'I'll call the duty police sergeant,' Mosconi said. 'Tonight it should be
Albert Norstadt, so there won't be any problem there. What are you going to do?'
'I'll stake out the doc's house,' Devlin said. 'My guess is that he will either show up there or call his wife. If he calls his wife, then she'll probably go to wherever he is.'
'When you get to him, treat him like he's murdered twelve people,' Mosconi said. 'Don't go soft on him. And Dev, I mean business on this. At this point I really don't much care whether you bring him in alive or dead.'
'So long as you make sure he stays in town, I'll get him. If you have any problems with the police, you can reach me on the car phone.'
Jeffrey's cabbie's mood improved as the fare mounted on the meter. Unable to decide where to go, Jeffrey had the man drive aimlessly around Boston. As they cruised the periphery of the Boston Garden for the third time, the meter hit thirty dollars.
Jeffrey was afraid to go home. His house was sure to be the first place
Devlin would go to look for him. In fact, Jeffrey was afraid to go anyplace. He was afraid of going to the bus or train station for fear the authorities had already been put on some alert. For all he knew, every policeman in Boston could be looking for him.
Jeffrey thought he'd try to call Randolph to see what the lawyer could do-if anything-to turn things back to the preairport status quo. Jeffrey wasn't optimistic but the possibility was worth pursuing. At the same time, he decided he'd do well to check into a hotel, though not one of the better ones. The good hotels would probably be the second place Devlin would look for him.
Scooting forward against the Plexiglas divider, Jeffrey asked the cabbie if he knew of any cheap hotels. The cabbie thought for a moment. 'Well,' he said, 'there's the Plymouth Hotel.'
The Plymouth was a large motor inn. 'Something less wellknown. I don't care if it's a little on the seedy side. I'm looking for something out-of-the-way, nondescript.'
'There's the Essex,' the cabbie said.
'Where's that?' Jeffrey asked.
'Other side of the combat zone,' the driver said. He eyed Jeffrey in the rearview mirror to see if he registered a flicker of rec-
ognition. The Essex was a dump, more of a flophouse than a hotel. It was frequented by many of the zone's call girls.
'So it's kind of low-key?' Jeffrey asked.
'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.
