Best Place to Die (18 page)

Mattie raked her gaze back over Delia's spacious office, with its singed and soaked Berber carpet, leather chairs, sleek Herman Miller furniture and tattered drapes. On the desk was a melted computer and monitor, with a matching pool of plastic that had once been a printer. She studied the floor-to-ceiling shelving unit with rows of awards, those made out of plastics having melted, a couple with glass or crystal orbs mostly intact, albeit blackened. One glass case had survived, and inside was a display of crafts made by the residents, a tatted doily, two small still-life water colors, and a row of ceramic frogs. All of which had been here when she'd first come to Nillewaug last fall. At the time she'd had suspicions about Preston. There was something too cozy about Grenville and how old people flocked here like some kind of golden-years Mecca. Nillewaug was a piece of that illusion, a comfortable and secure place, with everything taken care of. But something about it had felt rotten, too much complicity throughout the town. And fortunately for Delia the prior case had veered in another direction and suspicions about Preston had been tabled. Now, she replayed the scene, remembering the polished administrator with her blonde upsweep and flawless make-up. The cracks in her veneer had come when Mattie had pushed to speak with the powers behind Nillewaug, Delia's boss, Jim Warren, who, thanks to some very quick work on Mattie's part – ‘Your honor, we have his fingerprints on the probable murder weapon' – would not be getting released, at least not yet. But unless they found something damning . . . he'd walk.

Last fall Delia and Nillewaug had come under scrutiny when connections were made to the town's high-end antique dealers, who were being murdered. At the time it was clear that Delia was part of a cozy group of Grenville professionals – realtors, antique dealers, lawyers, and financial planners – who referred well-heeled elderly clients to one another, like a flock of vultures. After the case had been solved, there was no need to dig further.

‘Jamie,' she said, breaking the silence. ‘Let's put together what we know. What happened in this room?'

The young detective collected her thoughts. ‘At roughly four in the morning, in the middle of a fire, someone broke that window and pushed Delia Preston's dead body through it. According to the M.E. she had been murdered roughly four hours before that by a single blow to the head. We have a likely murder weapon,' Jamie said, referring to the crystal-and-steel trophy –
Best Assisted-Care Facility in New England 2010
, presented by
New England Magazine
– Mattie had found earlier. The foot-high award – euphemistically called a tombstone – had been wiped with an ammonia solution, but not well. It still contained traces of Preston's blood and skin. As Jamie presented the case, Mattie reflected that regardless of how obnoxious Arvin the Medical Examiner could be, he'd been spot on with his estimation of something grapefruit sized.

‘Said murder weapon,' Jamie continued, ‘has five partial prints on the base – Preston's, Jim Warren's, the bonded cleaning woman, and two unknowns.'

Mattie had hoped that Warren's fingerprints would be enough for the Feds to hold him. But it was flimsy, she knew it, the judge knew it, and Warren's attorney – ‘
He accepted the award at a banquet in front of two hundred people, of course his fingerprints were on it!
' – most certainly knew it.

‘Keep going,' Mattie said, knowing all this but finding it useful to run the evidence.

‘Based on his being under surveillance, we know that Warren met with Preston four hours before she was killed. He arrived at eight oh-two and left at nine forty-eight. At least two hours before her death. Mattie, if she was the whistle blower on this fraud thing, why didn't they have a wire on her?'

‘Good question. It wasn't a planned meeting; they didn't have time. But maybe she wasn't being as cooperative as they'd hoped. At least between the lines that's the impression I got. So Warren contacted Delia at her home, was insistent they meet at Nillewaug. Why there, why not somewhere else? And why on a Saturday night?'

‘I don't know,' Jamie said.

‘He was freaking out,' she added. ‘Just learned – or at the least suspected – that his megabucks fraud scam was coming undone.'

‘Yes, two agents show up at his law practice on a Saturday afternoon and subpoena boxes of records. The shit was hitting the fan. But according to Fitzhugh and Connor he didn't know he was under surveillance, and could only guess at why they wanted those records. At least that's their take. But Warren was sketchy on the phone with Preston. He might have known he was being watched . . . and possibly tapped.'

‘He was angry,' Jamie added, having listened to the taped conversation that the agents had shared. Warren phoning her at home, insisting they meet in her office. ‘He knew something, and knew enough to not say it on the phone. So why meet at all?' she asked, and then added: ‘He didn't kill her, we know she was still alive when he left . . . maybe it was just a booty call. Saturday night, guy's feeling horny. He more or less admitted he was having an affair with her.'

‘Yes, and Arvin said she'd had sex within hours of her death. But I don't buy that's why he wanted to meet her, or at least not the only reason. He wanted something and he believed it was here. Or he needed information. Or maybe he knew it was her that had contacted the Feds, and he wanted to shut her up.'

‘All possible,' Jamie said. ‘So he shows up, and not long after she – or he – entered the passcode and turned off the security system.'

‘Yes, and because it's all on the same line and through the same company, the fire alarms and audible alarms, as well.' Mattie pulled out a thin pair of gloves and mentally divided the room into cubes, like squares on a piece of graph paper. She focused on apparent hot spots, where something could be hidden. She started with the modernist desk, pulling out drawers, looking behind them, under them for scribbled passcodes. ‘Why take down the security system?' she asked. Not finding anything of interest. She let her eyes wander to the broken windows behind the desk, then the bookshelves, awards, trophies and framed photographs – Preston shaking hands with local politicians, her sleek blonde do, her practiced smile and crisp suits. The epitome of a woman executive: confident, attractive, and feminine.

‘She was a nurse,' Jamie said, now standing by the bookcase and reading the inscription on a bronze plaque. ‘That's what the M.S.N. is for – Master of Science in Nursing.'

‘Yes,' Mattie said. ‘Do you think that's important?' Liking the way Jamie was trying to piece things together.

‘Something from this morning,' Jamie said, picking up the plaque. ‘I'm trying to understand the workings of this Medicare and Medicaid business, but it seems that a big part of it has to do with faking the bills. And in order to do that you need a doctor and a nurse signing lots of forms.'

‘Right, we have dead doctor Trask who everyone thought was retired, but is apparently staying in practice.'

‘At least his pen hand is,' Jamie added. ‘And Preston signing off as the nurse. It's a tight loop. And according to the agents it was being done at a level that flew below their radar. So why drop a dime on herself? She had to be raking it in . . . or someone was. Why would she call the fraud hotline?'

‘We don't know,' Mattie said, her eyes wandering toward the open door of Preston's private bath and the keypad to the security system on the wall next to it. ‘There's a lot we don't know.' She felt a wave of frustration. It wasn't just the early stages of a murder investigation, but there were too many hands stirring the pot, and while agents Connor and Fitzhugh had been courteous, they'd not been forthcoming. Gingerly, her gloved left index finger touched the keypad, as her right hand pushed back the bathroom door.
How nice to have your own office bathroom
, she mused, noting the once white, but now ash-covered towels, the veined marble vanity with nickel fixtures, the walk-in shower and a framed art deco poster for Veuve Clicquot with a flapper riding a bicycle and a glass of champagne in one hand. The image held her attention, the glass not shattered by the heat, still perfectly centered on the wall –
too perfect.
She touched the edge of the frame, feeling how solidly it was held to the wall. She tugged; it didn't move. ‘Right.' Her gloved hands moved up the side of the picture. Midway on the right she found the latch, pressed it down and the picture slid to the right, revealing a generous wall safe. She smiled at Jamie. ‘Well at least now we know why they wanted to bring the security system down. You'd have to do it to get into the safe.'

‘So how do we get in?' Jamie asked.

Mattie pulled back on the door, and, to her surprise, it opened. As the two of them stared into the steel box, Mattie's cell rang.

‘There's nothing in there,' Jamie observed.

‘But there was.' Mattie pulled out her phone, and looked at the caller ID.
What now?
‘Hello Lil.'

‘Mattie, I hate to bother you, but I'm doing a second piece on the fire and the murders, and I'm struggling to make sense of things. I understand that Jim Warren was arrested, but not for murder or arson but for fraud. Can you comment on that?'

‘Lil . . .' Mattie's gaze fixed on the three empty steel shelves inside the safe. ‘I can't.' But then added: ‘How long did Ada's mom live here?'

‘Few months.'

‘Is she on Medicaid?' Mattie asked.

‘Of course not. She's not rolling in it, but Rose has money, and certainly Ada does,' Lil said.

‘Right, everyone in this place has money . . . or at least had it. When Ada was getting Rose in here who handled the contracts?'

‘That's part of what I'm trying to figure,' Lil said. ‘The contracts were drawn up through Jim Warren's law office, but somehow Wally Doyle had a hand in the financials. Every Nillewaug resident and their family had a consultation with him. Ada didn't think much of it, felt it was a little shady.'

‘How so?'

‘You'll have to ask her, but he was trying to get Rose divested of her assets.'

‘And then a few years later,' Mattie said, understanding the elegance of the scheme, ‘she'd qualify for Medicaid and they'd start to bill, saying she was receiving nursing-home care.'

‘So that's it,' Lil said. ‘Oh my God, how much money is that? Nillewaug is massive. Do you know it's one of the largest assisted-care facilities in New England? And if they were systematically impoverishing the residents, at least on paper, and then billing Medicaid . . . That must be why he did it. He knew they were on to him. He was going to jail.'

‘What are you talking about?' Mattie asked. ‘Who did what?'

‘You don't know? Wally Doyle killed himself less than an hour ago. I'm at his house. I was the first to see him. He must have panicked, knew they were going to arrest him.'

Mattie looked at her phone. ‘He's dead? You have got to be kidding.' Anger surged. ‘Why the hell didn't someone tell us?'

‘I don't know,' Lil said. ‘It does seem like a lot of different agencies involved. What I've gathered is both Wally Doyle and Jim Warren were being investigated for a financial scam at Nillewaug. I bet that's why Bradley walked away. He must have known, or at least suspected.'

Mattie felt like she'd been sucker punched. ‘Lil, are you certain it was suicide? Did you actually see him pull the trigger?'

‘No, but I was there in seconds. Would you like me to tell you what I saw?'

‘Please,' Mattie said, and she listened as Lil gave a succinct report of the gunshot and the scene inside the pool house. She asked a few clarifying questions, and then, thinking about Lil's article in the morning paper, said, ‘You took pictures, didn't you?'

There was a pause. ‘I did.'

‘Jesus, Lil,' she said and, despite the horrible sense of the investigation being out of control, laughed. ‘What happened to Doctor Campbell's widow? Such a lovely lady.'

‘She was,' Lil quipped. ‘But this one's better. It's fascinating, right now I'm sitting in Doyle's backyard watching a real crime-scene team in action.'

‘Yours were the first photographs weren't they?'

‘Yes.'

‘You handed them over to the agents?'

Another pause.

‘Lil?'

‘I gave them to Ada to get to the paper.'

‘Of course you did.'

‘In my defense,' Lil said, ‘they didn't ask for them, and it's part of my job . . . So, I'll go with the fraud angle. I always wondered what happens to reporters if they're just wrong about something.'

‘You might find out,' Mattie said. ‘I need those pictures, and I'm not going to be the only one.'

‘Of course,' Lil said. ‘But they're still mine. Supposedly, once I give a statement I can get out of here. So anytime you want to meet is fine.'

‘This feels like a negotiation,' Mattie commented, looking at the empty safe in Preston's bath.

‘It is. But Mattie, if there's any way I can help . . . There's something else, which you've probably already picked up on, but it seems glaring and I'm using it in my article.'

‘What?'

‘Whatever's going on, both in terms of the Nillewaug scam and these murders, suicides, whatever . . . it all goes back to the Three Ravens of the Apocalypse. Jim Warren the quarterback is in custody being investigated for fraud, his partner – ex-linebacker, Wally Doyle, also under federal investigation is an apparent suicide, and our running back's father is one of the dead at Nillewaug. But not just one of the random dead . . .' She paused. ‘The fire started in his apartment.'

‘You spoke to the Fire Marshall?'

‘Sam? Of course, plus his preliminary report is public domain. Mattie, one last question . . . was Dr Trask somehow mixed up in this fraud thing?'