Harmful Intent (20 page)

“Yes. No. I mean, I did just hire a Frank Amendola. And no, I don't mind if you smoke.” Although he was relieved not to be the object of an inquiry, he was disappointed to learn that Frank Amendola was. He should have known hiring him for the night shift was too good to be true.

Horace Mannly lit up. “Our office got a tip from the Bureau about you hiring this Frank Amendola,” Mannly explained.

“We hired him today,” Bodanski said. “Is he wanted?”

“Oh, he's wanted all right, but it's nothing criminal. It's his wife that wants him, not the FBI. A domestic issue. Sometimes we get involved. It depends. His wife's apparently made a big fuss, writing to her congressman and to the Bureau and all that jazz. So his social security number was flagged as a missing person. You guys run your cross-check, his social security number rings our bell. Bingo. So how'd this guy act, normal or what?”

“He seemed a bit nervous,” Bodanski said with relief. At least the guy wasn't dangerous. “Otherwise, he acted normal. He seemed intelligent. He talked of taking classes at law school. We thought he was a good candidate for employment. Is there something we should do?”

“I don't know,” Mannly said. “I don't think so. I was just supposed to come down here and check it out. See if he really had reappeared. Tell you what. Don't do anything until you hear from us. How's that?”

“We'll be happy to cooperate in any way we can.”

“Wonderful,” Mannly said. His face reddened as he struggled to his feet. “Thanks for your time. I'll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”

Horace Mannly left but the stench from his cigarette hung around. Bodanski tapped his fingers on his desk, hoping that some problems on Frank's home front wouldn't rob him of a good potential employee.

 

Not even the run-down area around the Essex nor the hotel itself could dampen Jeffrey's spirits as he climbed the six steps to the front door. Maybe he was a bit manic, but at least he had the feeling that things had finally begun to tip in his direction. For the first time since he could remember, he felt like he was somewhat in control of events rather than vice versa.

As he'd taxied back from seeing Kelly at St. Joe's, he'd reviewed the case for his contaminant theory. More than anything else, it was the paralysis issue that made him sure something had to be wrong with the sealed ampules of Marcaine.

Jeffrey started across the lobby, then abruptly slowed down. The clerk wasn't watching his TV. Instead, he'd retreated to a storeroom just behind the reception desk. Previously the door had always been closed. The clerk nodded, nervously, Jeffrey thought, the moment their eyes met. It was as though the man was afraid of him.

Jeffrey went to the stairs and started up to his room. He couldn't account for the clerk's odd behavior. The man had struck Jeffrey as being a bit eccentric, but not this weird. Jeffrey wondered what it could mean. He hoped nothing.

When he got to the fifth floor, Jeffrey bent over the balustrade and looked down. The clerk was on the ground floor, looking up at him. He ducked out of view as soon as he saw Jeffrey look down.

So it wasn't his imagination, thought Jeffrey as he went through the stairwell door to the hallway. The man was obviously keeping an eye on him from a very deliberate distance. But why?

Jeffrey started down the hall, preoccupied with explaining the clerk's disturbing behavior. Then he remembered his disguise. Of course! That had to be it. Maybe the clerk didn't recognize him and thought he was a stranger. What if he decided to call the police?

Arriving at his door, Jeffrey searched his pockets for his key. Then he remembered he'd put it in his duffel bag. As he swung
the bag around in front of him to unzip the central compartment, he thought about moving to another hotel. With all the other things he had to think about, he didn't want to have to worry about a hotel clerk.

Jeffrey slipped the key in the door and unlocked it. He put the key back in the duffel bag so he'd know where it was when he wanted to leave the room. He was already back to thinking of the contaminant theory when he walked through the door. Then he froze.

“Welcome home, Doc,” Devlin said. He was lounging on the bed with his revolver dangling carelessly at his side. “You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to seeing you again since you were so rude at our last encounter.”

Devlin pushed himself up on one elbow. He squinted at Jeffrey. “You do look different! I'm not sure I would have recognized you.” He laughed a hearty, deep laugh that evolved into a hacking cigarette cough.

Devlin spit over the side of the bed and thumped his chest with his fist. He cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “Don't just stand there. Come in and have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

With the same sort of unthinking reflex that had led him to slug Devlin with his briefcase at the airport, Jeffrey leaped out of the room. Yanking the door shut, he lost his balance and fell to his knees. As they hit the shabby carpet, an explosion sounded inside the room. The next thing Jeffrey knew, splinters of wood were raining down on him. Devlin's .38 slug had ripped through the thin-paneled door only to lodge in the opposite wall.

Jeffrey scrambled to his feet and ran headlong down the hall toward the stairwell. He couldn't believe that he'd been shot at. He knew that he was a wanted man, but surely he didn't fit the dead-or-alive category. Jeffrey thought Devlin had to be crazy.

As Jeffrey skidded to a stop at the stairwell, catching the doorjamb with his hand to help change directions, he heard the door to his room bang open behind him. Using his shoulder, he burst through the stairwell door at the same moment he heard a second report from Devlin's gun. This bullet whined off the door casement just behind Jeffrey, to shatter a window at the end of the hall. Jeffrey heard Devlin laugh. The man was enjoying himself!

Jeffrey threw himself down the twisting stairs, using the banister to maintain his balance. His feet hit only every fourth or fifth
stair. His shoulder bag trailed behind him like a heavy pennant. Where to go? What to do? Devlin wasn't far behind him.

As Jeffrey rounded the last turn before reaching the first floor, he heard the door above slam open and heavy footfalls echo in the stairwell. With his panic ever increasing, he leaped onto the first-floor landing. He threw himself at the door and grasped the vertical handle. He yanked on the door but it didn't open. Frantically he yanked again. The door didn't budge. It was locked!

Peering through the small, wire-embedded window, Jeffrey saw the clerk cowering on the opposite side of the door. Behind him, Jeffrey could hear Devlin's footfalls getting closer. He would be on him in seconds.

Frantically, Jeffrey pantomimed to the clerk that the stairwell door was locked. The clerk blankly shrugged his shoulders, pretending he didn't understand what Jeffrey was trying to tell him. Jeffrey rattled the door, still pointing in the direction of the lock.

Abruptly the sound of Devlin's footfalls stopped. Jeffrey slowly turned. Devlin had reached the top of the final flight of stairs and was gazing down at his trapped prey. His gun was pointing at Jeffrey. Jeffrey wondered if this was it. If this was where his life was destined to end. But Devlin didn't pull the trigger.

“Don't tell me the door is locked,” Devlin said with false sympathy. “I'm so sorry, Doc.”

Devlin walked down the last few steps slowly, keeping the gun pointed at Jeffrey's face. “Funny,” he said. “I would have preferred the door to be open. It would have been more sporting.”

Devlin stepped directly up to Jeffrey. He was smiling with obvious satisfaction. “Turn around!” he ordered.

Jeffrey turned, raising his hands in the air even though Devlin had not asked him to. Devlin pushed him roughly against the locked door and leaned his weight against him. He pulled the duffel bag from Jeffrey's shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Not taking any chances this time, he yanked Jeffrey's arms behind him and cuffed him before he did another thing. Once the cuffs were secure, he frisked Jeffrey for weapons. Then he turned Jeffrey back around and picked up the duffel bag.

“If this is what I think it is,” Devlin said, “you're about to make me a happy man.”

Devlin unzipped the bag and stuck his hand in it to grope around for the money. His mouth, which had assumed a pinched look of determination, suddenly curled into a broad smile. Triumphantly he pulled out a bound packet of hundred-dollar bills.
“Now lookie here,” he said. Then he stuffed the stack back into the duffel bag. He didn't want the clerk to see the cash and get any ideas.

Devlin slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and began to pound on the stairwell door. The clerk rushed forward to unlock it. Devlin grabbed Jeffrey by the scruff of the neck and pushed him into the lobby.

“Don't you know it's a code violation to have a lock on a stairwell door?” Devlin said to the clerk.

The clerk stammered that he didn't.

“Ignorance of the law is no defense,” Devlin said. “Get it fixed or I'll have the building inspectors over here.”

The clerk nodded. He'd expected some sort of thanks for having been so cooperative and helpful. But Devlin ignored him as he walked Jeffrey through the lobby and out the door.

Devlin marched Jeffrey across the street to his car, parked at the hydrant. Passers-by stopped to gawk. Devlin opened the passenger's door and shoved Jeffrey inside. He slammed the door, locked it, and started around the car.

With a presence of mind that he might not have expected under the circumstances, Jeffrey leaned forward in the seat and managed to get his right hand into the side pocket of his jacket. His fingers wrapped around the syringe he had put there. With his nail, he eased the cap off the needle. Jeffrey gingerly pulled the syringe from the pocket, then leaned back in the seat.

Devlin yanked the car door open, tossed the shoulder bag in the backseat, sat down, and put the key into the ignition. The instant he turned the key to start the car, Jeffrey lunged at the man, bracing his feet against the passenger-side door for leverage. Devlin was caught unaware. Before he could ward Jeffrey off, Jeffrey plunged the needle into his right hip and pressed the plunger.

“Shit!” Devlin screamed. He backhanded Jeffrey across the side of his head. The force of the blow sent Jeffrey reeling.

Devlin raised his arm to investigate the source of the stinging pain in his right buttock. Buried to the hilt was a 5 cc syringe. “Jesus,” he said, gritting his teeth. “You freaking doctors are more trouble than serial killers.” Daintily he pulled the needle out with a wince, then threw it into the backseat.

Jeffrey had recovered enough from Devlin's blow to try to unlock his door, but he couldn't get his handcuffed hands up high enough to reach. He was attempting to pull the lock with his
teeth when Devlin grabbed him by the scruff of the neck once again and yanked him around like a rag doll.

“What the hell did you inject into me?” Devlin snarled. Jeffrey began to choke. “Answer me!” Devlin yelled as he gave Jeffrey another shake. Jeffrey could only gurgle. His eyes had begun to bulge. Then Devlin let go of Jeffrey and drew his arm back to strike him again. “Answer me!”

“Won't hurt,” was all Jeffrey managed to gasp, “won't hurt you.” He tried to raise his shoulder to block the blow he saw coming, but then the blow stalled.

With his arm poised to strike, Devlin's eyes went unfocused and he began to sway. His expression changed from anger to confusion. He clutched the steering wheel to support himself, but he couldn't manage to hold on. He slumped to the side, toward Jeffrey.

Devlin tried to talk but his speech was garbled.

“It won't hurt you,” Jeffrey told him. “It's only a small dose of succinylcholine. You'll be all right in a few minutes. Don't panic.”

Jeffrey shoved Devlin into a sitting position and managed to get a hand into the man's right pocket. But there was no handcuff key. Jeffrey scooted forward and let Devlin slump sideways on the seat. Jeffrey awkwardly searched the rest of Devlin's pockets. Still no key.

He was about to give up when he spotted a small key on the ring dangling from the ignition. It took some doing, but Jeffrey was able to yank the keys from the ignition by standing up, hunched over, facing out the passenger side. After a few futile tries, he succeeded in inserting the small key in the lock and getting the handcuffs off.

Reaching in the backseat, Jeffrey grabbed his duffel bag. Before getting out of the car, he checked Devlin. Devlin was just about completely paralyzed. His breathing was slow but steady. If Jeffrey had given him a much stronger dose, even Devlin's diaphragm would have been affected. He would have suffocated in minutes.

Ever the anesthesiologist, Jeffrey struggled to position Devlin so that he wouldn't compromise his circulation while he lay there. Then he got out of the car.

Jeffrey made a move toward the hotel. The clerk was nowhere in sight. Jeffrey paused. For a moment he debated about his belongings. He decided it was too risky to try to get his things. The clerk might have been dialing 911 that very moment.
Besides, what did he have to lose? He was sorry to have to part with Chris Everson's notes, especially if Kelly wanted to keep them. But Kelly had said that she'd planned to get rid of all of Chris's material.

Jeffrey turned on his heels and fled. He headed in the direction of downtown. He wanted to lose himself in a crowd. Once he felt safer, he'd have a chance to think. And the further he got from Devlin, the better. Jeffrey still couldn't quite believe he'd managed to inject him with the succinylcholine. If Devlin had been angry with him over the episode at the airport, he'd be doubly furious now. Jeffrey only hoped he wouldn't run into the man again before he'd had a chance to prove his case.

 

The first chance Trent had to get back to Central Supply wasn't until well into the evening shift. Trent had been scrubbed on a particularly long aneurysm case. At the time of the change of shifts, there'd been no one to relieve him. Whether he liked it or not, he was forced into a little overtime. It happened once in a while. It usually didn't bother him, although on this particular occasion he found the timing inconvenient.