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“Did she also mention that a woman named Cristina Tasinato has been appointed Gus’s conservator?”
“His what?”
“I’m assuming you know the term.”
“Well, yes, but why would anyone do that?”
“A better question is, who’s Cristina Tasinato?”
“Okay. Who is she?”
“She and the woman we know as Solana Rojas are the same person. She’s busy working her way through every cent he has. Hold on a second and I’ll check my notes so I can give you the exact figures. Here we go. By way of compensation, she’s submitted invoices to the court for $8,726.73 for Gus’s home care, courtesy of Senior Health Care Management, Inc. That includes paying her half-witted son, who’s posing as an orderly while he sleeps all day long. There’s also an invoice from her attorney for $6,227.47 for ‘professional services’ as of January 15, 1988.”
There was a wonderful moment of silence. “Can they do that?”
“Kiddo, I hate to sound cynical, but the point is to help the elderly with big nest eggs. Why have yourself appointed a conservator for someone living on a fixed income? It makes no sense.”
“This is making me sick.”
“As well it should.”
“But what’s this about the county?”
“That’s the question you started with. I reported Solana to the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse and they sent out a caseworker to investigate. Solana told the gal she’d begged you repeatedly to come to Gus’s aid, but you refused. She said Gus was incompetent to handle his daily needs and she nominated herself-I should say, Cristina Tasinato-to oversee his affairs.”
“That’s crazy. Since when?”
“A week, maybe ten days ago. Of course everything’s been backdated to coincide, fortuitously, with the phony Solana’s arrival on the scene.”
“I don’t believe this!”
“I didn’t either, but it’s true.”
“You know I never refused to help him. That’s a goddamn lie.”
“As is much of what Solana says about me.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I don’t understand why I’m just now hearing this. You could have warned me.”
I squinted at the phone, amazed at how accurately I’d predicted her reaction. She’d already shifted all the blame to me.
“Melanie, I’ve been telling you Solana was up to something, but you refused to believe me. What’s the point of another call?”
“You’re the one who said she was okay.”
“Right, and you were the one who told me to limit my investigation to her degree, the last place she worked, and a couple of references.”
“I said that?”
“Yes, dear. I make a habit of writing down the instructions I’m given in a case like this. Now will you get off your high horse and help me out?”
“Doing what?”
“For one thing, you could fly out and testify on my behalf when I make my court appearance.”
“For what?”
“The restraining order. I can’t get close to Gus because Solana’s there full-time, but you’re still entitled to see him unless she gets an order out on you. You could also initiate the paperwork challenging her appointment. You’re his only living relative and you’re entitled to a say. Oh, and while I have you on the line, I might as well alert you. Once I type up my report, I’m sending a copy to the DA. Maybe they can step in and put a stop to her.”
“Fine. Do that. I’ll be out as soon as I can make arrangements.”
“Good.”
That matter taken care of, I put a call through to Richard Compton, who said he’d get in touch with Norman and tell him to give me free rein searching records in the basement of the complex. I gave him a rough estimate of when I’d be there and he said he’d clear it. I had two stops to make before I hit Colgate, the first being the drugstore where I’d left the canister of film the day before. Prints in hand, I drove over to the Sunrise House and pushed through the front door, feeling an easy familiarity since I’d been there before. I’d called in advance and spoken to Lana Sherman, the LVN I’d consulted during the background check on Solana Rojas. She said she could spare me a few minutes as long as no emergencies arose.
In the lobby, the white-flocked artificial Christmas tree had been dismantled and stuffed back in its box until the holidays came around again. On the antique table that served as a reception desk, a white-painted branch had been placed in a Chinese ginger jar and hung with pink and red hearts in honor of Valentine’s Day, coming up in two weeks.
The receptionist directed me to One West, the postsurgery floor. Passing down the hall, I caught sight of Lana in a four-bed ward distributing meds in white pleated paper cups. I waved and pointed, indicating that I’d wait for her at the nurse’s station. I found a molded gray plastic chair in a little visitors alcove and picked up a tattered magazine called Modern Maturity.
Lana appeared moments later, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the vinyl tile. “I’ve already had my break so I don’t have long.” She sat down in a matching plastic chair next to mine. “So how’s Solana doing with the job?”
“Not well,” I said. I’d been debating how candid to be, but I couldn’t see an advantage in holding back. I wanted answers and there was no point in beating around the bush. “I’d like you to look at some photographs and tell me who this is.”
“Like a lineup?”
“Not quite.” I took the bright yellow envelope of photographs from my shoulder bag and passed them over to her. Out of the roll of thirty-six pictures, I’d netted ten clear shots, which she sorted through rapidly before she handed them back. “That’s a nurse’s aide named Costanza Tasinato. She worked here the same time as Solana.”
“Did you ever hear her use the name Cristina?”
“She didn’t use it, but I know it was her first name because I saw it on her driver’s license. Costanza was her middle name and she went by that. What’s this about?”
“She’s been passing herself off as Solana Rojas for the past three months.”
Lana made a face. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“You can call yourself anything you like as long as there’s no intent to defraud. In this case, she’s claiming she’s an LVN. She’s moved herself into the patient’s house, along with her son, who I gather is a lunatic. I’m trying to put a stop to her before she does any more harm. You’re sure this is Costanza and not Solana?”
“Take a look at the wall near the nurse’s station. You can judge for yourself.”
I followed her into the corridor where photographs had been framed and hung, showing the Employee of the Month for the past two years. I found myself staring at a color photograph of the real Solana Rojas, who was both older and heavier than the one I knew. No one acquainted with the real Solana would be fooled by the impersonation, but I had to give Ms. Tasinato credit for the subterfuge. “You think they’d let me borrow this?”
“No, but the woman in the office will make you a copy if you ask nice.”
I left Sunrise House and drove to Colgate, parking as I had before across from the apartment complex on Franklin Avenue. When I knocked at Apartment 1, Princess came to the door, holding a finger to her lips. “Norman’s napping,” she whispered. “Let me get the key and I can take you down.”
“Down” turned out to be a basement, a rare phenomenon in California, where so many buildings are constructed on slab. This one was dank, a sprawling warren of cinder block rooms, some subdivided into padlocked wire enclosures the tenants used for storage. Lighting consisted of a series of bare bulbs that hung from a low ceiling overrun with furnace ducts, plumbing, and electrical pipes. It was the kind of place that made you hope earthquake predictions were off the mark instead of imminent. If the building collapsed I’d never find my way out, assuming I was still alive.
Princess showed me into a narrow room entirely lined with shelves. I could almost identify by type the managers who had come and gone in the thirty years the building had been occupied. One was a neatnik, who’d filed all the paperwork in matching banker’s boxes. The next guy took a haphazard approach, using a strange mix of liquor cartons, Kotex boxes, and old wooden milk crates. Another had apparently purchased his boxes from a U-Haul company and each was neatly stenciled with the contents in the upper left-hand corner. In the past ten years, I counted six managers altogether. Norman and Princess surprised me by favoring opaque plastic bins. Each had a slot in front where one or the other had neatly printed and date-ordered a list of rental applications and assorted paperwork, including receipts, utilities, bank statements, repair bills, and copies of the owner’s tax returns.