Carl's one eye showed groggy confusion fading into horror as he watched the strange man remove his IV drip from the monitor, click off the alarm, and slip the tip of the needle into the drip. Carl tried to roll over toward the call button. The stranger grasped his IV-attached arm and held him fast.
"The Farinos wanted to thank you for all of your faithful service, Carl, and to say that they are sorry that you were such an idiot." The tall man's voice was soft. He fitted the syringe needle deeper into the needle port on the IV-drip attachment. Carl made terrible noises through his wired-shut jaw and thrashed around on the bed like some huge fish.
"Shhh," the man said soothingly and pushed the plunger all the way down. The air bubble was actually visible in the clear IV tube as it flowed down toward Carl's forearm.
The tall man expertly recapped the syringe with one hand and set it back in his raincoat pocket. Holding Carl's left wrist as he was, studying the watch on his own right wrist, someone passing by would assume that this was a doctor on late rounds, taking a patient's pulse.
Carl's broken jaw cracked audibly and wire actually snapped. The sound he made was not quite human.
"Another four or five seconds," the man in the raincoat said softly. "Ahhh, there we are."
The air bubble had hit Carl's heart, essentially exploding it. Carl arched so wildly that two of the metal guy wires strummed like high-tension wires in a high wind. The bodyguard's eyes grew so wide that they seemed ready to burst, but then they glazed over into sightlessness. Blood poured from both of Carl's nostrils.
The man released Carl's wrist, left the room, walked down the short hall in the opposite direction from the nurse's central station, and took the back stairway down to the basement and the ambulance ramp up and out of the hospital.
Sophia Farino was waiting outside in her black Porsche Boxster. The hardtop was up against the rain that continued to fall. The tall man slid into the seat next to her. She did not ask him how things had gone.
"The airport?" she said.
"Yes, please," said the man in the same soft, pleasant tones he had used with Carl.
They drove east on the Kensington for several minutes. "The weather in Buffalo always pleases me," the man said, breaking the silence. "It reminds me of Copenhagen."
Sophia smiled and then said, "Oh, I almost forgot." She unlocked the small center console and brought out a thick white envelope.
The man smiled slightly and put the envelope in his raincoat pocket without counting the money. "Please give my warmest regards to your father," he said.
"I will."
"And if there is any other service I could possibly perform for your family"
Sophia looked away from the tak-tak of the windshield wipers. It was just a few more miles to the airport. "Well, actually," she said, "there is something else"
CHAPTER 11
The P.O.'s name was Peg O'Toole. P.O. for P.O ., thought Kurtz. He rarely thought in terms such as "cute as a bug," but that's what Ms. O'Toole was. In her early thirties, probably, but with a fresh, freckled face and clear blue eyes. Red hairnot the astounding, pure red like Sam's, but a complex auburn-redthat fell down to her shoulders in natural waves. A bit overweight by modern standards, which pleased Kurtz to no end. One of the best phrases he had ever encountered was the writer Tom Wolfe's description of New York anorectic socialites as
"social X-rays." Kurtz idly wondered what P.O. Peg O'Toole would think of him if he mentioned that he had read Tom Wolfe. Then Kurtz wondered what was wrong with himself for wondering that.
"So where are you living, Mr. Kurtz?"
"Here and there." Kurtz noticed that she had not condescended to him by calling him by his first name.
"You'll need a fixed address." Her tone was neither familiar nor cold, merely professional. "I have to visit your place of residence in the next month and make sure that it's acceptable under terms of parole."
Kurtz nodded. "I've been staying in a Motel 6, but I'm looking for something more permanent." He didn't think it would be wise to tell her about the abandoned icehouse and the borrowed sleeping bag he currently called home.
Ms. O'Toole made a note. "Have you begun looking for employment yet?"
"Found a job," said Kurtz.
She raised her eyebrows slightly. Kurtz noticed that they were thick and the same color as her hair.
"Self-employed," he said.
"That won't do," said Peg O'Toole. "We'll need to know the details."
Kurtz nodded. "I've set up an investigatory agency."
The P.O. tapped her lower lip with her pen. "You realize, Mr. Kurtz, that you won't be licensed as a private investigator in the state of New York again, and that it's illegal for you to own or carry a firearm or to associate with known felons?"
"Yes," said Kurtz. When the P.O. said nothing, he went on, "It's a legally registered business'Sweetheart Search. "
Ms. O'Toole did not quite smile. "'Sweetheart Search'? Is it some sort of skip-trace service?"
"In a way," said Kurtz. "It's a Web-based locator service. My secretary and I do ninety-nine percent of the work on computers."