The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [62]
Armstrong slammed her stein on the table, splashing some of its contents and startling the couple in the next booth. “Dammit, young man,” she said, “never in all my days have I run into anyone who was more his own worst enemy than you are. Based on what I heard tonight and what I believe to be true, our lieutenant friend had better come up with a great deal more in the way of incriminating evidence before I’ll allow anyone, including you, to move for your suspension. And if you don’t think I have that kind of power around here, then just watch.”
David’s smile came more easily than it had all evening. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
“Well, now.” She glanced at her watch. “This old bird has a full day at the office tomorrow, so I suggest we call it quits for the night. We’ll talk again. Meanwhile, you’ve got to make yourself relax. Be patient. People like Lieutenant Dockerty, and also your friend Wallace Huttner, can’t be told much of anything. They have to find out for themselves.” She smoothed a five-dollar bill on the table and, without waiting for change, walked with him to her car.
As she got in and rolled down the window, David said, “I’ve repeated myself so many times, I feel like a broken record, but … thank you. I guess there just aren’t any better words. Thank you.”
“Just take care of yourself, David,” she said, “and get through this in good shape. That will be all the thanks I need.”
He watched until her car had disappeared around the corner, then walked numbly to the adjacent lot where his was parked. The car, a yellow Saab he had owned for less than a year, rested on its rims. All four tires had been viciously slashed. Across the driver’s side, in crudely sprayed red paint, was the word MURDERER.
“A big glass house,” David muttered as he stared at the sloppy cruelty. “You said it, lady. A big, fucking, animal of a glass house.”
CHAPTER XIII
Barbara Littlejohn had waited outside the TWA terminal only a minute before a cab arrived. That was long enough for the raw New England evening to penetrate her clothing, stiffen her joints, and draw her skin so tightly that it hurt. The flight from L.A. had been punishing enough, she thought, but this … She was still shivering when the cab passed through the toll booth and inched down, in heavy traffic, into the Sumner Tunnel—the dank, exhaust-filled tube connecting East Boston with Boston proper. By the time they broke free on the downtown side it had begun to rain.
Barbara insisted the driver work his way as close as possible to the entrance of the Copley Plaza. She dashed into the lobby wondering how she could once have thought New England weather whimsical and charming.
She was an attractive woman in her late forties tall, tanned, and nearly as thin as in the days when she’d worked her way through nursing school as a fashion model. The desk clerk, though at least ten years her junior, undressed her with his eyes.
“I’m with the Donald Knight Clinton Foundation,” she said, ignoring his leer. “We have a board-of-directors meeting here?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Eight o’clock, room one thirty-three. Across the lobby to the elevators, one floor up.” He glanced at her overnight bag. “Will you be registering with us tonight?” Again the leer.
“No, thank you. I’ll be staying with friends.” She walked away, leaving the man with his fantasies.
Two women, one from Dallas and the other from Chicago, spotted Barbara as they entered the lobby and caught up with her at the elevator. A brief but warm exchange, then the three rode up together.
It was Monday, not yet twenty-four hours after the inquiry at Boston Doctors Hospital. The women, sixteen of them in all, had hastily rearranged their schedules and traveled to the Copley meeting from all parts of the country—New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Miami. They came because Peggy Donner had sent for them and because of their commitment as regional directors of The Sisterhood of Life.
Room 133 was plush—forest green crushed-velvet wall covering,