Inside Out (12 page)

“If you’ll follow me to my office.” Rodney was already leading the way down a wide hallway lined with lithographs. Nat recognized a Miro, a Picasso, and a Chagall. She doubted they were prints. No wonder Rodney kept his front door locked.

Rodney Bartlett’s office was surprisingly spare. No signed lithographs on the walls in here. No pricey Oriental rug on the parquet wood floor. No antiques. No drapery on the window, just practical mini blinds pulled halfway up the window. A window that didn’t offer much in the way of sunlight, as it faced onto a narrow alleyway across from which was another brownstone building.

Rodney settled himself in a swivel chair behind a simple oak desk, and Nat and Leo took the only other two seats in the office, metal chairs upholstered in a sturdy gray tweed fabric that you’d find in any office supply store in town. Doubtful that Rodney entertained any of his high-roller friends or colleagues in here.

“I suppose you’ve come to ask me about Lynn Ingram.” Rodney folded his hands on the desk. Nat noticed that his nails were expertly manicured.

“You know who we are, then,” Leo said.

He smiled faintly. “I’m a subscriber to both of the Boston papers. I’ve seen your pictures on the front page more than once.”

“Your picture’s been in the paper more than once as well,” Nat said.

Rodney’s smile deepened, revealing perfect, shiny white teeth. He was not an unattractive man, although his features were too sharp-edged and austere for her taste. “Yes, but usually in the ‘Style’ section.”

“You made it to the front page a few years ago,” Leo said in that intentionally offhanded way of his that anyone with a modicum of intelligence knew was deliberate. Bartlett was more than reasonably intelligent.

His smile vanished in a flash. “I can save you a lot of time and bother, Detective. I was at a funeral service yesterday.” He picked up a pen and scribbled something on a piece of white linen embossed Foundation stationery. He rose, walked briskly around the desk, and handed it to Leo. “This is the address of the funeral home and the name of the funeral director.”

“Whose funeral?” Leo asked.

“The father of a friend of mine. Joseph Ferris. His son Jeff and I were roommates at Brown. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a very busy day ahead of me.” He was walking to the door and had it open for them before he finished his sentence.

On their way out, Nat paused and looked up at Rodney. “By the way, how’s your sister feeling?”

Fie smiled again, but this time it was a smile tinged with malice. “She’d be feeling a lot better if that freak had kicked the bucket.” Gone was Rodney Bartlett’s Brahmin accent.

It was close to two
p.m.
when they hit the turnpike and headed out for Westfield. Nat asked Leo why they were meeting Lynn’s father at home rather than at work.

“Let’s say he wasn’t too thrilled about talking with me at all,” Leo said. “He was extremely upset at the thought of a detective showing up at his office. Afraid I’d blow his cover, I suppose.” Leo smiled.

“Have you heard from Dr. Varda?” Nat asked.

“No.” Leo shot her a quick glance. “Should I have?”

She shrugged. “Did your boys pick up any leads as to who broke into his apartment?”

“No.”

“I certainly wouldn’t put it past our friend Rodney.” She was also thinking about that vile drawing left for her. “We should have asked him where he was—”

_v
“We’re not finished with Rodney Bartlett by a long shot. But sometimes it’s wise not to show your whole hand all at once. Better to leave a suspect stewing for a while.”

“So Rodney is still a suspect? Even if his alibi proves to be airtight?”

“Even alibis that seem to be airtight might have microscopic puncture holes in them. You just have to look real close.”

Oates was already on the job. Before they got onto the turnpike, Leo had gotten his partner on his cell phone, passing on the name of the funeral director. Oates was going to have a talk with him before the day was out.

Leo sighed. “My problem in this case isn’t not having any suspects. It’s having too many of them. As much as I like Lynn Ingram, she’s acquired quite a few enemies over the years.” “Speaking of which, what about Bethany Graham?”

Leo scowled. “The ex-wife? What makes you think she’s one of Lynn’s enemies?”

“I’m not sure she is. But then again, I’m not sure she isn’t,” Nat said, remembering the woman in the hospital cafeteria who’d taken off in such a hurry. “We don’t know how she feels toward the person who was once her ex-husband and is now her ex-wife.

She might not want to risk that information coming to light. You know, old skeletons in the closet.”

Leo smiled.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked, knowing she sounded a bit defensive.

“You’re very smart, Natalie.”

“But sometimes too smart for my own good?”

“Maybe not this time.”

“Meaning?”

“You know a Boston politician by the name of Daniel Milburne?”

“The rabid pro-capital punishment councilman with the very deep pockets? What’s he got to do with Bethany Graham?” “Only that she might be married to him.”

“What? Oh my god, Leo. Talk about not wanting to unearth old skeletons. A creep like Milburne would go to just about any length—”

“Hold on. It’s not a sure thing. All we know so far is that the wife’s name is Beth. And that according to the marriage certificate her maiden name was Colman.”

“Beth Colman,” she repeated. “And what makes you think she’s really Bethany Graham?”

“On the Ingram-Graham marriage certificate, she was listed as Beth Graham Colman.”

Nat’s mind shot into overdrive. If Beth Milburne and Bethany Graham were indeed one and the same, then the question was, Did Milburne know his wife was once married to a transsexual? A transsexual who was now also a convicted felon? Nat could just see the headlines if that information ever surfaced. Milburne would be a laughingstock—and he could kiss his promising career good-bye. It was promising, despite her personal opinion of the man’s politics. Unfortunately, he had a lot of supporters in the city. And there was talk of him running for mayor in the next election. If word got out about his wife’s ex-husband, Milburne might have to kiss the election good-bye.

“What else do you know about Beth Graham Colman? Where does she come from? Where’d she go to school? Where’d she go after the breakup?”

“We’re checking into all those things.”

She scowled. “With Milburne’s dough, he could buy his wife a tidy little, past.”

“Or we could be talking coincidence here, Natalie. She may be exactly who she claims to be and have no connection whatsoever to the Bethany Graham who was briefly married to Larry Ingram.”

“Yeah, I know. But if they are one and the same, you can bet Milburne wouldn’t want it coming to light. My guess is he’d go pretty far to keep it quiet.”

Leo heaved a sigh. “Just what we need. Another suspect.” “And we can’t discount the possibility that whoever raped or tried to rape Lynn when she was at Grafton wanted to finish her off before she got up the courage to rat the rapist out,” Nat reflected. “Have you gotten any leads in that arena?”

Leo shook his head. “I spoke to one of the priests on the phone who holds services at CCI Grafton. He said Lynn wasn’t a practicing Catholic but that she had met with him and one of the other priests who volunteered at the prison a few times. He implied that it was more a matter of getting out of her cell than really wanting pastoral counseling.”

“Did she go to confession?” Nat asked.

“Not that he said. Of course, if she did confess anything to a priest, he wouldn’t be able to repeat it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I also spoke to the super, but she’s new and wants nothing more than to deflect police focus away from her institution. But I did check Lynn’s visitation record and turns out Harrison Bell visited Lynn frequently while she was there. And they wrote each other.”

“I know. Jack already told me. And Bell was real eager to have Lynn back at the clinic,” Nat added. “Jack thinks that Bell should top our suspect list. He’s convinced Bell had the hots for Lynn. Maybe she rejected him and he flipped. Or maybe he rejected her, then panicked that she’d blackmail him or go tell his wife. Who knows?”

Leo shrugged. “It’s possible. Anything’s possible. Like I said, that’s the problem. The suspect list keeps growing.” »

“I could certainly see Daniel Milburne as prime suspect,” Nat said. “He’s such an egotistical cutthroat bastard. I wouldn’t put it past him to do anything he felt necessary to clear his path to becoming mayor. And I’m sure his political aspirations go much higher than that.”

“Look, I’m certainly not a fan of Milburne’s politics. But even if
we
are on the right track here about his wife, it doesn’t mean Milburne even knows. I doubt her brief marriage to Larry-aka-Lynn Ingram is something Bethany would want to broadcast.” “Broadcasting and telling your husband aren’t the same thing. And if Milburne does know, like I said, he’s the kind of sleaze who’d resort to any means—”

“It would be a damn risky move for someone as easily identifiable as the councilman to attack a woman in broad daylight—”

“It was raining. It was a deserted alleyway. Besides, he wouldn’t have to even do it himself. He could have hired a hit man. He’s rich enough, well connected, and ruthless enough—” “For that matter, so is Rodney Bartlett.”

“True,” she conceded. “But I still think—”

Leo was shaking his head. “The hit man theory doesn’t sit well with me. The attack was too violent. Not a hit man’s m.o. Hit men like to be tidy and quick. A shot to the head. A knife to the jugular. Leave the body and scram. That’s not what we have here. I see the violent and deliberately gruesome attack on Lynn as a hate crime.”

“Or a love crime,” she said.

There were a number of upscale developments in the exclusive town of Westfield, many of them given elegant names like Mystic Crossing, Hickory Hills, or, in the case of Lynn Ingram’s parents, Laurel Lanes.

The homes in this development sat on three-acre wooded lots. Because it was the start of fall foliage season, some of the trees had already begun to turn. Touches of gold, red, amber, and burnt-umber leaves gave the properties an even more lush appearance. Though this development of large, colonial-style homes was far from the most exclusive in the town, it certainly would be considered a very good address for a successful, professional family.

Nat glanced over at Leo as he wound his way slowly through the development looking for number J S. “These spreads have to be half a million and up,” Nat commented. “I could see the CEO of a computer software company living here. But an employee?” “Maybe there’s some family money.”

“Maybe.”

It was close to one
p.m.
when Leo pulled into the driveway beside a silver BMW parked in front of one of the bays of a three-car garage. The Everett-aka-Ingram home was an oversized reproduction Federal colonial, white clapboards trimmed with moss-green and a barn-red front door. The grounds, while not extravagant, were perfectly manicured. A large maple tree sat in the center of the lawn.

Nat felt a flash of unease as she got out of Leo’s car. She realized she was already inclined toward disliking Lynn’s father. Maybe
dislike
was putting it too mildly. She tried to tell herself to keep an open mind as they headed up the blue stone walk. She wondered if Leo was telling himself the same thing. Had he, too, already passed judgement on Peter Everett?

A middle-aged man opened the front door just as they were approaching it. He was tall, lean, with thinning gray hair that was cut close to his scalp. He was wearing black-rimmed glasses, but removed them and tucked them into the breast pocket of his overly starched white shirt, which already held a black plastic pencil case and several writing implements. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his chino slacks. He was dressed like your typical enigeer. Unless some rich relative had died and left him a bundle, it was a real stretch to believe Peter Ingram could have afforded this spread on his salary.

One thing Nat noticed immediately about Ingram was that, unlike his wife, he didn’t bear any physical resemblance to Lynn. She imagined that was one consolation for him. Okay, so she was having trouble keeping an open mind.

“Mr. Everett?” Leo inquired, his voice showing no sign of any kind of judgement at all. Nat, however, felt an instant flurry

of irritation that Leo addressed Ingram by his alias.

Lynn’s father made no response, merely opened the door wider. Before Nat and Leo stepped over the threshold, Leo identified the two of them. If Peter Ingram was puzzled or annoyed that Nat was there, he gave no sign of it. He was pretty much giving no sign of anything.

They entered a broad hallway with a black granite floor, walls painted a pale green, and a wide, curved staircase fitted with an Oriental runner. To their left was a graciously proportioned dining room which, while meticulously decorated in reproduction period furnishings, had an unused look. To their right, through a broad archway, was the living room. Federal-style sofas faced each other on either side of a large brick fireplace. Two Chesterfield chairs upholstered in a dark green damask faced the hearth. Again, everything looked perfect but unlived-in. A showplace.

Nat tended to pick up vibes very quickly when she entered someone’s home. For all the money and taste lavished on the Everett home, the vibes here were chilly. She doubted much laughter was heard in this house. She doubted much of anything was heard.

“Is your wife in?” Leo asked as the three of them remained standing in the foyer. Peter Ingram made no move to invite them into either the dining room or living room.

Ingram shook his head, stood there for several more moments, then abruptly turned and walked into the living room. He headed straight for one of the Chesterfield chairs. Leo and Nat sat down on the sofa to Ingram’s right. Despite the large windows at either end of the room, there was a gloominess to the space, mostly due to the heavy drapery. But Nat also felt the gloom was enhanced by the lack of emotional warmth that was so apparent. She glanced at the beautifully carved oak mantel. There were no family photos, only a pair of brass candlesticks, evenly spaced on opposite ends, the candles in them never having been lit.