Harmful Intent (36 page)

Jeffrey leaned across Kelly's lap to look up at the building. In contrast to those neighboring it, Harding's building was built of yellow, not red, brick. But, like the others, it was a five-story tenement. Because of the steepness of the street, the rooflines stepped down from building to building like a giant stair. Trent's building was capped with a decorative parapet sheathed in copper that was weathered to the familiar greenish patina. It would have been attractive except that the right corner had split and a large section hung down. The front door, the fire escape, and all the trim were badly in need of repair, and, like its neighbors, the building had a dilapidated appearance.

“It doesn't look like a good area,” Kelly said. There was trash littering the street. The cars parked on either side were junky and battered except for one: a red Corvette.

“I'll be right back,” Jeffrey said as he made a move to open his door.

Kelly grabbed his arm. “Are you sure you should do this?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Jeffrey said. “Besides, I'm just going to check in the foyer and see if his name's listed. I'll be right back.”

Kelly's concern gave Jeffrey pause. He stood in the street for a moment, wondering if he was doing the right thing. But he had to make sure Harding was still in Boston. Setting his jaw, he crossed between parked cars and tried the yellow building's outer door. It opened into a small foyer.

Jeffrey stepped inside. The building was even shabbier on the inside. A cheap fixture dangling from an exposed wire hung from the foyer ceiling. At one time the inner door must have been forced open with a crowbar and never repaired. A ripped plastic trash bag had been tossed in the foyer's corner. Trash had spilled from the tear, adding the disagreeable smell of garbage to the air.

There were six apartments listed by the intercom. Jeffrey guessed that meant there was one apartment per floor, including the basement. Trent Harding's name was at the top of the list. His name was also on the front of one of the mailboxes. Jeffrey saw that all the locks on the mailboxes were broken. He reached up and opened Harding's box to see if there was any mail. The
instant his hand touched the box, the inner door to the building was pulled open.

Jeffrey found himself face to face with Trent Harding. He had not remembered how strong the man appeared. There was also a meanness about him that Jeffrey had never appreciated when he'd seen him in the Memorial OR. His eyes were blue and cold and deeply set beneath thick brows. Harding also had a scar that Jeffrey had forgotten about and that hadn't been apparent in the photograph.

Jeffrey was able to pull his hand off the mailbox in the split second before Harding could see. At first Jeffrey was afraid Harding would recognize him. But with an expression akin to a sneer, the man gruffly pushed past Jeffrey without a pause.

Jeffrey took a deep breath. He leaned against the wall of mailboxes for a moment to catch his breath. The brief, unexpected encounter had momentarily unnerved him. But at least he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do. He knew Trent Harding had not left town. He might have quit St. Joe's, but he was still in Boston.

Emerging from the building, Jeffrey stepped between the parked cars and climbed back into Kelly's car. Kelly was livid.

“The guy just came out of the building!” she snapped. “I knew you shouldn't have gone in. I knew it!”

“Nothing happened,” Jeffrey assured her. “At least we know he hasn't skipped town. But I admit he startled me. I can't say for sure if he's the murderer, but he's pretty scary-looking up close. He's got a scar under his eye that didn't show up in the photo and there's something wild about his eyes.”

“He's got to be crazy if he's been putting something in the anesthetic,” Kelly said as she reached forward and started the car.

Jeffrey leaned over and put his hand on her arm. “Wait,” he said.

“What now?” Kelly questioned.

“Just a second,” Jeffrey said. He jumped out of the car again and jogged up to the corner of Revere Street. Looking down Revere, he could just make out Harding's form receding in the distance.

Jeffrey trotted back to Kelly, but instead of getting in the car, he appeared at her driver's-side window. “This is too good an opportunity to pass up,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Whatever it was, Kelly was sure she wasn't going to like it.

“The inner foyer door to Trent's building is open. I think I'll take a quick look around his apartment. Maybe I'll find some sort of evidence to confirm our suspicions.”

“I don't think it's a good idea,” Kelly said. “Besides, how will you get into his apartment?”

Jeffrey pointed up at the roof. Kelly craned her neck.

“See that window by the fire escape on the top floor?” Jeffrey said. “It's open. Trent Harding lives on the top floor. I can go to the roof, climb down the fire escape, and get inside.”

“I think we should just get out of here,” Kelly said.

“A few minutes ago you were the one who was so concerned about this guy on the loose,” Jeffrey said. “If I can get the proof we need to stop him, isn't it worth the risk? I don't think we can pass up the opportunity.”

“What if Mr. Muscle Beach comes back while you're in there? He could tear you apart with his hands.”

“I'll be quick,” Jeffrey said. “Besides, in the unlikely event that he does come back while I'm still there, just let him go inside. Wait for five seconds, then come in and ring his buzzer. His name is right by the button. If I hear the buzzer, I'll go back out the window and up to the roof.”

“Something could go wrong,” Kelly said, shaking her head.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Jeffrey said. “Trust me.”

Before Kelly could agree or disagree, Jeffrey patted her arm and went back to the apartment building. He entered the foyer and pushed open the inner door. A narrow stair led up to the right. A single bare bulb illuminated each landing. Jeffrey could look up the stairwell and see a frosted skylight above.

He climbed the stairs rapidly. By the time he reached the headhouse door to the roof, he was out of breath. It took a little coaxing to get the door open, but Jeffrey was finally able to do it.

 

The roof was tar and gravel. There was about a four-foot wall separating it from the roof of the next building up the hill. The same with the building beyond that. Each building had its own headhouse. A few were painted and appeared in good repair. Many were dilapidated, with some of the doors off their hinges. Some of the roofs had makeshift decks with rusty lawn furniture.

Going over to the edge of the roof and looking down to the street, Jeffrey could see Kelly's car. He'd never been fond of heights, and it took all his courage to step out on the metal grate that comprised the fire escape. Between his feet he could look straight down five stories to the brick sidewalk.

Moving carefully, Jeffrey descended the one flight of steps to the landing outside Trent's window. He felt exposed, and suddenly worried if any of the neighbors were watching. The last thing he needed was for anyone to call the police.

Jeffrey had to wrestle with the ancient screen before he could clear his way to climb in. Once he made it through, he leaned back out the window. He gave Kelly a thumbs-up. Then he turned into the room.

 

Trent eyed the
Playgirl
magazine in the rack. He thought about reaching up and flipping through just to see what girls liked in a male body. But he didn't. He was standing in Gary's Drug Store on Charles Street and he knew the proprietor was at the counter to his left. Trent didn't want to give the man any wrong ideas about why he'd be interested in
Playgirl.
Instead, he picked up a travel magazine that had a cover story about vacations in San Francisco.

Going over to the counter, Trent tossed the magazine down and put a
Globe
on top of it. Then he asked for two packs of filterless Camel cigarettes, his usual brand. As far as Trent was concerned, if he was going to smoke, he wanted something powerful.

After he'd paid for his purchases, Trent stepped out on the street. He debated going down to Beacon Hill Travel to talk about going to San Fran on a little vacation. Being between jobs, he had the time, and he had money to burn. But he felt lazy. Maybe he'd go to the travel agent tomorrow. Instead, he turned and crossed the street and went into a liquor store. He wanted to pick up some beer.

What he decided to do was go back home and take a nap. That way he'd be able to stay out late that night. Maybe he'd take in a movie and then go see if he could find some fags to push around.

 

Jeffrey stood and gazed around the living room, getting his bearings. He surveyed the mismatched furniture, the empty beer bottles, and the Harley-Davidson poster. He wasn't at all sure of what he was looking for or expecting to see; it was a pure fishing expedition. And even though for Kelly's benefit he'd pretended that coming into the apartment would be a snap, he was a lot more nervous than he'd let on. He couldn't help but wonder if any of the neighbors had called the police. He was afraid he'd hear police sirens in the distance at any moment.

The first thing that Jeffrey did was take a rapid tour around the whole apartment. It occurred to him he'd better make sure no one else was there. When he was convinced he was alone, he went back to the living room and started examining everything more closely.

On the coffee table he saw a number of mercenary and survivalist journals as well as some X-rated S&M magazines. There was also a pair of handcuffs, with the key in the lock. Against the common wall with the bedroom stood a wooden bookcase. The books were mostly chemistry, physiology, and nursing textbooks, but there were a few volumes on the Holocaust as well. Next to the couch was a fish tank with a large boa constrictor inside. Jeffrey thought that was a nice touch.

There was a desk against one wall. In contrast with the rest of the apartment, its surface was quite orderly. Additional reference books were neatly positioned on it between brass bookends shaped like owls. There was also an answering machine.

Jeffrey went to the desk and pulled out the center drawer. Pencils and paper were neatly arranged. There was a stack of three-by-five cards, an address book, and a checkbook. Jeffrey flipped through the address book. On the spur of the moment he decided to take it. He slipped it in his pocket. Picking up the checkbook, he glanced through. He was surprised at the balance. Harding had over ten thousand dollars in his account. Jeffrey put the checkbook back.

Leaning over, he opened the first of the deeper drawers. Just as he did so the phone rang. Jeffrey froze. After a few rings, the machine kicked on. Jeffrey regained his composure and continued his search. The drawer contained manila files. Each was labeled for a different subject, such as Surgical Nursing, Anesthesia for Nurses, and so on. Jeffrey began to wonder if he hadn't jumped to mistaken conclusions about the man.

After the outgoing message was completed, the answering machine clicked again and Jeffrey heard Trent's caller leaving a message.

“Hello, Trent! This is Matt. I'm just calling to tell you how pleased I am. You're fantastic. I'll call back. Take care.”

Jeffrey vaguely wondered who Matt was and why he was so pleased. He moved into the bedroom. The bed was unmade. The room was sparsely furnished with a night table, a bureau, and a chair. The closet door was open. Jeffrey could see a rack of Navy uniforms, all pressed and ready to go. Jeffrey fingered the material. He wondered why Harding had them.

There was a TV on top of the bureau. Scattered by it were a dozen or so X-rated videos, mostly of a sadomasochistic variety. Photos of men and women in chains adorned the boxes. On the night table next to the bed was a paperback called
Gestapo.
On the cover was a picture of a large bearded man in a Nazi uniform standing over a naked blond woman in chains.

Jeffrey opened the top drawer of the bureau and found a sock filled with marijuana. He also found a collection of women's lingerie. Real stable guy, Jeffrey thought sarcastically. By the lingerie, Jeffrey saw a stack of Polaroids. They were shots of Trent Harding. He'd apparently taken them himself. He was posed on his bed in various stages of undress. In a few, he appeared to be sporting some of the lingerie in the drawer. Jeffrey was just putting them back in place when he had a thought. Selecting three from the stack, he put them in one of his pockets. Then he put the rest of the photos back and closed the drawer.

Jeffrey wandered into the bathroom and turned on the light. He walked over to the medicine cabinet and opened the mirrored door. There was the usual complement of aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, Band-Aids, and the like. Nothing unusual, like ampules of Marcaine.

Closing the medicine cabinet, Jeffrey wandered out of the bedroom area and into the kitchen. One by one, he started looking through the cabinets.

 

Kelly drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She didn't like this waiting one bit. She hadn't wanted Jeffrey to go into that apartment. Nervously she glanced up at the open fifth-floor window. Some blue curtains were sticking out and flapping in the breeze. The aged screen was leaning up against the brickwork where Jeffrey had left it.

Kelly looked down Garden Street. She could see the traffic going by on Cambridge Street down below. She shifted her position and looked at the clock on the dash. Jeffrey had been in the apartment for almost twenty minutes. What on earth was he doing?

Unable to sit still for another minute, Kelly started to get out of the car. She had the door half open and her foot on the pavement when she caught sight of Trent Harding. He was back! He was two doors up from his building, and heading right for the door. There was no doubt about it: he was on his way home.

Kelly froze. The man came toward her. She could see the look that Jeffrey had described in his eyes. They were like cats' eyes
in their unblinking intensity. He seemed to be staring right at her, but he didn't break his stride. He reached his door and yanked it open with a thoughtless tug. Then he disappeared from view.