Constance Hodges dialed the number on the detective’s business card. She counted four rings before the voice on the other end answered, “Codella.”
“Detective, it’s Constance Hodges.” She made a conscious effort to sound confident, like one professional speaking to another. It was the same way she tried to sound whenever she called Michael Berger to update him on Park Manor’s daily operations. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Hodges?” came the equally professional response.
“Detective Muñoz was here earlier this morning. He asked for a list of names. I thought you were going to run those tests yesterday and put this all to rest.”
“I did run the tests, Ms. Hodges.” The detective’s voice was matter of fact. “And I’m afraid the results won’t allow us to abandon the investigation after all.”
“Does that mean you found something?”
“I really can’t tell you more than that.”
Hodges heard finality tucked inside Codella’s politeness. She leaned her elbows on the desk and pressed her lips against the phone’s receiver as if she were speaking directly into Codella’s ear. “We need to talk, Detective.”
“Why?” asked Codella bluntly. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“No, but I know this place,” answered Hodges. “I know the people—their habits, personalities, backstories. I can be a resource to you.”
“I appreciate your willingness to cooperate, Ms. Hodges. Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hodges recognized the dismissal but was not deterred by it. She routinely survived the insouciance of Park Manor residents and family members. She had withstood the condescension of the puffed-up MBAs at Foster headquarters. And what did she really have to lose by pressing on? Park Manor would be injured by this investigation, and that meant she would be injured. She had to at least try to shield the institution—and herself—from culpability in whatever had happened. If she let the detective shut her out, then she couldn’t hope to influence the information Codella received, the interpretations she would make, the conclusions she might draw. “If Lucy Merchant’s death was—God forbid—murder, then there are some things you need to know, Detective, and I can save you a lot of time.”
In the pause, Hodges knew that Codella was assessing her motives. Could she be trusted? Did she really have information? She waited, and finally Codella said, “I’m on my way to an interview right now, but I’ll come as soon as I can.” And then the connection was broken.
Hodges’s felt her heart pounding. She took a deep breath and dialed the next name on her mental list.
Michael Berger never sounded friendly. He didn’t like her, she knew, but then he didn’t like anyone who wasn’t a fellow member of the Harvard Club. She ignored his surly tone and got to her point. “The bad news is that Lucy Merchant’s death is probably not of natural causes. The police are continuing their investigation.”
“You mean she was murdered?”
“That word has not been used—yet.”
“Shit! This is bad timing, Constance. Really bad timing.”
Berger, of course, was thinking about the pending sale to Eldercare Elite. If Park Manor’s reputation was tarnished, Eldercare would either come back to the table with a lowball offer or walk away completely, and if that happened, Berger wouldn’t reap the rewards he was hoping for. “Could Merchant be behind this?”
“Are you honestly asking me if he killed his wife? That would be going a little far out on the limb for a bank client, don’t you think?”
“He’s a fucking bastard. I don’t trust him. Why didn’t he stick his wife in his own client’s facility?”
“Because ours is better,” said Hodges, but she knew that was only one of the reasons. “Let’s just work very closely with the police on this,” she said. “Now is the time to look cooperative. Assuming it was murder, we have to make sure whoever is responsible doesn’t make Park Manor look negligent.”
“And how are we supposed to do that, Constance?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I have a few ideas.”
“I hope you do, because Renee wants this sale to go through, and if it doesn’t, it’s your head.”
Hodges didn’t grace his threat with an answer.
“Give me regular updates,” he demanded, and then he hung up. She took a deep breath and stared at the phone. You fucking pompous asshole, she thought. I hope you die a hideous death. She didn’t care how many Ivy League diplomas he had on his corner office wall. He wasn’t half as intelligent as she was. How did people like him end up making twenty times what people like her made? If Eldercare Elite bought Park Manor, he would pocket millions while she would face the loss of her position and purpose. Despite his assurances to the contrary, she knew very well that after the sale she would be replaced by an Eldercare Elite insider. And now she couldn’t even take solace in the fact that Lucy Merchant’s death might disrupt the deal, because if Park Manor’s reputation was damaged, she would take the fall for that as well.
She picked up the phone and dialed Thomas. Maybe she should have lunch with him and get things on the table. As she listened to the rings, her anger mushroomed. Then Roberta Ruffalo’s voice warbled, “Mr. Merchant’s office,” and Hodges realized she wasn’t ready to talk to him—she needed to think things through a little more—so she slammed the phone down.
She opened her bottom drawer and grabbed her purse. Then she walked past Heather’s desk to the powder room at the end of the hall, locked the door, set her purse on the marble sink, and plunged her fingers deep inside to find the treasure within. When she had swallowed all the liquid and could feel warmth spreading through her chest and releasing the tension in her neck, she returned the empty vessel to her purse, flushed the toilet, and ran the faucet for several moments before she opened the door and walked back to her office. Merchant might be a fucking bastard, she thought, but at least with Merchant, she knew whom she was dealing with.