The Society

by Michael Palmer

  “A snub-nosed revolver. He threatened to shoot me if I didn’t get out, and it seemed he was just panicked enough to do it. His face was flaming red and his hand was shaking. I half expected to see smoke coming out of his ears.”

  “If he had done that to me, he wouldn’t have had to bother pulling the trigger, because I would have just died on the spot. So, what do you want to do?”

  “I want to see him again, this time with you in tow and clutching a notarized release from Grace Davis. And if he makes a move for that right-hand desk drawer, I’m going to launch myself over his desk, rip off that god-awful hairpiece of his, and ram it down his throat.”

  “Goodness. The dark side of Will Grant.”

  “Believe me, there is one. No one’s ever pointed a gun at me, either.”

  “Should I call and make an appointment with him?”

  “The cancer center’s not that far away from here. I favor just showing up. Maybe I’ll sort of hang back in the corridor until you’re through the door of his office, then I’ll slide in behind you.”

  “Nine A.M. okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you here and we can drive over together.”

  “And the notarized release?”

  “Jill Leary, that hospital attorney, will be here tonight when we look for the shoes. If she can’t or won’t do it, I’ll figure out something.”

  “I hope this search works out for you, Will. I’m sick of people getting angry at me because you’re not here to take care of them and they have to settle for me.”

  “That’s nonsense. Just keep your fingers crossed tonight while you’re at the Fleet Center screaming for Springsteen.”

  Susan stood and held up four sets of crossed fingers.

  “Just practicing,” she said. “Hey, one more thing, could you give me the names of a couple of Springsteen’s songs? In case you couldn’t guess, I really don’t know much about him except that he’s a hunk.”

  “‘I’m On Fire,’ ‘Born to Run,’ and ‘Badlands’—all theme songs of mine at the moment. For that information, I want a T-shirt.”

  “See you in the morning, Doc. If my date’s impressed with those titles, you get your shirt.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Detective Kristine Zurowski, please. Tell her it’s Detective Moriarity calling.”

  Her phone on hands-off, Patty was mired in traffic halfway to Serenity Lane in Dover. The cartons she had taken from Ben Morales’s study rested on the backseat of the Camaro. Although she hadn’t made it through all of Morales’s papers, what she had read and learned from Wendy Morales had her head spinning. Morales had blocked a merger attempt by Boyd Halliday and Excelsius Health. Not long after that, he was murdered. Now it was time to see if she had stumbled onto a pattern. One memo, nearly lost within reams of paper, suggested that the new corporation, which would include Morales’s Premier Care, would also include Cyrill Davenport’s Unity Comprehensive Health.

  “Hey, Patty, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Kristine.”

  “Someone just told me you got taken off the big case.”

  “The rumor mill is really cranking. You heard about it almost as soon as I did.”

  “That thug Brasco?”

  “He had some help from our CO, but yes. They thought some new blood was needed.”

  “Blood with Y chromosomes?”

  “Possibly. No, make that probably.”

  “You should file a complaint.”

  “Maybe someday. Right now I’m complaining the only way I know how, by staying on the case without their knowing it.”

  “Yea, Patty.”

  “Thanks. So, Kristine, have you guys made any progress?”

  “Nada. The going theory is that these are vengeance killings, but what else is new? We have the alphabet letters, but no one’s been able to crack them yet. We hear HQ is putting together a task force to centralize all information. I thought you might actually be involved in that.”

  “Only by not being on it. Listen, as far as the letters go, I can make you a hero. Brasco and the cryptographer have come up with Remember Clementine. The code-breaker is ninety-something percent certain that’s it. They think Clementine might be the name of the killer’s mother.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. The killer sure as hell wants us to believe that, so I’m at least a little skeptical.”

  “Clementine,” Kristine mused. “You know anyone named Clementine?”

  “Only the one who is lost and gone forever.”

  “Dreadful sorry. It does sound a little bogus to me.”

  “See what I mean? I’m going to ignore Clementine for the time being and keep heading in this direction.”

  “You need a buddy?”

  “Do yourself and your career a favor and steer clear of me for the time being. If I can ever get out of this one-twenty-eight traffic, I’m on my way over right now to speak with Gloria Davenport. That’s actually why I’m calling you.”

  “She know you’re coming?”

  “Yes. I wanted to clear my visiting her with you first, though, being as she’s in your bailiwick.”

  “Consider it cleared, especially after giving me Remember Clementine.”

  “I also want to know anything you’ve got on her.”

  “You think she’s got something to do with her husband being blown up?”

  “No, but you may be closer than you realize.”

  “Well, we’ve interviewed her twice. The first time she was intoxicated, and the second time she was merely drunk. She handles her booze impressively well, though, I’ll give that to her. And she puts up a pretty good front. No one here including me is suspicious of her except for the fact that she is, as of the explosion, one wealthy woman.”

  “How wealthy?”

  “You saw where they live. I don’t know how much the stock she’s about to inherit is worth, but I can tell you that as of this moment the company is privately owned, and I must believe that a good chunk of those tens of tens of millions once possessed by her husband now belong to her.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Listen, you’ll keep me up to speed?”

  “If I know it, you’ll know it.”

  It was nearing six when Patty pulled up the driveway of 3 Serenity Lane. Cocktail time. As she approached the front door, she was thinking, at least in part, of how good a gentle gin and tonic with a wedge of lime would taste, provided she could put her feet up on something at the same time.

  The massive colonial showed no sign of the carnage and wreckage that had so recently occurred there—a testimony to the power of money. Gloria Davenport, whom Patty never saw when she was last at Serenity Lane, answered the door herself, although Patty caught a glimpse of a maid scurrying past in the background. The mental image she had formed of a fiftyish, overly rouged bottle blonde wasn’t that far from the truth, but in some ways, perhaps with the help of surgery, Gloria had managed to retain a good deal of femininity in her figure and bearing, as well as her neck, face, and especially her eyes, which were a very soft blue. She didn’t have a drink in her hand, but Patty could tell one had been there not that long ago.

  “Why, you’re lovely,” Gloria said, extending her hand and welcoming Patty into a home that was at once elegant and comfortable. “I thought police detectives who looked like you were only found on TV or in the movies.”

  “Thank you. I don’t think the people I arrest pay much attention to my looks.”

  The sitting room to which Patty was led featured matched satin love seats that might have been centuries old and an array of other antiques. A filled ice bucket and glasses were on the coffee table along with some mints and a half-empty glass of something amber. Patty commented on the room and the house, and confirmed her notion that, in fact, the love seats were Louis Quatorze.

  “I know better than to expect you to be drinking while on duty,” Gloria said, after establishing that Patty should address her by her first name,
“unless you’re one of those tragic, tortured detectives whose character development they try to compress in the interest of a two-hour movie by simply making them alcoholic.”

  “I drink,” Patty said. “Sometimes more than I should. At the moment, though, I have a lot on my mind, and I’ve found that alcohol often makes me not as sharp as I could be. You should certainly go ahead if you wish.”

  “And I shall. Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. You investigate murders, you know antiques, you give your hostess permission to drink, and, most important of all, you say Louis Quatorze with a decent French accent.”

  “Thank you again. My father barely made it past high school, so he pushed education on me and my brother. He used to say that every single day we managed to stay in school translated into ten thousand people in the world we wouldn’t have to take B.S. from in our lives.”

  Gloria’s raspy laugh was robust and genuine.

  “That’s a very wise observation.”

  “Possibly so, but at the moment, with about six years less formal education than I have, he’s my boss.”

  Gloria laughed again. If she was in any way intoxicated, Kristine was right: She handled the state well. As if speaking to that point, she refilled her glass and added two ice cubes.

  “Gloria, I know you’ve been interviewed more than once regarding your husband’s murder,” Patty said.

  “That would be correct.”

  “So I’m sure you know that his is just one of what looks like a string of serial killings—four of them now—apparently related to someone trying to avenge the death of a friend or relative.”

  “The mother of the killer, one of the policemen told me.”

  “We have reason to believe there is more than one killer—possibly a brother and sister.”

  “Why would you believe that?”

  “The killer has been funneling information piecemeal to us through a physician he keeps calling—a physician with a very public position against managed care. It’s as if he, or they, have chosen the doctor to be their press secretary—someone whose own stature more or less validates them.”

  “Someone from the Hippocrates Society?”

  Patty looked up at the woman, impressed.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. So, you know about the Society.”

  “Not all that much, but everyone in our industry knows about them. They’ve become quite a thorn in our side over recent years.”

  Our industry. Before this visit, Patty had formed the impression of Gloria Davenport as some sort of dilettante, uninterested in anything other than drinking and finding ways to spend her husband’s money. Forming impressions of people on too little information was a habit she resolved, once again, to break.

  “Gloria, you say our industry. Were you very involved in your husband’s business?”

  “I’m not surprised that you are the first policeperson to ask me that question. The rest of them seem content to believe that I am nothing more than a chronically besotted spouse who was lucky enough to marry a health-care baron, and now even luckier to inherit all his money.”

  “But that’s not true?”

  “Well, maybe the besotted part is. I don’t blame Cyrill totally for my drinking, but I will say that he was . . . how should I put it . . . difficult. Do you know much about OCD, obsessive-compulsive disorder?”

  “Some.”

  “Well, Cyrill has—had it. Unfortunately, he was the only one close to him who didn’t know it. And for as long as I knew him, chief among the things he was obsessive and compulsive about was making money.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, but it seems like he did a good job of it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Of course, he did have a running head start.”

  Gloria’s expression was mischievous.

  “Okay,” Patty said, “I’ll bite. What sort of running head start?”

  “My maiden name was Storer, as in Storer and Elliot.”

  “The investment house?”

  “Complete with our own padded cell—I mean seat—on the New York Stock Exchange. When Cyrill and I married, I was worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred million dollars.”

  “That’s some neighborhood,” Patty said.

  “Cyrill was worth maybe a million cents depending on the status of his car payments, but he was full of dreams, and to his credit he had gotten a business degree from Wharton. Actually, that’s where we met. I was a year ahead of him. I bought Unity Comprehensive Health for him as a wedding present and out of curiosity to see just how good he could be. The rest is history.”

  “Were you involved in the business?”

  “Of course I was. I was on the board of directors from the start. I had to protect my investment. It wasn’t that hard to have Cyrill believe he was making all the brilliant decisions.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “Let’s just say he made some on his own, and lots that he thought were on his own.”

  “So what’s the status of the company now?”

  “Well, to all intents, Unity isn’t really a company anymore except on paper. We’re now well on our way to a merger with—”

  “Excelsius Health,” Patty cut in excitedly.

  Gloria looked at her queerly.

  “Now, that’s a piece of information not many people are supposed to have—certainly not people outside our companies.”

  Patty reached in her briefcase, passed over Ben Morales’s file, and explained how she had come by it. Gloria freshened her drink before opening it, and then scanned each sheet as if she were taking the final exam in a speed-reading course. In just a couple of minutes, she was nodding her head in understanding.

  “There are several more cartons of Morales’s papers that I haven’t gone through yet,” Patty said, “so there may be more material on all this.”

  “Well,” Gloria said with a sigh, “I tried to stay in the background, but I knew Ben Morales a bit, and most of the CEOs of these other companies, as well, and I knew Boyd Halliday at Excelsius was on the move. But until recently, I didn’t know how fast. Excelsius has already absorbed two of these companies, and if you count Unity, it’s three. I just read where Steadfast Health, which used to be a pretty well-run outfit, although not that big, has gotten itself into financial trouble and sold out to Halliday.”

  “So why did your husband sell out to Excelsius?”

  “Oh, he didn’t. He never would have parted with Unity. It was like an extension of him. I, on the other hand, was sick to death of the place, if you’ll pardon the gallows humor. I had been encouraging Cyrill to get out for more than a year in the interest of kick-starting our marriage, but no go. He had traded me in for the company. Such irony. The day after Cyrill’s funeral, his friends and former employees at Unity approached me with an offer I couldn’t and didn’t want to refuse, and I gave my blessing and control of my stock to them. A couple of days later, the wheels of merger commerce were turning, and turning fast.”

  “Gloria, tell me something,” Patty said, now barely able to stay in her seat, “assuming this serial killer, who has led us to believe he is avenging his mother, picked the CEOs he was going to murder randomly or according to the ease with which he could get to them, don’t you think it’s strange that two out of four of the victims would never have allowed Excelsius Health to take over their companies had they stayed alive? My research has shown that in this state alone he had about a hundred managed-care companies to choose from.”

  “I suppose so, but what about the other two—Marcia Rising’s company and that other one? They’re not on this list.”

  “No,” Patty said thoughtfully, “no, they’re not. Dr. Leaf’s widow was not at all involved with his business affairs nor, it would seem, his personal affairs, either. I think it would be a good idea to speak with people at his company—Rising’s company, too.”

  “You could be way off base,” Gloria said.

  Patty gathered her things, stood, and embraced her host
ess warmly.

  “You’re right,” she said, “I could. You know something, though, that quote I told you from my father, the colonel, about education, isn’t the only one he’s famous for. There’s another. He writes it on the board in just about every class on police work that he teaches and shouts it out at the students.”

  “I’m all ears,” Gloria said. “What is it?”

  “It’s I hate coincidences.”

  Gloria took Patty’s arm warmly as she led her to the door.

  “I hope you solve these crimes quickly, dear,” she said.

  “I just might,” Patty replied, her thoughts continuing to whirl. She stopped and turned to her hostess. “One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Does the name Clementine mean anything to you?”

  Gloria shook her head.

  “Nothing,” she said, “except for the movie.”

  “Movie?”

  “I’m something of a movie buff—especially westerns. My Darling Clementine was an old John Ford film with Henry Fonda as Wyatt Earp. Mid-nineteen forties, I would guess. It’s really a classic—maybe the best of the dozen or so movies that have been made over the years about the famous gunfight at the OK Corral.”

  “Interesting,” Patty said, no longer surprised by any revelation from this woman, and wondering if there could be any connection at all between the film and the killer. “Where did that gunfight take place? Wasn’t it Kansas?”

  “You might be thinking of Dodge City. No, the gunfight at the OK Corral took place in Arizona. Tombstone, Arizona.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Something big was going on.

  Patty knew it the moment she set foot in her office. There was an electricity in the air. People who generally flew out the door the moment their shifts were over were still there. One of them, Brian Tomasetti—a burned-out department lifer but a favorite of hers nonetheless—was actually cleaning his service revolver.

  Something was definitely up.

  After her meeting with Gloria Davenport, Patty had gone over to see Marcia Rising’s husband, a surgeon named Michael Springer who was in practice in Norwood, toward the South Shore. Springer, who still seemed genuinely distraught over his wife’s murder, knew a great deal about medical politics, managed care, and his wife’s company. What he didn’t know was anything about Excelsius Health or any merger plans with Marcia’s Eastern Quality Health. Still, it was possible one was in the works. That made two victims connected with the merger list, one maybe or maybe not. The pendulum swung several degrees toward coincidence, but not nearly far enough for her to dismiss the belief that the killings were not the least bit random, and also that they were not the least bit related to the death of anyone’s mother.