I try to contact the dermatology clinic, hoping to prove that I was never treated by anyone there for anything, let alone a vasectomy. Why would they even offer such a procedure? It is more than skin deep, obviously outside the scope of their medical specialty. Why would they even offer the procedure to a female patient? Why me? Clear my record, I say, and cancel the nonsensical charge. An apology for the mix-up would be nice, too.
I leave a message on the answering machine. Hours later, it remains unanswered. I can’t say I’m surprised.
So I hit the road, determined to get to LA and find that clinic before the end of the business day. Can you blame me for blowing off my earlier decision to lay low? Self-quarantine is a tedious thing. I’ve done it before. I’m tired of it now. Fuming, I puff my cheeks. I feel like I’m burning. Maybe it’s rage. Maybe fever. I have a devious urge to breathe on this Dr. Cohen character so he, too, catches fire.
Just kidding.
This used to be rush hour—or more precisely, a stretch of four long hours or even more, starting at two in the afternoon, during which you would be stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But now, the drive is surprisingly smooth. Boring, even. Because of the stay-at-home directive, there are few cars on the 405 highway. From time to time, a gray van appears in the rearview mirror, somewhere in the far distance. A couple of refrigerator trucks trundle in front.
I turn on the car radio, flip between this station and that, hoping to plunge myself into the clamor of news reports. As long as I do that, the loneliness sending its cold, creepy fingers toward my heart will be held at bay. In the presence of a good tale, it will go away.
I flip to another radio station. Nothing holds my interest for long. But then, as I enter the city and pass through Skid Row, a story comes on the air that quickens my pulse. It’s about the 2010 Medicaid fraud case, committed by a gang called The Armenian Power.
Wait, wait! I remember this story. The other day, I even read it out loud for my dad. The leaders of this organized crime group, based in New York and Los Angeles, were eventually caught. I suppose they’re rotting in jail. Still, I wonder if the idea of their scam could has propagated, somehow, to the outside world. If it did, then a new version of that fraud is now claiming new victims.
I may be one of them.
Her bullet grazed his head, but the leader of a Russian crime organization is still breathing. One way for Vlad to avoid paying the price for his crimes is to play dead; another is to play dying. For Ash, this is not a game. She must learn his secrets. Only one problem: because of the raging pandemic, she must put her plan on hold.
Vlad slips away from the hospital in a body bag, then develops a brazen fraud scheme that will bilk health insurance companies out of millions of dollars. If not caught in time, he will drive victims to suicide, rob Ash of her identity, and slit her throat.
Will Ash manage to stay one step ahead of him and at the same time, protect her loved ones from contagion?
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