Extreme Measures (44 page)

“I’m sorry she didn’t make it,” he managed.

“Yeah, you seem all broken up,” Silver said. “You gonna tell me what you were doing in there, or do you want to wait until after the pathologists tell us why she died?”

“It happened just as I said it did,” Eric responded, holding on to his rage by only the finest of threads. “I came up here to talk to Norma about some things and found her dead; and I did my best to resuscitate her.
I don’t think I did anything to deserve the kind of treatment I just received from you in there.”

Silver looked as if he were about to spit in Eric’s face.

“Your indignation doesn’t even deserve a response,” he said acidly, “but let me lay it out for you. First, you’re involved in a series of very bizarre, disruptive events, all of which suggest that you are drug-addicted, crazy, or most likely both. Next, you are told by me to stay away from this hospital until this whole business is straightened out. Yet here you are, dressed up like a goddam professor, in the room of a woman whose door says
NO VISITORS
, and she’s dead.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” Eric said simply.

Joe Silver glared at him.

“Damn, but you’re an arrogant son of a bitch. Well, you just listen up, Najarian. I don’t want to see your face in this hospital again until the pathologist’s report on this woman is in. If her death is on the up and up, you’ll get your chance to explain all the other madness you’re into. But if she was murdered, I plan to be at the head of the line of those who will want to see you hung up by your goddam crazy Armenian heels and stoned.”

Without waiting for a reply, he whirled and stormed down the eighth-floor corridor.

“Well, fuck you very much, Dr. Silver,” Eric said courteously. “I’ll try to be worthy of your understanding and confidence.”

Furious, he ran down eight flights of stairs to the basement, threw his lab coat in a corner, and then took the tunnel to one of the side exits. A chilly mist was swirling down from the heavy late-morning sky. And although it was twenty minutes by foot to Bernard Nelson’s apartment, Eric had no inclination to do anything but walk. He crossed over Cambridge Street and wandered up Charles—the same route he and Laura had taken on their first night together. It was a night that seemed several lifetimes ago.

He had come so close, so damn close. Now, rather than putting an end to their nightmare, he had only intensified it. If, as seemed quite possible, Norma Cullinet’s autopsy showed her death to be murder, his unauthorized presence in her room, coupled with the other suspicions surrounding his sanity and drug use, would quickly vault him to the head of any fist of suspects. One step forward, two steps back. Perhaps the Najarian could become a new dance craze.

He picked up a copy of the
Herald
, wondering what new absurdities they had chosen to print about “Zombi Doc.” What he found instead was a front-page teaser and page 3 spread on the robbery/murder at the Gates of Heaven. According to the write-up, there were no signs of forced entry, leading police to suspect the murderer was known to the victim. Investigators were currently, focusing on names in an appointment book recovered from Donald Devine’s desk. Nowhere in the article was there mention of the macabre treatment room in the mortuary basement.
Did the police choose to withhold that find, or had the room been dismantled before they even arrived on the scene?
Those questions were troubling, but not nearly as much so as the possibility that among the names in Devine’s appointment book would be one Dr. Eric Najarian.

One step forward, two steps back.

Eric folded the paper, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and leaned against the corner of a building, physically and emotionally spent. Across the street, three stories above a chic Italian bistro, two workmen undaunted by the rain were washing windows from a suspended platform. Eric was musing on the possibility of his one day earning a living in such a manner when the door to the café opened and Anna Delacroix stepped out, arm in arm with a man.

She wore a rich knee-length leather coat, and her hair, unpinned, billowed to her shoulders. But there was not a whit of doubt in Eric’s mind that it was
Anna. Nor, he suddenly realized, was there any doubt as to her companion. He concealed himself behind the corner of the building and watched as Haven Darden walked the spectacular woman around to the driver’s side of a smart gray Alfa convertible, embraced her fondly, and blew her a kiss as she drove off. Then the White Memorial chief of medicine straightened his tie, checked himself in the mirror of a store window, and strode off toward the hospital.

Eric moved to follow, but then quickly halted. Haven Darden was not going anyplace where he couldn’t be found. At last, there was no need to make any move until he was absolutely ready, absolutely in control. So much made sense now—so many disconnected pieces had suddenly converged and meshed. He had reached the center of Caduceus. Now, all that remained was finding a way to break Dr. Haven Darden down.

And this time, there would be no steps back.

T
o Laura Enders, the drive to East Boston through the Callahan Tunnel seemed interminable. In point of fact, something—an accident or breakdown—had stopped traffic in one of the two tunnel lanes, locking her and Captain Lester Wheeler in a snarl that already spilled well back onto the expressway on the Boston side.

“Last time we went, Eric and I took this beautiful, very high bridge over to East Boston,” she said.

Wheeler, wearing jeans and a blue Irish-knit fisherman’s sweater beneath his windbreaker, nodded.

“The Mystic River Bridge. We could have taken that, but I thought we’d go this way so we can come up behind that Bow Street lot, not on the side your man Rocky wants us to.”

“Why?”

“Just in case it’s a trap. The first thing we teach our detectives is: where possible, never play anyone else’s game.”

“I understand. That man’s voice sounded honest
to me, though. I don’t think we’re headed for any trap, and I think Scott is somewhere just on the other side of this tunnel.”

“I hope you’re right,” Wheeler said, inching toward the East Boston side of the harbor. They were in an unmarked police car, which had a blue light on the dash and a metal-mesh screen separating the front and back seats. “I’m sure you read in the papers where we found that funeral parlor owner, Donald Devine, in permanent repose in one of his caskets.”

“Yes. Yes, I did read that. I’m not surprised. I told you the last time we spoke that he was into something shady.”

“You did in fact. The question is what?”

Laura just shrugged. She and Bernard Nelson had decided to tell no one, not even the police, of her role in the hit-and-run death on Harrison Avenue, or of their break-in at the Gates of Heaven—at least not until the nature of Devine’s business dealings became clear, or someone was arrested for his murder. In addition, the policeman had already asked her pointedly about Eric and his well-publicized misadventures. It seemed unwise to say anything just yet that might raise further questions of her reliability.

“Beats me,” was all she said. “Listen, Captain Wheeler, in case I forget to say so later, I really appreciate your coming with me today. I don’t think I would have felt completely comfortable taking a cab.”

“It was pure luck you caught me in,” Wheeler replied. “Technically I have the week off. I was just in the office catching up on paperwork when you called. Now, do you want to go over our strategy again?”

“You’re going to hang back but keep me in sight. If there’s no sign of trouble, I should just pay up and bring Scott back to the car. If there
is
any problem, I’ll raise one of my hands over my head, and you’ll fly to my rescue.”

“Perfect. I also want to caution you not to get your hopes up too high. There are a lot of nut cases around
this town, along with some pretty resourceful folks who would like to ensure that you never lay your hands on that tape your brother made.”

“Well, as I told you, I can’t produce something I know nothing about. And as for my hopes being too high, the only thing that will snuff them out is seeing Scott’s body. Do you have family?”

“Me? Well, yes and no. My wife took off years ago with the guy who taught her painting class. She took my two boys with her. They’re grown men now, but I haven’t heard from either of them for eight or ten years.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I manage okay,” Wheeler said.

They broke free of the tunnel, and Wheeler maneuvered the sedan through traffic to a side street.

“You sure know your way around,” Laura said.

“I should. Twenty-five years on the force.”

He turned on the windshield wipers.

“I hope Scott’s not standing outside in this,” she said. “Rocky made it sound as if he was sick.”

Wheeler turned down another narrow street and then pulled to a stop by what appeared to be several abandoned building lots. Behind the lots was a low hillock that extended for most of the block. The steep slope, composed of shrub-covered sandy soil, was an eyesore. It was littered with rusting pieces of automobile, discarded bottles, flattened milk cartons, and the like. The faded, peeling three-deckers bordering the lot on each side seemed to sag under the weight of neglect.

“Nice place,” Laura said.

Wheeler glanced around nervously.

“Bow Street is down the other side of this rise. See those two trees right at the top there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll be right between them watching. You head up over there. Take a second once you reach the top to size things up. If this Rocky character is for real,
he’ll be down on the other side, waiting for you to come in on Bow Street. At the first sign of trouble, I want that hand in the air. Got it?”

“Got it,” Laura said. “Now we’ve just got to cross our fingers and hope.”

“You cross them for both of us,” Wheeler said. “I want to keep my hands free.”

They exited the patrol car together and then split up. Laura walked to the far side of the lot before starting up the slope, while Lester Wheeler worked his way directly up to the pair of scraggly oak trees on the left side of the crest. Fine sheets of rain swept down the hillside at them.

“Come on, Scotty,” Laura prayed as she trudged upward through the wild blackberry bushes and scrub oak, “be here. Please be here.”

She checked the pocket of her jacket to ensure the $650 was there. She had tucked another $200 in the back pocket of her jeans, just in case. At the top of the rise she paused and looked across at where Lester Wheeler was kneeling behind the two oaks. When their eyes met, the police captain nodded to direct her attention to the broad, littered field below them, lb one side of the field a makeshift lean-to—possibly a play fort for the neighborhood kids—was propped against a rusting chain-link fence. Squatting beside the lean-to, trying to shield himself from the rain and remain hidden from Bow Street, was a man. The street beyond him looked deserted.

Laura’s pulse had already skipped several beats before she realized the man was not her brother. He was dressed like a hobo, but even at a fairly good distance Laura could make out enough of his bearing and his weathered face to sense that he was no threat to her. With a final nod to Wheeler, she picked her way over the damp soil, down the gentle slope toward the man she assumed was Rocky.

She was still some fifty yards away when she sensed, beyond a doubt, that her brother was down
there as well—almost certainly within the small rickety structure. Only the total of her self-control kept her from bolting down the hill and into the lean-to. Instead, she forced herself once again to stop and survey the field, looking for some sign—any sign—of a trap. Behind her and far to her left, Wheeler gave her a thumbs-up sign and motioned her ahead. She was just twenty yards away when Rocky turned and noticed her.

“Rocky, I’m Laura Enders,” she said quickly.

“Yeah? Well, whaddaya tryin’ to pull?” he exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be comin’ up that street.”

“Is my brother in there?”

“I’m not telling you where he is,” Rocky said, unaware that his expression had already answered her question, “until I see the color of your money. Six hundred and fifty, in case you forgot. Well, I’m here to tell you that ol’ Rocky didn’t. He’s got the memory of—”

“Here,” Laura said.

She threw the bills on the sand at his feet as she hurried past him to the lean-to and threw back the oilskin flap.

“Oh, God,” she gasped, racing inside.

Scott was there, sitting on a small pile of rags, his back propped against the fence. His breathing was shallow and labored, and his complexion dusty. Laura threw her arms around him, but then just as quickly pulled away when there was no reaction.

Rocky appeared in the doorway.

“He don’t seem to know much of anything,” he said. “Not his name, not where he’s from, nothin’. All he keeps talking about is a horse.”

“Rocky, do you have any water?”

“Nope. Not here I don’t. Jes’ wine. They’s some at my place, but it’s a walk from here.”

“That’s okay. The wine will do. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”