“Well, what did you expect?” Jude presses a kiss to her neck, and the scent of her desire spikes. “We had to entertain ourselvessomehow.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Draegan heads for the bar and grabs a bottle, pouring himself a double. “I’m less interested in a report on yourentertainmentand more interested in what you learned from our recently deceased guest. So if you don’t mind, kindly get on with it.”
“Have a seat, gentleman,” Jude replies. “And let me tell you a tale.”
“Looks like Jude’s songbird was telling the truth,” I confirm, scrolling through the medical records I pulled up on my laptop after Jude filled us in about Hunter’s alleged hospital visits. “Starting twenty-three years ago on October twenty-sixth, continuing all the way up until last month, Hunter was receiving monthly in-patient treatments at New York’s Garrison Medical Center.”
“For what?” Draegan asks.
“It’s hard to know for sure—they used a bunch of different codes to cover their tracks. Everything from kidney dialysis to collagen injections to bone grafts.”
“Seems the old boy was falling apart,” Jude says.
“No—that’s what I mean. The codes are just random. Whatever treatments he was in for, I don’t think they were sanctioned medical procedures.”
“Then why do them in a hospital?” Auggie asks, setting another log on the dwindling fire. “What’s the point?”
“Well, here’s where it gets even more interesting.” I tab over to another window. “I hacked into his health insurance records. The insurance company didn’t pay for any of the treatments themselves, but theydidcover localized anesthesia, blood transfusions, and prescriptions for painkillers, all of which were filled. So whatever the true reason for his hospital visits, he did seem to require some level of legit medical intervention.”
“Every week for twenty-three years?” Draegan sips his drink, his brow furrowed. “And he never missed a treatment?”
“Not one. Not even when they fell on holidays—magical or mundane.”
“Why would insurance cover the ancillaries but not the treatments themselves?” Auggie asks. “And even if it was some experimental or elective treatment, shouldn’t there at least be a record of it on the claims, even if the insurance company ultimately denied coverage?”
“I’ve got copies of the original claims from the hospital here, as well as the EOB statements from the insurance breaking down all the costs. The hospital never even listed the treatment codes on the claims—they didn’t even attempt to get coverage. My guess is they didn’t want to submit fraudulent codes—it would raise too many red flags with the insurance company—but they wanted to submitsomethingto legitimize the use of anesthesia and blood bags. Hospitals keep track of those sorts of things—they couldn’t just steal them.”
“Sounds like an awful lot of trouble to go to,” Jude says. “What the fuck were they hiding?”
“A lot of trouble, sure,” I say, closing the laptop. “But it worked. They had a good little scam going for more than twenty years.”
“What about the doctors?” Drae asks. “Can we track them down?”
“Tried, but the trail went cold. None of the doctors or other personnel listed on the records and claims still work at Garrison. A few of them died, others retired or transferred. I’m trying to locate them, but no luck so far.”
“What’s got you so quiet all of a sudden, witchling?” Auggie takes a seat on the couch next to Jude and an unusually somber West, who hasn’t said a word since I pulled up the records. Cupping her face, he says, “Seriously. You okay? Don’t tell me you’ve got a hospital phobia.”
She blinks at him, her eyes glassy and far away. “Garrison,” she whispers.
“The hospital,” I say. “That’s the name of it. It’s uptown, right off 96thStreet.”
“I know.” She shivers in Jude’s hold, and he tightens his wings around her. “I was born there, guys. Ask me what day.”
Auggie cocks his head. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. I’ll be twenty-three in a few weeks. On October twenty-fifth, to be exact.”
“The day before Hunter’s treatments began,” I say.
“There’s more.” She closes her eyes. “Eloise used to work there. She was a pediatric nurse. Retired now, but she was there at that time. I only know that because she liked to rub it in my face that if she’d been on call the night I was born, she could’ve stopped me from killing my mother.”
“What anasshole,” Auggie says. “Seriously. What did your father see in her?”
West sighs. “I gave up trying to answer that question years ago.”
“Her name wasn’t in any of Hunter’s files,” I say. “Which makes sense—if she was in pediatrics, she’d have no reason to treat Hunter. He was nineteen when they started.”
“But shewouldhave access,” West says. “We can’t rule it out just because her name isn’t on the file. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
