Hard Fall (24 page)

Hostility surged through Kort like a drug. Enemies. So Daggett was on this investigation as well. Did it mean he had made the connection to Bernard's detonator? A hot bolt of pain gripped his head. They had gone to great lengths to use a device that could fool the investigators. Had they failed?

“Mr. Kotch?”

It took a moment for Kort to identify with the alias, he had not used it in so long. To the receptionist he said, “Sorry, infection must have hurt my hearing.” He smiled at her politely and she smiled back.

“There's been a cancellation,” she said.

Rosen, a balding man with a prominent nose, a cleft chin, and a tiny scar by his left eye, wore a white doctor's jacket over an Oxford button down and beltless trousers with a stretch waist. He wore leather shoes with thick rubber soles and had the breathy voice of a conspirator. A poster, Scotch-taped to the ceiling, depicted the Chesapeake in autumn. New Age music played quietly from a speaker mounted by the window.

There were three stalls. A hygienist in each of the first two, and Rosen with his plump Chinese assistant at the end. Kort, aka Kotch, sat and then lay back in the padded dental chair, thanking Rosen for seeing him. He explained, “The tooth came out a few days ago while chewing a caramel, but I think some of it may still be in there.”

Rosen snapped a pair of latex gloves on his hands, and, already inspecting, said, “It was your wisdom tooth, Mr. Kotch.” He glanced up at his assistant. “
Seventeen
,” he said strongly to her. To Kort he then explained, “Nasty-looking infection. We'll get you on a course of Amoxicillin following this, to take care of that infection.” The assistant dropped a group of stainless steel tools, scattering them loudly onto the floor. “Li,” he said harshly, “why don't you call that in
now
while I'm exploring, and that way we won't keep Mr. Kotch waiting. Do you have a favorite pharmacy, Mr. Kotch?” he asked the man in the chair.

Kort, caught by the question, was relieved when Rosen added, “There's a place on Twenty-third we use quite a bit. It's not far.” Kort nodded, his mouth occupied by two of Rosen's fingers. The assistant still sat on Kort's left staring at his misfortune, red-faced. Rosen snapped at her: “Well, Li, clean it up, and make that call.” She did so.

Rosen clucked his tongue sympathetically and said, “It's messy in there, Mr. Kotch.” He turned to his left, opened a drawer, and withdrew a plastic gas mask enclosed in a clear plastic bag.

Kort saw this and said, “No gas, Doctor. Thank you anyway. I'll sit still.”

“Impossible. It's too infected. I'll have to cut. It may require a stitch or two.”

“Novocain then. No gas,” Kort said emphatically.

“I can't make any promises,” the doctor said. “I suggest the gas.”

“I understand. Thank you. Novocain will be just fine.”

The doctor seemed nervous. Kort attributed this skittishness to the dilemma of gas versus Novocain, or a professional's concern for a patient's well-being, but as he rolled his head and caught sight of the man's eyes, a pang of alarm cut through him.

Kort's defensive, almost paranoid, nature took over. He compartmentalized the experiences of the last few minutes and reviewed them individually. Rosen had overemphasized the tooth number. “
Seventeen
,” he had said to his assistant. “Why don't you call that in
now
,” he had ordered. On the other hand, because he had selected this office at random, no one could have been expecting him. Just as he was convincing himself he was oversuspicious, he noticed the X-ray machine. Why suggest anesthesia
before
taking X rays? Something wasn't right.

“Mouth open, please?” Rosen said, hovering over Kort like a raven over carrion: in his talons, the hypodermic with its glistening needle.

The Chinese assistant returned to Kort's side in too much of a hurry and stared at Rosen intently. The doctor refused to look in her direction. “Head back,” Rosen instructed, placing one hand gently on Kort's shoulder. The needle continued its approach. Kort's eyes danced between the two, doctor and assistant, back and forth. And there it was: a last-second silent reproach from doctor to assistant.

Kort knew.

His reaction occurred as if rehearsed a hundred times. In one deft motion Kort's hands secured the wrist of the assistant, snatched the hypodermic from the doctor's fingers, and then, smoothly, delivered the full contents into the soft flesh of the assistant's pinned forearm. The assistant screamed as the needle pricked her skin and Kort plunged the drug into her. She broke loose, took three steps, and collapsed heavily to the floor. She had fainted in fear. Rosen, on the other hand, flailed about in complete panic.

Kort flew out of the chair, knocked Rosen's arms aside, spun him around and pulled him into a choke hold. He tightened the hold. Kort produced his Beretta and used its threat to contain the hygienist, who had appeared from the next booth. Her eyes bugged out with fear. Seconds later, Rosen's body went slack. Kort let him fall to the floor. He backed through the door into the reception area. The mother and child had gone, no one else was waiting. The receptionist, half paralyzed with fear, clung to the phone. Kort rushed her, grabbed the receiver, and replaced it in the cradle. He dragged her to the office door, which he locked, and took her into the back where the cowering hygienist had slumped to the floor with her arms above her head. Kort pushed the receptionist toward the hygienist. She stepped over the body of Rosen's assistant.

He had to assume Rosen's assistant had phoned the police, or worse, the FBI. Too much time had elapsed. He needed a disguise if he hoped to leave the building. Of the two women before him, the hygienist was by far the larger.

Eyes darting about the area, his attention fell on the mask Rosen had intended to use on him. “You!” he said, to the hygienist. “Gas.” He waved the gun at the receptionist. “Quickly!”

“Thank God,” the receptionist said. The hygienist fumbled with her equipment, all thumbs, but managed to get a mask over the cooperative receptionist and put her under.

“Now, out of your clothes,” Kort said.

“I have money!” the woman blurted out.

“Now!” he hollered.

Crying, the hygienist shed her dress in seconds. “Pl-please,” she muttered, awkwardly stepping out of the dress as if she had never done this.

“The slip, tights, and bra,” he instructed, starting to undress. He could have forced her to take the gas first, but undressing an unconscious woman would be too difficult and time-consuming. Frightened, this woman moved very quickly. She lowered the slip to the floor, and peeled herself out of her hose, revealing white bikini underpants. “God, no,” she mumbled again.

She was finished protesting. Her teeth chattered with fear as she unhooked the bra. She removed it tentatively, hiding her breasts in folded arms. She sobbed uncontrollably, head hung.

“The gas!” he demanded. “Quick!”

She obeyed, juggling his orders with her modesty. She sat down, legs held fast together. “Don't hurt me,” she begged. She turned on the gas, placed the mask over her face, and moments later fell motionless.

Bradley Levin came down the hall at a full run. He pulled Daggett out of earshot of passersby and whispered in broken breath, “We just got a call from a dentist's office on N Street. Wisdom tooth—number seventeen. He's in the chair
right now
.”

There was no time to alert Pullman. “We'll need backup,” Daggett said as the two of them ran toward the waiting elevator, their effort attracting attention. Levin got a hand in the elevator and held it. “We'll phone it in from the car,” Daggett said as the doors shut.

Daggett drove. Levin placed the flashing light on the dash and handled the car's cellular phone. The desolate ghetto of Buzzard Point blurred past. When Levin finished with the phone he reported, “They've dispatched two cars. One is backup for us—they'll handle ground level. The other is for surveillance on the pharmacy in case we miss him.”

“Pharmacy?”

“The girl who called it in gave us the name of a pharmacy on Twenty-third.”

“Call the dentist. See if he's still there.” Daggett glanced over. “What's wrong?” Levin had turned a scarlet red.

“I don't have the number. It's a Rosen—Dr. Rosen.” Levin snatched up the cellular and dialed information. Daggett scowled from behind the wheel. He fished an antacid from his pocket and chewed it.

“It's ringing,” Levin announced.

Daggett stopped chewing; white pieces of chalk adhered to his lower lip. He ran a red light, dodging the traffic. Levin clutched the dash.

“Still ringing,” Levin said, in a constricted voice. “No answer.”

Anthony Kort, stuffing the bra with his own dirty socks, froze as the phone began to ring.

He fought for self-control, efficiency his only hope for escape. He pulled the panty hose as high as they would go. The dress wouldn't zip closed over his wide shoulders, so he donned a lab jacket. He tied a pink scarf over his head and under his chin, covering his sideburns, put on a pair of large sunglasses and slung a purse over his shoulder. They could be out there by now, watching the building; they could be stopping every man they saw. But a woman?

Carrying a shopping bag filled with his own clothes, he took a deep breath, unlocked and opened the office's outer door, and stepped into the empty hallway. He headed for the stairs but then changed his mind to return to the elevator. Who would use stairs in this heat? When the elevator finally arrived it was empty, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He wouldn't pass too close an inspection.

As the heavy doors shut, he instinctively touched the weapon hidden just beneath the surface of clothing in the top of the bag.

As Levin and Daggett entered the office building's crowded lobby, Daggett waved Levin toward the fire stairs and headed straight for the elevator, fearing he was too late, hoping he might be wrong. The two most likely explanations for the unanswered phone were that the suspect had disconnected the phone and fled or that he had killed everyone. There was only an outside chance the man was still here.

In this building devoted to medical professionals, the lobby churned with activity. People from all walks of life stood clustered by the two elevators, which came open at nearly the same moment. Daggett, only a few yards off, stopped short and tried to get a good look at those disembarking, keeping his suspect's vague description foremost in his mind: fortyish, male, average height, average build, possible red hair, possible swollen jaw …

As the impatient group in front of him merged into those leaving the elevators, he felt overwhelmed by the variety of faces that blurred past him: this man was bald, this one too short. Too many.

An unexpected push came from behind as a fat lady made for the open elevators. Daggett lost his balance and bumped a nurse coming at him.

Daggett! Kort thought as a fat lady pushed the man into him. A few minutes earlier, a blurred magazine photograph, now the man in the flesh. Head down! he reminded himself as he feigned attention on the contents of the shopping bag: never look back. FBI agents were like rodents, if you caught sight of one, then there were scores unseen. He kept his hips pumping ever so slightly, making certain not to overplay the part, his nerves raw, his skin prickling beneath the dress.

He had no trouble spotting the nervous young man with the dark hair who stood by the fire stairs. He kept an eye on him as he approached the doors. If there was to be trouble, it would come from that direction. Any others? Were they outside in their officious unmarked cars, eyes trained on the entrances? Kort moved up to a noisy group of professional-looking types that bunched at the outer doors. The topic of conversation was the hot weather. As they pushed through the doors, he stayed with them. The man holding the door sparked at the sight of a nurse's uniform and said with a British accent, “I don't believe we've met. Are you coming along to—” and caught himself when he recognized an obvious transvestite. “So sorry,” he demurred, side-stepping away from the silent Anthony Kort.

At the corner, Kort turned right and headed off alone.

Daggett covered his left hand with his handkerchief and pinched the doorknob tightly to avoid smearing any possible prints; his right hand remained stuffed inside his letter jacket ready with his weapon.

Locked!

He tried it again, to no avail.

An evil foreboding overpowered him. Had he gone too far in alerting the city's dentist offices? He had knowingly involved the inexperienced, the innocent. He wanted out of here. Let somebody else discover the carnage. Not him. Not again. He had had enough for one lifetime.

Ten minutes later, the building superintendent opened the door. Gun down, Daggett slipped inside. The medicinal smell of a dentist's office was something he associated with pain.

The reception area was empty. He hesitated briefly, took the gun in both hands, trained it at the floor in front of him and quickly rounded the corner into the suite. Dead bodies. All female. Three of them. One, naked. To his right, the doctor … He felt his eyes sting, his stomach knot.

He jumped around the partition, ready to shoot, and progressively searched what turned out to be a file room, a bathroom, and a storage closet. It was only as he dared to look at the bodies once more that he noticed the naked one breathing. Relief came stubbornly. Could they be alive? Later, he would think how odd it was that he should accept death more readily than life, tragedy more readily than survival.

As he inspected the fallen bodies he found all with a solid pulse, only the dentist had a visible injury, and superficial at that. This discovery was at once both disturbing and unsettling, unexpected and appreciated.

His defenses relaxed, he suddenly understood the meaning of this one woman's nakedness. He rushed into the hall. Not waiting for the elevators, he bounded down the fire stairs in leaps and jumps, hand singing on the rail. As he burst through the door, he found Levin's semiautomatic trained on him.