting better. They want you to take care of them. They want you to do all the heavy lifting. Meaning nothing you do is ever gonna be enough, and nothing you do is ever gonna make a difference. You have to walk away, or they’ll bleed you dry. Plain and simple.”