Harmful Intent (24 page)

“I never invited him!” Carol yelled.

“If you boys would like to go into the kitchen you'll see the soiled dishes from our romantic dinner. I guess I was somewhat of a disappointment, falling asleep as I did.”

The two policemen smiled in spite of themselves.

“He forced me to make dinner,” Carol snapped.

Devlin seemed genuinely hurt.

With marked indignation, Carol strode across the foyer and grasped the chain with its attached piece of doorjamb. She waved it at the policemen. “Does this look like I invited that pig in here?”

“I have no idea how that got broken,” Devlin said. “I certainly had nothing to do with it.” He rolled his eyes for the policemen's benefit. “But, Harold, Willy, if the little lady wants me to leave, I'll leave. I mean, she could have just asked me to go. I'd hate to stay where I'm not wanted.”

“Willy, why don't you take Mr. O'Shea outside for a moment?” said the older of the two policemen. “I'll have a chat with Mrs. Rhodes.”

Devlin had to go back into the family room for his boots. After he'd pulled them on, he and Willy went outside and stood next to the police cruiser. “Women,” Devlin said, cocking his head toward the Rhodes's house. “They're such trouble. It's always something!”

“Wow, she's a fireball,” Harold said, coming out of the house
and joining the others. “Devlin, what the hell did you do to get her so riled up?”

Devlin shrugged. “Maybe I hurt her feelings. How was I to know she'd take my falling asleep so personal? All I want to do is find her husband, hopefully before his bail is forfeited.”

“Well, I managed to calm her down,” Harold said. “But please use discretion and don't break anything else.”

“Discretion? Hell, that's my middle name,” Devlin said with a laugh. “Sorry to cause you boys any inconvenience.”

Harold went on to ask Devlin about one of the other Boston policemen who'd been bounced from the force along with Devlin during the bribery scandal. Devlin told him that the last he'd heard of the man was that he'd moved to Florida and was working as a private detective in the Miami area.

With final handshakes all around, they got in their cars and pulled away. When they got to West Shore Drive, the cops turned left, Devlin right. But Devlin didn't go far. He looped around and eventually cruised past the Rhodes's house again. He parked where he could keep the place under observation. Since Jeffrey hadn't shown up or called, he lamented the fact that he would have to rehire the guy he'd had following Carol.

But after this evening, he wasn't as confident as he had been that Carol would lead him to Jeffrey. Mosconi's comment about them not being so lovey-dovey, combined with Carol's behavior and a few stray comments here and there, made Devlin think he might have to come up with another idea for locating Jeffrey. But one thing that was going to make things easier was that he'd managed to put a bug on Carol's telephone while she'd been preparing their dinner. If Jeffrey did call, he'd know about it.

 

Looking around Kelly's guest room, Jeffrey decided to leave his duffel bag under the bed. He thought it would be as safe there as anyplace. He elected not to tell Kelly about the money lest it add to her worries.

Emerging from the guest room, Jeffrey found Kelly in her bedroom, propped up in bed with a novel. Her door was ajar as if she was expecting him to say good-bye when he left. She had on pink cotton pajamas with dark green piping. Curled up on her bed with her were two cats, one Siamese, the other a tawny tabby.

“Well, isn't this the picture of domesticity,” Jeffrey said. He glanced around the room. It was wonderfully feminine, with French country-style wallpaper and matching drapes. It was
easy to see that care had been taken with all the details. There were no clothes visible and Jeffrey couldn't help but contrast the scene with Carol's chaotic lair.

“I was just about to come in and make sure you were awake,” Kelly said. “I guess we'll miss each other in the morning. I have to leave here by six forty-five. I'll put the front door key inside the carriage lamp.”

“You haven't reconsidered my staying here?”

Kelly frowned in mock chagrin. “I thought we'd settled that. I definitely want you to stay. It was my impression we were in this together. Especially now, with that fiend out there.”

Jeffrey stepped into the room and walked over to the side of the bed. The Siamese lifted its head and spat.

“Come on now, Samson, let's not be jealous,” Kelly scolded. To Jeffrey she said, “He's not used to a man in the house.”

“Who are these critters?” Jeffrey asked. “How come I haven't seen them before?”

“This is Samson,” Kelly said, pointing to the Siamese. “He's out a good deal of the time, terrorizing the neighborhood. And this is Delilah. She's pregnant, as you can see. She sleeps all day in the pantry.”

“They married?” Jeffrey asked.

Kelly laughed in her characteristic way. Jeffrey smiled. He didn't think his little joke was that funny, but Kelly's mirth was infectious.

Jeffrey cleared his throat. “Kelly,” he began, “I don't know how to say this, but you don't have any idea how much I appreciate your understanding and hospitality. I can't thank you enough.”

Kelly looked down at Delilah and gave her a loving stroke. Jeffrey thought she was blushing, but it was tough to judge in the light.

“I just wanted you to know that,” Jeffrey added. Then, changing the subject, he said, “So I guess I'll talk to you sometime tomorrow.”

“You be careful!” Kelly commanded. “And good luck. If you run into any problem, call me. I don't care about the time.”

“There won't be any trouble,” Jeffrey said confidently. But half an hour later, when he was climbing the steps to Boston Memorial, he wasn't so sure. Despite the confidence he'd gained through the course of his tour of the hospital with Martinez, Jeffrey was again concerned about running into someone he
knew well. He wished he hadn't lost his glasses and only hoped they weren't crucial to his disguise.

Jeffrey felt somewhat more confident once he'd changed into his housekeeping uniform. There was even an envelope hanging on the outside of his locker, containing his name tag and a photo ID.

A tap on his shoulder made him jump and Jeffrey's sudden movement startled the person who'd tapped him.

“Cool it, man, you nervous or what?”

“I'm sorry,” Jeffrey said. He was standing before a small fellow, about five-six, with a narrow face and dark features. “I guess I am a bit nervous. It's my first night on the job.”

“No need to be nervous,” the man said. “My name is David Arnold. I'm the shift supervisor. For the first couple of nights, we'll be working together. So don't worry. I'll show you the ropes.”

“Glad to meet you,” Jeffrey said. “But I do have a lot of hospital experience, so if you want me to go off on my own, I'm sure I'll be fine.”

“I always spend the first couple of days with anybody new,” David said. “Don't take it personally. It gives me a chance to show you exactly what is expected according to our routine here at the Memorial.”

Jeffrey felt it best not to argue. David took him into a narrow, windowless lounge modestly furnished with a Formica table, a soft-drink vending machine, and an electric coffee maker. He introduced Jeffrey to the others who worked the graveyard shift. Two spoke only Spanish. Another spoke street slang, and he bounced and swayed to the rap music coming from a pair of headphones.

At one minute before eleven, David rallied his workers: “Okay, let's move out,” reminding Jeffrey of patrols going out in war movies. They left the lounge and each picked out housekeeping carts. Each worker was responsible for stocking his own cart. Jeffrey followed the lead of the others, making sure his cart had the necessary complement of cleaning implements and solutions.

The carts were about twice the size of a normal shopping cart. One end had housing for long-handled equipment like mops, a long-handled duster, and brooms. The other end had a large plastic bag for refuse. The center portion had three shelves. They carried all sorts of things, like glass cleaner, tile cleaner, Formica
cleaner, paper towels, even spare toilet paper rolls. There were soaps, waxes, polishes, and even WD-40 lubricant.

Jeffrey followed David to the elevators of the west tower. The choice was both encouraging and nerve-racking. The west tower included the ORs and labs. For as much as Jeffrey wanted to probe there, he remained apprehensive about whom he might run into.

“You and I will start up in the OR area,” David explained, fanning Jeffrey's fears. “Have you ever put on a scrub suit?”

“Couple of times,” Jeffrey said distractedly.

He began to worry that once he put on a scrub suit, he would be losing most of the rest of his disguise. He wished he had the black-rimmed glasses. The only thing he thought he could do would be to wear a surgical mask constantly. David would probably question that, since a mask was usually only worn in an OR when a case was under way. Jeffrey decided that he'd say he had a cold.

But they didn't go into the OR area immediately. David told Jeffrey that the surgical lounge and locker rooms had to be tackled first.

“Why don't you do the lounge, and I'll start in the locker rooms?” David said once they were in the area. Jeffrey nodded. He peeked into the room, then quickly pulled his head back out again. Two nurse-anesthetists were sitting on the couch having coffee. Jeffrey knew them both.

“Something wrong?” David asked.

“Not at all,” Jeffrey said quickly.

“You're going to do fine,” David told him. “Don't worry. First dust. Be sure to get the corners up by the ceiling. Then use a cleaner on the tables. Then mop. Okay?”

Jeffrey nodded.

David pushed his cart into the locker room and closed the door behind him.

Jeffrey swallowed. He had to start. Taking the long-handled duster from the cart, he went into the lounge. At first he tried to keep his face averted from the women. But they didn't pay him the slightest attention. His housekeeping uniform was as good as a cloak of invisibility.

With her knapsack over her shoulder, Gail Shaffer got off the elevator with Regina Puksar. They walked down the central corridor together toward the main entrance. The two had known each other for almost five years. They often discussed their personal problems even though they didn't socialize that much outside of the hospital. Gail had been telling Regina about the fight she'd had with her boyfriend of two years.

“I agree with you,” Regina said. “If Robert suddenly said to me he wanted to date other people, I'd say fine, but that would be it in terms of us. A relationship can't go backward. Either it grows or it dies. At least that's been my experience.”

“Mine too,” Gail sighed.

Neither noticed as Trent folded his newspaper and got to his feet. As they went through the revolving door, Trent was right behind them. He could hear their conversation.

Certain that the women were headed to the employee parking lot, Trent gave them a little lead, but kept them in view. The two stood next to a sporty red Pontiac Fiero and talked for another few minutes. Finally, they said their good-byes. Then Gail got into the car. Regina went a few spaces over to her own car.

Trent went to his Corvette and climbed in. It wasn't the best car to tail someone in since it was so flashy, but he didn't think it would matter in this case. There was no reason for Gail to be suspicious.

Gail's car was equally as flashy, which made it easy to follow. She headed straight for Back Bay, just as Trent had guessed from her phone number. She double-parked on Boylston Street and disappeared into a Store-24.

Trent pulled across the street, since Boylston was one way, and stopped in a taxi area. From there he could easily keep an
eye on the store and Gail's car. When Gail emerged with a single parcel and got back into her car, he waited for her to pull out. Then he slipped right in behind her.

She turned left on Berkeley, then slowed down. Trent could tell she'd begun to hunt for a parking place, no easy matter this time of night. He let the distance between them lengthen. She finally found a spot on Marlborough Street, but then took forever to back into it.

“Incompetent bitch,” Trent murmured as he watched her third attempt to back in and parallel park. Trent had pulled into a no parking zone. He didn't care. If he got a ticket, so what? This was business; any expense he incurred would be a legitimate business expense. The only thing he didn't want was to have his car towed, but from experience he knew there was little chance of that happening.

Gail finally pulled in to her satisfaction, if not Trent's. The car was still a good foot from the curb. She got out, bundle in hand, locked her doors and started off on foot. Trent kept an eye on her but remained out of sight on the opposite side of the street. He watched Gail turn left on Berkeley and right on Beacon. A few doors down Beacon, she entered one of the brownstones.

After waiting a few minutes, Trent went into the building and scanned the list of names posted by each resident's buzzer. He found “G. Shaffer” listed along with an “A. Winthrop.”

“Damn it to hell,” Trent said under his breath. He'd hoped Gail lived alone. Nothing was ever easy, he thought. Still fuming, he went back out to the street. He couldn't go barging into Gail's apartment if she had a roommate. He couldn't have any witnesses. That would never do.

Trent glanced up Beacon Street, toward Boston Garden. He saw he was close to the popular bar made famous by the TV series
Cheers.
That's when a plan began to take shape in his mind. Maybe he could get Gail or her roommate out of the apartment.

Leaving the building, Trent walked the short distance to the Hampshire House. There he used a pay phone to dial the number for Gail that he'd taken from the bulletin board in the OR lounge. As the phone rang, he thought up various ploys. It all depended who answered. “Hello,” said the voice at the other end of the line. It was Gail.

“Ms. Winthrop, please,” Trent said.

“Sorry, she's not at home.”

Trent's mood brightened. Maybe this was going to be easy after all. “Could you please tell me when she'll be in?”

“Who is this?”

“A friend of the family's,” Trent said. “I'm in town on business and was given her number to say hello.”

“She's currently working the night shift at St. Joseph's Hospital,” Gail said. “Would you like that number? You could try her there. Otherwise, she'll be back here around seven-thirty tomorrow morning if you prefer to call back.”

Trent pretended to take the St. Joseph's number, thanked Gail and hung up. He couldn't repress a smile.

Leaving Hampshire House, he hurried back to Gail's building. Now all he had to do was get in there. He stepped into the foyer and put on a pair of black driving gloves. Then he rang her buzzer.

In a minute, Gail's voice crackled through the mesh-covered speaker.

“Gail, is that you?” Trent asked, even though he was quite sure it was.

“Yes. Who's this?”

“Duncan Wagner,” Trent said. It was the first name that came to his mind. The Wagners had lived next to the Hardings at the army base in San Antonio. Duncan was a few years older than Trent and they had played together until Duncan's father had deemed Trent a bad influence.

“Do I know you?” Gail questioned.

“By sight, if not by name,” Trent said. “I work evenings in pedes.” Trent thought pediatrics sounded the most benign.

“On the third floor?”

“That's right,” Trent said. “I hope I'm not disturbing you, but a group of us from the hospital ended up at the Bull Finch Pub. Your name came up. Someone said you lived just up the street. We played Wales Tails to see who would come and get you to join us. Looks like I won.”

“That's nice of you,” Gail said, “but I just got home and just got off work.”

“So did we. Come on over. You'll know everybody.”

“Who else is there?”

“Regina Puksar, for one,” Trent said.

“I just left her. She said she was going over to her boyfriend's.”

“What can I say? Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe her boyfriend wasn't around. Anyway, she came in and joined us.
She was big on having someone come get you. She thought you could use the break.”

There was a pause. Trent smiled. He knew he had her.

“I'm still in my uniform,” Gail said.

“So are a few of the others.” Trent had an answer for everything.

“Well, I'd have to take a shower.”

“No problem,” Trent said. “I'll wait.”

“I can meet you there.”

“No, I'll wait. Just buzz me in.”

“It will take me ten minutes or so,” Gail said.

“Take all the time you need.”

“Okay,” Gail said. “If you don't mind waiting. I live in 3C.”

Suddenly the lock on the inner door to the foyer began to buzz. Trent leaped for it and pushed. Stepping through, he smiled again. This wasn't just going to be easy, it was going to be fun. He checked his gun. It was still secure. Next he checked the syringe. It was safe in his pocket.

Trent climbed quickly to the third floor. The trick was to get into Gail's apartment before anyone saw him. If he ran into one of the other tenants in the hallway, he would pretend he was going somewhere else. But there was no one in sight in the third floor corridor. What's more, Gail had left her door open for him. He stepped inside and closed and locked the door. The last thing he wanted now was to be interrupted. Trent heard water running in the bathroom. Gail was already in the shower.

“Make yourself at home,” Gail called once she heard the front door close. “I'll be out in a flash.”

Trent took a look around. First he went to the kitchen. No one was there. Then he checked the second bedroom. Turning on the light, he saw that it was empty. Gail was by herself. The setup was perfect.

Taking out his beloved gun, Trent wrapped his hand around the grip, gently resting a finger on the trigger. It was such a perfect fit. Stepping over to Gail's bedroom door, Trent gave it a careful push. The door swung open a few inches. Trent looked in. The bed was unmade. Gail's nurse's uniform was casually draped across it. On the floor was a pair of panties, a pair of white stockings, and a garter belt. The door to the bathroom was closed, but Trent could still hear water running.

Trent stepped over to the garter belt and nudged it with his foot. His mother had always worn one. She'd told him a dozen times that pantyhose were uncomfortable. Since his mother
insisted he sleep with her while his father was off on his numerous army missions, Trent grew up seeing a lot more of the garter belts than he would have liked.

Trent quietly edged over to the bathroom door and tried it. The knob turned easily. He cracked the door open about an inch. A waft of warm, moist air escaped. Trent pointed the gun barrel at the ceiling, like Don Johnson in
Miami Vice.
He was holding it with both hands. Using his foot, he pushed the door completely open. The bathroom fixtures were old-fashioned. The tub was an old porcelain model on legs with claw-shaped feet. The white shower curtain with large irises printed across it was drawn. Behind the curtain, Trent could make out Gail's silhouette as she shampooed her hair. Trent took two steps toward the tub and yanked the curtain back with one fluid move. The curtain rod gave way and clattered to the floor, along with the curtain.

Gail put her arms across her chest. “What . . . Who the . . .” she sputtered. Then, angrily, she shouted, “Get out!”

Water streamed down Gail's well-lathered body. It took a moment for Trent to regain his composure. Gail certainly had a better figure than Trent's mother had had.

“Get out of the shower,” he said, coolly leveling the gun at Gail so she would be sure to see.

“Out!” he said again when she didn't move. But Gail was frozen in terror. Trent put the gun to her head to urge her out.

Gail started to scream. Within the confines of the bathroom, it was a horrid screech. To stop her quickly, Trent lifted the gun high and brought the butt down on her head hard. He hit her just at the hairline.

The instant he struck her he knew he'd hit her too hard. Gail crumpled into the tub in a limp heap. A long gash ran across her forehead and down as far as her ear. The wound looked deep, and Trent could see bone at its base. In only a minute there was so much blood that it turned the whole tub pink.

Trent leaned in and turned off the shower. Then he darted into the living room to listen for sounds of help on the way. Somewhere a TV set was on. Other than that, there wasn't a sound. He put his ear to the door; the hallway was quiet. No one had heard Gail's scream; if they had, it didn't seem as if anyone was coming to her aid. Trent went back to the bathroom.

Gail had ended up in a semi-sitting position, with her legs tucked underneath her and her head resting in the corner against
the wall. Her eyes were closed. The gash was oozing blood but the flow had slowed without the shower water hitting it.

Shoving his pistol back into his belt, Trent grabbed Gail by her legs and began to pull her out lengthwise. But he stopped. He felt his anger flare. Seeing Gail's naked body lying before him he expected to feel some kind of sexual arousal, but he didn't feel anything except perhaps disgust. Maybe a little panic.

With sudden rage, he pulled his gun back out. Holding it by the barrel, he raised the butt high over his head. He wanted to smash Gail's calm face. He was just about to bring his arm down hard when he caught himself. Slowly he lowered the gun. For as much as he wanted to mutilate her, he knew it would be a mistake. The beauty of his plan was that Gail's death would seem to have been due to natural causes, not murder.

Putting his gun back in his belt, Trent pulled out the syringe. Removing the cap from the needle, he bent over. Taking advantage of the gash, and thereby avoiding a puncture site, he injected the contents of the syringe directly into the wound.

Trent stood up. He put the cap back on the needle and slipped the empty syringe back into his pocket. Then he waited and watched. Within a minute, muscle fasciculations contorted Gail's face, distorting her still, placid lips into a grotesque grimace. The fasciculations quickly spread to the rest of her body. After a few minutes more, the muscle twitches coalesced into violent jerks followed by a full-blown seizure. Gail's head smashed helplessly against the hard tile wall, then even against the hardware, with a sickening sound. Trent winced as he watched.

Trent backed away, awed by the drug's power. The effect was truly horrifying, especially when Gail was suddenly incontinent. Trent turned and fled into the living room.

Opening the door to the hallway, he glanced up and down the stairs. Thankfully, no one was there. Stepping out, he pulled the door shut. He then tiptoed to the stairs and made his way down to the ground floor. He left the building, making it a point to walk casually, as if he was simply out for a stroll. He wanted to be sure not to call attention to himself in any way.

Feeling nervous and upset, he turned right on Beacon Street and headed back to the Bull Finch Pub. He didn't understand why he felt so unsettled. He'd expected to be excited by the violence, like when he watched the
Miami Vice
reruns.

As he walked he told himself that Gail wasn't all that attractive. In fact she must have been pretty ugly. That had to be the
explanation that her nakedness hadn't turned him on. She was just too damn skinny, with hardly any chest at all. The one thing Trent was sure of was that he wasn't a homosexual. The Navy had just used that as an excuse because he didn't get along with the doctors.

Just to prove to himself how normal he was, Trent made it a point to introduce himself to a perky brunette secretary at the bar. She wasn't very attractive either. But it didn't matter. As they chatted, he could tell she was impressed by his body. She even asked him if he worked out. What a stupid question, he thought. Any man who cared about himself worked out. The only men that didn't work out were those limp-wristed fags that Trent occasionally ran into on Cambridge Street when he went out looking for a fight.