by Nero Blanc
She crumpled the paper into a small ball and tossed it into the wastebasket.
Across
1. Viper
4. Amazon feeder
7. Retreat
10. Mayday!
13. Ms. Hagen
14. Pond feature
16. Literary collection
17. Dangerous ___
18. Cards’ home
19. Boy
20. Beach Boys hit
22. Home to China
23. Chevy model
24. String instrument
25. Horse follower
26. Ray Charles hit
31. Type of movie
33. Sodium hydroxide symbol
34. Corn unit
37. America hit
41. Big ___
42. When doubled, antiaircraft fire
43. Creepy
44. Friends of Distinction hit
49. Grief
50. Crew member
51. Compass reading
52. Fleetwood Mac hit
58. Grow older
59. “Come and ___!”
60. Lassos
64. Mexican Mrs.
65. Comédie des ___
66. “We’ll ___ that bridge...”
67. That woman
68. Chicken general?
69. Passes over
Down
1. BMW rival
2. Amos Alonzo ___
3. Bread and butter, in Rome
4. “Casablanca” character
5. Large lemon
6. Empty, like a candy machine
7. Whirled
8. Shelled out
9. Spots
10. Mexican heat?
11. Radio station sign
12. Nobel Peace Prize winner
of 1978
15. Ray Charles hit
21. Hammer and anvil
22. King topper
27. Map line; abbr.
28. Star Wars character,
Tsavong ___
29. Bass, ball, or drag followup
30. Blacksmith at times
31. Sighs of relief
32. Actor, McClure
34. Singer, Stacey or Steve
35. French friends
36. Pee Wee or Della
38. Bettors
39. Here, to Henri
40. Computer maker
45. ___ Jima
46. Chewy candy
47. Walking sticks
48. Shaw or Winkler; abbr.
52. Cut
53. Fairy tale baddie
54. Century part
55. Mr. Preminger
SUBMISSION
56. Bends
57. Pennsylvania town
61. Hawaiian staple
62. Sixth sense; abbr.
63. Draft org.
CHAPTER
11
Rosco hadn’t set foot in Newcastle Memorial in several years, but the moment he stepped through the main entrance a flood of memories bombarded him. Back in the days when he worked homicide for NPD, his hospital visits had not been pleasant experiences. Generally, they’d involved getting statements from dying individuals—men or women who were soon to become manslaughter victims and additional city statistics. At times, the wounded person had been a young gang member, shot or stabbed by an acquaintance; in those instances, the shadow of omertà often cowed the victims into silence, making them unwilling to betray one of their own, even when faced with certain death. Then there were the hit-and-run victims, the unwitting prey of robberies gone south, or innocent bystanders who hadn’t a clue what had happened. More than once Rosco had stood at a bedside watching a life fade away without learning a single substantive fact that would aid a criminal investigation.
As he traversed the reception area and pushed the elevator button for the seventh floor, a slew of such details attacked him, and he forced himself to concentrate on the slip of paper in his hand rather than recall the ever-present past. Dr. Saul Bownes, the message read, followed by the physician’s emergency beeper number; it was the only information the hospital’s administration office had been willing to relinquish. Rosco had suggested to them—or lied, depending on whose point of view one chose—that he was investigating an insurance fraud complaint against Dawn Davis in conjunction with their institution.
The statement had sent the administrators into their own interpretation of omertà mixed with a dose of panic; a lack of transparency ensued that would have made any gangster proud. The hospital administration was permitted to release the surgeon’s name and beeper number, but that was the extent of their latitude in such cases. Details of the operation—anesthesia, length of stay, attending nurses, monetary charges, or out-patient treatment—were strictly confidential and would only be released to law enforcement personnel equipped with a proper warrant issued by a county judge. If Dr. Bownes opted to speak with Rosco, without a lawyer present, that was his business. Fortunately, the physician had been willing to talk, but only on his terms.
Rosco stepped off the elevator on the seventh floor and proceeded to the nurses’ station. Bownes had informed him that he could spare time for an interview while he did his rounds—and that the conversation would need to be brief.
Rosco affixed a warm smile and placed his business card on the high counter surrounding the hub of activity, but none of the personnel discussing medication protocols or peering wizardlike into computer screens took the slightest notice of him.
“I’m here to see Dr. Saul Bownes.” Rosco addressed the top of the head of the woman who was closest to him.
Without glancing away from her screen, she said, “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes.”
But instead of verifying whether or not this was true—or even looking up—she stated a peremptory, “You were supposed to pick up a visitors’ tag on the first floor. It should be displayed on your clothing where staff can see it.” Then she added a harried, “I’ll page him. You can wait in the hospitality lounge. Third door on your right.”
Rosco wasn’t certain how she’d determined his lack of official credentials without actually looking at him, but he answered, “They were all out,” picked up his card, and proceeded to the room she’d indicated. He was relieved to see that no other visitors were taking advantage of the facility’s “hospitality,” which seemed to consist of stale coffee, red “juice” in plastic single-serving containers, and an empty box of jelly doughnuts.
Saul Bownes arrived five minutes later. A thin man wearing green hospital scrubs with his name embroidered in red on the right breast pocket and Newcastle Memorial’s logo displayed on the left, he had a wiry and restive intensity that made his age difficult to fix. Thinning dark hair, a sallow complexion, permanent gray shadows beneath his eyes; Rosco decided the physician could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. Bownes didn’t offer his hand when he entered. He simply plunked himself in a chair upholstered in institutional blue and brown plaid and opened a manila folder.
“Okay, let’s make this quick,” were his sole words of greeting. “Dawn Davis, what’s the problem? My time is valuable.”
Rosco thought, Like mine isn’t? but didn’t voice the opinion. “As I explained on the phone, there’s been an unusual insurance claim submitted for Dawn Davis’s procedure here at the hospital.”
Before Rosco could continue Bownes said, “I signed off on that personally. That’s how I work, and I do so for this very reason. I don’t care to have people like you taking up my time; accusing me of insurance fraud.”
“No one’s accusing you of anything, Dr. Bownes.”
“Really? Then what do you call it? All charges for her procedure were submitted by me, through the hospital, directly to Healthy Life, Ms. Davis’s insurance carrier. All payments are then made directly to my practice or to the hospital. Explain to me how Ms. Davis could possibly be involved in any sort of fraud, as you people like to call it, if she isn’t involved in the financial end whatsoever? From where I sit
it looks as though you people are targeting me, and to be honest, I don’t like it.”
Rosco held up his hands. “No one’s suggesting that you or the hospital has done anything irregular. I’m working for the Dartmouth Group, not Healthy Life.” Rosco smiled inside, since this was the one part of his story that was actually fairly close to the truth. “Ms. Davis had a secondary policy with us, for which she’s currently trying to seek adjustment. As you can imagine, if Healthy Life is paying for her procedure in full, then Dartmouth has no obligation to double pay.”
Bownes shook his head; the dark smudges beneath his eyes seemed to grow grayer and more weary looking. “I don’t buy that. Ms. Davis struck me as a very nice young woman. I don’t see her as the type who’d attempt what you’re describing.”
Rosco shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a nice person tried something like this. Let me ask you; was she transferred to another location shortly after her procedure? I spoke with one of her relatives who tried to phone her here the day after her surgery, and he was told she’d already checked out.”
“That would be correct, yes. She was kept for observation overnight, then sent home.”
“I’m no doctor, and I know you’re pushed for hospital beds, but that seems a little rush-rush to me for a kidney transplant.”
“What, are you nuts?” Bownes barked out, nearly choking over his words. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon. Ms. Davis had arthroscopic surgery on her shoulder . . . to repair a damaged rotator cuff. I wouldn’t try to replace a kidney any more than I’d try to replace the carburetor on my Porsche. Where’d you get this kidney business?”
Rosco tried to keep his face from conveying his total surprise at this information. “And there’s my point,” was his even response. “Your patient submitted a claim to Dartmouth Group for nearly $250,000. According to her, she had a kidney replaced.”
Bownes flipped open his file on Dawn Davis, perusing it rapidly while his contentious face grew ever more irascible. “That makes no sense. Besides, why would you people pay out something that wasn’t billed directly through a hospital?”
“The only insurance carriers Newcastle Memorial bills directly are Healthy Life and Beneficial. With other carriers, like Dartmouth, patients must submit proofs of payment for reimbursement. I’m sure you’ve been asked to accommodate individual’s claims in that manner. The forms are fairly standard.”
“Yes . . .” Bownes admitted, then shook his head slowly. “But Ms. Davis wouldn’t do something like this.”
“It’s our belief that she did.” Although Rosco had gotten a description of Dawn Davis from Walter Gudgeon he saw no harm in confirming it with the surgeon. “I was wondering if you could describe the patient for me?”
“You’ve never met her?”
“Not yet, no. Claims are handled over the Internet or by fax. As long as a patient’s primary physician provides a clean bill of health, with no preexisting conditions—which was the case here—Dartmouth will offer health-care insurance. I believe the same holds true of all the major carriers.”
Bownes went on to describe Dawn Davis exactly as Gudgeon had: twenty-six, five-foot-five, attractive, with auburn hair falling midway down her back. He mentioned two more times that he couldn’t believe someone as polite and friendly as she would commit a fraud like Rosco had described, and finished with, “I have to excuse myself now. I have patients to see and a good deal more paperwork before I leave for Italy tomorrow.”
“Just a couple of more things, if you don’t mind.” Knowing full well that the surgeon would never reveal a patient’s address or phone number—information that the Dartmouth Group, as her purported secondary provider, should already possess—Rosco opted for another strategy. “One of the reasons I haven’t yet discussed the claim with Ms. Davis personally is that I’m having difficulty tracking her down. Did you prescribe physical therapy for her shoulder? I would think that would be necessary for a rotator cuff.”
“Yes. Of course.” The surgeon was already on his feet as he answered.
“And did you recommend a particular clinic?”
“Avon-Care on Nathaniel Hawthorne Boulevard. I send all my patients there.” He briefly glanced at Dawn’s file again. “Her primary policy will cover any physical therapy fees she incurs. And I know she’s following the regimen, because Avon’s been in contact with me.” Then he walked to the door and hurried down the hall. Rosco noticed Bownes’s shoes for the first time: brand-new navy blue Gucci loafers that looked decidedly out of place with the rumpled green scrubs.
Following in the surgeon’s elegant if ill-mannered foot-steps, Rosco decided to visit the recuperating Orlando Polk and see what information he could unearth on the genuine Dartmouth Group case. But he found himself being rebuffed by a second set of overworked nurses who, in a repeat performance, scarcely glanced at him while rattling off the latest technical jargon. Meds was the single term Rosco felt confident he understood from their hurried babble of speech. The “procedure” the patient was “currently engaged in” was less obvious, and open to interpretation, but the ultimate message was clear: Try again another time. Rosco nodded his thanks—again to no one—and rode the elevator back to the first floor.
The moment he exited through the shiny steel doors, his cell phone rang. Rosco didn’t immediately recognize the number, so he answered with a professional, “Polycrates.”
“Hey, Rosco, Todd Collins here, how are you?”
“Ahh . . . Just fine. Mr. Collins. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I was just thinking that it couldn’t be more beautiful out here at the farm, and the weather’s due to hold for the next day or two. You city-slickers would probably pay good money to see fall foliage like we have on display right now. Of course, you had a gander at it yesterday, but I could tell business got in the way . . . so, I’m calling with a special invite for you and that wife of yours. Tomorrow. Lunch. Come early so Ryan and I can show you around—the whole royal tour. Like I said, I’d give my eyeteeth to meet the Belle Graham, and I think she’d appreciate the names I’ve given my babies.”
“Babies—?” Rosco started to ask, but Collins continued talking as if there’d been no interruption.
“How’s about ‘Lingo,’ ‘Catch Phrase,’ and ‘Palindrome’—just for starters? I told you I was a word-game nut. All the horses I breed here have names like that. ‘Sobriquet’s’ sire is ‘Shibboleth,’ and so forth . . .” Collins’s monologue paused only a second in order to change tack. “Is the little lady there with you now? Go ahead, ask her—and tell her she’d be doing me the biggest favor.”
“Actually, I’m not at home, Mr. Collins.”
“On a day like this? You’re not with your wife? You should be shot.” He laughed loudly. “Ryan wouldn’t let me get away with ornery behavior like that.”
But before Rosco could reply, Todd added a buoyant, “See you tomorrow, okay? Let’s say about ten, how’s that? Oh, and wear clothes you can ride in. I’m thinking of matching your wife up with ‘Eponymy.’ He’s a sweetheart, a gelding, and gentle as a pony.”
Rosco considered the invitation for the briefest moment. “How do you feel about dogs, Mr. Collins?”
“Is that a request? ’Cause my answer is: Bring ’em. I love dogs. But how do your dogs feel about horses? That’s the question. Oh, and if your wife doesn’t take to ‘Eponymy,’ we’ll saddle up ‘Murder the King’s English.’ What about that for a perfect moniker?”
CHAPTER
12
After all was said and done, Belle and Rosco opted to leave their dogs behind, rather than give them a day in the country at King Wenstarin Farms. Most likely Kit would have gotten along just fine, but given Gabby’s penchant for chasing any and all moving objects—regardless of magnitude or temperament—it seemed ill-advised to allow her free range among a few dozen horses fifty times her size. However, in an effort to keep all family members appeased, Rosco took “the girls” out for a three-mile run before breakfast, an
d by the time the couple snuck out of the house at nine-thirty the dogs were snoozing comfortably on the warm wood floor of Belle’s sunny office.
As Todd Collins had predicted, the day was bright and clear, with a temperature climbing into the mid- to upper fifties. A few wispy clouds were floating far out over Buzzards Bay; and although they couldn’t actually see the ocean from the house, they felt its presence in a slightly tangy breeze and a wide and open sky. Rosco had yet to put the canvas top and door panels back on the Jeep, so the couple turned up the collars of their jackets and headed out, recognizing that this could well be their last open-air ride until the following spring.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t do this yesterday,” he said as they pulled away from the city limits, “but I’m glad the weather’s held for another day.”
Belle reached over and took his hand. “Me, too. I’m looking forward to seeing the Collins farm. I’ve driven by it so many times that I’ve been tempted to sign up for riding lessons just to get a peek at what’s on the other side of that big gate.”
“Grass, horses, and white fencing mostly. And of course, a smattering of road apples.”
She laughed and squeezed his hand. “You’re such a romantic. But speaking of that, I’m sure happy Sara is seeing Dr. Arthur about her knee and not your Dr. Bownes. He doesn’t sound like he has a very sympathetic bedside manner.”
Rosco shook his head and smiled. “I’m not even going to ask how you jumped from horse manure straight to Sara’s knee injury.”
“What? It’s simple; A is for apple, and Saul Bownes is an underling with the orthopedic group of Aaron, Abbott, and Arthur—or the ‘pedestrian’s Triple-A,’ as Sara calls them. It’s completely logical to make that association. Anybody would.”
“Anyone who spends their days counting letters, that is.”
But Belle’s mind, in typical fashion, was already plunging ahead. “I told Sara I’d take her to her appointment with Dr. Arthur at three this afternoon, so I guess we should be leaving Wenstarin Farms at two, if that’s okay?”