Marcaine would be used that very day.
Trent continued down the main OR corridor and turned into Central Supply, which was conveniently located in the middle of the OR area. The operating room complex at St. Joe's was shaped like the letter U with the ORs lining the outside of the U and Central Supply occupying the interior.
Moving with a sense of purpose, as if he were heading into Central Supply to get a setup pack for one of the ORs, Trent took a loop around the whole area. As usual, no one was there. There was always a hiatus between six-fifteen and six forty-five when Central Supply was unoccupied.
Satisfied, Trent went directly into the section that housed the IV fluids and the nonnarcotic and uncontrolled drugs. He did not have to search for the local anesthetics. He'd scouted them out long ago.
With one more quick glance around, Trent reached for an open pack of 30 cc.5% Marcaine. Deftly he raised the lid. There were three ampules remaining in the box where there originally had been five. Trent exchanged one of the good ampules for the one in his briefs. He winced again. It was surprising how cold room temperature glass could feel. He closed the lid of the Marcaine box and carefully slid it back into its original position.
Again Trent glanced around Central Supply. No one had appeared. He looked back at the box of Marcaine. Once more an almost sensual excitement rippled through his body. He'd done it again, and no one would ever have a clue. It was so damned easy, and depending on the OR schedule and a little luck, the vial would be used soon, maybe even that morning.
For a brief moment, Trent thought about removing the other two good vials from the box just to speed things up. Now that the vial was placed, he was impatient to enjoy the chaos it would cause. But he decided against removing the other vials. He'd never taken any chances in the past, and it wasn't a good time to start. What if someone was keeping track of how many vials of Marcaine were on hand?
Trent emerged from Central Supply and headed back to his locker to tuck away the ampule that was now in his briefs. Then he'd get himself a nice cup of coffee. Later that afternoon, if nothing had happened, he'd return to Central Supply to see if the doctored vial had been taken. If it was used that day, he'd know about it soon enough. News of a major complication spread like wildfire in the OR suite.
In his mind's eye, Trent could see the vial resting so innocently in the box. It was a kind of Russian roulette. He felt a stirring of sexual excitement. He hurried into the locker room, trying to contain himself. If only it could be Doherty who'd get it, thought Trent. That would make it perfect.
Trent's jaw tightened as he thought of the anesthesiologist. The man's name re-ignited his anger from the previous day's humiliation. Arriving at his locker, Trent gave it a resounding thump with his open palm. A few people looked in his direction. Trent ignored them. The irony was that before the humiliating episode, Trent had liked Doherty. He'd even been nice to the jerk.
Angrily, Trent twirled his combination lock and got his locker door open.
Pressing in against it, he slipped the ampule of Marcaine from his shorts and eased it into the pocket of his white jacket hanging within the locker.
Maybe he'd have to make some special arrangements for Doherty.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Jeffrey closed the door to his room at the Essex
Hotel. It Was just after eleven in the morning. He'd been on the go since nine-thirty when he left the hotel to do some shopping. Every moment he'd been terrified of being discovered by an acquaintance, Devlin, or the police. He'd seen several po-
lice officers, but he'd avoided any direct confrontation. Even so, it had been a nerve-racking venture.
Jeffrey put his packages and his briefcase on the bed and opened the smallest bag. Among its contents was a hair rinse. The color was called
Midnight Black. Taking off his clothes, Jeffrey went directly into the bathroom and followed the directions on the box. By the time he put the styling gel in his hair and brushed it straight back from his forehead, he looked like a different person. He thought he looked like a used car salesman or like someone out of a 1930s movie. Comparing his image with the small photo on the license, he thought he could pass for Frank Amendola if no one looked too closely. And he still wasn't finished.
Back in the bedroom, Jeffrey opened the larger of the packages and took out a new dark blue polyester suit he'd bought in Filene's Basement and had altered at Pacifici of Boston. Mike, the head tailor, had been happy to do the alterations while Jeffrey waited. Jeffrey didn't have much done to the suit because he didn't want it to fit too well. In fact, he had to resist some of Mike's suggestions.
Going back to his parcels, Jeffrey pulled out several white shirts and a couple of unattractive ties. He put on one of the shirts and a tie, then slipped on the suit. Finally he searched through the bags until he found a pair of dark-rimmed protective glasses. After he put them on, he returned to the bathroom mirror. Again he compared his image with the photo on the license. In spite of himself, he had to smile. From a general point of view, he looked terrible. In terms of looking like Frank Amendola, he looked reasonably good. It surprised him how little facial features mattered in generating an overall impression.
One of the other parcels contained a new duffel bag with a shoulder strap and a half-dozen compartments. Jeffrey transferred the packets of money to these. He'd felt conspicuous carrying the briefcase with him and was afraid it might be a way for the police to recognize him. He even guessed it might be mentioned as part of his description.
Going back to the briefcase, Jeffrey took out a syringe and the vial of succinylcholine. Having worried all morning about Devlin suddenly appearing as he had at the airport, Jeffrey had come up with an idea. He carefully drew up 40 mg of succinylcholine in the syringe, then capped it. He put the syringe in the side pocket of his jacket. He wasn't sure how he would use the
succinylcholine, but it was there just in case. It was more of a psychological support than anything else.
With his plano glasses on and his duffel bag over his shoulder, Jeffrey took one last glance around his room, wondering if he was forgetting anything. He was hesitant to leave because he knew the moment he stepped out of the room, the anxiety of being recognized would return. But he wanted to get into Boston Memorial Hospital, and the only way that was going to happen was if he went over there and applied for a housekeeping job.
Devlin rudely shoved his way out of the elevator on his way to Michael
Mosconi's office without giving the other passengers time to get out of his way. He got perverse pleasure out of provoking the people, especially men in business suits, and he half hoped one of them would try to be a gallant hero.
Devlin was in a foul mood. He'd been awake for most of the night, uncomfortably propped up in the front seat of his car watching the Rhodes's house. He'd fully expected Jeffrey to come sneaking home in the middle of the night. Or at the very least, he expected Carol to leave suddenly. But nothing happened until just after eight in the morning, when Carol came out of the garage like the Green Hornet in her Mazda RX7 and left a patch of rubber in the middle of the street.
With great difficulty and not very high hopes, Devlin had followed Carol through the morning traffic. She drove like an Indy 500 driver, the way she weaved in and out of the traffic. She led him all the way downtown, but she'd merely gone to her office on the twenty-second floor of one of the newer office buildings. Devlin decided to give up on her for the time being. He needed more information on Jeffrey to decide what to do next.