A Perfect Life (4 page)

“I'm givin' advice, but old men don't know everything.”

Scott looked up from his drink. Candlelight fired Walker's black irises. “I know.”

The old man said, “Maybe.”

“And about you being from ‘down South,' I was born in Birmingham. Lived there until I was ten.”

Walker nodded. “Time for the next set.” He stood. “You gonna stay around?”

“Someone's meeting me here.”

“A woman?”

Scott smiled. “Yes. A woman. From the hospital.”

The old bluesman grinned. “Well, at least you got that right. You do believe in pussy, don't you, boy?”

Scott colored a little, and Walker took the stage. The old man picked up a battered Les Paul and pulled the leather strap over his head. Some unseen hand turned a spot on him. White curls sparkled in his hair like the glitter that spelled out
Cannonball Walker
in vertical lettering on the black strap that ran from his shoulder to the neck of his Gibson.

Leaning into the mike, Walker said, “This one's called ‘Don't Answer the Door.' B.B. King had some luck with it.” He grinned at his audience. “But I do it better.”

The old man's fingers sat flat on the strings, something like the way Thelonious Monk played piano, but the sound was rich and precise. He began, “Woman I don't want a soul, hanging around my house when I'm not at home.”

A nearer voice said, “I couldn't find you,” and Kate Billings pulled out the chair vacated by Cannonball Walker. “It's darker in here than out in the street.” She wore jeans and some kind of shiny, clingy blouse. Her hairstyle was a little edgier than Scott had ever seen it at the hospital.

“Glad you could make it. You're early. I thought Patricia Hunter would have you there till four in the morning fluffing pillows. Maybe brewing herbal tea or something.”

“No. Actually, I think I'm gonna like this personal nursing thing. I gave Mrs. Hunter her meds, waited thirty minutes, then asked if I could leave a little early.” She laughed. “Worked like a charm.” She nodded at the stage. “Is this the man you told me about?”

“He's the one.” Scott paused to listen to Walker pick out a heartbreaking bridge. “Great, isn't he?”

Kate wrinkled her nose. “If you say so. I'm kinda into eighties music right now.”

“Knew there had to be something wrong with you.”

Kate listened for a few seconds. “Sorry. I don't get it.” The waitress appeared at Scott's elbow, and Kate ordered a “Blue Aztec.”

Scott asked, “What's that?”

Disdain colored the waitress's smile. “It's a martini, sir.”

Kate ignored her. “Scott? You're not a wannabe, are you? I dated a guy like that last year who drove me crazy. Nothing's more embarrassing than a white boy in a do-rag saying ‘whack' every other sentence.”

“No, no. I've been white my whole life. Had a lot of time to get used to it.”

Kate seemed to understand that Scott had been kidding; so she showed her teeth.

Scott added, “You don't have to wanna be anything to appreciate classic American music.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. Listen, what was going on with you and Dr. Reynolds today? You both looked like . . . Well, both of you looked pissed is how you looked. What was that about?”

Scott paused while the waitress set an oversized, fluorescent blue martini in front of Kate. He was glad for the interruption, since he had no intention of sharing the details of his humiliating meeting with Reynolds, and the pause gave him time to think. “It was,” he said, “about a patient. No big deal.”

Kate took in a mouthful of blue martini. “It was about my private patient, wasn't it?”

He nodded at her drink. “What the hell's in that thing?”

“You're trying to avoid my question.”

“Do you think?”

“Okay, okay.” She turned toward the stage. “Guess I'm going to have to listen to some ‘classic American music,' whether I want to or not.”

Kate made it through “The Thrill Is Gone,” “Hummingbird,” and a newer song called “Every Loser in Town Knows My Name.”

That was all she could take. “I know you're enjoying this, Scott, but I came here by cab. Could you give me a ride home?”

He smiled. “Absolutely. I'm sorry tonight was a bust.”

“Cute guy who likes geeky music beats the reverse every time. Let's just stick to movies or dinner in the future.” She leaned closer. “That's my sneaky way of asking you to ask me out again, in case you didn't pick up on that.”

“You're just so subtle.”

“Yeah.” She smiled and ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “That's me.”

Scott stood, caught Cannonball Walker's eye, and mouthed the word
Sorry
. As he spoke, Scott moistened his thumb and forefinger in bourbon, then reached out to snuff out the candle on his table.

CHAPTER 6

Charles Hunter was used to getting what he wanted. At least he was nice about it. “Thank you for seeing me on Sunday afternoon, Doctor.”

Reynolds nodded, and his white eyebrows bunched on either side of deep furrows above his nose. “I always think it's important to meet with family members whenever possible. Especially a spouse.” The truth was that Charles Hunter could have requested a midnight hot-tub meeting with Phil Reynolds and he would have gotten it. The man had not only designed the new children's wing, he had kicked back his fees as a donation to the pediatric cancer center.

Nice begets courtesy. Nice with lots of money begets anything it wants.

Charles cut to the chase. “How's Patricia doing?”

Reynolds's eyebrows bunched harder, then floated apart. “Your wife is a difficult case. To be perfectly candid, Mrs. Hunter does not exhibit the classic signs of clinical depression. She has a good appetite, and we've noticed no problem with her sleeping. No insomnia, and she doesn't seem to use sleep as an escape.”

“Well, then . . .”

Reynolds held up a palm. “If I may.”

Charles nodded and settled back in his chair.

“Your wife is not clinically depressed. But she is exhibiting symptoms of mild paranoia, which manifest themselves in rather . . . This is an uncomfortable thing to tell you. But her relationship with the world is, let's say, stunted. She feels under siege.” Reynolds tried to judge the effect his words were having on the architect. He couldn't.

Seconds passed before Charles Hunter spoke. “Has Patricia told you that I've asked for a divorce?”

“No. I'm very sorry to hear that.”

Hunter nodded. “Doctor, what you just described are my wife's
good
traits. Patricia's a beautiful woman. I married her too soon after my first wife's death. Told myself it was for my daughter, Sarah. Trey, my son, was fourteen, but Sarah was only seven and needed a mother. My first wife, Jennie, and I didn't have any more children after Trey was born, not for a long time. I was working hard, and Jennie had gone back to school for her master's. Anyway, Sarah was born when I was thirty-six. Six years later, she'd lost her mother. I, of course, had lost my best friend—sappy as that may sound. Jennie and I met freshman year of college.”

Reynolds didn't speak. He had been trained not to.

“Anyway, I'm just telling you this to explain that, when Jennie died, I hadn't been on a date with another woman since fall of my freshman year at the University of Chicago.” He stopped talking, as if his point about Patricia had been made.

“It's tough for the living to compete with the dead. Maybe you could find a way to have a different kind of life than you had with Jennie. Maybe . . .”

“Damn it, Doctor!” Hunter snapped at Reynolds just as someone's fist bumped at the office door.

Reynolds said, “Yes?”

The door opened and a plump, redheaded nurse stuck her head inside. “I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor. But Mr. Hunter has a phone call. They said it was urgent.”

“Thank you, Sylvia.” He turned to Hunter. “You can take it in here. I'll step outside.”

As Reynolds rose and walked around the desk, his guest stood and touched his elbow. “I apologize for my tone a minute ago. This has been a difficult time. Patricia says she's here because
she
lost a stepson. She never seemed to notice that I lost a
son
, or that she'd left me alone to deal with that loss and to explain to my ten-year-old daughter why, after losing her mother, her brother had to die, too. And”—tears welled in his eyes—“explain to a little girl why her stepmother has suddenly deserted all of us. My son was my life, Doctor. More talented even than me at his age. Straight As since the first grade and a wonderful athlete. A track star. Still in high school, and my alma mater, the University of Chicago, had already offered him a scholarship to study art next summer in Rome.” He paused to breathe deeply. “My son. Trey. A kid. A beautiful seventeen-year-old kid with the world at his feet.”

Reynolds reached up to pat Hunter's shoulder. “I'll be outside.” Hunter punched a blinking button and picked up the receiver. As the doctor closed his office door, he heard the architect clear the emotion from his voice before saying “It was stupid to call me here.”

Reynolds moved away from the door. He had no wish to hear more.

Exactly one hour and thirty-five minutes after midnight, bright yellow light from the hallway cut a gash across Patricia Hunter's dark room. She stirred. A hand covered in latex pushed the door shut with a quiet thud, quickly followed by the click of the knob mechanism locking into place. There was no further movement, no other sound, until Patricia's breathing returned to a deep and even rhythm. A small, dry snore punctuated her every few breaths.

For long minutes, nothing happened. Then came the whispered friction of latex against cloth. A glowing green line began to radiate from the edges of a pocket at the intruder's side; then a latex-wrinkled hand emerged, holding the kind of chemical glow stick that tiny ghosts and goblins carry on Halloween night. Just the small, radiant ends of the stick protruded from a fist that seemed to float through the room without benefit of a supporting arm or body. It stopped at Patricia's bedside table and gently laid the light stick beside the remote control. Now, as the full length of the stick came uncovered, an eerie glow washed the room, and the shape of the intruder stood dark and motionless above Patricia's sleeping form.

In one swift movement, the dark presence leapt onto the bed, jammed a knee on either side of Patricia's blanketed arms, and snatched a hospital pillow from beneath her head. The sleeping woman started and gasped in air to scream, but the pillow had already sealed her mouth and nostrils and her muffled scream died inside polyester fill. The pillowcase scratched her lips and tongue; the faint yet bitter taste of laundry detergent flooded her mouth and licked at the back of her throat. She gagged and twisted against the covers, fighting and clawing against the dark form pinning her down. Tears flowed into the pillow along with her screams until she vomited and choked and vomited again. Patricia Hunter gagged once more and lost consciousness.

The murderer remained as still as the murdered—two human forms frozen in place as exactly 240 seconds were silently and methodically counted off inside the only conscious mind in the room. Finally, the latex-gloved fingers of one hand moved away from the pillow to press against Patricia's jugular. Her flesh felt warm but held no more life than butcher's meat.

The killer climbed down off of Patricia Hunter's corpse, lifted the covers, and fished out her left hand, which was then briefly placed inside a white plastic sleeve. After returning the plastic sleeve to a coat pocket, the murderer picked up the green light stick and quietly exited the room.

As the door clicked shut, the digital clock at the nurses' station read 1:41
A
.
M
.

CHAPTER 7

Scott's phone rang at 3:00
A
.
M
. He fumbled in the dark for the receiver, picked it up, and said, “Yes? Hello?”

“Patricia Hunter is dead. Murdered, we think. Come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

“What?”

The caller said, “As soon as possible, Scott.”

Scott managed to get out “Could you repeat . . .” before he heard a
click
and the line went dead. He lay in bed and thought of calling back but didn't even know who had called. He reached over to click on the bedside lamp. Fifteen minutes later, Scott Thomas cranked his Land Cruiser and pulled out onto Welder Avenue.

Four Boston Police cruisers were parked near the main entrance when he arrived at the hospital. He drove by and pulled into the parking deck.

Inside the hospital corridors, a couple of nurses called his name as he hurried to the psych floor without stopping. When the elevator opened on the twelfth floor, a plainclothes officer intercepted him. Three questions later, Scott was ushered to a doctors' conference room. As Scott stepped inside, Dr. Reynolds placed a phone into its cradle on the credenza and spoke to a second policeman. “She's not answering.” Reynolds nodded at Scott without speaking.

The cop ignored Scott existence as he jotted something in a small notebook. “What time
did . . .” He flipped back a page. “What time did Kate Billings get off work last night?”

Phil Reynolds scratched a thumbnail across a day's worth of white stubble on his jaw. “She works an overlapping shift. That, uh, means not a regular shift—you know eight, four, twelve. Kate's here five days a week from noon till eight
P
.
M
.”

The cop kept writing. “What days?”

“It varies, I think. I could check for you, but I know she was here yesterday.”

“That's okay. We're gonna need to talk to her tomorrow, though.”

Dr. Reynolds nodded and turned his attention to Scott. The young psychologist's always tousled hair was now spread into a fanned turkey's tail at his crown, and his skin seemed drained of blood. Reynolds offered a weak smile. “Scott, why don't you step into the bathroom and comb your hair.”

The officer with the notebook, a muscular Irish stereotype of a Boston cop, said, “We don't care about his hair, Doctor.”

The elevator cop nodded at the Irish cop and motioned for him to step outside. Both detectives left the room.

Scott looked at Reynolds. “What happened?”

Reynolds shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well, the police said not to say anything”—he paused—“but that's nonsense. The truth is that Mrs. Hunter has been . . . well, someone apparently crept into her room tonight and smothered her with a pillow.”

Scott felt his stomach tighten in on itself. “Do they know who did it? I mean—”

The detectives came back into the room. “Let's all have a seat and talk a little.” He asked Scott and Dr. Reynolds to sit in a pair of chairs, while he propped one butt cheek on the conference table. Scott pointed discreetly at the cop, and Reynolds nodded.

The Irish cop asked, “What?”

Reynolds said, “Sorry?”

“What's Mr. Thomas pointin' at?”

The older shrink nodded to Scott, who explained. “You're establishing a position of superiority for the interview. You know, you're looking down on us. We're looking up to you.” He paused to examine the policeman's passive face. “Sorry, this is what we do.”

He seemed unimpressed. “I am Detective Tandy. That”—he pointed to the elevator cop, who looked vaguely Mediterranean—“is Lieutenant Cedris. We're just after a little preliminary information here. You don't have to talk with us, but things'll go a lot quicker if you're willing to cooperate.”

Scott nodded, trying to project professional competence despite a hard fist of pain in his gut. “Sure. Absolutely.”

“Doctor?”

Reynolds nodded. “Only we prefer to speak with you together.”

Tandy turned to Scott. “Is that right?”

Scott's eyes moved around the room as he ran Reynolds's statement over in his mind. A few seconds passed before he simply said, “Yes.”

“We would rather speak separately—”

Reynolds interrupted firmly. “No, Officer. I'm sorry, but hospital policy is never to let an employee submit to an interview without a hospital representative present. Here I guess Dr. Thomas and I can serve that purpose for each other. Unless you plan to arrest one of us.”

The officer shook his head. “No. Not at this time.” He pointed at Scott. “Your boss just called you ‘doctor.' Is that how I should address you?”

“No. I'm third year in the doctoral program. The title is more or less complimentary.”

Tandy grinned. “Helps not to scare the patients.”

“Something like that.”

Tandy looked behind him before pushing back onto the tabletop and letting his feet dangle. “You don't know this,
Dr.
Thomas, because you just got here, but Dr. Reynolds here has been violating hospital policy for most of the last hour. Seems like
he
can talk all he wants without a representative present.” He pulled out his little notebook and flipped it open. “Lemme see. I got about nine, maybe ten, pages here of Dr. Reynolds's statements that he made outside the presence of any kind of representative.” He flipped the little book closed. “What's that tell an educated man like yourself,
Dr
. Thomas?”

“What are you getting at?” Scott ran his fingers though the turkey tail on his crown. “Look, I've had about three hours' sleep and just found out that one of my patients was murdered. So”—he searched for the right words—“stop talking in circles and ask what you want to know.” He heard his voice rising in pitch and made a conscious effort to slow his breathing.

The officer shrugged. “I ain't talkin' in circles. Just pointin' out that Dr. Reynolds's bullshit hospital policy—”

Reynolds interrupted. “Now see here.”

“That this alleged policy about havin' a
representative
present only applies to you.” He paused, but Reynolds kept silent. “What I'm wondering is why you got your own little policy there. What is it makes you so special?”

Scott shook his head. “I'm not special.”

“Where are you from, Dr. Thomas?”

“All over. I've been in school, boarding schools, since I was ten.”

The cop leaned forward. “Mommy and Daddy didn't love you?”

“This interview is over,” Reynolds said, raising his voice.

Scott placed his hand over the older man's forearm. “It's okay.” He turned to face the Irish cop. “Mommy and Daddy loved me just fine until they both died in a house fire. After that, school was about the only place I had to go.”

The dark cop, Cedris, stepped forward from the back of the room. “Detective Tandy, wait out in the hallway.”

The Irish cop's cheeks glowed with broken capillaries. “You can't tell me what to do. Fine, the guy's parents died. Shit happens. Many's the time I wished my old man would drive off a cliff.”

Lieutenant Cedris turned to Reynolds. “Am I correct in stating that this interview is over unless and until Detective Tandy leaves the room?”

Reynolds smiled. “Perfectly correct.”

Tandy jumped down off the table, shoved his little notebook into a breast pocket, and slammed the door on the way out.

Scott said, “Good cop, bad cop?”

“Something like that. Different styles, anyhow.” Cedris circled the table and pulled a chair around with the others. He looked at the older man. “This okay?”

Reynolds nodded.

Cedris sat. Then he asked Scott, “Do you prefer doctor or mister?”

“You can call me Scott.”

“Okay, Scott. We're going to need you at the downtown precinct tomorrow for a full statement.” He opened a notebook. “For now, please tell me the last time you saw Patricia Hunter.”

Scott began with his arrival at the hospital Friday afternoon and told the officer everything he could remember about his brief meeting with Mrs. Hunter. He told about the inquisitive little girl; he detailed his brief conversation with Kate Billings; and he named when he could, and described when he couldn't, members of the cleaning staff who came around just after eight.

Toward the end of Scott's story, Detective Tandy opened the conference room door and stuck his head inside. The ruddy Irish cop looked full and satisfied. He shook his head at his partner and said two words: “Never happened.” Then he left Scott alone with Dr. Reynolds and Lieutenant Cedris.

When, at the cop's instruction, Scott had repeated everything he knew a second time, Cedris asked the question he'd been waiting to ask. “One more thing. How'd you know to come here tonight?”

“What?”

“Just now. Why'd you show up at the hospital at three-thirty in the morning?”

“I thought you knew. I got a phone call.”

“Yes.” He flipped back a dozen pages in his little notebook. “You said someone called at three
A
.
M
., stating that Mrs. Hunter had been murdered and asking you to come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

“Exactly.”

Cedris smiled. “Okay. Fine. Who was it that called you, Scott?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“No, ah, it was just a quick message. Something like ‘Patricia Hunter is dead. She's been murdered. Come to the hospital as soon as you can.'”

“Anything else?”

“I'm not sure. The phone woke me from a sound sleep.”

“Of course it did. But no name?”

“No.”

“Man or a woman?”

“I'm not sure. A woman, I think.”

“You
think
it was a woman. No title? Nothing like that?”

Scott shook his head. Something was wrong.

“And it never occurred to you to call the hospital and verify some of this before you got dressed and drove down here in the middle of the night?”

“Am I some kind of suspect?”

Cedris asked, “Should you be?”

“No.” Scott froze as the weight of the officer's inquiry sunk in. “I shouldn't.”

“That's strange, Scott. That's very strange since my partner, Detective Tandy, has been searching the hospital for anyone who might have called you about the murder. And guess what?” Cedris paused, but neither Scott nor Dr. Reynolds spoke. “‘Never happened.' That's what he said. ‘Never happened.' But you already knew that, didn't you, Scott? You know damn well that no one called you at—”

Reynolds blurted out, “That's it! No more questions until hospital counsel is present.” The old man stood. “Come on, Scott. We're getting out of here.”

Cedris blocked the two men's path. “Scott? Are you refusing to answer any more questions without a lawyer?”

“Yeah,” Scott said, “I guess I am.”

“You guess—”

“I refuse to answer any more questions until I confer with an attorney.”

Cedris smiled and stepped aside. “That's all I wanted to know. Have a pleasant evening, Scott.” He turned and nodded at the older man. “Dr. Reynolds.”

The cops left around 5:00
A
.
M
. Scott left a few minutes later, after receiving an awkward bear hug from Dr. Reynolds—a strange and unprecedented act that, more than anything else that happened that night, frightened Scott so deeply that the simple embrace sent waves of nausea rolling through the pit of his stomach.