The Society (27 page)

“So, Pat,” he said, “is there anything else you feel we should know before we get on with business?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact there is.”

“Okay, then, go on.”

Could Court have possibly been more patronizing? Brasco clearly had one use and one use only for women, but the lieutenant had a bright social worker wife and two daughters. Surely his disregard for her couldn’t just be that she was female.

“Thanks,” she said. “I just want you to know that something feels off to me about this whole thing. I keep sensing that the real object of this guy’s anger isn’t the managed-care executives, it’s us—I mean the police.”

Brasco raised his hands in bewilderment.

“Sergeant, maybe it’s because I don’t have a master’s degree like you do, but that theory of yours just went right over my head. What’s to question? This whack-job’s mother croaks because of something a managed-care company does to her—maybe a premature hospital discharge, maybe refusal to have her evaluated in an emergency ward. They do such things all the time, only this time the lady dies and her kid just happens to be a professional killer—or else he becomes a damn good one in a big hurry. He sets out to right the wrong of her death, while at the same time humiliating the HMOs and terrifying their executives.”

“An arrogant, egomaniac son of a bitch,” Court added. “Just like all the others who go around killing to make a point.”

“I know that’s what the profiler is telling us,” Patty said, “and that may be the whole deal, but—”

“But what?” Brasco demanded, his voice up an octave or so.

“It just seems too neat, that’s all. Why would he just tell us it’s about his mother the way that he did?”

“Because that’s what it’s all about!” Brasco exclaimed. “He’s insane over losing her. Now we even know her name.” Brasco was mindless of the glare from Court.

Patty felt as if she had been slapped.

“What are you talking about?”

“The letters,” Brasco replied, now clearly into his braggadocio too deeply to back out. “After that neurosurgeon bought it, I went over all the letters with the cryptographer. It only took us a couple of hours. The
M
and
N
were the key. According to him there’s a ninety percent chance the killer’s spelling
Remember Clementine.
”

“The mother’s name is Clementine?”

“That’s right. So now all we have to do is scan the databases of all the hospitals and also the medical examiner’s office, looking for the death of a woman named Clementine. Meanwhile, we’re going to—”

“Wayne, listen,” Court cut in, “if you haven’t any further questions for Pat, perhaps it’s best to just let her get on with her work.”

Patty had already caught on that Brasco was supposed to shut up about whatever it was they were planning to do. It took somewhat longer for him to come to that conclusion.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” he said. “Listen, thanks for all the paperwork, doll. We’ll keep you posted.”

Patty willed herself not to burst into tears and also not to leap on Brasco and claw off his face. At the moment, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do except to find a safe, quiet place to lick her wounds. If Brasco caught the killer, good for him. But she decided for certain at that moment, one way or another, he was going to have competition.

“You got it,” she said.

Head high, she made a military about-face and left Court’s office, taking pains to close the door softly behind her.

“Wayne, what in the hell were you thinking,” Court said as soon as it was clear Patty wasn’t going to return. “I thought we decided she was out. If she’s out, then just let her go. I agree with you that trapping the killer through that drug-addicted doctor is the way to go. But sharing anything with her can only mess things up. She’s screwing the guy, for chrissakes.”

Jack Court slid the black-and-white eight-by-ten photo from an envelope on his desk. Patty and Will were locked in an embrace just inside the open door of his condo.

“A work of art,” Brasco said.

“It’s a good thing the guy who took this owed you a favor.”

Brasco puffed out his chest like a pigeon.

“Sometimes it’s better to have a little bargaining session with a perp than to bust him or, even better, her.”

“Keep your methods to yourself, Wayne.”

“As you can see, they work. Ol’ Gary’d been set up in the bushes opposite Grant’s place off and on for days. This wasn’t exactly what he was looking for, but he’s photographed Ms. Moriarity before, and there she was at five
A
.
M
. this morning, all bleary-eyed and sexed out. Given the high profiles of Grant and the managed-care killings, he felt it might have made it all the way to the front page.”

“I’m glad you were able to dissuade him. I have much better uses for this photo.”

“Like payback for a certain colonel.”

“Tommy Moriarity bad-mouthed me out of a promotion I deserved. When we bust the managed-care killer, I don’t want his frigging daughter snagging the headlines. Now, with this photo, there’s not a damn thing Moriarity will do about my taking her off the team.”

“After we get this jerk,” Brasco said, “maybe we should have a little talk with Tough Tommy about a couple of promotions.”

“Maybe we should,” Court said. “Maybe we should at that. So, are we all set with the VDS people?”

“Just about. Later today, they tell me. Believe me, this is the way to go.”

“And they assure you they can do this?”

“That’s what they say.”

“Good enough. Stay on them. So long as they don’t screw things up, we’re all set for tonight. Meanwhile, we’ll keep up the search for Clementine.” Court examined the photo once more. “Cozy little scene, this.”

“I can’t believe Iceberg Patty’s caved in like this. I suspect Tommy’ll do just about anything to protect his little darling from the fallout. I’ll tell you something else, too: Whether it’s drugs or aiding and abetting, or both, Will Grant is dirty. He’s going all the way down with this, and if we’re lucky, she’s going to fall with him.”

With her mood as gray as the afternoon sky, Patty took Route 128 north to Lexington. She had Beethoven’s darkly heroic Third Symphony, the
Eroica,
playing at almost top volume. Given the disillusionment and the politics of deception that surrounded the piece, it was the perfect choice for the day. This was the masterpiece Beethoven had originally planned to publish as the Bonaparte Symphony when, in 1804, Napoleon turned his back on democracy and the people and crowned himself Emperor of France. In a Beethoven biography she had read not long ago, it was written that, upon hearing of the tyrant’s action, the composer ripped the title page from the score.

Patty knew that Jack Court bore some resentment toward her. Until this latest session, though, she never realized how much. Wayne Brasco and he were always tight, but his behavior today was unconscionable—risky, too, given that Tommy Moriarity could easily quash any advancement for him should he learn about the way his daughter had been treated. Well, she wasn’t going to tell her father anything, but neither was she going to slink off the case on which she had worked so diligently. Brasco, with all the intuition of a mollusk, seemed to be following a script written by the killer. Find Clementine, get the names of her children, and arrest the suckers. It was as simple as that. And maybe it was, too. But Patty’s intuition would not stop crying out that something wasn’t right.

Resting on the seat beside her was a printout with the names and addresses of the four executives that some individual or group had murdered. Assumptions are the detective’s greatest nemeses, her father had once told her class at the academy. When a case isn’t going well, clear your mind of all assumptions and force yourself to go back to the beginning. Patty hadn’t been able to get hold of the widower of Marcia Rising, but Ben Morales’s widow was waiting to meet with her, as was Cyrill Davenport’s. Richard Leaf’s distraught widow had agreed to be interviewed again, but only if absolutely necessary. Patty had decided to leave her for last.

Morales, murdered with a single shot to the head, was victim number one. He was a young, vibrant leader, active in civic affairs, who seemed, on paper at least, to be a man of compassion and character, able to handle wealth and power without making many enemies. It was the descriptions of him by his friends and coworkers that troubled Patty most as her investigation progressed. Marcia Rising, though respected by many, seemed to have been avaricious and ambitious to a fault. Cyrill Davenport was a reserved, methodical, moneymaking machine, who at times showed open disdain for his alcoholic wife. And Richard Leaf was, from what Patty had learned about him, a megalomaniacal, womanizing egoist, who believed he was above most of society’s laws. None of the three would have been a poster child for the managed-care industry, and it was easy to see how the killer might have chosen any of them to be the first victim—but not Ben Morales.

The Morales home, on a quiet, unostentatious street, had a well-groomed front lawn that today featured a bicycle with training wheels lying on its side. Patty had met both of Morales’s young daughters and felt as ill today thinking about what life held in store for them as she had during that initial investigation. Morales’s wife, Wendy, opened the front door before Patty had reached it. She was a trim, fair-skinned blonde who seemed to have aged years in the two months since her husband’s death. She served Patty some tea and willingly answered her questions.

“Does the name Clementine mean anything at all to you?”

“Nothing.”

“How about Marcia Rising?”

“Still no bells. After you called and asked about her, I looked for her name when I cleaned out Ben’s desk at work, then again when I went through his study upstairs. There was nothing.”

Wendy was maintaining her composure, but Patty could see the inestimable pain in her eyes.

“Are you all right to do this?” Patty asked.

“There really is nothing left for me from all this except to help find Ben’s killer.”

“I appreciate that. Okay, how about Dr. Richard Leaf?”

“The latest victim. From what I read in the paper this morning and heard on the news, he’s not a man I would care to know.”

“Me, either.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever read his name or heard Ben mention him, but I didn’t look through all the boxes again after Ben was—after he was killed.”

“Are those boxes still here?”

“Upstairs. It’s fine with me if you want to look through them.”

“I do. How about Cyrill Davenport?”

Wendy shook her head.

“The truth is, I was crying a lot going through Ben’s things, and I don’t think my concentration was really all that good.”

“I understand.”

“If you don’t mind working in his study, I can set you up there. Our nanny is away, but I’ll do my best to keep the girls out of your hair.”

“They won’t bother me.”

“I still can’t believe this, I just can’t. Civic organizations loved him; business organizations honored him.” Her eyes moistened. “Do you know much about him?”

“What you told me when I first was investigating his—his death, and also from interviews I did at his business.”

“He was born in absolute poverty in Mexico.”

“I do know that.”

“And do you know that his company’s worth more than doubled in each of the five years he was the CEO?”

“He sounds like quite a guy.”

As Patty trudged up the carpeted stairs, she suddenly felt a consuming fatigue take hold. This whole investigation had felt like one step forward, two steps back. Now, here she was, all the way back to the beginning.

“Here you go,” Wendy said, gesturing to the carpeted floor in a richly paneled study.

Patty looked inside the room and deflated even more. There were five good-size cartons piled with files and papers that looked as if they had been tossed in randomly. Reflexively, she assessed the situation. Time to completely examine the material: hours. Chances of coming up with anything significant: zero or close to it. End of assessment.

Later, Wendy. I think I’ll come back another time to do this.

The words were midway from her brain to her lips when she heard her voice saying, “Thanks. If I need anything, I’ll yell.”

Cursing herself for not simply backing off and letting Brasco make a fool or a hero of himself, she settled into Ben Morales’s soft leather high-backed chair and began. An hour passed with one carton done and most of a second. Outside, the afternoon light had begun to fade. Morales’s papers were mostly dry and technical and gave little feel for the man who had guided Premier Care to a very solid place in a fiercely competitive industry.

Near the bottom of the second carton, thick with bound legal documents and loose sheets, was a cardboard file pocket with the word
Merger
written in pencil in the upper right corner of one side. Her curiosity suddenly yanked from the doldrums, Patty dumped the contents of the file onto Morales’s empty desktop and started with the first sheet, a memo to Morales written in a flourished hand on plain white typing paper. It was dated six months ago.

Dear Ben,

I was very pleased to hear from you and to learn that, although you have reservations, you are at least willing to allow us to present the benefits to all of us from bringing our companies together. Responses from the others we have polled have been quite encouraging, but I feel that the inclusion of Premier Care would be the boost that really gets the project rolling. Ultimately, I feel certain a merger would be to the good of all. Let’s meet in the next week or two to share our feelings on this matter. After that, if we are in agreement, we can involve the lawyers and bankers and begin to tinker with possible formulas for stock disbursal.

Warmest regards,
Boyd

Boyd!
It had to be Boyd Halliday. The Faneuil Hall debate where Patty had first laid eyes on Will and Boyd Halliday seemed eons ago. Will had come across that night as earnest, intelligent, humorous, and self-effacing; Halliday as brilliant, intense, droll, and urbane. The fact that Patty had a long-standing personal bias against the profit-motivated HMOs probably affected her overall negative impression of Halliday, although Will’s unassuming good looks may have had something to do with that, as well.