Harmful Intent (18 page)

In the men's locker room Jeffrey passed another test as rigorous as his brush with Mark Wilson. He came face to face with another anesthesiologist whom he knew extremely well. They did a kind of shadow dance in an attempt to pass each other by the sinks. When this doctor failed to recognize him even after such close scrutiny, Jeffrey was amazed and pleased. His disguise was even better than he'd hoped.

“Have you had any experience with scrub clothes?” Martinez asked as they stopped in front of the cabinets that contained the scrub clothing.

“Yes,” Jeffrey said.

“Good,” Martinez said. “I don't think we should go in there now. David Arnold will have to show you around the OR tonight. It's much too busy at this time.”

“I understand,” Jeffrey said.

Jeffrey, relieved to get the tour over with, put on his street clothes. Then Martinez led him back to Carl Bodanski's office. After shaking hands, Martinez wished Jeffrey well before returning to his duties. Bodanski had a withholding statement and a health care form for Jeffrey to sign. As nervous as he still was, Jeffrey started to sign his real name before he caught himself and scribbled Frank Amendola's name in the requisite blanks.

Only after he went through the revolving door at the front entrance of the hospital and reached the street did Jeffrey feel his anxiety lift. He even felt encouraged. So far, everything was moving along according to plan.

 

Devlin climbed the stairs from the inbound side of the MBTA airport station. The metal heel savers on the heels of his cowboy boots clicked loudly against the dirty concrete. He felt like
strangling somebody and he wasn't terribly choosy. Anybody would do.

His mood had deteriorated further since leaving Michael Mosconi's office. As he expected, the airport had so far been a total waste of time. He'd talked to the parking attendants to see if any of them had noticed the guy who pulled in around 9:00 P.M. with a cream-colored Mercedes 240D. Of course, no one had.

Next, Devlin had gone to the MBTA stop and gotten the name and phone number of the fellow who had manned the token booth the previous evening. Just getting the number was like pulling teeth. When he finally was able to reach the man, it proved as futile as he'd suspected it would. The guy wouldn't have remembered if his mother had come by to buy a token.

Reaching the bus platform, Devlin waited for the intraterminal bus to come by. When a bus finally arrived, he boarded by the front door. At first he tried to be nice.

“Excuse me,” he said. The driver was a thin black fellow with round, metal-rimmed glasses. “Maybe you can give me some information,” Devlin said.

The driver blinked, then glanced down at Devlin's tattooed arm before looking back up into his face. “I can't close the door until you sit down,” he said. “And I can't drive the bus until the door is closed.”

Devlin rolled his eyes. He looked into the bus. A few other passengers had boarded from the rear door and were busy storing their luggage in the luggage rack.

“This will only take a second,” Devlin said, restraining himself. “You see, I'm looking for a man who might have boarded one of these buses last night around nine-thirty. He's a skinny white dude with a mustache, carrying a briefcase. No other luggage. What I was wondering is—”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd sit down,” the driver said, interrupting Devlin.

“Listen, friend,” Devlin said, his voice dropping an octave. “I'm trying to be nice.”

“You're wasting your time,” the driver said. “I get off at three-thirty.”

“I understand,” Devlin said, doing his utmost to remain composed. “But could you tell me the names of the drivers who were driving last night?”

“Why don't you go to the transportation office?” the driver said. “Now if you'll take a seat.”

Devlin closed his eyes. This little squirt was pushing his luck.

“Either sit down or get off the bus,” the driver said.

That was the last straw. Devlin moved quickly, grabbing the driver by the front of his shirt and lifting him off the seat. He pulled the man's face within inches of his own.

“You know something, buddy?” Devlin asked. “I don't think I like your attitude. All I want is a simple answer to a simple question.”

“Hey!” one of the passengers yelled.

Still holding the terrified driver off his seat, Devlin turned toward the back of the bus. A man in a business suit came up to him. His face was flushed with indignation. “What's going on here?” he demanded.

Devlin reached out with his left hand and grabbed the passenger's head as if he were palming a basketball. First he pulled the man a step forward, then he gave him a powerful shove back. The man stumbled and fell over backward in the aisle. The other passengers just gawked. No one else tried to come to the driver's rescue.

Meanwhile, the driver was making an attempt to speak. Devlin lowered him into his seat. The driver coughed. Then, in a hoarse voice, he gave Devlin two names. “I don't know their numbers, but they both live in Chelsea.”

Devlin wrote the names down in a small notebook he carried in the left front pocket of his denim shirt. Then his beeper went off. He snapped the beeper from his belt, pushed the button and watched the LED screen. Michael Mosconi's number flashed into view.

“Thanks, buddy,” Devlin said to the driver. He turned and got off the bus. The bus pulled away in a cloud of diesel smoke, its door still open.

Devlin watched it go, wondering if a squad car would be descending on him in the next few minutes. If so, chances were he'd know the cops. He'd been off the police force for over five years, but he still had a lot of friends. Except for the rookies, he knew most everybody.

Returning inside the station, Devlin used a pay phone to call Michael. He wondered if Michael was checking up on him to see if he'd gone to the airport.

“Got some good news, pal,” Michael said when the connection went through. “I shouldn't even be telling you this. Makes your job too easy. I know where Jeffrey Rhodes is holed up.”

“Where?” Devlin asked.

“Not so fast,” Michael said. “If I tell you and you waltz over there and pick him up, it ain't worth forty grand. I can call someone else. You get my point?”

“How'd you come by this information?” Devlin asked.

“Norstadt from police headquarters,” Michael said triumphantly. “While they were covering the cab companies, one of the drivers came forward to say that he'd picked up a guy who matched Jeffrey Rhodes's description. The driver said that Rhodes had acted strange. At first he didn't even have a destination. He said they just drove around aimlessly.”

“How come the police haven't nabbed him?” Devlin asked.

“They will. Eventually,” Michael said. “But they're a little preoccupied right now. Some rock group is coming to town. Besides, they don't view Rhodes as much of a threat to anybody.”

“So what's the deal?”

“Ten grand,” Michael said. “Take it or leave it.”

Devlin only had to think for a moment. “I'll take it,” he said.

“The Essex Hotel,” Michael said. “And, Dev—kick him around a little. The guy's caused me a lot of aggravation.”

“It'll be my pleasure,” Devlin said, and he meant it. Not only had Jeffrey hit him with his briefcase, now he'd managed to screw Devlin out of thirty thousand dollars. But then again, maybe he hadn't.

Back on the bus platform, Devlin managed to flag down a cab. He had the cabbie drive him to his car in central parking for five dollars.

By the time Devlin drove out of the airport, his attitude had considerably improved. It was a shame to lose thirty grand, if that's what ended up happening, but ten grand was nothing to sneeze at either. Besides, he could have a little fun with Jeffrey. And now that he knew Jeffrey's location, the job was a snap. Piece of cake.

Devlin drove directly to the Essex Hotel. He parked by a fire hydrant just across the street. He knew the Essex. When he'd been on the police force, he'd participated in a couple of drug busts in the hotel.

Devlin mounted the steps. Before pulling open the door, he reached beneath his denim jacket under his left arm and unsnapped the strap that buckled over the hammer of his snub-nosed .38. Although he was certain Jeffrey would not be armed, one could never be too careful. The doc had surprised him before. But that wouldn't happen again.

One quick glance around the interior told Devlin that the
Essex had not changed one iota since his last visit. He even remembered the odor. It was the same musty smell as always, as if they had mushrooms growing in the basement. Devlin walked over to the front desk. When the clerk got up from his TV, Devlin remembered him too. The guys on the force referred to him as Drool because his lower lip hung down like a bulldog's.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked, eyeing Devlin with obvious distaste. He stayed several feet back from the desk as if he were afraid Devlin was about to reach out and grab him.

“I'm looking for one of your guests,” Devlin said. “His name is Jeffrey Rhodes, but that might not be the name he's registered under.”

“We don't give out information about our guests,” the clerk said primly.

Devlin leaned intimidatingly toward the clerk. He paused long enough to make the clerk uncomfortable. “So you don't give out any information on your guests?” he repeated, nodding his head as if he understood.

“That's right,” the clerk said uncertainly.

“What the hell do you think this is, the Ritz-Carlton?” Devlin asked sarcastically. “All you usually got here is a bunch of pimps, prostitutes, and druggies.”

The clerk took a step back, watching Devlin with alarm.

With lightning speed, Devlin slammed his palm down on the desk top with thunderous effect. The clerk winced. He was visibly cowed.

“People have been giving me a hard time all day,” Devlin roared. Then he lowered his voice. “I'm only asking a simple question.”

“We don't have a Jeffrey Rhodes registered,” the clerk stammered.

Devlin nodded. “Not surprising,” he said. “But let me describe him. He's about your height, about forty or so, with a mustache, kinda thin, brown hair. Nice looking. And he would have been carrying a briefcase.”

“Could be Richard Bard,” the clerk said obligingly.

“And when did Mr. Bard check into this palatial establishment?” Devlin asked.

“Last night around ten,” the clerk said. Hoping to ward off Devlin's anger, the clerk turned over a page in the register and pointed to a name with a trembling hand. “See, that's where he signed in, right there.”

“Is Mr. Bard currently in residence?” Devlin asked.

The clerk shook his head no. “He went out about noon,” he said. “But he looked very different. His hair was black and he'd shaved off his mustache.”

“Well now,” Devlin said. “I think that just about clinches it. What room would Mr. Bard be in?”

“Five-F.”

“I don't suppose it would be asking too much for you to take me up there, now would it?”

The clerk shook his head. He locked the cash drawer, grabbed a spare key, and came out from behind the desk. Devlin followed him to the stairwell.

Devlin pointed at the elevator. “Things move at a slow pace around here. When I was in here on a drug bust five years ago, that elevator had the same sign on it.”

“Are you a cop?” the clerk asked.

“Sort of,” Devlin said.

They climbed in silence. By the time they got to the fifth floor, Devlin thought the clerk was about to have a heart attack. He was breathing heavily and perspiring profusely. Devlin let him catch his breath before they went down the hall to 5F.

Just to be on the safe side, Devlin knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he stepped aside and let the clerk open it. Devlin made a quick tour. The room was empty.

“I think I'll wait for Mr. Bard here,” Devlin said as he walked over to the window and glanced out. He turned back to the clerk. “But I don't want you to say anything to him when he comes in. Let's just think of me as a little surprise. Understand?”

The clerk nodded vigorously.

“Mr. Rhodes, alias Mr. Bard, is a fugitive from justice,” Devlin said. “There's a warrant for his arrest. He's a dangerous man, convicted of murder. If you say anything to arouse his suspicion, there's no telling how he may react. You know what I'm saying?”

“Absolutely,” the clerk said. “Mr. Bard acted strange when he first came in. I was thinking of calling the police.”

“Sure you were,” Devlin said sarcastically.

“I won't say a word to anyone,” the clerk said as he retreated out the door.

“I'm counting on you,” Devlin said. He locked the door behind the clerk.

As soon as he was alone, Devlin dashed over to the briefcase and slung it onto the bed. With trembling hands he undid the latches and lifted the lid. He riffled through the papers but came
up with nothing. Next he unsnapped the accordion file and went through each compartment rapidly.

“Damn!” he yelled. He'd hoped Jeffrey would have been foolish enough to have left the money in the briefcase. But all it contained was a bunch of papers and underwear. Devlin picked up one of the sheets that had “From the Desk of Christopher Everson” printed on the top. It was filled with scientific jargon. Devlin wondered who Christopher Everson was.

Dropping the paper, Devlin made a complete search of the room in case Jeffrey had hidden the money. But it wasn't there. Devlin guessed that Jeffrey would have the money on him. It was the main reason he'd agreed to Michael's deal so quickly. Devlin planned to pocket the forty-five grand Jeffrey was supposed to have, in addition to the ten Michael would be giving him.

Stretching out on the bed, Devlin pulled his handgun from his holster. The good doctor was a constant source of surprises. Devlin decided he'd better be ready for anything.