Sunset Beach(28)

Yvonne grabbed her pocketbook and backpack. “Bunch of crooks,” she muttered. She put her hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Come on, child.” She yanked the door open and led the girl outside.

Wendy watched the two depart, a sour expression on her face. “I told Drue to get rid of her an hour ago. Next time she shows up, I’m calling the police.”

Brice placed an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “She’s upset. Just let it go.”

“Easy for you to say. She didn’t call you a heartless bitch,” Wendy retorted. “When the final papers for her settlement arrive, I’m having it messengered over to her house. I don’t want potential clients to be subjected to her harangues.”

“Good idea,” he agreed. He looked over at Drue. “You’ve been promoted to receptionist?”

Through the reception room window Drue watched as Yvonne Howington loaded Aliyah into the back of an ancient rust-bucket Plymouth that was parked at the curb. The car’s engine belched and backfired. Plumes of black smoke streamed from the tailpipe as she backed out of the parking space. The little girl was turned around in her seat, gazing toward the law office.

“I feel terrible for that lady,” Drue murmured. She turned to Brice. “That doesn’t seem fair. The girl was murdered on their property, and the hotel only pays one hundred and fifty thousand?”

“Blame the insurance lobby,” Brice said mildly. “They’re the ones that convinced the state legislature to cap worker’s comp benefits.”

“You have no idea how complicated these cases are, or how hard it is to prove wrongful death,” Wendy said, her voice terse. “This firm wasted tens of thousands of dollars investigating that woman’s claim. What we’ll recover is a pittance of what we spent. You can go on back to the bullpen now, Drue. I’ll cover the phones for the rest of the day.”

Drue walked over to the seating area and picked up the abandoned art supplies. She scooped up the markers and looked down at the top piece of paper. The little girl had drawn an undersea tableau featuring a mermaid with long, flowing yellow highlighter hair, a grinning crab and a jolly yellow flounder. On the bottom, she’d signed her name in the tiniest letters possible. Aliyah.

When she got back to her cubicle, Drue pinned the drawing to the wall above her computer screen.





11


“Okay, team, listen up.” Wendy stood at the head of the long table in the law firm’s windowless conference room. She wore a sleeveless, form-fitting white dress and sling-back nude stilettos that, Drue thought, must be excruciatingly uncomfortable.

“Today is day one of our new elder abuse ad campaign. Last night, during Wheel of Fortune, we started airing the new commercials. Those will be on heavy rotation for the next six weeks. We’ll supplement with radio commercials, and of course, print and social media, with a heavy emphasis on Facebook advertising. We’ve also bought three billboards, one over near the Bay Pines VA hospital, the other on I-75, north of the first Tampa exit, and the third on U.S. 19 in Clearwater.

“Last night’s shift experienced a huge volume of calls spurred by the new campaign, and I’m expecting the same today,” Wendy went on. “We know from our market research in Arizona, California and, of course, Florida that juries are more and more willing to award huge settlements for these nursing home cases, which also means insurance companies are being pressured to settle quickly, and out of court. So I’m giving all of you a new case quota. We want to see three confirmed ‘viable’ cases from every member of the team this week. And for every prospective client who does go ahead and sign with us, that team member will be entered into a drawing for a one-hundred-dollar Visa gift card!”

“Awesome!” exclaimed Ben, who was, as usual, sitting beside Drue.

“Okay, then,” Wendy made a sweeping motion, “everybody get out there now. I want to hear those Justice Line phones ring!”



* * *



“Good morning.” Her first caller, Drue thought, sounded surprisingly articulate. “I believe I might have an excellent case against the assisted living facility where my mother has been living for the past two years.”

Drue went down the questionnaire, filling in the potential client’s information, her excitement mounting. She had a referral!

“It’s probably financial abuse more than anything,” the woman said. “You see, my late father was meticulous in his financial planning. Mother has a set amount of money in her bank account, and up until now that’s been more than sufficient. But lately, we’ve noticed that her spending habits have gone through the roof. It’s only May, and she’s already run through all her money for the year.”

“Okay,” Drue said. “Do you believe she’s being coerced, or somehow blackmailed by one of the employees? Is it embezzlement? Or possibly identity fraud?”

“Nothing like that,” the woman said. “It’s the damned Home Shopping Network. I’ve asked, I’ve put it in writing, I’ve even gone to the director of the home himself, but they refuse to do anything about it.”

“About what?”

“The Home Shopping Network! I want it blocked. Or disabled. Or something. Her entire suite is full of Capodimonte porcelain shepherdesses and sets of nonstick copper cookware. Cookware! She didn’t cook when she had a kitchen. And don’t get me started on the electronic toothbrushes that arrive every month like clockwork. Mother wears dentures! Now they’re shipping the stuff to my house. My garage is full of this crap. It has to stop!”