Trace (Trace 1) by Warren Murphy Page B

don’t work for Blue Cross,” Trace said.
    “Okay, just explaining. I told you, he was a nice guy, so we let him stay. He was a real help to everybody around here, and then one day, I didn’t know it, he changed his insurance policy and made me the beneficiary. One of the nurses and a doctor witnessed the change for him.”
    “And they didn’t tell you?” Trace asked. He reached into a jacket pocket and fished out a paper.
    “They didn’t know what it was. He had written this letter, see. I guess to your company and then he asked them to witness his signature and he signed it and he had them sign it, but he had the top of the letter folded over so they couldn’t read what it was. I was going to jump all over them when I found out about it, but they didn’t know anything.”
    “That was, let’s see, a Dr. Darling and a Nurse Simons,” Trace said, reading the names from the paper.
    “That’s right.”
    “Then what?”
    “Nurse Simons mailed the letter and everybody forgot about it and then, eight days later—that was about a month or so ago—Mr. Plesser died.”
    “Just up and died?”
    “Yes. He had a massive heart attack in his sleep. He wasn’t in intensive care or anything, so he wasn’t hooked up to any kind of monitor. He was dead when the nurse found him in the morning. She called me, but it was too late to do anything.”
    “Why a heart attack?” Trace asked. “I thought you had him on an exercise program and all.”
    “I did. A good, tough one too, dammit, but anybody can have a heart attack anytime. It happens to people, some little valve or something just gets tired and it closes down, and good night, sweet prince. He just died. And I didn’t know anything about the insurance until I got a call from somebody at your company explaining to me how claims are filed and blah blah blah. I nearly fell out of my chair, so one of your guys came around and talked to me. I didn’t know, I thought maybe he had some other insurance or something, and then those bastards decided to sue me over it.”
    “Have you met the Plessers?” Trace asked.
    “Not since Mr. Plesser’s death. I met their lawyer.”
    “Trombone McGinty? From the firm of Sleazebag and Crud?” Trace said.
    “You said it, not me. He came here and said I should just turn the insurance money over to the Plessers.”
    “What’d you say?”
    “I told him I’d think about it. Then the next day I got a threatening letter in the mail and that shyster called and kind of threatened me with exposure, about running a murder mill, and who was going to be the next victim, and I lost my temper and told him to go to hell and sue me.”
    “What’d the threatening letter say?”
    “I don’t remember. I threw it out. I nearly took my finger off with this damned opener trying to open it. Something like God will punish murderers. Don’t take advantage of the sick and hurt their loved ones. Crap like that.”
    “You think it came from the Plessers?” Trace asked.
    Matteson shrugged. “Who else? I mean, I haven’t murdered anybody else recently.”
    “You need the money?” Trace asked suddenly.
    “No. I don’t know anybody poor enough to need a hundred thousand dollars. Of course, I need the money.” Matteson hesitated. “No, actually, I guess I don’t. Somehow I stayed single and I live here in the hospital and I don’t have a lot of expenses and no family, so, no, I don’t need the money, but damn sure I’m going to take it now.”
    “If you get it. You have all the medical records?”
    “I gave them to my lawyer.”
    “Anything there that can hurt us?”
    “Nothing at all. The treatment was absolutely consistent with the best medical practices.”
    “Chances, are, then, that we go to court,” Trace said.
    “Guess so,” Matteson agreed glumly.
    “Would you mind if I talked to”—Trace checked the sheet of paper in his hand—“this Dr. Darling and Nurse Simons.”
    “No. Talk. Keep me out of court. Anything you