Doctor Dealer (51 page)

“Again many thanks and until I see you again, Sincerely yours, Dr. Larry Lavin.”

It was the longest weekend of the year. Daylight saving time would end Saturday night, donating another hour to Larry and Marcia’s escape. Larry would not have office hours again until Tuesday morning. He was not expected at Tom Bergstrom’s office until Wednesday. With luck, it might be five days or more before Chuck Reed and the FBI learned he was gone.

They arose early Saturday morning, October 27, when it was still dark. It had been a cool, moonlit night. Marcia had been unable to sleep. After Larry’s telephone conversation with Tom, he had spent the rest of the evening loading up the leased BMW and making runs back and forth to the storage garage. Marcia kept finding more and more things she wanted to take, and Larry, grateful for her decision to accompany him, was more willing than he might otherwise have been to oblige.

They loaded the car inside the closed garage that morning. Marcia had a few last things she wanted to take, a small end table, a lamp she particularly liked, a throw rug, and a few boxes of clothing. . . . Larry was impatient to get going. By the time they pulled out of the garage, the BMW was loaded down with boxes, furniture, odds and ends, Larry, Marcia, Christopher, Marcia’s birds, Spooky (the black cat who had been with them since undergraduate days at Penn), and Rusty, the dog. Larry felt they might as well be pulling out of the driveway accompanied by neon signs and a brass band. Marcia shed no tears as she took one last look at the big white house. She had loved the house, but her last two months in it had been a nightmare. On this morning there was eagerness, fear, and excitement. They were getting away!

Larry had prearranged to meet his brother Rusty and Richard Timmerman in the parking lot of the Sheridan Hotel off Route 202.
They had rented a yellow U-Haul truck the day before in Timmer-man’s name, and Larry was carrying the Massachusetts driver’s license he had obtained with his picture and Timmerman’s I.D.

In the early-morning darkness, they quickly moved items from the BMW to the truck. Rusty and Timmerman followed in the car as Larry drove over to the storage garage in Valley Forge. Marcia eyed nervously the green hills on either side of the road. It was dawn. She expected SWAT teams to swoop down from the dewy shadows overhead. It took more than an hour to load the truck. Marcia entertained Christopher, trying to keep him out of the way.

When at last they got under way, Larry and Marcia embraced Rusty and said their tearful goodbyes. Larry had prearranged to call his brother on a regular basis at pay phone telephone numbers in Haverhill. Rusty and Timmerman then followed the yellow truck as Larry drove out to Route 202. They had gone no more than a mile when a lampshade Marcia had put up behind her in the cab, for fear it would get smashed in the back, blew out the window on the highway. Larry pulled over and Marcia ran out to retrieve it. Rusty had pulled over behind them. Just as Marcia prepared to dash out in the highway, a car ran over the shade.

She turned to Rusty. “Do you think it’s a bad omen?”

He laughed.

“Take good care of him, okay?” he said.

“I will,” said Marcia, and she ran back to the truck.

Larry steered back out on the road, leaving his brother, Philadelphia, his past, his identity, and his troubles behind.

On the day Larry was indicted, his parents had been vacationing in the Florida condominium Larry had helped them buy. The news was big in Philadelphia, and word of the arrest of a Haverhill boy found its way into the local Massachusetts newspapers with Larry’s mug shot a few days later. But with his parents out of town, Larry had hopes that Justin and Pauline would never have to face the jarring headlines about his drug dealings. He had prepared them for his pending tax difficulties, even for the prospect of his having to spend some time in jail, but he had never mentioned drugs.

His hopes were dashed, though, when someone in Haverhill clipped the stories about him and mailed them to his mother. They arrived in Florida with a mean little note to the effect that she and her husband ought to know what sort of son they had raised.

To Larry’s surprise and delight, his parents readily bought his explanation about making bad loans and getting bad advice when he talked to them on the phone. Justin and Pauline were nearly seventy years old, and both had been battling serious heart ailments. It was
as though, after being so proud of Larry’s accomplishments for so long, they were determined to cling to their pride in him and his little family.

On his trip north to get his fake Massachusetts driver’s license he had stopped in Haverhill to tell them he was running away.

“I think I’m going to be leaving the country,” he said. “So I guess this is goodbye.”

His mother cried. His father reacted angrily, blaming the government for persecuting him.

“It can’t be as bad as all that, can it, Larry?” he said.

Larry left them with fifteen thousand dollars and a promise that he would contact them again before long.

“Don’t be surprised if you just see me walk up to you on a golf course down in Florida someday, or pull up beside you in a car and wave,” he said.

Breaking the news to Marcia’s mother had been even harder. In the years since Larry and Marcia had moved to Timber Lane, Agnes was by the house several times each week. She had a standing luncheon engagement with Marcia two days a week. She had moved to her condominium in Devon that summer to be close to her daughter and grandchild. In some way they were more like sisters than mother and daughter. Agnes was short and round, with gray hair and rose-tinted glasses. She shared Marcia’s quiet outlook on life, preferring to keep her firmly held convictions about things to herself. She thought Larry was a fine son-in-law, even though they had never been close. He was certainly a wonderful provider. When that Chuck Reed had come to her apartment to ask if she knew Larry was mixed up in drugs, she was shocked.

“My son-in-law? No way!” she had said, and meant it. “Larry doesn’t use drugs. I’m a nurse. If he were on drugs all these years I would have been able to detect it.”

The agent had walked around her nicely furnished condominium and said, “Did Larry buy this for you?”

“No he did not,” she said indignantly. “I sold a house in New Jersey my husband and I lived in for thirty years, and I bought this!”

After that she was ready to believe the FBI was persecuting Larry. She could see how ready they were to jump to false conclusions. So even after the indictment and all the bad publicity, Agnes had rallied to Larry’s support.

Now they would have to tell her that they were leaving her life, most likely for good. Marcia was her baby, and Christopher was so precious to her. She had helped Marcia raise him far more than Larry had. Leaving Agnes alone in her condominium in Devon was like pulling her entire life out from under her. Marcia was painfully aware
of how hard it would hit her mother. She and Larry had even briefly considered taking Agnes with them. But when they realized it would mean she could have no further contact with her son and her other daughter, nor with her other grandchildren, they knew it would be asking too much.

Marcia put off telling her mother until the last possible moment. She broke the news over dinner at Bennigan’s, a restaurant in the King of Prussia Mall, the night before they left. Agnes was furious and bewildered, but Marcia had made up her mind.

“I’m going with him because I love him,” said Marcia. “I can’t picture myself living here without knowing what’s happening to my husband. Larry is convinced he can do this and not get caught. I have to give him this chance.”

“Doesn’t he realize that the people who made these rules and regulations, that set up this justice system of ours, are just as smart as he is?” said Agnes.

Yet she was powerless to stop it. If she couldn’t talk Marcia out of it, she could never dissuade Larry. Agnes felt as if she had just been told a perfectly healthy loved one had less than twenty-four hours to live.

Larry had stopped at her condo later that night to pick up Marcia’s sewing machine. His mother-in-law said nothing to him. He knew she was hurt and angry.

“You shouldn’t feel too bad,” said Larry. “You’ve got your son and you’ve got your other daughter and two other grandchildren.”

“That doesn’t change the situation any, Larry,” she said. “I am still losing a grandson and I am losing my daughter.”

Larry had no answer.

“What you are doing is taking my daughter and my grandchild away from me,” said Agnes.

They had parted on that note. Larry felt bad about it, but what could he do? He comforted himself with the knowledge that, however hard leaving was on him, it was harder on Marcia, and she had decided to go.

Saturday morning dawned sunny and hot on the highway. The cramped cab of the truck had no air-conditioning. Marcia had Chris on her lap, the cat over her shoulder, and the dog on the floor beneath her feet.

They were driving south. Larry aimed straight down Route 202 to Route 13, an interstate that pointed down through Delaware and bisected the Eastern Shore of Maryland. They were headed for Virginia Beach.

Deciding to go to Virginia Beach was just a coincidence, which
is one of the reasons Larry liked the idea. There was no logic to it. If there was any logic to their destination it would be possible for someone to figure it out. He had gone to a travel agency shortly after his indictment to get some papers notarized, just because there was a seal on the window outside that advertised a notary public. In the agency he had picked up a brochure on summer rentals, and it had occurred to him that if he and Marcia ran, the safest thing to do first would be to find a staging area—a place where they could run to immediately and spend a few weeks or months making arrangements before moving on to a more permanent destination.

It hit him as he stood there that the best place to do that in early winter would be a beach community. There would be ample short-term rentals available. In late October it would be relatively deserted. And rental agents were used to handling short-term leases, so they were not likely to ask too many questions. Among the communities with rentals listed in the brochure was Virginia Beach. He and Marcia had spent a day there years ago on a trip to Williamsburg with Stu Thomas. They had loved the area, with its Colonial flavor and gentle Southern style.

So Larry had called a rental agent several weeks earlier, using the name Brian O’Neil, and said that he had accepted a teaching position at the University of Pennsylvania for one semester after having been overseas for several years. He and his wife and son planned to spend a few months touring the East Coast before settling into Philadelphia, he said, and they wanted a nice apartment for just a few weeks to a month. The agent asked for references, and Larry explained that they had been traveling overseas for several years, never staying in one place for too long, and that he hadn’t kept addresses or phone numbers. He called back several days later and the agent had found him an apartment. So Larry had mailed a cashier’s check to pay for the first month’s rent, and told the agent to expect him sometime within the next six weeks.

They stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s somewhere in Maryland. It was late afternoon when they crossed the long, scenic Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel from Kiptopeke, Maryland, to Virginia Beach. As they came off the bridge, Larry pulled over. He had planned to take the little silver Beretta, the pistol he had purchased four years ago after the robbery on Osage Avenue, the one that had been pushed into Paula Van Horn’s ribs, and throw it off the bridge. Larry knew that the gun was one more positive link to his criminal past. It was also a symbol of the criminal path he had pursued so ambitiously the last ten years. He got out of the truck and started to walk back toward the bridge, but there were too many people around. So he returned with the gun still in his pocket.

*  *  *

Marcia was supposed to be Susan O’Neil, but she refused to go by that first name. Larry argued that it was best to change both names; why do it halfway? But Marcia said she would not become a Susan, period. So they compromised. She took Marcia as her middle name, and though her official name would be Susan M. O’Neil, she would continue to go by Marcia.

After picking up the key to their apartment, which was just one block from the beach, they spent the rest of the day until dark hauling lockers. The apartment was small, just two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and bath. Twice on that late afternoon there were knocks on the door. Both times Marcia felt her heart leap. She expected to see men with guns encircling the house at any moment. The first knock was neighbors, a young navy man and his wife, who lived next door, stopping by to say hello. The second knock was the cable TV man. On the drive down, Marcia had said she wanted to get a cable hookup in as soon as possible because Chris enjoyed certain programs in the afternoon. She thought such an abrupt transition for him might be eased if he still had his cartoons.

Larry had said, “We don’t need to call anybody and pay a fee. I know how to tap right into the cable myself.”

Marcia was dumbfounded.

“Why in the world would you run a risk like that? We can afford to pay the fee.”

“Okay, okay,” said Larry, laughing. “Old habits are hard to break.”

So the cable TV man arrived before dinnertime to make the connection.

On the day after they arrived, Larry rented a storage garage and removed the last of the footlockers. He and Marcia only needed a few of the lockers to tide them over in the furnished beach apartment. It was hard work. Marcia was three months pregnant and unable to help, so Larry spent hours lugging the heavy lockers himself. Then he found a used-car lot and bought himself a small white Plymouth 6000, using the license and registration of Richard Timmerman. This was just an interim purchase. Larry intended to fully adopt the names Brian and Susan O’Neil as soon as they could obtain Virginia driver’s licenses under those names. Buying the car gave Larry pause. He had to give Timmerman’s Social Security number and other information. It occurred to Larry that if anything got back to Richard, then one person would have a clue where he and Marcia had gone. Larry had been scrupulous about the secret.
No one
knew. His brother Rusty had even acted a bit offended when Larry refused to entrust him with the location. But Rusty and Richard knew that he was using Timmerman’s
I.D., at least initially, so any stray mailing from Social Security reflecting this purchase would be a tip-off. But they had to have a car, and there was no other way to get it. Larry planned to dump it and get something nicer as soon as he and Marcia decided where to settle. So the car would just serve their purposes for a few weeks. Just to be safe, Larry rented a private postal box to use as Timmerman’s official address.