A Perfect Life (22 page)

CHAPTER 35

Two full minutes ticked by before Scott returned from tailing Dr. Reynolds down the hall. When Scott reentered the apartment, Natalie looked horrified. “What happened? You look like somebody threw you through a tree.”

“I fell.” He walked over and sat in a black Windsor chair beside the fire. It was painted wood, and Scott figured the leaves and potting soil he was wearing wouldn't ruin it. He nodded at the door. “Looks like you almost killed the guy. He was out there bent over the hood of his Mercedes. At first, I thought he was throwing up. But the old man was just getting his head down—probably trying not to faint.”

Natalie walked over to stand beside Scott. She brushed dirt out of his hair. “I told you to stay away tonight.”

“So you could meet with Reynolds?”

She nodded. “I was trying to get information.”

Scott's eyes searched her face. “Sounded like you were making a deal to bury me.”

Something changed in Natalie's eyes, and she smiled. “Yeah. I'm a real bitch.” Her expression changed again. “Could you believe how easy it was for the world-famous doctor to bury you to save his career? The Mr. Sensitivity act goes out the window pretty fast when it's his ass on the line.”

This still didn't feel right. “And you were just playing along?”

Her jaw flexed. “I recorded him.”

“What?”

“I recorded every word the bastard said. You can have the recording if you want it.” She shook her head and changed the subject. “The guy's a real scumball.”

“It's . . .” Scott stopped and began again. “Everyone worships success. But the personality profile of extraordinarily successful people—like Dr. Reynolds—isn't as flattering as you'd think. You've got to be pretty egocentric to get that far in life. It also helps to have something to prove. Obviously it varies, but an only child with an overbearing mother is usually a pretty good bet.”

“Sounds like psychobabble made up by someone who needed to explain her own mediocrity.”

“Jeez.” Scott leaned back against wooden spindles. “Why don't you say what you really think?”

Natalie shrugged and crossed to the sofa.

“I get your point. But, no, that's not it. Highly successful people tend to be self-promoting and self-centered.
But
—and it's a big but—the world would be a pretty sad place without them. Self-promoting, self-centered, egomaniacal people build skyscrapers and airplanes. In the past, they discovered continents and flew to the moon. But Frank Lloyd Wright, Thomas Edison, and most of the world's great leaders were not really people you'd want to go fishing with.”

“I didn't mean to set you off.” She nodded. “I guess I know what you mean, though. I dated a lawyer a couple of years back. Guy specialized in corporate litigation—you know, like one big company suing another over a contract or something. Anyway, he always harped on what terrible witnesses corporate presidents were. These rich guys get on the witness stand and think they know everything, or they think they're
supposed
to know everything and they fake it. Ted—that was his name, by the way—Ted said the worst witness on earth is one who doesn't know when to say ‘I don't know' or ‘I can't recall.'”

“But,” Scott interrupted, “these rich guys didn't get where they are by admitting ignorance or fallibility. The truth is, most of them won't admit imperfection because they think it doesn't apply to them.”

Natalie snuggled back against the sofa cushions. “By the way, why are we having this moderately boring, philosophical discussion ten minutes after I—your only friend, by the way—and your mentor—Dr. Reynolds—made a pact to sell you down the river?”

“Three reasons.” He clicked them off on his fingers. “One, I needed to think a little about what motivates rich old men like Phil Reynolds. Two, you—I hope—didn't mean what you said to him. And, three, Reynolds meant what he said, but you got him on tape saying it.”

Natalie stood and walked across to a pine cabinet shaped like an antique wardrobe. She pulled open a door. “No one tapes anything anymore, Scott. It's not 1980.” Natalie pushed a button, a small panel slid out of a black box, and she fished out a silver disk. “We've got Dr. Oscar Phillip Reynolds right here in all his digital glory. I voice-dated it and identified the parties while you were down the hallway watching the good doctor faint. Fortunately, you didn't say anything when you came into the room. So we've got a nice, pristine recording here.”

Scott's eyes wandered to the ceiling.

Natalie twisted the shiny disk in midair. “Hello?”

“Are you going by to see him tomorrow?”

“Who? Oh. Dr. Reynolds?” She stopped and shook her head as if rattling ideas into place inside her skull. “I'm not sure. I guess I need to think about that, don't I?”

Scott finally turned over at midmorning, this time managing to grab a handful of cushion to keep from flipping off Natalie's couch onto the carpet. He found his feet, stumbled to her bedroom door, and knocked. No answer. He peeked inside. No one in bed. No one in the bath. Natalie was long gone. After washing his face and running a brush over his teeth, he found a note on the fridge.

Eat whatever you want. Be home after
my meet w/Dr. Reynolds.

Nat

He opened the refrigerator and smiled. “Whatever you want” consisted of one egg, four cartons of yogurt, and a scattering of stained pagoda boxes from a Chinese takeout place. Sweet and sour pork is not a breakfast food, but the peach yogurt smelled okay. He found a spoon.

A half hour later, Scott stepped out of a steam-filled bathroom to answer the phone. It was on its second run of insistent ringing, and he thought Natalie might be trying to reach him. He tucked a towel around his waist and flopped into a small chair next to the bed.

Unsure of whether he should answer her phone, he picked up the receiver but didn't speak.

A woman's voice said, “Natalie?”

There was something familiar about the caller's voice. He said, “Hello?”

The woman's voice asked his name.

Scott hesitated. “May I ask who's calling?”

“Is this Scott?”

He stood and walked out into the living room, still holding the handset. The front door was locked. Everything looked fine. “Who is this?”

“I'm a friend of Kate's.” She let a few seconds tick by. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Yeah. It means something.”

“So, this is Scott Thomas.”

“Yes.” Now he let some time pass, but she didn't say anything else. His mind raced, trying to place the voice. “I know you, don't I?”

“Kate's worried about you.”

“Have you seen Kate?”

“Sure. She wants to see you.”

Scott wandered to the window, but the apartment was on the back corner of the quadraplex. All he could see was the empty courtyard. “When did she tell you this?”

“Last night. Kate heard about your arrest, and she wants to talk.”

“Why?”

She hesitated before answering. “She's just worried about you. That's all.” The familiar voice paused. “She said you two were, you know, intimate or dating or whatever, but . . . If you don't wanna see her, I can tell her that.”

“No, no. I'll see her. But not here. I'm staying with a friend. How did you find me? How do you know Natalie?”

“Kate said you were arrested with a woman from the hospital named Natalie Friedman. I guess it was in the phone book. Kate gave me the name and number.” She paused, and Scott could hear her breathing—the breath coming in short huffs now. The woman with the familiar voice was nervous. “Look, it's no sweat off my . . . What I mean is, it's up to you. Kate wants to see you. She's worried. If you got better things to do, just say so. I'll pass along the message.”

The call waiting signal beeped in his earpiece. “Hold on a minute. I've got another call coming in.”

Now she spoke quickly. “No need. Just keep tonight open. I'll call back with a time and place.” And the phone went dead.

A frightening daisy chain of thoughts had already begun to spin through Scott's mind when call waiting beeped again in his ear. He hit the flash button on the receiver. “Hello?”

“You still asleep?”

“Natalie?”

“Who'd you think it was? You must've been dead to the world.”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed. “The phone rang about fifteen times before you picked it up.” She stopped, then her voice changed. “Are you all right, Scott? Has something happened?”

Scott thought of the caller asking for Natalie—asking for her with something like familiarity in her voice. His eyes searched the carpet at his feet. “I need to know where Kate went when she left the hospital.”

“We talked about that, Scott. No one seems to know.”

He tried to slow his thoughts. “What about her last paycheck? Maybe reports on her 401-k? Continuation of insurance coverage? Somebody's gotta be sending her something. You don't just walk away from a professional job at the beginning of the twenty-first century and not have paperwork following you around.”

“You're right. Let me think.” Most of minute passed, and he heard Natalie speaking with someone away from the phone. Finally, she came back on the line. “I'm going to have to use a favor.”

Scott began, “Who are you talking to? I—”

She cut him off. “Can't say right now.”

“Oh. Okay. If the favor isn't too much to ask . . .”

“No, no. I don't mind a bit. It's just . . . Well, I don't know how many favors I've got left around here.”

Scott cussed. “I'm sorry. I got a phone call that freaked me out a little. How did your meeting with Reynolds go?”

“Nice of you to ask.” She laughed. “A reprimand is going in my file, and I've got a two-week suspension with pay. But that's it.”

“With pay, huh?”

“Yeah. How about that? If I'd known it'd get me a paid vacation, I'd have yanked down some guy's pants at the office a year ago.”

Scott smiled.

“Now,” Natalie said, “about Kate Billings . . .”

“Some woman called, allegedly with a message from Kate. Said Kate wants to meet me tonight.”

“Holy shit. Do you think the call was for real?”

“I don't know. But you need to know that the caller asked for
you.
She knows your name.” Natalie didn't respond, and he went on. “But if Kate is looking for me—if she knows about you, too—I'd rather find her before she finds us.”

“Right. Look, I'm waiting around here for Reynolds's secretary to finish typing my reprimand so I can have indignity of reading and signing it.” She paused. “Don't worry. I'll get what you want. Will you be there when I get home?”

“With dinner on the table.”

She laughed again. “Aren't you sweet.”

“Hell,” Scott said, “I can order takeout with the best of them.” He tried hard to sound less anxious than he felt.

The call came just after three that afternoon. Kate Billings would meet Scott on the street, just outside the entrance to the hospital parking lot, at ten
P.M.
Again, Scott thought he recognized the woman's voice on the phone. And again, she denied ever meeting him. But as she denied it, Scott placed the voice: the girl hitchhiker who had helped carjack his Land Cruiser.

Natalie breezed into her apartment less than an hour later. “Where's dinner?”

Scott smiled. “Cute. It's not even four o'clock yet.”

“You said dinner on the table. I'm looking at the table and . . .” She shrugged.

“That woman called again. I think it was the girl who stole my car the night all this started. Anyway”—he shook his head—“she said Kate wants to meet me tonight at ten, outside the hospital parking lot.”

Natalie's smile faded. “So, basically you're supposed to hang around the street at night waiting for someone to drive by and shoot at you.”

Scott nodded. “Basically.”

“Or this Kate Billings is actually going to show up and explain everything.”

Scott just looked at her.

“I found out that Kate's final paycheck was mailed to a Boston address.”

Scott glanced up. “At least she's in the city.”

“Well, maybe. It went to the architectural firm of Hunter & Petring. Patricia Hunter's husband is the Hunter.” Her eyes searched Scott's face. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“Of course.”

“I think Kate Billings is long gone from Boston. Think about it. If she had an address here, she wouldn't need her checks to go through Hunter's office. I think she's out of town but still tied into this Hunter guy somehow, and she's having her mail routed through his business address so no one will know where she is.”

“You think Charles Hunter had something to do with his wife's death? Is that what you're getting at?”

“Not necessarily. Could just be that Kate has insinuated herself into his life somehow, which would mean . . .”

“That he's in trouble, too.”

Natalie walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. “What did you eat today?”

“Yogurt.”

“Sorry. Not much of a cook.” She shut the door and turned back to Scott. “All I know is that Kate Billings is tied to Charles Hunter, and—more important at the moment—she is
not
currently living in Boston. What you have to decide is whether she's planning a return trip to meet you so she can straighten out your life. Considering that she didn't place the call herself, that she hasn't bothered to write or call before now, and that she allegedly wants to rekindle your relationship on a dark street in the middle of the night . . .”

“Ten o'clock is not the middle of the night.”

“You get my point, though.”

Scott ran his hand through his hair and pushed at his glasses. “Got a phone book?”

“Sure.” Natalie opened a drawer and pulled out a Bell Atlantic book for Greater Boston. She tossed the monster directory onto Scott's lap.

He flipped pages, then reached for the phone next to the sofa.

Natalie asked, “What are you doing?”

He held up a palm. “Yes. Could I speak to Mr. Hunter's assistant, please?” He paused. “Sure. I'd be glad to hold.” He put a palm over the mouthpiece. “Who's the benefits manager at the hospital?”

“Bridget Palmer.”

Scott stared at her. “I think my voice is too low.”