Harmful Intent (45 page)

Jeffrey knocked on the open door. Seibert jumped, but when he saw who it was, a smile spread across his face. “Dr. Webber—you scared me.”

Jeffrey apologized. “We should have called,” he said.

“No matter,” Seibert said. “But I haven't heard from California yet. I doubt if it will be until Monday.”

“That wasn't exactly why we've come,” Jeffrey said. He took a moment to introduce Kelly. Seibert stood to shake her hand.

“Why don't we go into the library?” Seibert said. “This office isn't big enough for three chairs.”

Once they were settled, Seibert encouraged them, saying, “Now what can I do for you folks?”

Jeffrey took a deep breath. “First,” he said, “my name is Jeffrey Rhodes.”

Jeffrey then told Seibert the whole incredible story. Kelly helped at certain points. It took Jeffrey almost a half hour to finish. “So now you see our predicament. We've got no proof, and I'm a fugitive. We haven't much time. Our last hope seems to be Henry Noble. We have to find the toxin before we can document its existence in any of these cases.”

“Holy Moses!” Seibert exclaimed. It was the first words he'd said since Jeffrey had begun. “I thought this case was interesting from the start. Now it's the most interesting I've ever heard. Well, we'll pull up old Henry and see what we can do.”

“What kind of time frame are you talking about?” Jeffrey asked.

“We'll have to get an exhumation permit as well as a reinterment permit from the Department of Health,” Seibert said. “As a medical examiner, I'll have no problem obtaining either. As a courtesy, we should notify the next of kin. I imagine we can do that in a week or two.”

“That's too long,” Jeffrey said. “We've got to do it right away.”

“I suppose we could get a court order,” Seibert said, “but even that would take three or four days.”

“Even that's too long,” Jeffrey sighed.

“But that's the shortest I can imagine,” Seibert said.

“Let's find out where he was buried,” Jeffrey said, moving on to other issues. “You said you have that information here.”

“We have his autopsy report and we should have a copy of his death certificate,” Seibert said. “The information should be there.” He pushed back his chair. “Let me get it.”

Seibert left the room. Kelly looked at Jeffrey. “I can tell you have something on your mind,” she said.

“It's pretty simple,” Jeffrey said. “I think we should just go and dig the guy up. Under the circumstances, I don't have much patience for all this bureaucratic rigmarole.”

Seibert came back with a copy of Henry Noble's death certificate. He put it on the table in front of Jeffrey and stood over his right shoulder.

“Here's the place of disposition,” he said, pointing to the center of the form. “At least he wasn't cremated.”

“I'd never thought of that,” Jeffrey admitted.

“Edgartown, Massachusetts,” Seibert read. “I haven't been here long enough to know the state. Where's Edgartown?”

“On Martha's Vineyard,” Jeffrey said. “Out on the tip of the island.”

“Here's the funeral home,” Seibert said. “Boscowaney Funeral Home, Vineyard Haven. The licensee's name is Chester Boscowaney. That's important to know because he'll have to be involved.”

“How come?” Jeffrey asked. He wanted to keep everything as simple as possible. If he had to, Jeffrey thought he'd go out there in the middle of the night with a shovel and crowbar.

“He has to be the one to ascertain it is the right coffin and the right body,” Seibert said. “As you can imagine, like
everything else, there've been screw-ups, especially with closed-coffin funerals.”

“The things you don't know about,” Kelly said.

“What do these exhumation permits look like?” Jeffrey asked.

“They're not complicated,” Seibert said. “I happen to have one on my desk right now for a case where the family was concerned their kid's organs were taken. Want to see it?”

Jeffrey nodded. While Seibert was getting it, Jeffrey leaned over to Kelly and whispered: “I wouldn't mind a little sea air, would you?”

Seibert came back in and put the paper in front of Jeffrey. It was typed up, like a legal document. “Doesn't seem to be anything special,” Jeffrey said.

“What are you talking about?” Seibert asked.

“What if I came in here with one of these forms and asked you to exhume a body for me and check it out for something I was interested in?” Jeffrey asked. “What would you say?”

“We all do some private work on occasion,” Seibert said. “I suppose I'd say it would cost you some money.”

“How much?” Jeffrey asked.

Seibert shrugged. “There's no set fee. If it were simple, maybe a couple of thousand.”

Jeffrey grabbed his duffel bag and pulled out one of the packets of money. He counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills. He put them on the table in front of Seibert. Then he said, “If I can borrow a typewriter, I'll have one of these exhumation permits in about an hour.”

“You can't do that,” Seibert said. “It's illegal.”

“Yeah, but I take the risk, not you. I bet you never verify that these permits are bona fide. As far as you're concerned, it will be. I'll be the one breaking the law, not you.”

Seibert gnawed his lip for a moment. “This is a unique situation,” he said. Then he picked up the cash. “I'll do it, but not for money,” he said. “I'll do it because I believe the story you've told me. If what you say is true, then it's certainly in the public interest to get to the bottom of it.” He tossed the money into Jeffrey's lap. “Come on,” he said. “I'll open the office downstairs and you can make us an exhumation permit. While you're at it, you might as well make a reinterment permit as well. I'd better call Mr. Boscowaney and have him start lining up the people and make sure the sexton of the cemetery isn't out bluefishing.”

“How long will all this take?” Kelly asked.

“It's going to take some time,” Seibert said. He looked at his
watch. “We'll be lucky to get out there by the middle of the afternoon. If we can get a backhoe operator, we could be done sometime tonight. But it might be late.”

“Then we should plan to stay overnight,” Kelly said. “There's an inn out in Edgartown, the Charlotte Inn. Why don't I make some reservations?”

Jeffrey said he thought that was a good idea.

Seibert showed Kelly into a colleague's office so she could use the telephone. Then he took Jeffrey down to the office, where he left him at a typewriter.

Kelly called the Charlotte Inn and was able to get reservations for two rooms. She thought that was an auspicious beginning to their quest. She hated to admit it, but the only thing that troubled her about the proposed venture was Delilah. What if she delivered? Last time Delilah had had kittens, she'd gone into calcium shock. She'd had to be rushed to the vet.

Picking up the phone again, she called Kay Buchanan, who lived in the house next door. Kay had three cats. The two had exchanged cat-sitting favors on many occasions.

“Kay, are you planning on being around for the weekend?” Kelly asked.

“Yup,” Kay said. “Harold has work to do. We'll be here. Want me to feed your monsters?”

“I'm afraid it's more than that,” Kelly said. “I have to go away and Delilah's close to term. I'm afraid she's about to have kittens any day.”

“She almost died the last time,” Kay said with concern.

“I know,” Kelly said. “I was going to have her spayed, but she beat me to it. I wouldn't leave now but I haven't any choice.”

“Will I be able to get in touch with you if something goes wrong?”

“Sure,” Kelly said. “I'll be at the Charlotte Inn on Martha's Vineyard.” Kelly gave her the number.

“You're going to owe me for this one,” Kay said. “Plenty of cat food over there?”

“Absolutely,” Kelly said. “You'll have to let Samson in. He's out.”

“That I know,” Kay said. “He just had an argument with my Burmese. You have a good time. I'll take care of the fort.”

“I really appreciate this,” Kelly said. She hung up the phone, thankful she had such a friend.

* * *

“Hello?” Frank said into the telephone, but he couldn't hear a thing. His kids had the Saturday morning cartoons on, with the volume turned way up, and it was driving him crazy. “Hold on,” he said, setting the receiver down. He walked over to the family room's threshold. “Hey, Donna, quiet those kids or that set's going out the window.”

Frank pulled the sliding door closed. The volume was cut in half. Frank shuffled back to the phone. He was dressed in his blue velveteen robe and velour slippers.

“Who's this?” he said into the phone when he'd picked it up from the counter.

“It's Matt. I got the information you needed. It took me a little longer than I expected. I forgot today was Saturday.”

Frank got a pencil from the drawer. “All right,” he said, “give it to me.”

“The license number you gave me is registered to a Kelly C. Everson,” Matt said. “The address is 418 Willard Street in Brookline. Is that far from you?”

“Just around the corner,” Frank said. “That's a big help.”

“The plane is still there,” Matt said. “I want that doctor.”

“You got him,” Frank said.

 

“It takes me awhile to get mad,” Devlin told Mosconi. “But let me warn you, I'm mad now. There's something about this Dr. Jeffrey Rhodes case that you haven't told me. Something that I should know.”

“I've told you everything,” Michael said. “I've told you more about this case than I've told you about any other that you've been involved with. Why would I hold back? Tell me that. I'm the one that's being put out of business.”

“Then how come Frank Feranno and one of his goons showed up at the Hatch Shell?” Devlin asked. He winced as he changed positions in the hospital bed. He had a trapeze hanging down from a frame over the bed, which he used to lift himself up. “He's never been in the bounty-hunting business as far as I know.”

“How the hell should I know?” Mosconi said. “Listen, I didn't come down here to take abuse from you. I came down here to see if you were as bad as they suggested in the papers.”

“Bull crap,” Devlin said. “You came down here to see if I was too far out of commission to bring in the doc like I promised.”

“How bad is it?” Mosconi asked, glancing at the graze wound
above Devlin's right ear. They had shaved off most of the hair on that side of his head in order to suture the laceration. It was an ugly wound.

“Not as bad as you'll be if you're lying to me,” Devlin said.

“Did you really take three bullets?” Mosconi said. He looked at the elaborate bandage covering Devlin's left shoulder.

“The one that grazed my head missed,” Devlin said. “Thank God. Otherwise, it would have been curtains. But it must have knocked me out. I got hit in the chest but my Kevlar vest stopped the bullet. All I got out of that one is a sore spot on my rib cage. The one that hit my shoulder went clean through. Frank had a goddamn assault rifle. Least he wasn't using soft-nosed bullets.”

“It's a little ironic that I can send you after serial killers and you come back without a scratch, but when I send you after a doctor who's being sent up for having some kind of problem administering anesthesia, you almost get yourself killed.”

“Which is why I think there's something else to this affair. Something that involved that kid who was wasted by Tony Marcello. When I first saw Frank, I thought maybe you'd talked to him.”

“Never,” Mosconi said. “That guy's a criminal.”

Devlin gave Mosconi a “who's kidding who” look. “I'll let that pass,” he said. “But if Frank's involved, something big time is going down. Frank Feranno's never around unless it's serious money or big players. Usually both.”

With a crash that surprised Mosconi, the side rail on the bed collapsed. Devlin had released it. Wincing, Devlin used his good arm to raise himself to a sitting position. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had an IV attached to the back of his left hand, but he just grabbed the tube and pulled it out. The needle came away with its adhesive tape and began squirting onto the floor.

Mosconi was horrified. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, backing up.

“What the hell does it look like I'm doing?” Devlin said as he stood up. “Get my clothes out of the closet.”

“You can't leave.”

“Just watch me,” Devlin said. “Why stay around here? I got my tetanus shot. And like I said, I'm mad. Plus, I promised you the doctor in twenty-four hours. I still got a little time.”

Half an hour later, Devlin had signed himself out of the
hospital, against medical advice. “You're taking full responsibility,” a prim nurse had warned him.

“Just give me the antibiotics and the pain pills and save the lecture.”

Michael gave him a ride over to Beacon Hill so Devlin could get his car. It was still parked in the no-parking zone at the very foot of the hill.

“Keep that check-writing hand warmed up,” Devlin advised Mosconi as he got out of his car. “You'll be hearing from me.”

“You still don't think I should call in somebody else?”

“Be a waste of time,” Devlin said. “Plus, it might just get me mad at you as well as Frank Feranno.”

Devlin got in his car. His first destination was police headquarters on Berkeley Street. He wanted his gun and he knew it would be there. With that accomplished, he called the detective type he'd hired to watch Carol Rhodes back when he thought she'd lead him to Jeffrey. This time he asked the man to go out to Brookline to watch Kelly Everson's house. “I want to know everything that happens there, understand?” Devlin told the man.