"Charles Manson, move over," Eric muttered, as he scanned the article.
A sidebar replacing the original article on page 3 resurrected the arrest and subsequent disappearance of Craig Worrell, whom the Herald had dubbed "Sex Doc." The reporter, who, Eric mused, was probably a department chief after this piece of work, had not missed the fact that the position "Zombi Doc" had once been the leading candidate for was the one "Sex Doc" had vacated. Eric wondered if even hoary White Memorial would be able to survive this latest assault on its reputation.
"It'll pass," Connolly said.
"At this point I almost don't care. I just really want to see Laura, that's all. Are we headed there?"
"We most definitely are not. Like I said, there are probably a few reporters and who knows what other manner of vermin following us. Bernard Nelson is worried about your friend's safety. And take it from someone who's known him for a long time, Bernard Nelson doesn't worry without cause."
"So what do we do?"
"Well, and please don't take this too personally, the first thing we ought to do is find someplace for you to shower."
Eric smiled ruefully and buried his face in his hands.
"No offense taken," he said. "I don't know what shape my place is in, but I picked up my spare key before they arrested me, so at least I can get in there."
"I'll go up with you," Connolly said. "My IOU to Bernard isn't paid off until I deliver you to your friend with no one following us."
"How're you going to be sure of that?"
Connolly smiled enigmatically.
"For right now, let's leave that one between me and the bug," he said.
Mindless of the chaos in his apartment, Eric hurried to the bedroom and called Bernard Nelson's office. Laura had learned of his arrest from one of the all-news radio stations.
"You made the TV news as well," she said. "I couldn't believe what I was hearing."
"That makes us even. I couldn't believe how close you came to getting killed."
"Eric, did Connolly tell you about Donald Devine?"
"He did, yes. I think you were crazy to take such a chance."
"You don't really."
"No," he said. "No, I don't really. I just wish I had been in the crazy place you were instead of the crazy place I was."
"I want to hear all about it. Has the lawyer told you to be careful coming here?"
"He has. He's figured out a way, but he won't tell me what it is."
"Great, because, Eric, something very weird is going on, and Donald Devine is--I mean was--right in the middle of it."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'd rather tell you all the details when I see you, but one of the ledgers we took from his safe has a long list of clients, listed only by initials and dates. After each set of initials there are several other abbreviations and names."
"Yes?"
"We've been able to piece together that shortly after each date, Devine--or someone else driving his hearse--drove from Boston to somewhere in southern Utah. Dozens of trips."
"I really want to see that book."
"You will. And, Eric, there's more. The last entry in the book was never completed. It's just a date and the initials L.L."
"L.L.?"
"Eric, it's the date when Reed Marshall pronounced that woman dead."
"Loretta Leone! Devine already had her initials in his book?"
"It appears so."
"Laura, did you check the date in February when--"
"There's an entry for that date too," she cut in. "The initials are P.T."
"We'll figure out what that means," Eric said excitedly. "Hold tight. I'll be there soon."
"I'm glad you're okay."
Eric said goodbye and gently replaced the receiver.
"Sounds like some things are beginning to happen," the lawyer observed.
"They are that," Eric said. "Hopefully, Mr. Connolly, by the time we're done, there are going to be some people at White Memorial who will be in need of your services at least as much as I was. I don't know what's going on yet, but what they did to Laura yesterday and to me last night suggests that we're jabbing at an exposed nerve. Between what I've learned and what Laura and your friend Bernard have got, I think we may already have a lot of the pieces. And somewhere out there is the glue that will help us put those pieces together."
Felix Connolly pulled a small silver flask from his suit-coat pocket and unscrewed the top.
"In that case, my man," he said, "I drink to glue."
Rocky DiNucci slipped his hand into the pocket of his tattered, oil-stained chinos and assured himself that nothing had happened to the sixteen dollars he had been paid for sweeping out two warehouses and emptying barrels along the East Boston docks. He was headed for Stella's Package Store, where he planned to treat himself to some decent zinfandel, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and maybe even his favorite, a prosciutto and genoa sub with the works. Rocky was being especially careful, knowing that as often as not his money seemed to find a way to disappear before he could spend it.
Once a promising middleweight, DiNucci had absorbed far too many punches over the years, and had done further damage to his nervous system with cheap wine. Still, he prided himself on being a "good Joe who never done nobody no harm," and he delighted in showing anyone who would look the cracked photographic proof that he had once been a sparring partner of middleweight champ Carmen Basilio.
Rocky spent the cold months in any of a number of shelters around the city, but for most of the year he lived in a makeshift shanty of wood, cardboard, and sheet metal, tucked beneath an elevated stretch of Route 1A, half a mile from the waterfront.
He could read decently and even write some, and he still knew the fight game well enough to help out at Cardarello's Gym when they asked him to. And from time to time over the years, he had tried to pull his life together--to get detoxed and put together enough money to get a year-round place. But always, within a short time, he was back at the bottle and back under Route 1A.
Rocky left Stella's with two packs of Camels, half a dozen boiled eggs, two half-gallons of Cribrari zinfandel, and nearly six dollars in cash. He gave all of his change--seventy-eight cents--to two boys who asked to see his photograph. Then he headed home, thinking about how he would spend what remained of his pay, and where he could safely hide it until he did.
The afternoon had gone from sunny to gray, and Rocky was sure a storm was on the way. He stopped at a vacant lot near the crossover to the highway and poked around until he had picked up several pieces of scrap metal to patch his roof. Then he crossed the road to his hut. That the plywood door was partly open didn't bother him too much. Older kids were always playing war and using his place for a fort. And since he kept the things that mattered to him in the canvas shoulder sack he carried everywhere, getting robbed was never a worry.
"Hello," Rocky called out as he approached. "Anybody in there?"
There was no response.
He set his package aside and inched open the door with his foot. There, lying face-up on the pile of old blankets he used as a bed, was the body of a man. It wasn't until Rocky knelt beside the motionless form that he realized it wasn't a corpse. The man was merely asleep.
Rocky poured himself a glass of wine, settled down on a wooden carton, and studied his guest. Through the dim light he could just make out the details of the man's face. It was a face he felt certain he had seen before--a face he knew. But from where?
After nearly an hour and two more glasses of zinfandel, Rocky cleared his throat. Then he cleared it more loudly. Finally he reached out with his foot and nudged the intruder on the thigh. The man stirred, then woke. With great effort he pushed himself to a sitting position.
With the first good look at the man's pale, thin face--his cracked lips caked with dry blood; his glazed, empty eyes--the name of a fighter flashed into Rocky's mind. It wasn't that this man and Jesse Kidd looked alike, but that they had the same look. It was the look of death--the look on
Jesse Kidd's face as he struggled to get up from the canvas during a six-round prelim against Rocky one Friday night in a smoky Newark arena. Kidd never did make it to his feet, and ten minutes after the knockdown he was dead.
"Hi, pal, don't be afraid. My name's Rocky. This here's my place. You okay?"
Scott Enders stared at him for a time and then shook his head.
"I think I have some broken ribs," he said. "It hurts to breathe."
"You from around here?"
"No, from Cleveland."
"Cleveland, huh? I could swear I seen you before. What's your name?" Scott pointed at the tag sewn on his shirt. "Bob, huh?" Rocky sniffed. "Whassat, some kind of prison shirt or something?"
"I don't know," Scott said.
"You want a drink?"
"Yes."
Rocky started to hand him the bottle, but then changed his mind and passed over the half-filled glass, keeping the bottle for himself.
"You got any money?" he asked.
"Some."
Scott pulled out what remained of the bills Eddie Garcia had given him, crying out softly at the pain that exploded from where the hijacker had kicked him in the chest. Several times during the trip from Ohio he had coughed up blood in the bathroom of the bus. Now, every breath was an agonizing effort. After he arrived at the terminal in Boston, a cab driver had taken twenty dollars of his money and had dropped him off somewhere in East Boston. The next thing Scott remembered was being nudged awake.
Rocky DiNucci eyed the money.
"Well, Bob," he said, "if you want to pay me a few bucks rent, I'll be happy to share this place with you."
"I've got to find Mrs. Gideon's horse."
"Right, sure you do."
Scott knew he was making no sense to the man. He wanted very much just to head off--to try to find whatever it was Mrs. Gideon's horse represented; to try to find himself. But the long journey and the unremitting pain in his chest had sapped him dry. He felt at once hot and terribly cold, and all he could think about was sleep. He handed the bills over and then lay back on the blankets.
"Hey, thirty-five bucks is too much," he heard Rocky say. "Here, I'll keep ten and you keep the rest. You sure you're okay? Maybe you should go to the hospital.... Well, suit yourself. Maybe you'll feel better after a little sleep.... You sure you haven't been in these parts before? I could swear I seen you.... Well, no matter. If I seen you before, I'll, figure out where.... People make fun of me sometimes, but they don't know that ol' Rocky DiNucci has the memory of an elephant. If I seen you before I'll figure out where. Yessir, Bob, ol' Rocky the elephant'll figure out where."
The odometer on Felix Connolly's lime-green Beetle had been frozen at 99,000 miles when he bought the car in 1980, and at 99,000 it remained. Still, during their drive through the chaotic late afternoon traffic, Eric was impressed with the bug's elan. He was also relieved that the attorney had returned his flask to his suit-coat pocket after a single draught, and had shown no inclination toward another toast. There was too much at stake at this point to have to question the man's judgment.
If Connolly was concerned about being followed, he showed no sign of it, staying essentially in one lane and seldom, if ever, checking the rearview mirror. Nor did he offer Eric any explanation as to why they were headed into the Roxbury section of the city, directly away from Bernard Nelson's Boylston Street office.
"Trust the bug," was all he would say.
Before leaving his apartment, Eric had called Joe Silver at White Memorial. The E.R. director coolly suggested that it would be in everyone's best interest if Eric voluntarily removed himself from the staff until the whole matter of his arrest on drug charges was resolved.
Eric intimated, without giving any details, that there were some illegal and dangerous practices going on at White Memorial which he would be in a much better position to ferret out on the active staff. If Silver was part of Caduceus, he hoped that his tacit threat might provoke some telltale reaction or remark.
The E.R. director seemed not the least influenced by any of Eric's concerns. He tersely gave him until the following afternoon to remove himself voluntarily or be summarily suspended.
After hanging up, Eric carefully wrapped Verdi's body in newspaper and set it on the balcony, hoping that before long he would be in a position to do something more appropriate. Connolly had set 3:30 as the time they would leave. Over the few minutes remaining, Eric propped himself against the balcony railing. Gazing out across the rooftops, he took stock of himself in the light of Joe Silver's demand for his suspension. He was apprehensive about his future and angry at Silver's lack of confidence, but most of all, he ached for the shame his parents would be feeling.
Earlier in the day, during a lull at court, he had called them and tried to impress on them his innocence. Not unexpectedly, they took his difficulties quite personally and were unable to see far enough beyond their own bewilderment and humiliation to find the words that would have indicated they truly believed him. The very worst things he had ever done in his life were far too mild to prepare them for dealing with events like these. His being forced out of White Memorial would hurt them even more than his brother's arrests had.
Silently, he renewed his vow to see things through--to find those who had decimated his world and Laura's, and to absorb whatever punishment was necessary to bring them down. Afterward, assuming he was still alive, he would pick up what pieces were left and make some sort of new life for himself--with Laura a part of it, he hoped.
"Gray Cougar and blue Volvo," Felix Connolly said.
"What?"
"Don't look back, but there are at least two cars working a tail on us. They've been at it since we left your apartment."
"Reporters?"
"That depends on how lucky you're feeling."
"Not very," Eric said.
"Then I don't think they're reporters. Tighten that seat belt and feel free to close your eyes any time you want."
Connolly pulled out his flask and took a small gulp. Then, before Eric could comment, he shifted down a gear and floored the accelerator. The VW shot forward past two startled drivers, into a tight, skidding right-angle turn, and down a side street. Eric glanced behind just as the Cougar screeched around the corner, followed a second or two later by the Volvo.
The side street was typical of many in this most run-down part of the city, with trash and broken glass lining the gutters. Dilapidated red brick buildings were separated from the curb by three-foot sidewalks, and from one another by narrow alleyways. The pursuers, whoever they were, had made up considerable ground by the time the VW was halfway down the street. It was unlikely they would reach the next cross street without being overtaken. Then, suddenly, even that concern was meaningless. Ahead of them, hood up, a disabled old Chevy was parked at an angle that completely blocked the street.
"Shit," Eric said, glancing back once again. "What do we do now?"
At that instant, Connolly slammed on the brakes and spun left into a cluttered alley that was so narrow, Eric had not even noticed it. The VW cleared the buildings on either side by barely two inches.
"Bernard insists on calling this Nelson's alley," Connolly explained as they crept along, "even though I'm certain I told him about it. He and I bought this little chartreuse beastie just for days like this, so it doesn't get driven much. Although actually it's sort of a pleasant change from my Mercedes. That junker back there with its hood up belongs to a friend of ours who's probably in some bar down the street right now. It weighs a goddam ton. If our pals can't get past it--and they can't--there's no way they can reach the street we're heading to."
Eric turned just as two men entered the alley on foot and began sprinting after them, but he knew they were too late. After just a few yards they stopped, apparently realizing the same thing. Clearly enjoying the whole scenario, Felix Connolly eased the bug onto the roadway and accelerated back toward Boston.
"Any questions?" he asked.
"Only one," Eric said. "Do y
ou have anything left in that flask?"
Felix Connolly drove Eric to the Back Bay and pulled up in front of an old, elegant brownstone on the river side of Beacon.
"Your friend is in apartment Three-B," he said. "If you need anything, here's my card. That number'll reach me day or night." He leaned over and shook Eric's hand. "You're a class act, Doc," he said. "You've handled yourself well through all this."
"Thanks for saying that. You're something of a piece of work yourself, Felix. Hang on to that flask."
The name slot next to the bell for apartment 3B read simply: RING ONCE AND WAIT. Eric's finger had barely left the doorbell when Laura spoke to him through the intercom and buzzed him in. She checked over the safety chain, and then pulled him inside the apartment and held him tightly. He could feel the tension in her body and in her kiss.
"I'm okay," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Everything's going to be all right."
He waited until some of the tightness in her muscles had lessened and her breathing had slowed, and then stepped back and surveyed the small apartment. The space was beautifully apportioned, with Scandinavian furniture and Oriental area rugs set on a polished hardwood floor. On a loft eight feet above, a double futon abutted a half-moon window overlooking the Charles.
"This place is beautiful," he said. "Whose is it?"
"He didn't say so outright, but I have to assume it's Bernard's--or maybe someone he knows very well. He dropped me off here a while ago, gave me a set of keys for each of us, and told me we should make ourselves at home here for as long as we need to."
"Where is he now?"
"His wife drove up here with some clothes for him, and then took him to the airport. Assuming the plane left on time, he took off about an hour ago for Salt Lake City."
"Business?"
"Our business, Eric."
"But Utah? With all that's going on, shouldn't he be--"
"Hey, slow down. I want to lay all this out for you in order. Are you sure you're okay?"
Extreme Measures (1991) Page 27