A Perfect Life (15 page)

Kate forced her breathing to slow. She listened and followed the sound. Her employer was lying on his back in the cold surf.

“Mr. Hunter?”

More mumbling.

“Mr. Hunter? Are you all right?”

His eyes rolled up at the night sky. “Fucking bitch.”

“What?”

“Ruined my life. Fucking bitch.”

“Mr. Hunter!”

His head shuddered, and he met her eyes. “Hello, Kate.”

“Are you okay?”

He laughed. “Think I broke my foot.”

Kate leaned down and pulled his right arm around her shoulders. When he was up, she said, “Who were you cussing?”

“Huh?”

Kate repeated the question as she struggled to help a hundred-eighty-pound drunk with a broken foot navigate the uneven beach.

“Oh. Sorry. It sure wasn't you. Sorry. It was a ghost, Kate. Just a ghost. She's gone now.”

Kate glanced back at the broken shards of pottery on the sand, then got her patient moving again. “Good thing I'm a nurse.”

“Yeah.” Charles Hunter flashed a drunken smile. “I'm a lucky bastard.”

CHAPTER 23

Strange noises. Popping. Tools rattling. Lights somewhere flickered like flames, and Scott tried to open his eyes. His mother stood at the foot of his bed, a heavy metal bucket of some kind in her hand. Scott tried to speak, but the words choked to nothing as she held a finger to her lips. Something—gasoline? or maybe lighter fluid?—filled his sinuses. Scott screwed his eyes shut, and the gas smell turned to smoke. He tried to sit up, to reach out for his mother, but he couldn't move. He opened his eyes, and he was alone. Flames curled through the cracks around the door, and finally he screamed.

Scott rolled over and tried to fit the surroundings into his memory.

A fist banged the door.

He cleared his throat. “What?”

“Housekeeping.” Hesitation, then:” Are you okay, sir?”

Scott glanced at his watch. It read 10:33
A
.
M
. “I'm fine. Come back later.”

He heard a muffled, heavily accented “Yes, sir” as the maid turned away.

Scott stumbled into the bathroom, where another hot shower—this one complete with soap and shampoo—washed away most of the befuddlement. He started to shave and thought better of it. Maybe, he thought, I'll need a beard to hide out. It was a ridiculous idea, but his life had taken a ridiculous turn.

Scott rummaged in a moving box for clothes. His landlord had done a neat job. He took out underwear and socks, pulled them on, and went back for jeans, a shirt, and an oversized sweater from L.L. Bean.

Dressed now, he reached for the nylon bag of burglar's tools. On top was Click's Palm Pilot. Scott smiled. He dropped onto the bed and punched the green power button at the top right of the Palm. The category was set to
Date Book.

Scott froze.

Using the toggle button under the screen, he began to flip through the calendar.

“That sonofabitch.” He ran to the moving box marked
COMPUTER
, rummaged around for his Palm V, and clicked it on. Everything was just as he'd left it. Same dates, same contacts, same bubblet and chess games.

He reached for the phone and punched in seven numbers. Budzik's answering machine picked up. “Budzik. This is Scott Thomas. I paid you more than five grand, and I need something. Pick up the phone.”

Seconds passed before he heard the click of Budzik lifting his receiver. The hacker began, “You've got some nerve calling here after what you did.”

“The woman is mixed up. You were taking advantage. And you know damn well you told me about it to see what I'd do.”

Budzik sounded pouty when he answered. “Maybe I wanted to see what you'd say . . . Anyway, don't you shrinks believe love is bullshit to begin with? Nothing but—what's the term?—‘a compendium of needs.' That's it, isn't it? People don't fall in love. They simply recognize the right stew of insecurities and neuroses in their soul mates. One set of neuroses balances another.” His voice trailed off. “I'm done with you, man. I already earned my money. Five grand doesn't make me your daddy.”

“I went to Click's apartment.”

Long seconds passed before Budzik spoke. “You didn't tell him about me?”

“No. I didn't tell him about me, either. I broke in when he wasn't there. By today, he'll know somebody was in his place, but that's it.”

“So why am I supposed to care?”

Budzik was being pissy, but Scott could hear in the hacker's voice that he cared very much. “I lifted his Palm Pilot.”

“You're kidding.” Budzik was laughing. “That's got to have all kinds of great stuff in it. But why call me? Does he have it password-protected?”

“I wish. When I turned the thing on it was mine.”

“What?”

“It's not physically mine. I've got my Palm here in my hand. But the data on the Palm Pilot I lifted from a charger in Click's apartment is a carbon copy of what's on my PDA.”

“Click copied your . . .”

“I know.”

“You think he got into your place? Or, I don't know, have you noticed anything recently that'd make you think someone had been in—”

Scott interrupted. “Two guys dressed like gangbangers broke into my apartment a week ago. I saw them leaving. I thought it was weird because they didn't take anything.”

“They took
everything
.” The little man was thinking. “What'd they get? Computer passwords? Credit card numbers? What?”

“Somebody withdrew thirty thousand dollars from my investment account last week.”

“Internet banking.”

Scott nodded at the empty motel room.

“They broke in and beamed your bank account number, your ID, and your passwords all into a second PDA. Have you at least changed your bank passwords?”

“I closed out my Internet banking account.”

“I guess now we know where Click got the money to rent that country house with all the porno on the walls.”

Scott shook his head. “I don't know. They would've had to do it all in a day. The two kids broke into my apartment just one day before we found the house. It doesn't seem
possible . . .”

Budzik made a derisive snort. “How long do think it takes to hang some porno and put in a makeshift office? The whole house was probably rigged four hours after they got your banking information. Hell, if Click was planning this all along, he could've rented the place a week or two ago using a stolen credit card to hold the place just until he got his hands on your money.”

Scott stared at the motel print of the Wright Brothers. “Is there anything I can do?”

“About the stolen information? Not much. You can go through Click's Palm page by page and make sure there's nothing else in there he can use to hurt you.” He chuckled. “That's about it.”

Scott looked at the bedspread.

When Budzik spoke again, his tone was less hostile. “Truth is, you didn't do anything half the country doesn't do. Almost everybody has information on their PDAs, their computers, or both that could be used to ruin them. You,” he said, “just got caught bending over for the soap.”

Two beats passed before Scott spoke. “Budzik?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to ruin this guy.”

“Uh-huh. But in a battle between you and Click . . .” Budzik seemed to stumble for a facile putdown. Instead he simply said, “You're screwed”—and hung up.

Scott spoke to the dead receiver. “Sure looks like it.”

It took most of an hour to scroll through every screen in the stolen PDA. When Scott was satisfied that nothing else could be used to hurt him, he grabbed the motel phone and punched in a number in Birmingham.

The banker answered his own phone.

“Mr. Pastings? This is Scott . . .”

“We have a problem, Scott.”

“If it's the thirty thousand, we need to trace the withdrawal, but I've figured out how it happened.”

The older man cleared his throat. “That's fine, but . . . Scott, something bad has happened. That detective in Boston, he called last night. Claims a house you rented outside Boston there was . . . It was, ah . . . The place burned night before last, Scott. The detective says it was arson.”

“I know about the house. I've been there, but I never rented it. I swear. Somebody's setting me up for the murder of one of my patients.”

“Save that for later, Scott. Just listen. Lieutenant Cedris has contacted the Birmingham police, and he's got someone down here listening. They're talking about reopening the investigation into the fire that left you alone in the world.” He paused. “You understand what I'm saying here?”

“You think I killed my family.” It was a statement.

“Do you have any memory of that night? Has it ever come back?”

“Just nightmares.” Scott reached under his glasses and massaged his eyes.

“You don't want this investigation opened back up, Scott,” the old man said. “Take my word for that. If you can make this mess in Boston go away, then do it. Turn yourself in there, and the cops here are going to let a fifteen-year-old fire go into history.”

Turn yourself in.
Scott turned the phrase over in his head. “Who are you protecting?” The banker tried to speak, and Scott spoke over him. “‘Turn yourself in?' I mean, advising me to work with the police to clear myself is one thing. But you're worried about the fire. More worried about that than a murder charge in Boston.”

“I'm trying to do what's best, Scott. That's all. That's all I've ever done.”

Scott glanced at a sheet of paper. “I need the rest of my funds. Wire everything to First Farmers in Marion, Massachusetts.” Scott relayed the account and routing numbers. “Can you do that today?”

“As soon as I hang up.”

“I'm going to come down and see you. I don't know when. As soon as I can make some headway in clearing up this mess up here.”

The old banker didn't respond.

“You know something about my family that I don't, Mr. Pastings. I'm going to come down. And we're going to have a talk.”

“I can't tell you . . .”

“Oh, you're going to tell me. I've lived with nightmares and questions for fifteen years. Whatever it takes, believe me, you're going to tell me. And the money better be in Marion today. Are we clear on that, Mr. Pastings?”

“We're clear, Scott. We're clear.”

When he hung up, Scott crossed the room to rummage again in his nylon bag of burglar's tools. This time he came out with the Motorola phone he'd stolen from Click.

On the chance that his voice mail at the hospital hadn't been disconnected, Scott punched in the number. He entered the code and got the usual recording. “
Press one for current messages.
”

The first few messages were “involuntary leave of absence” notices from the hospital and from the graduate program. Finally, a friendly voice sounded through the little cell phone.

“Scott. This is Canon. Cannonball Walker. Your lady friend, Kate, she called from down in North Carolina. Said the po-lice got an arrest warrant out for you.”
The old man sighed.
“I don't know why I'm fuckin' with you, boy. Guess you're my stray puppy or somethin'. Look, call me. I'm stayin' at the Madison Hotel in New York.”
He gave the number.
“You're in a world of hurt, boy. Call me. Let me see if I can help you out.”

Scott shut the little phone as a light knock sounded against the motel door. “Housekeeping.”

He walked to the door and used the peephole. A round-faced Hispanic woman stood placidly waiting. He opened the door.

“Come back later, sir?” Her accent was heavy. Spanish was her native tongue, but the accent didn't sound Mexican.

He smiled. “No. Please. Come on in.”

The woman pushed a stainless steel cart into the room. Towels covered the top shelf, sheets were on the bottom. Cleaning supplies stood in a well in front of the handle.

Scott dropped into the foam rubber guest chair. He tried to think. “What's your name?”

The maid froze. Her head turned so that she could examine Scott out of the corner of one dark eye. Seconds passed before she said, “Rosalita.”

“Well, Rosalita. Mind if I ask you something?”

“Sir?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“
Sí.
Yes, sir. If you need something, I can get it for you.”

“No. I just need an answer. What, dear Rosalita, is the only thing that can defeat evil?”

“
¿Que
?”

“Yeah.” Scott nodded. “That's the same answer I got.”

She frowned and emptied his wastebasket. He picked up the stolen Motorola and punched in the number of the Madison Hotel in New York City. The hotel operator connected him.

“Canon? Yeah, it's me. Thanks for the message. Listen, I've got a proposition for you. How long has it been since you were in Birmingham?”

The day passed slowly. For hours Scott hunched over the tiny motel desk, making lists, drawing diagrams on lined notebook paper, and then wadding up most of it for the trash can. At six he turned on the TV.

The nightly news in Boston looked pretty much like a broadcast from Phoenix or Nashville or Dallas, with a few local names inserted and a different guy with too much hairspray mouthing bad segues. Tonight, though, the news felt different. Tonight, Scott heard his own name announced as the primary suspect in the “murder of socialite Patricia Hunter, wife of internationally acclaimed Boston architect Charles Hunter.”

CHAPTER 24

Morning came and went. The flight from New York descended into a mist that seemed to swallow the plane whole. The
clunk
of the landing gear lowering resonated inside the cabin, and the lights of Birmingham emerged from pale gray nothing.

Minutes later, Cannonball Walker eased his battered Gibson out of the seat next to his. The flight crew smiled their generic smiles, and the old musician stepped into the suspended orifice leading into the terminal. It was the first week of March, and Canon remembered the South being warmer.

Inside the terminal, he pulled out a brand-new cell phone and punched in a Boston number. Scott Thomas answered on the second ring.

“That you?”

Scott smiled. “It's me, Canon. You get the phone I FedEx'd?”

“Talkin' on it. Just landed in Birmingham. Standin' in line at the Hertz counter right now.”

“Get out of line.”

The old man stepped to one side and lowered his backside onto a plastic-coated metal bench.

Scott went on. “Grab a cab. There's a room waiting for you at the Tutwiler Hotel; it's downtown across from the gas company building. That'll put you within walking distance of Mr. Pastings's office at the bank.”

“I thought you hadn't been here in fifteen years.”

“I haven't. But I've got my computer up and running, and I just pulled up a map of the Birmingham business district on the Internet.” He paused to think. “You got the phone; so I guess you got the power of attorney, too.”

Canon's fingers traced the outline of a thick envelope inside his overcoat. “I got it. Gonna be shocked out of my mind if anybody lets me use it. Old black blues player walkin' in a bank, sayin' I'm the personal rep-re-sent-a-tive of some white kid at Harvard. Be lucky if I'm not arrested.”

Scott laughed. “Too late now. You're there.”

“I don't know. Lookin' like this little trip might be the hardest five grand I ever earned.”

“Not bad for a week's work, though.”

“No.” Canon stood and walked toward the cab stand. “Not bad. Hell, stealin' is more like it, considering how much good I'm likely to do.”

“Canon? Having someone I can trust checking things out down there would be worth twice that.”

“Fine. Then pay me twice.”

Scott Thomas closed the map of Birmingham and gathered up his notes from the day before. Nothing made much sense. Not yet. But he was getting organized. He was thinking.

Scott spread out his notes on the bed and started work again. Hours passed. He ran across the street for a take-out sandwich, hurried back to the room, and kept working. Something was just out of sight. Something vital was there in the blanks, between the lines of his notes.

He jumped when the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. “Canon?”

Lots of static, then, “No. It's Budzik. I need to see you.”

Scott hesitated. “You sound strange.”

“Cell phone. Breaking . . .”

“What?” Scott raised his voice.

“Come . . . warehouse. My place. Come to my place.”

“Why? What's happened?”

Scott thought he may have heard the word “hurry” before the line went dead. He punched a button on the cradle to end the call, then immediately entered Budzik's home number. The answering machine picked up. Scott left a message for the little hacker to call the motel, then hung up.

He spoke to the room. “Probably finally getting what you deserve.” But two minutes later he grabbed his coat and ran out the door.

Cannonball Walker arrived early for his afternoon appointment with John Pastings. A young black woman brought him coffee. She had rhinestones set into fake fingernails and a beautiful smile. He smiled back.

“Mr. Pastings will be just a few more minutes.” She straightened up after setting his coffee on an end table. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Just had to figure out which one y'all were. Never seen so many banks all set together like this.”

“More banks headquartered here than anywhere outside New York City.”

Canon didn't care, but he smiled. “How 'bout that.”

Time passed, and no one came to fetch the old man. Bad coffee turned cold. Eleven o'clock came and went. Canon went looking for the girl with the rhinestone fingernails. He found a plump little peach of a woman sitting behind a large desk. Behind her, next to an oak door, a brass sign read
EXECUTIVE OFFICES
.

The old man nodded. “I'm Canon Walker. I was supposed to have an eleven o'clock appointment with John Pastings.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Regarding?”

“Regarding”—he raised his voice a bit—“thirty thousand dollars missin' from the account of my client, Scott Thomas.”

“What do you mean missing—”

“This bank lost
thirty thousand dollars
of his money. That's what I mean. And this John Pastings agreed to talk to me about it. Here it is”—he glanced at his watch—“eleven-forty-eight, and I'm gonna be sittin' out here coolin' my heels while he leaves and takes a banker's lunch. I flew down from New York for this meeting.”

The woman's round face flushed. “I'm sure Mr. Pastings has every intention of seeing you. If you could just be patient . . .”

“I guess maybe when I called from New York Mr. Pastings didn't know I was black. Tell me. How long you think I'd be waitin' if I had white skin and a thousand-dollar suit?”

Beads of perspiration had begun to form above the woman's thick lipstick. “I can assure you that has nothing to do with it. Mr. Pastings is a busy man. If you'll just wait here for one more minute, I'll step back and see what I can do.”

Three minutes later, Cannonball Walker was ushered into John Pastings's office.

Now Cannonball was all smiles. “Good mornin', Mr. Pastings. Thank you for seein' me.”

The banker sported three chins and rosy drinker's cheeks. He reached out to shake Canon's hand. “Scott told me you'd be coming. We'll get to business in a minute, but first I want to know what kind of crap you thought you were pulling with the receptionist.”

Canon just smiled.

“Don't play the race card with me, Mr. Walker. It's counterproductive.”

Canon studied the banker's rosy jowls. “Got me in here.”

Pastings's eyes narrowed. “So would have stamping your feet and crying. What you've got to ask yourself is how much good that sort of tactic is going to do you once you get through the door.”

Canon's smile broadened. If the man wanted to lecture, that was fine. So long as he got what he wanted in the end. “About Scott Thomas's account and the missin' funds. Scott wanted me to get copies of all transactions—”

“Sorry. We can't do that.”

“Oh.” Canon reached inside his coat and pulled out the folded power of attorney. “Scott made this up. Said it'll give me authority to look into his business here.”

Pastings reached out for the document. His eyes scanned down to Scott's signature. “I'm afraid this won't be sufficient.”

“And why is that?”

“Well”—he dropped the document on his desk—“first of all, our legal department would have to take a look at it. Then, of course, we'd have to verify Scott's signature.”

“You tellin' me you don't have a copy of Scott's signature here at the bank?”

“No, no. It's just that this could take a few days—maybe even a few weeks—to process your request.”

“It's Scott's request, not mine.”

“Right.” Pastings leaned back in his leather chair and laced his fingers over a painfully round gut. “In any event . . .”

Canon waited for Pastings to finish his thought. He never did. “Is this 'cause we got started on the wrong foot?”

The banker shook his head. “No, no. I understand Scott's concerns, and I understand that you're apparently here as his representative. The whole thing will just take a while to work through.”

Canon leaned back in the guest chair and sighed. “So long that I might as well go back where I came from. Is that what you're sayin'?”

“That's completely up to you.”

“What if I get a lawyer?”

“That's certainly your prerogative. Although, if you don't mind my saying so, it's not really the way to go if you want this information as soon as possible. Our litigation attorneys would have to become involved. Scott would no doubt have to put in an appearance. No, no. Now you're talking about turning weeks into months.”

Canon rose to his feet. “I'm not leavin' town.”

“That's totally up to you.” With some difficulty, Pastings managed to push his poundage into a standing position. “If you do stay, be sure to check out our Botanical Gardens. Not much longer till azalea season, you know.”

“Yeah.” Canon turned to leave. “One more thing.”

Pastings flashed his banker's smile.

“Scott told me to tell you that his brother, Bobby, is in Boston.” He tried hard to make the statement sound more certain than it was. It was Scott's
guess,
maybe just his hope. But no more.

The man's features went slack. He took a step backward and steadied himself against the chair. As he regained composure, Pastings's eyes fell to the desktop. Still, he didn't speak.

Canon studied the banker. “Scott wanted to know what you think about that.”

Slowly, Pastings's eyes rose to meet Canon's stare. All he said was “Good-bye, Mr. Walker.”

Scott arrived at Budzik's warehouse a little after six. He was hungry, and apprehension stabbed at his empty stomach. He parked and sat still to watch.

Transfer trucks rumbled over broken pavement. Three shabbily dressed men wandered from alley to dumpster to steaming grate. The same hooker he'd seen before worked a corner two blocks up.

Scott popped open the door and stepped out into cold evening air.

At the entrance to the hacker's building, everything looked the same. He punched the second-floor buzzer and the front door clicked open.

He whispered, “Shit,” then stepped inside and paused for his eyes to adjust to the dim, yellow lighting. Everything looked fine. He had just rounded the boarded stairs, when he heard her voice.