Death on the Diagonal (12 page)

Rosco tried to keep his face from conveying his total surprise at this information. “And there’s my point,” was his even response. “Your patient submitted a claim to Dartmouth Group for nearly $250,000. According to
her,
she had a kidney replaced.”

Bownes flipped open his file on Dawn Davis, perusing it rapidly while his contentious face grew ever more irascible. “That makes no sense. Besides, why would you people pay out something that wasn’t billed directly through a hospital?”

“The only insurance carriers Newcastle Memorial bills directly are Healthy Life and Beneficial. With other carriers, like Dartmouth, patients must submit proofs of payment for reimbursement. I’m sure you’ve been asked to accommodate individual’s claims in that manner. The forms are fairly standard.”

“Yes . . .” Bownes admitted, then shook his head slowly. “But Ms. Davis wouldn’t do something like this.”

“It’s our belief that she did.” Although Rosco had gotten a description of Dawn Davis from Walter Gudgeon he saw no harm in confirming it with the surgeon. “I was wondering if you could describe the patient for me?”

“You’ve never met her?”

“Not yet, no. Claims are handled over the Internet or by fax. As long as a patient’s primary physician provides a clean bill of health, with no preexisting conditions—which was the case here—Dartmouth will offer health-care insurance. I believe the same holds true of all the major carriers.”

Bownes went on to describe Dawn Davis exactly as Gudgeon had: twenty-six, five-foot-five, attractive, with auburn hair falling midway down her back. He mentioned two more times that he couldn’t believe someone as polite and friendly as she would commit a fraud like Rosco had described, and finished with, “I have to excuse myself now. I have patients to see and a good deal more paperwork before I leave for Italy tomorrow.”

“Just a couple of more things, if you don’t mind.” Knowing full well that the surgeon would never reveal a patient’s address or phone number—information that the Dartmouth Group, as her purported secondary provider, should already possess—Rosco opted for another strategy. “One of the reasons I haven’t yet discussed the claim with Ms. Davis personally is that I’m having difficulty tracking her down. Did you prescribe physical therapy for her shoulder? I would think that would be necessary for a rotator cuff.”

“Yes. Of course.” The surgeon was already on his feet as he answered.

“And did you recommend a particular clinic?”

“Avon-Care on Nathaniel Hawthorne Boulevard. I send all my patients there.” He briefly glanced at Dawn’s file again. “Her primary policy will cover any physical therapy fees she incurs. And I know she’s following the regimen, because Avon’s been in contact with me.” Then he walked to the door and hurried down the hall. Rosco noticed Bownes’s shoes for the first time: brand-new navy blue Gucci loafers that looked decidedly out of place with the rumpled green scrubs.

Following in the surgeon’s elegant if ill-mannered foot-steps, Rosco decided to visit the recuperating Orlando Polk and see what information he could unearth on the genuine Dartmouth Group case. But he found himself being rebuffed by a second set of overworked nurses who, in a repeat performance, scarcely glanced at him while rattling off the latest technical jargon.
Meds
was the single term Rosco felt confident he understood from their hurried babble of speech. The “procedure” the patient was “currently engaged in” was less obvious, and open to interpretation, but the ultimate message was clear:
Try again another time.
Rosco nodded his thanks—again to no one—and rode the elevator back to the first floor.

The moment he exited through the shiny steel doors, his cell phone rang. Rosco didn’t immediately recognize the number, so he answered with a professional, “Polycrates.”

“Hey, Rosco, Todd Collins here, how are you?”

“Ahh . . . Just fine. Mr. Collins. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was just thinking that it couldn’t be more beautiful out here at the farm, and the weather’s due to hold for the next day or two. You city-slickers would probably pay good money to see fall foliage like we have on display right now. Of course, you had a gander at it yesterday, but I could tell business got in the way . . . so, I’m calling with a special invite for you and that wife of yours. Tomorrow. Lunch. Come early so Ryan and I can show you around—the whole royal tour. Like I said, I’d give my eyeteeth to meet
the
Belle Graham, and I think she’d appreciate the names I’ve given my babies.”

“Babies—?” Rosco started to ask, but Collins continued talking as if there’d been no interruption.

“How’s about ‘Lingo,’ ‘Catch Phrase,’ and ‘Palindrome’—just for starters? I told you I was a word-game nut. All the horses I breed here have names like that. ‘Sobriquet’s’ sire is ‘Shibboleth,’ and so forth . . .” Collins’s monologue paused only a second in order to change tack. “Is the little lady there with you now? Go ahead, ask her—and tell her she’d be doing me the biggest favor.”

“Actually, I’m not at home, Mr. Collins.”

“On a day like this? You’re not with your wife? You should be shot.” He laughed loudly. “Ryan wouldn’t let me get away with ornery behavior like that.”

But before Rosco could reply, Todd added a buoyant, “See you tomorrow, okay? Let’s say about ten, how’s that? Oh, and wear clothes you can ride in. I’m thinking of matching your wife up with ‘Eponymy.’ He’s a sweetheart, a gelding, and gentle as a pony.”

Rosco considered the invitation for the briefest moment. “How do you feel about dogs, Mr. Collins?”

“Is that a request? ’Cause my answer is: Bring ’em. I love dogs. But how do your dogs feel about horses? That’s the question. Oh, and if your wife doesn’t take to ‘Eponymy,’ we’ll saddle up ‘Murder the King’s English.’ What about that for a perfect moniker?”

12

After all was said and done, Belle and Rosco opted to leave their dogs behind, rather than give them a day in the country at King Wenstarin Farms. Most likely Kit would have gotten along just fine, but given Gabby’s penchant for chasing any and all moving objects—regardless of magnitude or temperament—it seemed ill-advised to allow her free range among a few dozen horses fifty times her size. However, in an effort to keep all family members appeased, Rosco took “the girls” out for a three-mile run before breakfast, and by the time the couple snuck out of the house at nine-thirty the dogs were snoozing comfortably on the warm wood floor of Belle’s sunny office.

As Todd Collins had predicted, the day was bright and clear, with a temperature climbing into the mid- to upper fifties. A few wispy clouds were floating far out over Buzzards Bay; and although they couldn’t actually see the ocean from the house, they felt its presence in a slightly tangy breeze and a wide and open sky. Rosco had yet to put the canvas top and door panels back on the Jeep, so the couple turned up the collars of their jackets and headed out, recognizing that this could well be their last open-air ride until the following spring.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do this yesterday,” he said as they pulled away from the city limits, “but I’m glad the weather’s held for another day.”

Belle reached over and took his hand. “Me, too. I’m looking forward to seeing the Collins farm. I’ve driven by it so many times that I’ve been tempted to sign up for riding lessons just to get a peek at what’s on the other side of that big gate.”

“Grass, horses, and white fencing mostly. And of course, a smattering of road apples.”

She laughed and squeezed his hand. “You’re such a romantic. But speaking of that, I’m sure happy Sara is seeing Dr. Arthur about her knee and
not
your Dr. Bownes. He doesn’t sound like he has a very sympathetic bedside manner.”

Rosco shook his head and smiled. “I’m not even going to ask how you jumped from horse manure straight to Sara’s knee injury.”

“What? It’s simple;
A
is for
apple
, and Saul Bownes is an underling with the orthopedic group of Aaron, Abbott, and Arthur—or the ‘pedestrian’s Triple-A,’ as Sara calls them. It’s completely logical to make that association. Anybody would.”

“Anyone who spends their days counting letters, that is.”

But Belle’s mind, in typical fashion, was already plunging ahead. “I told Sara I’d take her to her appointment with Dr. Arthur at three this afternoon, so I guess we should be leaving Wenstarin Farms at two, if that’s okay?”

“Sure. If our lunch with Todd and Ryan seems to be lasting longer, we’ll just have to excuse ourselves.”

Belle leaned her head back and let the cool autumn wind blow her hair. “Oh,” she sighed, “this is perfect. I love it when the weather’s like this. The sun is warm, but the air is cool. You couldn’t ask for a better day.”

Rosco angled the Jeep down a long slope and over a small wood-plank bridge that stretched above a narrow stream. He then headed up the opposite hill. When they reached the top they were greeted by a seemingly endless stretch of King Wenstarin Farms’ white fencing.

“It sure is a huge operation,” Belle said. “Maintenance alone is a mind-boggling concept. It’s a good thing I’m not the one responsible for keeping it tidy.”

“I’ll say.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “I’m going to ignore that comment. Besides, I happen to be very handy with a vacuum cleaner.”

“When cooking meat loaf.”

“Hardy har har. You’re just jealous because I can handle a vacuum with surgical skill.”

Rosco slowed the Jeep as they neared the King Wenstarin Farms gate. Sitting in the same grassy patch where he’d parked on Saturday was a Newcastle Police cruiser, while a uniformed officer stood beside the guard house. He was a burly man who radiated an air of old-fashioned invincibility and confidence.

“I wonder what he’s doing out here?” Rosco said as he pulled the Jeep alongside the cruiser and set the parking brake.

Belle noticed the frown on her husband’s face. “What’s wrong? Do you know him?”

“Will Jordan. He’s a good cop. Been on the force for fifteen or so years.”

“So why the sour look?”

“Al Lever likes to use Will when he needs someone to keep the looky-loos away from crime scenes. Will handles himself very diplomatically for such a big and seemingly tough guy; he’s polite but firm and always commands respect, i.e., nobody messes with him.” Rosco shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s nothing. There’s only one way to find out.” He stepped from the Jeep and approached Jordan, who was now chatting affably with Pete, the security guard. Rosco extended his hand to the cop. “Good to see you, Will. How’ve you been?”

“Hangin’ in there.” He cocked his head toward the long lane of copper beeches. “Are you in on this one?”

“I’ve been looking into the fire. Is Lieutenant Lever here for some reason?”

“The whole gang’s up there; Lever, Carlyle, Jones, police photographer, the print boys, you name it.”

“You mean there’s been a homicide?”

“Yep. Ryan Collins. Someone ran a hoof pick into the side of her head last night.”

Belle approached at this moment and let out a slight gasp as she heard the news. “Oh, no, that’s horrible.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Will told her. “I didn’t see you walking up. That was a little insensitive, the way I said that. Were you friends?”

“No. No, I didn’t know her.”

“Can we go in?” Rosco asked.

“I’d better check with Lever first. You know how he can get with unexpected guests.” Jordan removed his radio from his belt, cleared Rosco’s visit, and told Pete to open the gate. When Rosco drove past he added, “You might want to keep your wife away from the actual scene; it’s not a pretty picture.”

“I guess they haven’t removed her body yet,” Rosco said as they drove along the long lane, then he added a bleak, “So much for our pleasant day in the country.” He turned and faced Belle. “Would you rather wait at the guard house? I’d offer to take you home, but I think I should take a look at this before the crime scene squad packs up. Who knows? The homicide may be connected to the fire in some way.”

Belle folded her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling more than just the chill in the air as they passed into the shade of the beech trees. “No, that’s okay. But I think I’ll take Officer Jordan’s advice and stay far away from the crime scene.”

When they reached the mansion, Rosco parked beside Al Lever’s “unmarked” car, a dark-brown, four-door Chevy sedan that every crook in Newcastle instantly recognized as a police vehicle. Then they silently crossed the lawn, walked up the steps, and entered the house. The foyer in which they found themselves was as grand as the home’s exterior: two open, soaring stories with pink marble flooring and peach-colored walls hung with numerous paintings of tranquil horses in bucolic settings. A large crystal chandelier dangled dramatically down, while a circular staircase of the same rosy marble spiraled upward around it. Despite all the hard surfaces, the space was deathly quiet; the only noise was a subdued murmur of voices coming from a room giving onto the foyer and another quiet mumble that seemed to proceed from the second floor.

A uniformed officer stood guard at the foot of the stairway. Against the showy backdrop, he was a disturbing reminder that life wasn’t always pretty or pleasing.

Rosco approached the cop. “Hey, Jerry. Lever’s expecting me.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Is there somewhere Belle can wait for me?”

The officer pointed toward a door from which the sound of voices rose. “The family’s in that living room there. The rest of the house is off-limits to everyone but the maid until the crime scene boys finish up.”

“Thanks.”

Belle and Rosco turned toward the room, and as they did Todd Collins emerged. His eyes were red and swollen with tears, his face was a waxy white, and his limp also seemed more prominent as though grief were bearing down on his bones.

“Rosco! Thank heavens you’re here!” He slapped his bad leg. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but our get-together slipped my mind completely.” He paused and squared his shoulders. “I’ve been pulling my hair out all morning. These damn detectives! I can’t get jack out of them. They won’t even let me go back in there to be with Ryan. Do you hold any sway with these clowns?”