Inside Out (17 page)

Nat caught Varda’s eye. She was pretty sure he was thinking the same thing she was thinking: that Bell’s anguished outcry was not merely that of a boss or even a good friend. Nat was also thinking that, given the fact that Dr. Varda was Lynn’s therapist, he may have had even more reason to be thinking what she was thinking.

“I need a cup of coffee,” Nat said. “How about you?”

“I’m off caffeine at the moment. Bit of trouble sleeping,” Varda said dryly. “And I never could see the point of coffee without the caffeine. But I’ll keep you company.”

When Nat entered the cafeteria, she reflexively looked around to see if there was a pretty blonde lurking about. Yesterday, Leo’s partner had shown Carrie Li the photo of Beth Milburne from the charity ball, but in that photo Beth’s hair was in an upsweep and she was dressed in a sequin-studded gown. Carrie couldn’t make a positive ID.

Oates had also showed the nurse a photo of Harrison Bell’s wife. Again, Carrie couldn’t say positively, but she was pretty certain Carol Bell wasn’t the woman she’d seen.

“I was worried you might want to pull out of the case,” Nat said to Varda once they were settled at a small table in the hospital cafeteria.

“Lynn isn’t a ‘case’,” he chastised. “She’s my patient. And I have an obligation to continue treating her as long as she wants me to.”

“Even after what happened to you?”

“There’s no question I was badly shaken. And frightened. I admit I’m . . . still frightened. But I can’t let my fear overtake my responsibilities.”

Nat found herself admiring Varda even as she found his pompous tone a bit trying. She hesitated and then told him about the drawing that was slipped under her door. Varda seemed more alarmed by the warning she’d received than he was by his own predicament. He bombarded her with questions: When did it arrive? What exactly
was
the drawing? How big was it? Was there any writing?

Nat tried to answer in as much detail as she could. “I’m sure Leo will let you see it,” she said finally. “He’s having one of his profilers have a go at it, but your input may be very helpful.”

“Have the police made any progress at all?” he asked, sounding clearly agitated.

Nat experienced a flash of anger. “They might make more progress if you’d cooperate.”

He eyed her sympathetically. “A detective by the name of

Oates showed up at my apartment this morning with a court order for Lynn’s records. He drove me out to my office at Grafton so I could turn them over to him. I will tell you, I felt nothing so much as relief when I gave them up. I hope to God it provides them with some leads. If I knew who it was, I do believe I’d go after the sick bastard myself. There’s nothing worse than feeling like a sitting duck.”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered acerbically.

Ruth Ingram picked up the phone after the third ring. As soon as Nat said her name, there was a cold silence.

“I saw Lynn this morning,” Nat said, pretending not to notice the chill traveling through the line. “I wasn’t sure if you knew she’d regained consciousness,” she lied.

“I knew,” Ruth said hoarsely. “I can’t talk. I have to*—”

“I suppose your husband told you—”

“Please, I just can’t. . . I’ve got nothing more to say.”

“Wait. Don’t hang up, Ruth. Just give me a minute. It’s important. And I know it’s important to you, too. I also know you’re between a rock and a hard place. Just tell me one thing.” “If it’s about Bethany—I didn’t know she’d died.”

“But you know now.” Nat’s tone was sardonic.

“Yes. Peter told me. As he told you, he didn’t think it was relevant at the time. And I completely agree. I hardly knew the girl. Not that it isn’t a tragedy. It’s always sad when a life is taken so young.”

Nat decided she wasn’t going to get more now on the topic of Bethany, so she switched gears. “You have a beautiful home, by the way. I was telling your husband that my sister—”

“We’re very fortunate. Peter made some very good investments.”

“You are fortunate. I didn’t do too badly in the market for a while, but unfortunately for me, I didn’t have a large-enough sum of money to invest in the first place. My father always used to say, ‘It takes money to make money.’ ” Actually, in his sober moments, Nat’s father did, on occasion, say just that.

“Look, if you’re implying—” Ruth stopped abruptly. “I really don’t have time to spend on the phone with you, Superintendent.” Her tone was now sharp, but Nat detected an undercurrent of anxiety.

“What did you think I was implying, Ruth?”

“Look, Peter has never discussed money with me. He’s very old-fashioned that way. Now, I really have to hang up.”

“Just one more quick question: Do you know Daniel Milburne, Ruth? Does your husband know him?”

“No,” she said harshly, quickly. Too quickly. “Please don’t call again.”

The phone went dead. Nat held on to the receiver absently, thinking how interesting it was that Ruth Ingram, who hadn’t lived in the Boston area for ten years, would respond to that question with such an assured no, rather than ask,
Who the hell is Daniel Milburne?

Interesting how one little no could speak volumes.

She dropped the receiver back in the cradle, her gaze lowering to a clipping she’d cut out of that morning’s
Herald.
An announcement of a charity luncheon at the Boston Harborside Hotel that afternoon. One of the organizers of the luncheon was Beth Milburne.

Nat had never crashed a charity luncheon before, but there was always a first time.

“What are you doing here on a Saturday?”

Nat looked up from the clipping, flustered to see Leo standing in the doorway of her office. She immediately slipped a case file over the newspaper clipping. Leo might not be too happy to discover her luncheon plans.

“Catching up on paperwork. What are you doing here?” She hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to lunch, seeing as how she had another pressing luncheon engagement.

Instead of answering her question, Leo asked, “How’d it go at the hospital?”

“Okay—fine. Well, Lynn was only awake for a few moments. Varda was there.” She searched his face, looking for any signs of regret on his part.

Leo stepped inside and shut the door. Nat quickly gave him a rundown of her brief visit with Lynn and her equally brief chat with Varda. She emphasized Varda’s interest in seeing the drawing.

“I’m still waiting for a report from our psychologist, but I’ll get Varda a copy,” Leo said.

She nodded. “Harrison Bell showed up at the hospital as I was leaving. Once again, pissed that he couldn’t see Lynn. Clearly a man who doesn’t easily take no for an answer,” she added. “I definitely get the feeling there’s something going on between Bell and Lynn. Or, at least, there
was
something going, on.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized the same could be said about her and Leo.

There was an awkward silence.

Nat hurried to fill it in by giving Leo a brief rundown of her conversation yesterday with Claire Fisher. Another topic they hadn’t discussed in the wee hours of the morning. Words hadn’t been on last night’s agenda, period.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Claire wasn’t secretly in love with Bell herself.” Nat hesitated. “I suppose, if that’s true, it makes Claire a suspect. She could have seen Lynn as a threat. And Claire wasn’t at work on Thursday. She says she was home nursing a migraine.” She sighed. “Just what we need. Another suspect.”

“Suzanne went to work today?”

“What?” Leo’s sudden shift to the inmate caught her offguard. But not for long. Of course. Leo hadn’t come over to see her. The only person at this center who was on his mind right now was the mother of his child.

“Suzanne—”

Nat raised a hand to stop him from repeating the question. “Yes,” she said crisply. “Hutch dropped her off and he’s picking her up when she’s finished for the day.” So far, Suzanne had received no threats, but they weren’t taking any chances.

Leo nodded. He looked tired. Well, neither of them had exactly had much sleep last night.

But Nat suspected that Leo’s weariness had more to do with worrying about Suzanne than it did lack of sleep.

And, she suspected, her own weariness had more to do with worrying about Leo. Wanting him. Hating herself for wanting him. Round and round in a vicious cycle. A cycle that she’d been through before and didn’t want to repeat.

Leo cut into her thoughts. “Oates and I are meeting with Bell’s wife this afternoon. Thought you might like to tag along.”

“Your partner’s never been particularly thrilled to have me tagging along.”

“Actually, Oates thinks having another woman present might make Carol Bell feel more . . . comfortable.”

Nat didn’t believe for a second that this was Oates’s opinion, but she wasn’t going to argue about it. Nor was she about to let it go to her head that Leo wanted her along. It was nothing personal, she told herself. Leo knew damn well she was a good observer. And given the opportunity, she could ask the kind of probing questions that often got positive results.

“What time are you going over there?” she asked, hoping it would be late enough for her to drop in at the charity luncheon first.

“Two o’clock.”

“Fine. That’s great.”

“I’ll swing by here, then, at, say, one-thirty?”

“Great.”

Leo appeared in no hurry to leave. “Or I could come by earlier. We could have lunch—”

“I can’t,” she said quickly. “Too much work.”    _

Leo gave her an assessing look. “You aren’t giving me the brush-off again—”

Her office door opened before she could respond to Leo’s question—not that she had a response—and Jack came waltzing in. Leo was standing off to the side of the door, so Jack didn’t spot him immediately.

“How you doing?” he asked Nat. Both the tone of his voice and his smile reflected unmistakable warmth. Jack had wanted to stay over last night. Even though she’d sent him off, he’d seemed more optimistic about a future invite. A little shiver ran down Nat’s spine as she thought of what might have happened if Jack had stayed the night and the two men had met up in her apartment. It was tense enough whenever they encountered each other in her office.

Nat’s eyes darted over to Leo. Jack’s eyes followed.

“Oh,” he said, all signs of warmth obliterated.

The charity luncheon for Women Against Domestic Violence was being held in a private ballroom at the glitzy Harborside Hotel. The doors to the room were closed. Nat hesitated, worrying that there’d be someone on the other side checking names off the invitation list. She could always claim there’d been a mistaken omission and show her ID. Who was going to turn away a corrections official?

She breathed a sigh of relief as she opened one of the doors. No one was on duty.

Nat’s hope was that if she showed up to the charity function early enough—while the luncheon guests were still in the meet-and-greet phase and hadn’t yet sat down at the tables in their assigned seats—she wouldn’t have a problem party-crashing.

She was right.

Well-groomed women of all ages were chatting in small groups around the spacious dining hall. No one blinked an eye as Nat wove slowly, casually, around the beautifully set tables as if she were looking for the right little group. Whenever any of the women caught her eye they nodded and smiled as if they knew her. Because they were supposed to know everyone here. Because anyone attending this pricey little charity luncheon was someone worth knowing.

Nat nodded and smiled right back, trying to act as if she had pockets as deep as the rest of them. They’d probably drop dead on the spot if they got a glimpse of her current checkbook balance. Let’s just say being a civil servant was not going to make her a wealthy woman. Not that she was complaining. She made a decent salary and she did work she felt was valuable and rewarding. Most of the time.

As it turned out, it wasn’t Beth Milburne who caught Nat’s eye first. It was the woman with whom Beth was engaged in an earnest one-on-one conversation—a woman Nat had also never met in person but had seen on a number of occasions on television and in the newspaper.

Beth Milburne was standing with the supposedly reclusive philanthropist from Martha’s Vineyard, Jennifer Slater.

Well, well, well.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

Unfortunately, it probably would be easier to kill them than to get either of the pair to talk to her.

Now what? Nat was acutely aware that she’d spent a lot of time thinking about getting in here and not enough time figuring what she’d accomplish once she’d crashed the party.

Time was running short. The meet-and-greet phase wouldn’t last much longer. Nat had to make a move and make it now.

She made a beeline for the pair.

“Jennifer. Jennifer Slater. How nice to see you.” Nat gave the woman a big, warm smile, then turned to her companion. “And you, too, Bethany. Hey, didn’t I spot you the other day over at the cafeteria in Boston General?”

“It’s Beth,” the councilman’s wife responded snappishly. “Beth Milburne. And I’ve been out of town for the past few days. You must have me confused with someone else.”

Nat went right on smiling. “But your maiden name is Colman, right?”

“So?” Beth challenged.

“And your mom’s maiden name is Graham, isn’t it? Andrea Graham? From San Jose, California?” Nat had spent some time that morning doing a bit of homework on Bethany Graham’s family tree.

Beth Milburne looked like she’d like to take a swing at Nat. Instead, she held her arms rigidly at her side, “My mother’s name was L
illi
an. She died a while ago. And she was from Chicago. You obviously have me confused with someone else.”

Nat shrugged. “Oh, well, those things happen.” Her focus shifted back to Matthew Slater’s widow. “But I know I don’t have you confused with someone else. You are Jennifer Slater, right?”

“Yes,” the woman said guardedly. “And you are—?”

“I knew your husband, Matt. It was tragic, what happened to him,” Nat said, acting oblivious to Jennifer’s question. “I’m sure you’ve heard on the news what happened to his . . . well, the woman who’s serving time for his murder. Lynn Ingram.” Jennifer Slater’s complexion turned ashen. Beth Milburne glared at Nat as if she had the manners of a heathen. “Who are you?” she demanded.