Alexis took over. “They also applied to attend Lausanne, in Switzerland, but that was ten years later. There doesn’t seem to be any record of their graduating or even attending.”
Annie broke in. “This is why we’re here today. We want to get to the bottom of this ‘miracle cure’ they talk about on their website. They offer alternative solutions for aging, memory loss, and so on. They provide videos on living life well and long, which offer nothing more than commonsense advice. But they offer to customize a program for each individual. They don’t post any of their fees, and each patient is told that she will get a plan designed for her particular needs. I say ‘she’ and ‘her’ because virtually all their patients are women, usually wealthy widows. I am sure they charge exorbitant fees, and their testimonials could very well be faked. You know how Amazon has ‘verified purchase’ after a review? Well, Live-Life-Long can claim to verify reviews as coming from someone who has utilized their services since they are the only providers of this program.”
“Wow. Sounds like a real scam,” Isabelle observed.
They all nodded in agreement.
“I took one pill from each of the bottles Charlotte brought with her.” Myra produced the bags and the information she had copied. “I want to get these tested to find out exactly what each pill is. Nikki, can you get these to the lab you and Alexis use?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know our practice is to take a vote, so I am asking, who is in favor of looking into this?”
Everyone voted in the affirmative.
“In her letter, Charlotte mentioned getting an injection every week, but she didn’t say what it was or what it was for. The only other evidence we are missing is what they were injecting,” Myra noted.
“If we can get her DNA, we can send it to the lab, as well. It’s not as good as a blood test, but it might give us some clue,” Alexis observed.
“I was going to suggest that she make an appointment with our physician since she has been feeling so poorly.” Myra looked at Charles. “But I don’t know if she would want to do that. I guess I can approach her when she gets back from the spa.”
“And I will catch her DNA from her cup when we have tea this afternoon,” Charles offered.
Annie pulled out a sheet of paper. “Okay, this is what we are going to need. First, more background on Live-Life-Long. Articles of incorporation, holdings, assets . . . Nikki and Alexis. Second, dossiers on Marcus, Steinwood, and Corbett . . . Fergus and Charles. Third, a DNA sample . . . Charles. Fourth, lab tests of meds . . . Nikki and Alexis. Depending on what they find, we will decide what strategy to adopt. But first, we need to know what we are dealing with.”
The group nodded in agreement.
“Okay, ladies. We will meet back here in three days, if not sooner,” Myra said.
High fives all around. As the meeting broke up, each of the sisters saluted Lady Justice.
Chapter 11
Aspen
Dr. Harold Steinwood flipped through the latest Maserati brochure. It would be part of his growing collection of high-end sports cars. The Lamborghini Aventador model was still out of reach. Yes, $417,000 would be a big chunk, even if it was not as much as the two-million-dollar Bugatti some comedian had bought, decided New York City was a good place to go for a spin, and wound up rear-ended by someone driving a Honda. Why would anyone take a car like that onto the streets of New York City? Idiot. The repair work, the good doctor understood, was going to cost over two hundred thousand dollars.
Harold Steinwood had no desire to flaunt his vehicles, and for the present, he was satisfied with his assortment of cars: a Jaguar XJ, which was what he drove most of the time; a Porsche 911; a Lamborghini Gallardo; a Bentley Flying Spur; an Aston Martin Rapide S; and soon, a new Maserati. None would ever leave their garage/showroom on his property just outside Aspen. Yes, this new one would be custom built. A Maserati GranTurismo MC, 454 horsepower. That would bring the value of his current collection to almost two million dollars. Not a bad hobby to have. If this year yielded as much profit as last, he would put the Ferrari 488 on his wish list, too.
When the phone rang, he looked at his watch. Who would be calling at seven in the morning?
“Yeah?” Steinwood answered.
“Marcus here. That Charlotte Hansen patient of yours got away from me.”
“What do you mean, got away from you? How? Where?” Steinwood was confused.
“She left London. Went to visit some friends on her way home.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“It’s an extended stay with the friends. I have no idea when she is going to get back to Aspen, and she left without finishing her program. That’s almost twenty-five thousand dollars down the drain,” Marcus said.
Steinwood was still distracted by the glossy brochure of his soon-to-be new automobile. “Well, Julian, old boy, you are going to have to come up with a solution, or at least your contribution to the till.” As far as Steinwood was concerned, Charlotte Hansen was Marcus’s problem. Each of them had to pay a fee into the kitty, which was reinvested in the company and used for, among other things, slick office spaces, although Marcus’s in London was far more modest than those of his American partners. Londoners were not as impressed with glam and glitter as were Americans.
“Yeah, I know that, but I’m a bit strapped at the moment.” Marcus was starting to sweat again. He knew his partners would not tolerate being shorted any more than Franny O’Rourke had.
“What do you mean, strapped? You pulled in over a quarter mil during the past three months. And that was your share!” Steinwood was getting impatient with Marcus.
“Yeah, I know. It’s my wife. She keeps spending money on all sorts of things.” Marcus knew that was only half the problem. His little hobby of snorting cocaine was the other half.
“Well, just don’t give her any,” Steinwood admonished him.
“That’s just it. She keeps the house accounts, and I just get the bills.” Now Marcus was whining.
“So close the accounts.”
“She’d kill me. It’s her way of showing off to her friends. They go out to lunch several times a week and order bottles of Dom Pérignon!” More whining.
“Marcus, not to sound rude, but your wife is your problem, not mine. Rein her in. I’ve gotta go.” Steinwood was about to hang up when he realized they had not settled the Charlotte Hansen issue. “Now what are we going to do to get Charlotte Hansen back into the program?”
“I was hoping you could help me out there, buddy.”
“And how do you propose I do that?” Steinwood had a modicum more tolerance for Marcus’s high-strung disposition than Corbett did.
“What if you call her daughter here in London and tell her you are going on vacation and that you want to be sure you see her before you leave?” Marcus was close to begging.
“How is that going to help?”
“I figure at least we’d have some idea when she is going to go to Aspen or return to London.” There was desperation in Marcus’s voice.
“I’m sure you want her to return to London so you can get your twenty-five grand, correct?” Steinwood had the feeling that he was being played.