Read Online Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) by Karen Cantwell - Free Book Online Page B
Book: Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) by Karen Cantwell
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Cantwell
Ads: Link
liked this. Much better than the depressed, mopey complainer of the last couple of months. He instructed me to dial the number of the medical practice and ask for insurance and billing. Privacy laws wouldn’t allow practitioners to disclose their patients’ names, so I was to be sneaky about how I asked for my information. Roger that. I had my instructions and proceeded with caution. The phone rang five times before someone picked up.
“Nnmmm dmmnnsh mmmmmm nn mmmrnong, how may I direct your call?” mumbled the woman who answered. Wonderful, I thought, yet another bored receptionist incapable of coherency. As a mother who must routinely deal with doctor offices, you would think I’d get used to not understanding the people on the other end of the phone, but I don’t. It always annoys me greatly.
Assuming I had successfully reached NOVA Urology, Drs. Markleson and Kong, I continued forth on my quest. “Insurance and billing, please,” I said ever so politely.
An immediate CLICK was followed by music in my ears for five minutes, interrupted every so often with a gentle, courteous, and intelligible, “Thank you for calling NOVA Urology. We want you to know that we value your time. Please remain on the line, and someone will be with you shortly. Thank you for waiting.” Blah, blah, blah. After four minutes on hold, I severely doubted that anyone valued my time. The recording lady was pleasant though—they should have hired her to answer the phones.
Finally, a woman who sounded suspiciously like the first receptionist came on the line. “Carla,” she announced sharply. “How may I assist you?” At least those were the words she uttered, but the tone implied: “You’re bothering me during my Facebook time, whatdaya want?”
I pressed forward with the sweetness of sugar off the cane. “This is Mrs. Baron. My husband Colt Baron was in for an appointment and I have the insurance company on the phone right now looking at the claim.” Howard had guided me on exactly what to say, but I feel my interpretation and delivery were Oscar-worthy, thank you very much. “They say he was in on October sixteenth but I think that date is incorrect. Could you just check for me?”
“Spell the last name.”
“B-A-R-O-N. First name Coltrane.”
I could hear the clicking of fingers on a keyboard. “That date is incorrect. He saw Dr. Markleson on November third and that claim hasn’t even been submitted by our office yet. Your insurance company must be looking at a claim from a different doctor. Is that all?”
“That’s all. Thank you for your-”
CLICK.
That answered that question. Colt had seen a urologist. A urologist with some very curt employees, by the way. Now I was really worried, and not about the rude employees. My only experience with urologists was when my favorite Uncle Mort had prostate cancer. He complained quite loudly and far too descriptively about the examinations that led to the diagnosis. I loved the man, but I knew way more about his doctor’s visits than I wanted to.
“Does a man see a urologist for routine well-checks?” I asked, exposing my motherliness. Only a mother and her pediatrician talk about “well-checks.”
“No,” said Howard, his face somber. He picked up the digital camera with the long lens and started skimming through the most recent photos taken.
Beginning at 10:17 the morning before, a series of pictures were shot of an Asian man dressed in a gray suit.
I ventured a speculation. “Kyung Kong?”
Howard kept scrolling. “It’s a guess. Certainly we seem to be getting warmer. At the very least, I’m guessing this man has something to do with the woman we saw at the condo.”
Three of the first pictures showed the man sitting on a bench alone. In the fourth picture, he was looking at his watch. I knew instantly where those photos had been taken; the statue behind the man was a dead giveaway. He was sitting on one of the many benches that circled the edge of Lake
“Nnmmm dmmnnsh mmmmmm nn mmmrnong, how may I direct your call?” mumbled the woman who answered. Wonderful, I thought, yet another bored receptionist incapable of coherency. As a mother who must routinely deal with doctor offices, you would think I’d get used to not understanding the people on the other end of the phone, but I don’t. It always annoys me greatly.
Assuming I had successfully reached NOVA Urology, Drs. Markleson and Kong, I continued forth on my quest. “Insurance and billing, please,” I said ever so politely.
An immediate CLICK was followed by music in my ears for five minutes, interrupted every so often with a gentle, courteous, and intelligible, “Thank you for calling NOVA Urology. We want you to know that we value your time. Please remain on the line, and someone will be with you shortly. Thank you for waiting.” Blah, blah, blah. After four minutes on hold, I severely doubted that anyone valued my time. The recording lady was pleasant though—they should have hired her to answer the phones.
Finally, a woman who sounded suspiciously like the first receptionist came on the line. “Carla,” she announced sharply. “How may I assist you?” At least those were the words she uttered, but the tone implied: “You’re bothering me during my Facebook time, whatdaya want?”
I pressed forward with the sweetness of sugar off the cane. “This is Mrs. Baron. My husband Colt Baron was in for an appointment and I have the insurance company on the phone right now looking at the claim.” Howard had guided me on exactly what to say, but I feel my interpretation and delivery were Oscar-worthy, thank you very much. “They say he was in on October sixteenth but I think that date is incorrect. Could you just check for me?”
“Spell the last name.”
“B-A-R-O-N. First name Coltrane.”
I could hear the clicking of fingers on a keyboard. “That date is incorrect. He saw Dr. Markleson on November third and that claim hasn’t even been submitted by our office yet. Your insurance company must be looking at a claim from a different doctor. Is that all?”
“That’s all. Thank you for your-”
CLICK.
That answered that question. Colt had seen a urologist. A urologist with some very curt employees, by the way. Now I was really worried, and not about the rude employees. My only experience with urologists was when my favorite Uncle Mort had prostate cancer. He complained quite loudly and far too descriptively about the examinations that led to the diagnosis. I loved the man, but I knew way more about his doctor’s visits than I wanted to.
“Does a man see a urologist for routine well-checks?” I asked, exposing my motherliness. Only a mother and her pediatrician talk about “well-checks.”
“No,” said Howard, his face somber. He picked up the digital camera with the long lens and started skimming through the most recent photos taken.
Beginning at 10:17 the morning before, a series of pictures were shot of an Asian man dressed in a gray suit.
I ventured a speculation. “Kyung Kong?”
Howard kept scrolling. “It’s a guess. Certainly we seem to be getting warmer. At the very least, I’m guessing this man has something to do with the woman we saw at the condo.”
Three of the first pictures showed the man sitting on a bench alone. In the fourth picture, he was looking at his watch. I knew instantly where those photos had been taken; the statue behind the man was a dead giveaway. He was sitting on one of the many benches that circled the edge of Lake
Similar Books
