Looking at his watch, D’Ambrosio knew that he could easily make the 8:45 American flight back to Chicago. He also knew his thousand dollars would be in the usual twenty-four-hour locker, number 12 near the baggage claim for TWA. Contentedly, D’Ambrosio watched the play of lights flicker past the window. He thought about the ghoulish Walters and tried to imagine the connection he could have with the attractive Wheeler. D’Ambrosio remembered Susan’s appearance, and how he had had to fight with himself not to put it to her. He began to imagine a series of sadistic delights that awakened his sleeping penis. D’Ambrosio found himself hoping that he’d be ordered back to make a second contact with Miss Wheeler. If he ever was, he decided he’d screw her in the ass.
When he reached the airline terminal D’Ambrosio entered a phone booth. There remained one small detail in a routine assignment: he had to call his central contact in Chicago and report that the job was done.
The number rang the agreed-upon seven times.
“The Sandler residence,” answered a voice on the other end.
“May I speak to Mr. Sandler, please,” said D’Ambrosio, bored. He did not quite understand this maneuver and it took a few minutes. He always had to remember the current name. If the wrong name was used he was supposed to hang up and call an alternate number. D’Ambrosio wet his index finger with his tongue and drew circles of saliva on the phone booth glass. Finally the voice returned.
“It’s clear.”
“Boston’s done, no problems,” said D’Ambrosio with no inflection in his voice.
“There’s an update. Miss Wheeler is to be disposed of as soon as possible. The method is up to you but it must appear to be a rape. You understand, a rape.”
D’Ambrosio couldn’t believe his ears. It was like a dream come true.
“There’ll be an extra charge,” said D’Ambrosio matter-of-factly, carefully concealing his anticipation of sexually assaulting Susan.
“There will be an extra five hundred dollars.”
“Seven hundred fifty. This won’t be so easy.” Easy? It was going to be a breeze. D’Ambrosio thought that he should really be paying.
“Six hundred.”
“You’re on.” D’Ambrosio hung up the phone. He was immensely pleased. He checked the night flight schedule. The last departure for Chicago was 11:45 TWA. D’Ambrosio thought he could get his little kicks and still make that one. He descended to the baggage area and caught a cab. He told the driver to take him to the corner of Longwood and Huntington avenues.
By seven-thirty the ebb and flow of humanity slowed to a trickle at the Memorial. Susan entered through the main entrance. In her nurse’s uniform no one even gave her a second look. She first went up to the lounge on Beard 5 and left her coat. Then she checked McLeary’s office on Beard 12. The door was locked as she expected and the lights were off. She checked all the nearby offices and labs. All were empty.
Susan returned to the main entrance and walked down the corridor toward the emergency room. Unlike the rest of the hospital, as evening fell the ER became more active. There were a few gurneys with their respective patients parked in the corridor. Susan turned left just before the ER and entered the hospital security office.
The office was small and cluttered. The entire far wall was a bank of TV screens, about twenty or twenty-five of them. Displayed on each screen were images of the entryways, corridors, and key areas of the hospital, including the ER area, televised to these monitors from remote control video cameras. Some of the cameras were stationary; others repeatedly panned over an area. Two uniformed guards and one plainclothes security officer occupied the room. The plainclothesman sat behind a tiny desk, seeming even smaller next to his obese hulk. The skin on his neck overlapped his shirt collar. His breath came in audible gasps.
All three men were oblivious to the TV monitors they were paid to watch. Instead, their eyes were fixed on the screen of a small portable TV set. They were engrossed in the furious combat of a televised hockey game.