“CAT,” GLADYS SAID, “THERE’S a man on the phone from the Illinois Department of Aging. He wouldn’t say what it’s about.”
“I’m sure I know, Gladys. Just put him through.”
“Attorney Lockhart, this is Agent Forrester. I’m a field investigator for the Illinois Department of Aging and we’ve received a report of possible elder abuse of a certain Lena Woodward of 460 East Pearson Street. I went out there to do my face-to-face, and Ms. Woodward said she wouldn’t speak to me without her lawyer being present. She means you.”
“Good for her,” Catherine said. “I wish all my clients would have that much sense. Who reported the abuse?”
“As an attorney, you must know I can’t tell you. The identity of the person making a report of elder abuse is confidential by statute.”
“What’s the alleged abuse?”
“Ma’am, I’m only doing my job, which is to have a face-to-face assessment with the suspected victim. If I can’t do my job, I have to call in the police. And the Adult Protective Services Act makes it a crime to interfere with my investigation.”
“Who’s interfering?”
“Ma’am, unless Ms. Woodward lets me into her home, I have to file a report that refers the matter to the department for follow-up, which may include immediate protective custody. Really, all I want to do is my face-to-face assessment and she won’t talk to me without you being present. So will you meet me at her residence?”
“All right, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
A LARGE AFRICAN-AMERICAN man in a brown sport coat, white shirt, brown-and-orange-striped tie and tan pants was sitting in a leather chair in the lobby of Lena’s building when Catherine arrived. He stood quickly as she entered and grabbed his black briefcase. “Miss Lockhart?”
Catherine nodded and held up her palm. “Give me a few minutes with Lena and we’ll buzz you in.”
He sighed. “Really, I need to see her as she is. I need to note her condition and surroundings.”
“What do you think will change in five minutes, Mr. Forrester?”
He emitted a small groan and retook his seat. “I’ll have to note that.”
“What should I expect from this face-to-face?” Lena said to Catherine when she arrived.
“I’m sure it’s just a routine home visit. He’s received a report of elder abuse. He’ll want to know if there’s an emergency situation—is your health or safety at risk? He’ll ask you a few questions, take a look around your apartment to make sure your living conditions are acceptable and then report back to his department supervisor.”
“I’m not at all happy with this intrusion. I don’t want to be on some caseworker’s examination table. What right does a total stranger have to come into my world and pass judgment on whether my living conditions are acceptable?”
“I know you’re not happy, but don’t give him any reason to advance your case. Just answer his questions directly and politely. Don’t beat him up. He’s just doing his job.”
Agent Forrester entered Lena’s condo, looked around and let out a low whistle. Her floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto Lake Michigan as though a living seascape were framed as art on a wall. Forrester stepped from the foyer onto the soft, dusty-blue carpeting and surveyed the furnishings. Her expansive unit was exquisitely furnished in French Provincial—rose-and-white carved chairs, tufted ottomans and occasional pieces, and a three-cushioned sofa covered in off-white linen that anchored the formal living room. Fresh flowers in crystal vases adorned the side tables. Forrester stopped abruptly and stared at an original signed oil painting hanging over a sofa table.
“Is that a…”
“Yes, Marc Chagall. I bought it at an auction in Lyon.”
“Wow. When I got the assignment this morning, I mean, usually I go out and…” He paused.
“And?” Lena said, leaning forward and raising her eyebrows, waiting for him to figure out a way to finish his clumsy prelude.
“Well, I don’t see Chagalls.”
“Chagall speaks to me,” Lena said. “We come from similar backgrounds. That particular work evokes memories of my childhood. He was…”
“I know, a pious Jew from a small town in Belarus. His father was a fish merchant.”
Lena nodded and smiled. Her face brightened a little. “Mine owned a store in Chrzanów, Poland. Chagall was lucky that the U.S. art community smuggled him out of France before Hitler arrived. My family was not so lucky.”
Forrester stood before the painting as though it were an altar. Enraptured. “I love Chagall. I suppose you’ve seen the ceiling at the Paris opera house?”
“You mean the Palais Garnier? The Paris opera house is now that dreadful steel thing at the Opera de la Bastille.”
“Oh, right. I agree. The new house is hideous. It belongs in Houston or Phoenix. Not in Paris. Of course, I meant the Garnier.”
“Did you know Chagall painted those panels right over a nineteenth-century mural?”
“I did not know that.”
“Which is your favorite, Mr. Forrester? Mine is the Pelleas and Melisande.”
“Hmm. Gorgeous blues and pinks. I should have known, seeing your living room. I’m afraid I’m partial to The Nutcracker. I love ballet.”
“You’re testing me,” Lena said with a smile. “It’s Swan Lake.”
“You’re right, of course.” Then, with a twinkle in his eye, “Just doing my job.”
“Will you have a cup of tea?” Lena gestured for Forrester to sit on her rose settee. “Tell me, Mr. Forrester,” she said from the kitchen, putting a kettle on the stove, “why did you come over here?”
“Call me Thomas. I’m here on a routine procedure they call a face-to-face. Sometimes we get notifications that an elderly person is in distress and we have to check it out.”
“You mean abuse?”
He shrugged. “That doesn’t seem to be the case here.”
Catherine smiled and took a seat on the other side of the room. I am superfluous, she thought. Just a spectator.
“Who complained about me?” Lena said nonchalantly.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not allowed to make that disclosure, but you probably know.”
“Oh, my son, Arthur. He’s very troubled, ever since my husband died.”
Forrester nodded his head and accepted his cup of tea. “Perhaps, you can subtly suggest that he seek counseling, Mrs. Scheinman. I can give you references.”
“Oh, call me Lena.”
Forrester smiled and took out a little camera. “Is it all right if I take some pictures of your beautiful apartment? Just for the file? I promise I won’t circulate them.”
“Go right ahead. They appeared in Chicago magazine in 1993.”
He walked around the unit, snapping pictures and giving a series of low whistles. “Lovely.” He stopped and turned. “One more thing, please.”
“Bruises? You want me to strip?” Lena said with a smug smile.
“God, no. I need to talk to you briefly about your financial situation.”
“Not interested. It’s not your business.”
“I’m very sorry. A significant section of the Adult Protective Services Act addresses financial exploitation of the elderly. That is to say, determining whether another individual might be taking advantage of your financial resources. It’s part of my evaluation.”
“Nope.”
His facial expression showed regret. “We do have subpoena powers.”
“Then issue your subpoena. What individual, other than Arthur, is presumed to be taking advantage of my resources?”
“Apparently the report concerns an attorney and an investigator who may be inducing you to invest your assets in a quest to locate certain individuals.”
“Inducing me. Really?” She looked at Catherine. “I went to them, not the other way around. And I haven’t paid her a penny. I fully expect that she will bill me for her time, as she’s entitled to do, but as of this date, she hasn’t used a cent of my resources.”
Forrester turned his attention to Catherine, who sat in a wingback chair across the room, her legs crossed, her arms folded across her chest. “She doesn’t need my help, Mr. Forrester. I have nothing to add.”
Forrester stood. “Well, I won’t be keeping you any longer. Thank you for your kind hospitality, Mrs. Scheinman.” He smiled and set his cup down on the counter. “I mean, Lena.”