Vultures At Twilight Part 13

MacDonald's response: 'If you're talking search teams and dogs, I'll need more than a "feeling".'

Not rising to the bait, Mattie briefed her boss on efforts thus far to locate the men, all three of whom lived alone.

'Sketchy. Sounds like they're just on the road, or off on a bender.'

'Then why don't they answer their cells?' she asked, feeling the familiar frustration of trying to reason with Sergeant MacDonald.

'It's too soon.' He was clearly annoyed, but a hint of uncertainty in his tone. 'Tell you what, I'll give you Foster and Daniels. If those three are still missing in twenty-four hours we'll talk again.' And he hung up.

Mattie felt the familiar frustration she got when talking with MacDonald. It wasn't just his dismissiveness and obvious dislike for her, it ran deeper; the man was out to get her. With three murders and three potential victims unaccounted for she had a very bad feeling. And while she hated to think this way, it was impossible not to. If in fact anything had happened to any of those three men, the blame would land fully on her. Realizing this, and hating the necessity for her next pa.s.sive-aggressive cover-your-a.s.s move, she rapidly typed an email back to Sergeant MacDonald, respectfully disagreeing with his decision not to proceed with a more aggressive search for the missing men. Picturing how p.i.s.sed off receiving it would make him, she paused, tried to think of a good reason not to send it, and then pressed send.

EIGHTEEN.

Less than half an hour later Mattie found herself staring into a lit display of handicrafts; knitted boas with pulled st.i.tches, painted green-ware mugs, and a few blotchy still lifes, made by Nillewaug residents. She turned at the clicking of heels on slate. 'Ms Preston?' she asked, making dozens of rapid observations as the perfectly coiffed green-suited administrator approached.

'How do you do?' Delia said, hand extended, nails manicured almond-shaped and lacquered in burnt orange. 'But please, call me Delia.'

'I'm Detective Perez with the state's Major Crime Squad.'

'Yes, you mentioned you had some questions; we should go to my office.'

'Good,' Mattie said stiffly as she took in Preston's coiffed blonde up-do, and full make up. The detective's silence was deliberate as she contrasted her own navy suit and turtleneck no make-up to this administrator's foundation-to-blush war paint. It was like a mask concealing Preston's age, which she guessed at being anywhere between late thirties to mid forties.

Delia Preston prattled to fill the void. 'Most of our residents are in cla.s.ses right now. We offer a broad array.' She paused for the detective to say something. When she didn't, she resumed the sales-pitch patter. 'We have two full-time activities therapists, an occupational therapist and a staff of social workers. And of course ' she turned to face the detective outside the door of her office 'we offer a full spectrum of nursing services.'

Mattie half listened as she compared Nillewaug to the nursing home her mother was in. Worlds apart. Feeling pangs of guilt and heartsickness as she looked out on sweeping views of well-maintained grounds and gently graded walking paths; all with handrails and dotted with benches. 'It's lovely,' the detective admitted. 'I imagine it's quite expensive.' Could I ever afford something like this?

'Quality costs,' the director responded as she ushered Mattie into her lushly appointed fourth floor office.

'How expensive?' Mattie asked, taking in the tufted leather, Berber carpet, and brocade window treatments that framed a stunning view of a man-made pond.

'There's a monthly fee, it starts at three thousand and goes up,' Delia explained, settling behind her gleaming mahogany desk.

'That doesn't seem bad,' Mattie commented, remembering that it had cost far more than that for her mother's nursing home. It had eaten through her Mom's meager savings, and then she'd had to sell the house, and when that was gone, she went on Medicaid.

'The monthly fee is for day-to-day operations, including very good meals. The biggest expense is the buy-in fee.'

'How much does that run?'

'It varies, but somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred and fifty to five hundred thousand for our deluxe two-bedroom units.'

'It doesn't surprise me,' Mattie said, taking the lower figure, dividing by four and coming up with something close to what the nursing home had charged her mother, and now billed Medicaid, on a yearly basis.

The director beamed. 'A lot of people don't understand that. Many older people get sticker shock when they hear it.'

'How many residents do you have?'

'Over six hundred in independent living, maybe forty of those are couples. We have approximately ten female residents for every male. Then we have an additional fifty in our Safe Harbor Alzheimer's and Dementia unit and fifty skilled and rehab in the Maple Creek building.'

'Skilled?'

'Full care; both of those units are licensed nursing homes, although we shy away from that term.'

'It's something of a gamble, isn't it?' the detective asked, lobbing a deliberately vague question.

'Gamble?'

'Nursing home care is quite expensive, isn't it? If someone were to come to Nillewaug and have a protracted illness, wouldn't that be a drain on your resources?'

'That can happen,' the director commented.

'How can you avoid it?'

'We screen all prospective residents.'

'I a.s.sume that's legal,' Mattie commented, 'or you wouldn't be telling me.'

'Perfectly legal. Our admissions criteria clearly state that upon entry to Nillewaug the individual must be able to provide most of their self-care needs. We do of course make exceptions on a case-by-case basis. What happens down the line is harder to predict.'

'So a person with advanced diabetes?' She asked, wondering what would lead Delia to make exceptions. The answer that popped to mind: money.

'We don't like to go into the details. But if they couldn't maintain their self-care, probably not.'

'What about Alzheimer's?'

'We try to screen that out.'

'Isn't that hard?'

'Extremely, particularly in the over-eighty group. It's just a fact of the business and why we make a commitment to our residents who do go on to develop Alzheimer's or another dementia. Our Safe Harbor Pavilion is state of the art.' She made a sweeping motion toward a shelving unit that contained rows of plaques and awards. 'We've been written up extensively as a best-practice model, and three years in a row have been voted top skilled nursing facility in New England.'

'Impressive,' Mattie replied, having the strange sense that Delia was feeling her out, as though she were a prospective buyer. 'What happens when you run out of beds?'

'That's never happened.'

'What if it did?'

'Obviously, we would have to make some sort of arrangement. But we're well prepared for most contingencies.'

'Such as?'

'Maybe move someone to a less restrictive setting with an increase in supervision.'

'Like an aide?'

'Exactly. Expensive, but when we have to do it, we can and do.'

'So where do most of your residents come from?' Mattie s.h.i.+fted to what she hoped would be a richer vein.

'All over the country.'

'And locally?'

'Of course. The majority of our residents come from the tri-state area.'

'What about Pilgrim's Progress?' Mattie asked, not leaving Preston time between questions.

'Some.'

'How many?'

The director hesitated before answering, 'Forty percent.'

'Why so high?'

'Location. It's less disruptive to move somewhere that's close.'

'It must be nice to have such a large built-in referral source. Which came first,' Mattie asked, 'Pilgrim's Progress or Nillewaug Village?'

'Pilgrim's Progress is much older. Nillewaug is only in its tenth year.'

'Really? Any relation to Pilgrim's Progress? I mean other than the proximity and that half of your residents come from there?'

'Forty percent,' the director corrected. She paused. 'You have to remember that we're very different.'

'I can see that, but that's not what I asked. Are there connections . . . business connections . . . between the two?'

'No.'

Mattie sensed Preston holding back. 'Really?'

'Almost not worth mentioning.'

'Try me.'

The director leaned back in her leather chair and folded her manicured fingers together. 'I think some of the Nillewaug investors also put money into Pilgrim's Progress. But as corporate ent.i.ties they're entirely separate.'

'What about the respective boards of directors? Any members sit on both?'

'I don't know for certain,' Preston said. 'It's possible. I have nothing to do with Pilgrim's Progress, so I really wouldn't know.'

Mattie noted how Preston seemed uncomfortable with this line of inquiry, and made a mental note to pull the charters and annual corporate filings for both Pilgrim's Progress and Nillewaug. 'You're not on the board at Nillewaug?' she asked.

'No, I report to the CEO; it's a very small executive team and because we're a for-profit they also serve as the board.'

'And who is the CEO?'

Preston winced. 'If I tell you, I a.s.sume you're going to want to speak with him.'

'Correct.'

'Is there any way that could be avoided?'

'Probably not, but why should that matter?'

The director picked up a black-and-gold Montblanc pen and fidgeted with the cap. She looked across at the detective. 'I know you have your job to do, but so do I, and a lot of what I'm supposed to do is take care of problems. By and large my boss doesn't want to be involved in the day-to-day situations that arise. He leaves that to me.'

'In other words, it won't look good.'

'Yes. I'm not certain what you're trying to find, or how talking to my employer would help you.'

Mattie did not want to admit that she wasn't at all certain where this would lead. Still, the connections opened up a number of possibilities, and 'when in doubt', her first mentor in the department had told her, 'follow the money'. 'His name?'

'You're putting me in a difficult situation.'

'Murder investigations do that.'

'I don't see what Nillewaug has to do with the murders. Let me talk to him first,' she said. 'If you call him out of the blue it will look like I wasn't doing my job.'

'Which is to run interference? Look, Ms Preston, I don't have a lot of time and even less patience. If you want to call him, do it now.'

'I see. Would you at least leave the room while I call?'

'I'll be outside.' Mattie got to her feet. 'Don't keep me waiting.'

As Mattie stood in the hallway looking out the picture window, she strained to hear Delia's conversation.

'Excuse me.' An elfin nonagenarian, in a powder-blue sweater suit, tapped Mattie's arm. 'Is this my street?' the woman asked, tugging at her sleeve.

'What street are you looking for?' Mattie asked, wondering if 'street' was a Nillewaug euphemism for hall or floor.

'Oh you know.' The woman's face broke into a broad, chip-toothed smile and she began to sing as she moved down the hall, 'On the rocky road to Dublin. I met my true love. His name was Tommy. He was my true love . . .'

As the woman ambled away, Mattie's gaze fell upon an electronic bracelet around her ankle. It reminded her of a convict on homebound. Increasingly, she realized that Grenville's chief industry wasn't antiques; it was old people. The seven hundred-plus residents of this facility alone represented hundreds of millions of dollars; it was simple math. Each one of them a cash cow at the end of their lives ready to be milked, bilked . . . and possibly worse. But something didn't quite jibe with the story Preston had just told her. What's someone who's clearly demented doing in this building? Shouldn't she be in that Alzheimer's Unit?

Delia's door opened. 'I hope this makes you happy,' Preston said, thrusting a business card at the detective. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her foundation. 'He'll be expecting your call. And if you don't need anything further . . .'

'That should be all . . . for now,' said Mattie, looking down the hall to where the old woman had disappeared from sight. 'Thank you.' And before she could formulate a question about the woman with the ankle bracelet, a visibly shaken Delia Preston had shut her door.