Robin Cook 1982 - Harmful Intent Page 13

  "About as low as I'd care to sink."

  "Sounds perfect," Jeffrey said. "Let's go there." He slid back in the seat.

  The fact that he'd never heard of the Essex sounded promising, since he'd been in the Boston area for almost twenty years, right from the beginning of medical school.

  The driver took a left off Arlington Street onto Boylston, then made his way downtown. There, the neighborhood took a nosedive. In contrast to the genteel areas around the Boston Garden, there were abandoned buildings, porn shops, and garbagestrewn streets. The homeless were scattered in alleyways and huddled on tenement steps. When the cab was stopped waiting for a light to change, a pimply-faced girl in an obscenely short skirt raised her eyebrows at Jeffrey suggestively. She looked like she couldn't have been more than fifteen.

  The red neon sign in front of the Essex Hotel had aptly been amended to SEX

  EL; the other letters were out. Seeing how decrepit the place seemed,

  Jeffrey felt a moment's hesitation. Peering out the window from the safety of his cab, he warily surveyed the hotel's dirty brick fagade. Seedy was too kind an adjective. A drunk, still clutching his brown-paper-bag-wrapped bottle, was passed out to the right of the front steps.

  "You wanted cheap," the cabbie said. "Cheap it is."

  Jeffrey handed him a hundred-dollar bill from the briefcase.

  "You don't have anything smaller?" the cabbie complained.

  Jeffrey shook his head. "I don't have forty-two dollars."

  The cabbie sighed and made an elaborate passive-aggressive ritual of giving

  Jeffrey his change. Deciding he'd be better off not leaving an angry cabbie in his wake, Jeffrey gave him an extra ten. The driver even said thanks and have a nice night before driving off.

  Jeffrey studied the hotel again. On the right was an empty building whose windows except for the ground floor were covered with plywood. On the ground floor there was a pawnshop and an X-rated video store. On the left was an office building in equal disrepair to the Essex Hotel. Beyond the office building was a liquor store, whose windows were barred like a fortress. Beyond the liquor store was an empty lot that was strewn with litter and broken bricks.

  With his briefcase in hand and looking distinctly out of place, Jeffrey climbed the steps and entered the Essex Hotel.

  The hotel's interior was about as classy as the exterior. The lobby furnishings consisted of a single threadbare couch and a half-dozen folding metal chairs. A bare pay phone was the wall's sole decoration. There was an elevator but the sign across its doors said OUT OF ORDER. Next to the elevator was a heavy door with a wire-embedded window leading to a stairwell. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Jeffrey stepped up to the reception desk.

  Behind the desk, a shabbily dressed man in his early sixties eyed Jeffrey suspiciously. Only drug dealers came to the Essex with briefcases. The clerk had been watching a small-screen black-and-white TV complete with old-fashioned rabbit-ear an' He had unkempt hair and sported a three-day-old beard. tennae.

  He had on a tie, but it was loosened at the collar and had a line of gravy stains across the lower third.

  "Can I help you?" he asked, giving Jeffrey the once-over. Helping seemed the last thing he was inclined to do.

  Jeffrey nodded. "I'd like a room."

  "You got a reservation?" the man asked.

  Jeffrey couldn't believe the man was serious. Reservations in a flophouse like this? But he didn't want to offend him. Jeffrey decided to play along.

  "No reservation," he told him.

  "Rates are ten dollars an hour or twenty-five a night," the man said.

  "How about two nights?" Jeffrey said.

  The man shrugged. "Fifty dollars plus tax, in advance," he said.

  Jeffrey signed "Richard Bard." He gave the clerk the change he'd gotten from the taxi driver and added a five and a few singles from his wallet.

  The man gave him a key with an attached chain and a metal plaque that had

  5F etched into its surface.

  The staircase provided the first and only hint that the building had once been almost elegant. The treads and risers were white marble, now long since stained and marred. The ornate balustrade was wrought iron festooned with decorative swirls and curlicues.

  The room Jeffrey had been given faced the street. When he opened the door, the room's only illumination came from the blood-red glow of the dilapidated neon sign over the entrance four stories below. Switching on the light, Jeffrey surveyed his new home. The walls hadn't been painted for ages. What paint remained was scarred and peeling. It was difficult to determine

  what the original color had been; it seemed to be somewhere between gray and green. The sparse furnishings consisted of a single bed, a nightstand with a lamp minus the shade, a card table, and a single wooden chair. The bedspread was chenille with several greenish stains. A thin-paneled door led to a bathroom.

  For a moment, Jeffrey hesitated to enter, but what was his choice? He decided to try to make the best of his predicament, or at least make do.

  Stepping over the threshold, he closed and locked his door. He felt terribly alone and isolated. He truly could not sink any deeper than this.

  Jeffrey sat on the bed, then lay down across it, keeping both feet firmly planted on the floor. He didn't realize how exhausted he was until his back hit the mattress. He would have loved to curl up for a few hours, as much to escape as to rest, but he knew this was no time for napping. He had to come up with a strategy, some plan. But first he had to make a few phone calls.

  Since there was no phone in the shabby hotel room, Jeffrey had to go to the lobby to place the calls. He took his briefcase with him, afraid to leave it unattended even for a minute or two.

  Downstairs, the clerk reluctantly left his Red Sox game to make change so

  Jeffrey could use the phone.

  His first call was to Randolph Bingham. Jeffrey didn't have to be a lawyer to know he desperately needed sound legal advice. While Jeffrey waited for the call to go through, the same pimplyfaced girl he'd seen through the cab window entered the front door. She had a nervous-appearing, baldheaded man with her who had a sticker attached to his lapel that said: Hil I'm Harry.

  He was obviously a conventioneer who was seeking the thrill of putting his life in jeopardy. Jeffrey turned his back on the transaction at the front desk. Randolph answered the phone with his familiar aristocratic accent.

  6'I've got a problem," Jeffrey said without even saying who he was. But

  Randolph recognized his voice immediately. In a few simple sentences,

  Jeffrey brought Randolph up to date. He left nothing out, including his striking Devlin with the briefcase in full view of a policeman and the subsequent chase through the airport terminal.

  "My good God," was all Randolph could say by the time Jeffrey had finished.

  Then, almost angrily, he added, "You know, this is not going to help your appeal. And when it comes to sentencing, it is certainly going to have an influence."

  "I know," Jeffrey said. "I could have guessed as much. But

  1 didn't call you to tell me I'm in trouble. I had that figured without benefit of counsel. I need to know what you can do to help."

  "Well, before I do anything, you have to turn yourself in."

  "But..."

  "No buts. You've already put yourself in an extremely precarious position with regard to the court."

  "And if I do turn myself in, won't the court be likely to deny bail entirely?"

  "Jeffrey, you have no choice. In light of your attempt to flee the country, you haven't exactly done much to encourage its trust. "

  Randolph started to say more, but Jeffrey cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I'm not prepared to go to jail. Under any circumstances. Please do whatever you can from your end. I'll get back to you." Jeffrey slammed the receiver down. He couldn't blame Randolph for the advice he had given. In some respects it was just like medicine: sometimes the patient just didn't want to hear the doctor's pr
oposed therapy.

  With his hand still resting on the receiver, Jeffrey turned back into the reception area to see if anyone had overheard his conversation. The young miniskirted girl and her john had disappeared upstairs, and the clerk was again glued to his tiny TV set. Another man, who looked to be in his seventies, had appeared and was sitting on the tattered couch, thumbing through a magazine.

  Dropping another coin into the phone, Jeffrey called home.

  "Where are you?" Carol demanded as soon as Jeffrey muttered a dull hello.

  "I'm in Boston," he told her. He wasn't about to tell her anything more specific, but he felt he owed her that much. He knew she would be furious that he had left without a word, but he wanted to warn her in case Devlin headed back. And he wanted her to pick up the car. Beyond that, he didn't expect anything along the lines of sympathy. An earful of fury was what he got.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving the house?" Carol snarled. "Here

  I've been patient, standing by you all these months, and this is the thanks

  I get. I looked all over the house before I realized your car was gone."

  "It's the car I need to talk to you about," Jeffrey said.

  "I'm not interested in your car," Carol snapped.

  "Carol, listen to me!" Jeffrey yelled. When he heard that she was going to give him a chance to speak, he lowered his voice,

  cupping a hand around the receiver. "My car is at the airport at central parking. The ticket stub is in the ashtray."

  "Are you planning on forfeiting bail?" Carol asked incredulously. "We'll lose the house! I signed that lien in good faith... 11

  "There are some things more important than the house!" Jeffrey snapped in spite of himself. He lowered his voice again. "Besides, the house on the

  Cape has no mortgage. You can have that if money's your worry."

  "You still haven't answered me," Carol said. "Are you planning to forfeit the bail?"

  "I don't know," Jeffrey sighed. He really didn't. It was the truth. He still hadn't had time to think things through. "Look, the car's there on the second level. If you want it, fine. If not, that's fine too."

  "I want to talk to you about our divorce," Carol said. "It's been on hold long enough. As much as I sympathize with your problems, and I do, I have to get on with my life."

  "I'll have to get back to you," Jeffrey said irritably. Then he hung up on her as well.

  He shook his head sadly. He couldn't even remember a time when there had been warmth between Carol and him. Dying relationships were so ugly. Here he was on the run and all she could worry about was property and the divorce. Well, she had her life to get on with, he supposed. One way or the other, it wouldn't be much longer. She'd be rid of him for good.

  He looked at the phone. What he wanted to do was call Kelly. But what would he say? Would he admit to having tried to flee and failed? Jeffrey was filled with indecision and confusion.

  Picking up his briefcase, he strode across the lobby, consciously avoiding looking at the two men.

  Feeling even more alone than he had before, he climbed the four flights of twisting, filthy stairs, and returned to his depressing room. He stood at the window, bathed in the red neon glow, wondering what he should do. Oh, how he wanted to call Kelly, but he couldn't. He was too embarrassed.

  Stepping over to the bed, he wondered if he could sleep. He had to do something. He eyed his briefcase.

  TUESDAY,

  MAY 16,1989

  10:51 P.M.

  The only light in the room came from the television set. A fortyfive-caliber pistol and a half-dozen vials of Marcaine on a bureau by the TV glimmered in the soft light. On the screen, three Jamaican men stood in a cramped hotel room and all three were visibly edgy. Each one was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle. The burliest of the three kept glancing at his watch. Perspiration stood on their foreheads. The obvious tension of the Jamaicans stood in sharp contrast to the sonorous reggae rhythm that pealed from a radio on the nightstand. Then the door burst open.

  Crockett entered first, clutching a nine-millimeter automatic with the barrel pointed to the ceiling. With one swift, catlike move, he put the barrel against the first Jamaican's chest and pumped one silent, deadly bullet into him. Crockett had his second bullet into the second man by the time Tubbs cleared the doorway in time to take care of the third. It was all over in the blink of an eye.

  Crockett shook his head. He was dressed in his usual: an expensive linen jacket by Armani over a casual cotton T-shirt. "Good timing, Tubbs," he said. "I would have had trouble nailing the third dude."

  As the closing credits came onto the TV screen, Trent Harding high-fived an imaginary companion. "All right!" he exclaimed in triumph. TV violence had a stimulating effect on Trent. It charged him with aggressive energy that demanded expression. He lived to picture himself pumping bullets into chests the way Don Johnson did so regularly. Sometimes Trent thought he should have gone into law enforcement. If only he'd elected to join the military police when he enlisted in the Navy. Instead, Trent had decided to become a Navy corpsman. He'd liked it okay. It had been a challenge and he'd learned some far-

  out stuff. He'd never thought about being a corpsman before going into the

  Navy. The first time he thought of it had been when he'd heard a talk during basic training. He found the idea of performing physicals oddly appealing, and he liked the idea of guys coming to him for help so that he could tell them what to do.

  Trent got up from the living room couch and vialked into his kitchen. It was a comfortable apartment with one bedroom and two baths. Trent could afford better, but he liked it fine where he was. He lived on the top floor of a five-story building on the back side of Beacon Hill. The bedroom and the living room windows looked out onto Garden Street. The kitchen and the larger of the two bathrooms faced an inner courtyard.

  Pulling an Amstel Light from the refrigerator, Trent popped the top and took a long, satisfying gulp. He thought the beer might calm him down some.

  He was anxious and edgy from the hour of Miami Vice. Even reruns got him riled up enough to want to hit one of the local bars to see if he could scare up some trouble. He could usually find a homo or two along Cambridge

  Street to rough up.

  Trent looked like a man who was looking for trouble. He also looked like he'd found it more than a couple of times. A stocky, muscular man of twenty-eight, Trent wore his bleach-blond hair in the severe, flat-topped hairstyle popularly known as a fade. His eyes were a piercing crystal blue.

  He had a scar below his left eye that ran back to his ear. He'd gotten it from being on the wrong end of a broken beer bottle in a barroom scuffle in

  San Diego. It had taken a few stitches but the other guy had had to have his entire face rearranged. The guy had made the mistake of telling Trent that he thought he had a cute ass. Trent still got hot every time he thought of the episode. What a creep, that goddamned fag.

  Trent went back to his bedroom and set his beer down on top of the TV. He picked up the military-issue.45 pistol that he'd "cumshawed" from a Marine for amphetamines. It felt comfortable in his large hand. Gripping the pistol with both hands, Trent leveled the barrel straight at the TV screen with arms stiff and elbows locked. He spun around to point the gun out the open window.

  Across the street a woman was opening her bedroom window. "Tough luck, baby," Trent whispered. He aimed the pistol carefully, lowering the barrel until the front and rear sights lined

  up perfectly, targeting the woman's torso. Slowly, deliberately, Trent pulled the cold steel of the trigger.

  As the firing mechanism clicked, Trent called out "Pow!" as he pretended the gun kicked in the air from its recoil. He smiled. He could have drilled the woman if he'd put in the clip. In his mind's eye he saw her hurled back into her apartment, a neat hole through her chest and blood squirting out.

  Laying the pistol on the TV next to his beer bottle, Trent grabbed one of the vials of Marcaine from the bureau. Tossing it
in the air, he caught it with his other hand behind his back. He calmly sauntered back to the kitchen to retrieve the necessary paraphernalia from its hiding place.

  First he had to remove the glasses from the shelf of one of his kitchen cabinets next to the refrigerator. Then he gently lifted the plywood square that led to his secret cache: a small vault of space between the cabinet's back and the exterior wall. Trent brought out a single vial filled with yellow fluid and an array of 18-gauge syringes. He'd picked up the vial from a Colombian in Miami. The syringes easily came into his possession through his hospital job. He carried both vials and the syringes back to his bedroom along with a propane torch he kept under the kitchen sink.

  Trent reached for his bottle and took another swig of beer. He set the propane torch on a small tripod he kept folded under his bed. Taking a cigarette from the pack by the television set, he lit it with a match.