by Robin Cook
Jeffrey shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve just come to town and I need work. Gotta eat.”
“From Framingham?” Bodanski asked, glancing at the application.
“That’s correct,” Jeffrey said. He didn’t want to get into any discussion about where he’d never been, so he said: “If Boston Memorial can’t use me, I can head over to St. Joseph’s or Boston City.”
“Oh, no. No need for that,” Bodanski said quickly. “It’s just that things take a little time. I’m sure you understand. You’ll have to have a uniform and an ID card. Also there’s some paperwork that has to be done before you can start.”
“Well, here I am,” Jeffrey said. “Why can’t we just get it all over with right away?”
Bodanski paused for a beat, then said, “Just one moment.” He got up from behind his desk and left the office.
Jeffrey stayed in his seat. He hoped he hadn’t been too eager about starting so soon. He looked around Bodanski’s office to pass the time. There was a silver-framed photo on the desk: a woman standing behind two rosy-cheeked children. It was the only personal touch in the whole room, but a nice one, Jeffrey thought.
Bodanski returned with a short man with shiny black hair and a friendly smile. He was dressed in a dark green housekeeping uniform. Bodanski introduced him as Jose Martinez. Jeffrey stood up and shook the man’s hand. He’d seen Martinez many times. He watched the man’s face as he had with Bodanski, but could detect no sign of recognition.
“Jose is our head of housekeeping,” Bodanski said, with a hand on Martinez’s shoulder. “I’ve explained to Jose your wish to get to work right away. Jose is willing to expedite the process, so I’ll turn you over to him.”
“Does that mean I’m hired?” Jeffrey asked.
“Absolutely,” Bodanski said. “Glad to have you part of the Memorial team. After Jose has finished with you, come back here. You’ll need a Polaroid for your ID. Also, we have to sign you up for either Blue Cross/Blue Shield, or one of the HMOs. Any idea of your preference?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jeffrey said.
Martinez took Jeffrey to the housekeeping headquarters, located on the first basement level. He had a pleasant Spanish accent and an infectious sense of humor. In fact, he found most everything funny enough to giggle at, especially the first pair of trousers he held up to Jeffrey. The legs only reached as far as Jeffrey’s knees.
“I think we’ll have to amputate,” he said with a laugh.
After several tries, they found a uniform that fit. Then Jeffrey was assigned a locker. For the moment, Martinez told him to change into the shirt. “You can leave your own pants on,” he added.
Martinez explained that he would be giving Jeffrey a tour of the hospital. The housekeeping shirt would do in lieu of an ID for the moment.
“I hate to take any more of your time,” Jeffrey said quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was walk around the hospital during the day when he was most likely to be recognized.
“I got the time,” Martinez said. “No problem. Besides, it’s part of our usual orientation.”
Afraid to make an issue of this, Jeffrey reluctantly put on the dark green housekeeping shirt and stored his street clothes in the locker. Keeping the duffel bag on his shoulder, he prepared himself to follow wherever Martinez led. What he wished he could do was put a bag over his head.
Martinez kept up a steady chatter as he showed Jeffrey around. First he introduced him to what housekeeping staff was present. Then they went into the laundry where everyone was too busy to pay much attention. Next was the cafeteria, where everyone was decidedly unfriendly. Luckily there was no one sitting in the cafeteria whom Jeffrey knew well.
Climbing the stairs to the first floor, Martinez took Jeffrey through the outpatient clinics and the emergency room. In the emergency room, Jeffrey wanted to turn and duck down the hall at the sight of several surgical residents he’d come to know quite well after their rotations through anesthesia. Luckily for him, they didn’t look in his direction. They were preoccupied with trauma cases from an auto accident.
After the emergency room, Martinez took Jeffrey to the main elevators in the north tower. “Now I want to show you the labs,” Martinez said. “And then the OR area.”
Jeffrey gulped. “Shouldn’t we be getting back to Mr. Bodanski?” he asked.
“We can take all the time we need,” Martinez answered. He motioned for Jeffrey to get on the elevator whose doors had just opened. “Besides, it’s important for you to see pathology, chemistry, and the OR. You’ll be up there tonight. The night shift always cleans them. Night’s the only time we can get in.”
Jeffrey moved to the back of the elevator. Martinez joined him. “You’ll be working with four other people,” Martinez explained. “The shift supervisor’s name is David Arnold. He’s a good man.”
Jeffrey nodded. As they approached the OR and lab floor, Jeffrey began to feel a burning sensation in his stomach. He jumped when Martinez grabbed his arm and urged him forward, saying, “This is our floor.”
Jeffrey took a deep breath as he prepared to step off the elevator into the part of the hospital where he’d practically lived for almost two decades.
Jeffrey’s jaw dropped. For a second he couldn’t move. Directly in front of him was Mark Wilson, waiting to board the elevator. His dark eyes bore into Jeffrey. Mark’s eyes narrowed, then he started to speak. Jeffrey expected to hear “Jeffrey, is that you?”
“Are you getting off or what?” Mark asked Jeffrey.
“We’re getting off,” Martinez said, giving Jeffrey a slight shove.
It took Jeffrey a few seconds to comprehend that Mark hadn’t recognized him. He turned around just as the elevator doors closed, and caught Mark’s eyes a second time. There wasn’t the slightest trace of recognition.
Jeffrey pushed his glasses higher on his nose. They’d slipped down when he’d stumbled off the elevator.
“Are you okay?” Martinez questioned.
“Fine,” Jeffrey said. He actually was much better. The fact that Mark hadn’t recognized him was a heartening sign.
The tour through the chemistry and pathology labs was less stressful than the elevator ride. Jeffrey certainly saw plenty of people he knew, but no one recognized him any more than Mark Wilson had.
The real stress returned when Martinez took Jeffrey to the surgical lounge. At that time of the early afternoon, there were at least twenty people whom Jeffrey knew well, sitting in the lounge having coffee, enjoying conversation, or reading the newspaper. All it would take was for one of them to realize who he was, then it would be all over. While Martinez ticked off the nightly procedures, Jeffrey studied his shoes. He kept his eye contact with others at a minimum but after almost fifteen minutes of tense anticipation, Jeffrey realized that no one was paying him any attention. He and Martinez could have been invisible for all the notice they attracted.
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 hi
s 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.