Best Place to Die (11 page)

‘Fine,' he'd said into the receiver, ‘you want to talk to her, you think this is something you can handle?' His tone shifted and, stifling his anger, he'd called to Alice, ‘Alice, Kelly wants to talk with you.'

All pretense of playing had dropped as Alice bounded up from the table and let Kyle hold the receiver to her ear. To Ada it looked a bit like a child playing as Alice smiled broadly and yelled into the small cell phone. Curiously, she did remember her granddaughter's name – ‘Hi, Kelly, are we going home?' Her smile never dropped as her granddaughter said something back to which Alice had replied, ‘Are we going home?' A bit more unheard conversation from Kelly followed by Alice: ‘Are we going home?' and Kyle took back the phone and had encouraged his grandmother back to the game table.

He'd turned his back and whatever he'd next said to his sister, none of the others could hear, other than: ‘Satisfied?'

After he'd hung up, his jaw was clenched, and he let a slow stream of air through his mouth. ‘I love my sister,' he'd said to no one in particular. ‘But she just doesn't get it.'

He'd brought Alice's medications in from his car, apologized that she had no clothes, and then left. Ada had made him promise to at least try and get a few hours sleep before returning to Nillewaug. But as he'd pulled away, she'd turned to Lil and said, ‘He's going right back there.'

‘Of course,' she'd said, ‘I'd put money on it.'

It had been a very strange night, and now, as Lil looked at Ada in her Prussian blue robe, her eyes bright in the morning light, she said, ‘I don't remember him saying how long he needed us to keep Alice.'

Ada sipped her tea. ‘As long as it takes, Lil. You know that. Now get your piece finished.'

D
etective Perez needed sleep, and she knew it. Her thoughts raced dangerously fast, and it was all she could do to keep from snapping at the excited and well-intended Jamie who'd earlier delivered the latest salvo of bad news, and what had them now being buzzed through looming outer gates at the low-security Federal Correctional Facility in Danbury. ‘He's in federal custody,' Jamie had said an hour and a half earlier after having been given the task of contacting Attorney James Warren, the CEO and president of the for-profit Raven's Flight, LLC that owned Nillewaug.

Jamie, who was driving and apparently needed no sleep, followed the blue-and-white signs toward the weathered brick administration building. During the half hour drive from Nillewaug, Mattie had been furiously trying to figure what Attorney James Warren was doing in federal custody, while fielding Jamie's non-stop questions. ‘If the Feds are involved does that mean they take over?' she'd asked.

‘It depends, but probably.'

‘Why would they be involved?'

‘No idea, just drive.' She stared at the on-board computer. Sadly, she had full access to the state databases, but limited ability to anything related to inmates in federal custody. This was exactly the kind of thing that post-9/11 Homeland Security was supposed to address, and never had. Unable to even get the names of the arresting agents, all she had to go on was the limited information on the Internet inmate finder – conspiracy to commit fraud (multiple counts). There was no mention of bond, and it appeared he'd not even gone before a judge yet. What exactly had Mr Warren done?
And does it have anything to do with this?
Murder, likely arson and now . . . why is he here?

The one break she'd caught was knowing the assistant warden at Danbury, whom she'd called just as he was showing up for work. He'd told her that the prisoner was waiting for his attorney and refusing to say a word. She was welcome to be present for the interrogation, but early indications were not hopeful. She'd asked to speak with the arresting agents, and was told he'd do what he could, but they were holed up trying to prep for what would likely be a lengthy interrogation. Her frustration was palpable, but she knew to tread lightly. What did they suspect James Warren had done, and, if they'd just arrested him, how much of this had to do with the fire, or the murder . . . or murders?

She felt rattled and torn, like shouldn't she still be at Nillewaug?
All being handled,
she thought, picturing the swarms of detectives and crime-scene technicians who'd replaced the earlier ambulances and firefighters. Lots of grunt work, getting statements from residents and employees, then the locals who'd seen the fire, or thought they knew something. Attempting to protect the crime scene and the obvious source of the fire, that horrible apartment. And then Preston's office, any evidence of what had happened badly compromised by the fire, the firefighters and quite possibly whoever had pushed dead Delia out the window.
Let it go,
she told herself, knowing her desire to stay in control was pointless.

‘I've never been here before,' Jamie said, as they parked the car in one of the visitor spots. ‘I thought it was only for women.'

‘Used to be and still is mostly, but for white-collar investigations they keep men here pre-trial. After sentencing it's a different story.'

‘The country club,' Jamie said, referring to the prison's long-time reputation of being a nice play to stay if you have to do time.

‘Yeah.'

Jim Warren, in an orange jump suit, his face covered with salt-and-pepper stubble, said nothing, his gray eyes fixed on the steel table in front of him. His hands manacled as his attorney – Craig Windham, the best money could buy and sharp as a pin in his five-thousand-dollar charcoal suit, blinding white shirt and Italian silk tie – deflected questions from the two federal agents who sat across from them in the dingy interrogation room.

‘So, based on some anonymous tip –' his attorney's tone incredulous – ‘you decide that my client, a highly respected attorney, is somehow involved with a plot . . . no, a
conspiracy
, to defraud the Feds. And yet other than badger him with irrelevant questions about paperwork and Medicaid claims you've not brought up a single shred of real evidence. I have to say, gentlemen, no judge is going to buy this.'

‘Mr Warren.' Agent Fitzhugh's jaw twitched as he tried to make eye contact. ‘Are you aware that over three hundred of the residents at your facility, Nillewaug Village, receive Medicaid long-term-care benefits? Which, considering they're not in long-term care, and judging by the cost of their units – unlikely to be eligible for Medicaid at all – is fraud, thousands of counts of it.'

Jim kept his expression blank, sizing up the two agents, both in their thirties. One white, Agent Fitzhugh; one black, Agent Connor. They reminded him of chess pieces, someone's pawns, nothing higher in value. Not like him.
They think they can capture the king . . . we'll see how long that lasts.
Since his arrest early Sunday his only words: ‘I'm not saying anything until my attorney gets here.' What sort of idiots did they take him for, and their feeble attempts to intimidate him into self-incrimination? Yes, of course he knew all about the numbers and it was four hundred and twenty-seven on the Medicaid rolls. And no, he'd not be sharing that with this pair of morons.
Of course the real issue, that bitch; it had to have been her. Fuck you, Delia!
He looked up at his attorney. Windham leaned his head close. Jim whispered. ‘They don't have a fucking thing. My name's not on anything. I signed nothing. Get me out of here!'

‘Gentlemen, I appreciate the gravity of the situation and what you erroneously believe my client was involved in. But . . . unless you have any real evidence, I insist you release Attorney Warren and we forget this entire unfortunate incident. If there were any billing irregularities at Nillewaug – as you allege – it's not anything my client would have had knowledge of.'

‘How is it, Mr Warren,' Fitzhugh persisted, his broad face showing signs of strain, his lips tight, ‘that so many wealthy people, people who paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for the amenities at your facility, were on the Medicaid rolls?'

Jim looked up, a half smile on his lips. ‘As I said before. I don't know.'

Attorney Windham looked at the digital camera that had been recording the interrogation and sighed. ‘Agent Fitzhugh, Agent Connor, with all due respect that is the seventh or eighth time you've asked the same question. My client has answered that he does not know how any of the residents at Nillewaug were on Medicaid, and you have brought forward nothing to refute that. Unless you have any real evidence, you need to release my client, or I will be forced to bring a wrongful imprisonment suit.'

Agent Connor, who'd been silent for the past hour, looked over his shoulder at the dark mirrored surface behind him. He shook his head, and, turning back to Warren and his attorney, began to speak: ‘You are aware of the fire at Nillewaug early yesterday morning?'

Jim glanced at his attorney.
But really,
he thought, sensing a shift in the wind,
now they're going fishing
. ‘Yes.'

‘I believe,' Agent Connor continued, ‘there are five confirmed dead, and quite a few more who remain unaccounted for.'

Jim said nothing, his thoughts skittering back to his early morning arrest, clearly they'd been waiting for him . . . had him under surveillance.
How long had they been there? Had they been there Saturday night? Say nothing, let them show their hand. All her fault. You bitch!

‘Your point, Agent Connor?' Windham broke in. ‘Yes, we're all aware of the tragedy at Nillewaug. And if you weren't holding my client he'd be able to assist in helping those poor displaced elderly.'

Agent Fitzhugh appeared at his breaking point. ‘By flying to Grand Cayman?'

His colleague shot him a warning look, and then added, looking first at Warren and then his attorney, ‘I think the judge will be interested in that detail, as well. Might consider Attorney Warren a flight risk.'

‘And what possible difference will that make,' Windham replied, ‘when it comes on top of your flimsy, unsubstantiated and totally erroneous allegations?'

Agent Connor's dark eyes revealing nothing. He looked straight at Jim Warren. ‘When were you last at Nillewaug Village?'

Jim met the agent's gaze, the one question spinning through his mind –
how long had they been following me?
‘I don't remember.'

‘I see,' Connor said, his tone free of emotion. ‘More than a week ago?'

‘Possibly.'

Agent Connor leaned on the table, his eyes fixed on Warren. ‘Possibly. Hmmm. Possibly less than a week?'

‘Yes.'

‘What about Saturday night?' Connor asked.

Jim gave his attorney a worried look.
They know!
And for the first time since his arrest over twenty-four hours ago, Jim Warren felt fear.
You bitch! Delia, you fucking bitch! Was her office bugged? She sure as hell wasn't wearing a wire.

Agent Connor placed a form sealed inside a plastic evidence bag on the table in front of Warren. ‘Do you recognize this?'

‘No.'

Connor shook his head slightly. ‘Look at it more carefully, Mr Warren. You can pick it up if you'd like.'

‘I told you I don't know what it is.'

‘Really?' Fitzhugh's tone was skeptical. ‘It's a Medicaid treatment plan for Betty Grasso. Please, look at it carefully.'

Warren looked at his attorney, who nodded slightly.

‘Fine.' Warren picked up the document. ‘So?'

‘Look at the signature, and please read the names.'

Attorney Windham interjected. ‘What is the point of this?'

‘The point,' Agent Connor said, nearing the end of his patience, ‘is this is a treatment plan that generated payment for nursing-home services for an individual at Nillewaug, who was not in a nursing-home level of care. And that's just to start. I need your client to read the names of the people who signed this form. After that, there will be a series of questions about those two individuals. Regardless of your objections, the questions will be asked and answered. The amount of time it takes is entirely up to the two of you.'

Mattie and Jamie watched the interrogation of Jim Warren from behind the two-way glass.

‘They can't really let him go?' Jamie asked, intent on the scene before them.

‘They might have to,' came Mattie's reply. They'd had only a few minutes to speak with the agents prior to the interrogation in the small observation room. Fitzhugh and Connor had admitted they'd not wanted to bring Warren in yet, didn't have enough to make what they believed were millions, possibly tens of millions of dollars worth of fraud allegations stick. But the attorney's run to the airport had forced their hand, and quite possibly blown the case. For the past week he'd been under surveillance. The Nillewaug scheme, which she still didn't fully understand, had been tipped anonymously by a female caller through the Medicare and Medicaid fraud-abuse hotline. What was now abundantly clear, and possibly a motive for murder, was that a very frightened Delia Preston – ‘scared shitless' according to Fitzhugh – was in the process of trying to save herself and hand over Jim Warren.

‘These investigations usually take months, sometimes more than a year to unravel,' Connor had explained. ‘It's all about tracing the money, and figuring out was this the result of stupidity and ignorance – people who just didn't know the rules – or was this a deliberate attempt to bilk the system. But this . . . we've never seen anything quite so calculated. And if the tip hadn't come in, it could have gone on indefinitely.'

‘I don't get it,' Mattie had said. ‘If so much money is being falsely billed, how could it go unnoticed?'

‘Easy.' Fitzhugh had said. ‘Whoever's behind this did their homework and knows the system. To start you have to understand that the Medicare and Medicaid programs are massive with hundreds of billions of dollars disbursed annually, most of it for necessary medical services. Most billing irregularities get flagged electronically, whenever something goes above or below a predetermined value.'