The going was not easy. Not only were the fences in poor repair, which made climbing them difficult, but some of the backyards were filled with all kinds of trash, including discarded baby carriages, mattresses, and old tires. At one point, he had to climb down a short, rocky precipice, since Phillips Street was at a significantly lower elevation than Revere Street. Eventually, he was able to reach Phillips Street by way of a narrow alley that ran alongside a building that was part of the Black Heritage Tour of Beacon Hill.
A few passersby on Phillips Street gave Noah a strange look, but no one said anything or acted alarmed. Noah assumed his medical uniform helped calm any suspicions that he was a burglar. But by the time he had finished his tortuous backyard journey, his white pants and jacket were a bit worse for wear, and he had lost the collection of pens that normally occupied his jacket’s breast pocket.
With no late-model Ford van in sight, Noah ran down to Cambridge Street. There he turned east, heading for the Boston waterfront and the BMH complex. He slowed his gait and tried to act calm even though he didn’t feel calm. He kept looking ahead and behind for a shiny new Ford van or for his followers.
After several blocks Noah paused long enough to remove his backpack, dust off his clothes, and straighten his tie in an effort to make himself a bit more presentable. Fifteen minutes later he walked up the circular drive at the front entrance to the Stanhope Pavilion, feeling his pulse quicken. Ahead was BMH security. Though Noah knew many of the security personnel by sight, and they surely knew him, he worried he might be stopped if his suspension was common knowledge, especially since he looked moderately bedraggled, which might have raised suspicions.
Holding up his hospital ID as he normally did but without making eye contact, Noah walked at a brisk clip past the security desk, pretending to be in a rush. At any second he half expected to hear someone calling his name, but it didn’t happen. Relieved, he ducked into the first stairwell he passed. He knew better than to use the elevator.
Entering the expansive on-call facility, which was empty at that hour of the day, Noah first went to the laundry room and got clean pants and jacket. Then he put his name down on the master list for one of the dozen bedrooms and took the appropriate key. Before going to the room, he went to his locker. Every resident at the BMH had a locker where they stored their heavy coats during the winter and kept personal items.
The rooms were spartan and windowless but perfectly adequate for a few hours of needed sleep during a busy night. The furniture consisted of a simple single bed, a bureau, and a desk with a hospital monitor. There was a small bathroom with a shower stall en suite. Towels and linen were changed every day.
Noah felt immediately at home. Over the previous five years he had used the on-call facility far more than anyone else, simply because he spent far more time in the hospital than anyone else. Never once in all the times he had been there had all the bedrooms been utilized, which was the reason he thought he could get away with staying there. How long he could get away with it, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t interested in returning to his apartment until everything was sorted out.
He changed into the clean clothes, then checked his phone to see if Roberta Hinkle had emailed him back. She had:
Dr. Rothauser, I got your last email and will be happy to continue investigating Dr. Ava London. I’ll go to Brazos University tomorrow. I don’t see any problem from here on out, and I don’t expect it will take very long as I have contacts in the administration. I will also check court records as you requested. About the photos you requested: is there a rush on them or can I wait until I have more time to drive back to Brownfield? Let me know. Otherwise I will be back to you shortly.
Respectfully, Roberta Hinkle
Noah immediately emailed back:
Dear Ms. Hinkle: Thank you for your efforts. There is no rush on the photos, but we are interested in seeing them whenever it is convenient for you to return to Brownfield. There is also no rush on the court records. We are much more interested in what you are able to learn at Brazos Medical Center. Once again, I would like to remind you that confidentiality is of utmost importance. We look forward to hearing from you. It would be convenient if you give us at least an update on your progress tomorrow afternoon.
With kind regards, Dr. Noah Rothauser
With that out of the way, his mind switched to Ava. He missed her and the relationship that they had, despite his irritation at her behavior. If only he had resisted the temptation to check her computer that evening, he might very well be comfortably staying with her at her fabulous manse instead of at the utilitarian BMH Ritz, as it was jokingly called by the resident staff.
34
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 16, 1:37 A.M.
The sleek Citation X jet taxied up to the area in front of the General Aviation section of the Preston Smith Airport in Lubbock, Texas. The flight had been chartered by ABC Security and had left Bedford, Massachusetts, a little after 9:00 Tuesday night. Passengers Keyon Dexter and George Marlow had used the flight time to do the necessary due diligence on Private Investigator Roberta Hinkle. They had been informed by their handler that she was considered a threat of the highest order, which necessitated the night flight.
Roberta Hinkle lived in a small ranch-style house to the west of town and just inside the city’s ring road. Her main specialty as a private investigator involved domestic disputes and infidelity investigations, which both Keyon and George assumed would have created lots of enemies for her, which would provide a handy cover for what they were about to do. She was also divorced, which increased the chances that she would be alone. The only problem was that she had an eleven-year-old daughter. Both Keyon and George were worried that could be a problem if the child awoke. Although they were both emotionally acclimatized to the nature of their work, they were still squeamish about a few things.
As soon as the copilot opened the plane’s door and lowered the steps, Keyon and George deplaned. A few minutes later they were on their way in a rented Chevy Suburban ABC Security had arranged to be waiting for them. Within fifteen minutes of touchdown, the men were already traveling south toward the city center on Interstate 27.
George was driving, and it soon irritated him that Keyon had almost immediately fallen asleep with his seat cranked back as far as it would go. Out of spite George did a little S-maneuver by yanking on the steering wheel, creating enough force to jostle Keyon awake.
“What the hell?” Keyon blurted. He’d grabbed the armrest to steady himself even though the seat belt would have sufficed.
“Must have been an armadillo,” George said, pretending to be looking in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know if I hit him or not.”
Keyon cast a quick look behind them. The road was clear. He turned back to George. “Are you bullshitting me or what?”