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 Garden Street. The kitchen and the larger of the two bathrooms faced an inner courtyard.
Pulling an Amstel Light from the refrigerator, Trent popped the top and took a long, satisfying gulp. He thought the beer might calm him down some.
He was anxious and edgy from the hour of Miami Vice. Even reruns got him riled up enough to want to hit one of the local bars to see if he could scare up some trouble. He could usually find a homo or two along Cambridge