“Back at the offices,” the detective said, “Myron would make the claim for the loss, and Geoffrey would process it. But the claims were always significantly higher than the property was worth.”
“Lloyds took the claim,” Flynn continued, “submitted by their adjuster and substantiated by both the adjuster and a professor from Brown University. Somehow, they arranged for the claim to be paid to Myron at RIHPS. RIHPS got the actual value for the lost property, and these two chaps split the additional claim money—they were skimming the gray area. Quite clever, really.”
“So how did they get caught?” Dagne asked.
“As is usually the case with such scams,” Flynn said, “they got greedy. Our fraud detection unit noticed an unusually high number of claims were being submitted. Their excuse was, of course, a series of thefts had occurred. But our colleagues in America,” he said, looking at Joe, “had determined those thefts to be an inside job.”
Dagne let out a long sigh and shook her head. “What a jackass,” she said. “I just can’t understand why Myron would risk so much,” she said. “It wasn’t like he didn’t have a good job. A professor at Brown?”
“Tenure,” Rachel muttered miserably. “He couldn’t get tenure. He had another few months and they were going to let him go.”
“Ah,” the detective said. “That explains a lot.”
A man appeared at Rachel’s left. “Miss Lear? We’re ready for you now.”
“Thanks, Ted,” she said, and sighed wearily as she came to her feet.
“All right, ladies, don’t go anywhere for a couple of weeks, okay? We’ll need to talk to you again,” the detective said, just like on Law & Order.
“Fine,” Dagne said, sounding exasperated, but Rachel knew that lilt in her voice meant she’d be more than happy for Detective Keating to question her again.
As for Rachel . . . she couldn’t even bring herself to look at Flynn. Between her humiliation at having been duped by Myron for all the world to see, and the pain of having fallen in love with someone who was using her to get to Myron . . . she just wanted out of there.
She got up, put her bag on her shoulder, and started walking without a word, without looking back to anyone, hardly caring if Dagne followed her or not, not even looking at Ted, who smiled and pointed to the jet on the tarmac.
“Rachel!” Flynn called after her, but she did not turn around. When her foot hit the tarmac, she began to run, not caring that she looked like a fool, running across the tarmac. She was already strapped into her seat by the time Dagne managed to get on.
“My God, this is your dad’s?” Dagne said reverently, gaping in disbelief.
“One, anyway,” Rachel muttered miserably, and Dagne gleefully prattled on about the gold fixtures, the bed, and the leather seats and monogrammed towels, and on and on . . .
Rachel said nothing. She couldn’t speak. Tears were streaming down her face as she stared out the little portal window at Flynn. He was standing at the edge of the tarmac. His hair was all messed up, and she imagined he had dragged his fingers through it several times in the course of the day. With his weight braced on one leg, he had a hand on his waist and was staring at the Lear plane with an expression that Rachel could not quite make out.
Chapter Thirty-Six
By the time Flynn and Joe arrived back in Providence the next afternoon, the press was all over the breaking story. They picked up the Providence Journal on the drive from Boston to Providence. The headline read:
BROWN UNIVERSITY PROFESSOR IS
MASTERMIND BEHIND INSURANCE SCAM
“Oh, Christ,” Flynn muttered, and read the article aloud to Joe, who beamed like a bloody idiot. There were several quotes in the article. Myron’s boss at the RIHPS claimed Myron had been a fringe employee for some time, often missing work or coming in late, and misplacing items in their catalog. His dean at Brown University called him a “mediocre” professor whose path to tenure had never materialized.
And then, of course, was the paragraph about the “girlfriend,” naming Rachel, who, according to the paper, had not yet been charged, but in whose house the stolen goods had been stored.
“It’s a bloody circus,” Flynn said.
“Yeah.” Joe beamed.
They arrived at police headquarters, and a dozen or more reporters were waiting for them, all anxious to have a word with them about their work on the case. They held a joint press conference, speaking on behalf of their respective organizations. Joe was a natural, parading around like a peacock, but Flynn stood back, let Joe have the spotlight, particularly when his higher-ups praised the work he’d done.