Since there was no phone in the shabby hotel room, Jeffrey had to go to the lobby to place the calls. He took his briefcase with him, afraid to leave it unattended even for a minute or two.
Downstairs, the clerk reluctantly left his Red Sox game to make change so
Jeffrey could use the phone.
His first call was to Randolph Bingham. Jeffrey didn't have to be a lawyer to know he desperately needed sound legal advice. While Jeffrey waited for the call to go through, the same pimplyfaced girl he'd seen through the cab window entered the front door. She had a nervous-appearing, baldheaded man with her who had a sticker attached to his lapel that said: Hil I'm Harry.
He was obviously a conventioneer who was seeking the thrill of putting his life in jeopardy. Jeffrey turned his back on the transaction at the front desk. Randolph answered the phone with his familiar aristocratic accent.
6'I've got a problem,' Jeffrey said without even saying who he was. But
Randolph recognized his voice immediately. In a few simple sentences,
Jeffrey brought Randolph up to date. He left nothing out, including his striking Devlin with the briefcase in full view of a policeman and the subsequent chase through the airport terminal.
'My good God,' was all Randolph could say by the time Jeffrey had finished.
Then, almost angrily, he added, 'You know, this is not going to help your appeal. And when it comes to sentencing, it is certainly going to have an influence.'
'I know,' Jeffrey said. 'I could have guessed as much. But
1 didn't call you to tell me I'm in trouble. I had that figured without benefit of counsel. I need to know what you can do to help.'
'Well, before I do anything, you have to turn yourself in.'
'But...'
'No buts. You've already put yourself in an extremely precarious position with regard to the court.'
'And if I do turn myself in, won't the court be likely to deny bail entirely?'
'Jeffrey, you have no choice. In light of your attempt to flee the country, you haven't exactly done much to encourage its trust. '
Randolph started to say more, but Jeffrey cut him off. 'I'm sorry, but I'm not prepared to go to jail. Under any circumstances. Please do whatever you can from your end. I'll get back to you.' Jeffrey slammed the receiver down. He couldn't blame Randolph for the advice he had given. In some respects it was just like medicine: sometimes the patient just didn't want to hear the doctor's proposed therapy.
With his hand still resting on the receiver, Jeffrey turned back into the reception area to see if anyone had overheard his conversation. The young miniskirted girl and her john had disappeared upstairs, and the clerk was again glued to his tiny TV set. Another man, who looked to be in his seventies, had appeared and was sitting on the tattered couch, thumbing through a magazine.
Dropping another coin into the phone, Jeffrey called home.
'Where are you?' Carol demanded as soon as Jeffrey muttered a dull hello.
'I'm in Boston,' he told her. He wasn't about to tell her anything more specific, but he felt he owed her that much. He knew she would be furious that he had left without a word, but he wanted to warn her in case Devlin headed back. And he wanted her to pick up the car. Beyond that, he didn't expect anything along the lines of sympathy. An earful of fury was what he got.
'Why didn't you tell me you were leaving the house?' Carol snarled. 'Here
I've been patient, standing by you all these months, and this is the thanks
I get. I looked all over the house before I realized your car was gone.'
'It's the car I need to talk to you about,' Jeffrey said.
'I'm not interested in your car,' Carol snapped.
'Carol, listen to me!' Jeffrey yelled. When he heard that she was going to give him a chance to speak, he lowered his voice,
cupping a hand around the receiver. 'My car is at the airport at central parking. The ticket stub is in the ashtray.'
'Are you planning on forfeiting bail?' Carol asked incredulously. 'We'll lose the house! I signed that lien in good faith... 11
'There are some things more important than the house!' Jeffrey snapped in spite of himself. He lowered his voice again. 'Besides, the house on the
Cape has no mortgage. You can have that if money's your worry.'
'You still haven't answered me,' Carol said. 'Are you planning to forfeit the bail?'
'I don't know,' Jeffrey sighed. He really didn't. It was the truth. He still hadn't had time to think things through. 'Look, the car's there on the second level. If you want it, fine. If not, that's fine too.'
'I want to talk to you about our divorce,' Carol said. 'It's been on hold long enough. As much as I sympathize with your problems, and I do, I have to get on with my life.'
'I'll have to get back to you,' Jeffrey said irritably. Then he hung up on her as well.
He shook his head sadly. He couldn't even remember a time when there had been warmth between Carol and him. Dying relationships were so ugly. Here he was on the run and all she could worry about was property and the divorce. Well, she had her life to get on with, he supposed. One way or the other, it wouldn't be much longer. She'd be rid of him for good.
He looked at the phone. What he wanted to do was call Kelly. But what would he say? Would he admit to having tried to flee and failed? Jeffrey was filled with indecision and confusion.
Picking up his briefcase, he strode across the lobby, consciously avoiding looking at the two men.
Feeling even more alone than he had before, he climbed the four flights of twisting, filthy stairs, and returned to his depressing room. He stood at the window, bathed in the red neon glow, wondering what he should do. Oh, how he wanted to call Kelly, but he couldn't. He was too embarrassed.
Stepping over to the bed, he wondered if he could sleep. He had to do something. He eyed his briefcase.
TUESDAY,
MAY 16,1989
10:51 P.M.
The only light in the room came from the television set. A fortyfive-caliber pistol and a half-dozen vials of Marcaine on a bureau by the TV glimmered in the soft light. On the screen, three Jamaican men stood in a cramped hotel room and all three were visibly edgy. Each one was carrying an AK-47 assault rifle. The burliest of the three kept glancing at his watch. Perspiration stood on their foreheads. The obvious tension of the Jamaicans stood in sharp contrast to the sonorous reggae rhythm that pealed from a radio on the nightstand. Then the door burst open.
Crockett entered first, clutching a nine-millimeter automatic with the barrel pointed to the ceiling. With one swift, catlike move, he put the barrel against the first Jamaican's chest and pumped one silent, deadly bullet into him. Crockett had his second bullet into the second man by the time Tubbs cleared the doorway in time to take care of the third. It was all over in the blink of an eye.
Crockett shook his head. He was dressed in his usual: an expensive linen jacket by Armani over a casual cotton T-shirt. 'Good timing, Tubbs,' he said. 'I would have had trouble nailing the third dude.'
As the closing credits came onto the TV screen, Trent Harding high-fived an imaginary companion. 'All right!' he exclaimed in triumph. TV violence had a stimulating effect on Trent. It charged him with aggressive energy that demanded expression. He lived to picture himself pumping bullets into chests the way Don Johnson did so regularly. Sometimes Trent thought he should have gone into law enforcement. If only he'd elected to join the military police when he enlisted in the Navy. Instead, Trent had decided to become a Navy corpsman. He'd liked it okay. It had been a challenge and he'd learned some far-
out stuff. He'd never thought about being a corpsman before going into the
Navy. The first time he thought of it had been when he'd heard a talk during basic training. He found the idea of performing physicals oddly appealing, and he liked the idea of guys coming to him for help so that he could tell them what to do.
Trent got up from the living room couch and vialked into his kitchen. It was a comfortable apartment with one bedroom and two baths. Trent could afford better, but he liked it fine where he was. He lived on the top floor of a five-story building on the back side of Beacon Hill. The bedroom and the living room windows looked out onto
