A Perfect Life (6 page)

“What?”

Tinelle laughed. “Can you believe that?”

“No,” Cedris said, “I can't.”

“Graduate student at Harvard. Unbelievable. Guess they can't teach common sense.”

“Even smart guys get punchy on three hours' sleep. We had the boy at the hospital until almost sunup. And, if Thomas did kill the Hunter woman, the boy's had a hell of a night. Best thing we can do is keep him talking. Don't wanna give him time to stop and think. We don't wanna give him a chance to get his shit together, if you see what I mean.”

“Yeah. Right. He's also got some screwy story about using the microphone on his computer to record some of what the burglars were saying.”

“Did you listen to what he had?”

“Nothing to listen to here. Claims he somehow used his computer to call voice mail where he works. Says if the mike picked up anything it'll be recorded as a voice message down at the hospital where he's some kind of student shrink.” Tinelle hesitated again, and the thought flitted through Cedris's brain that there are worse traits than thinking before you speak. Tinelle said, “Thomas says he wants to talk to
you
.”

It was Cedris's turn to think. He asked, “Is the forensics team on site?”

“Been here half an hour.”

“Good. Didn't want it to look like I called 'em in. They know they're supposed to swarm over that place like ants at a picnic?”

“They know. Everything's set up.”

“We need this perfect. Make sure you've got Scott Thomas's statement in writing and signed.”

Tinelle grinned again. “Done.”

“Good.” Cedris picked up his bagel and folded it neatly inside the waxed paper. “I'm on my way.”

CHAPTER 9

The hotel dining room went up more than out, giving its customers the experience of dining at the bottom of an ornate air shaft. For a height of three stories, a checkerboard of oil paintings stepped through gold-leafed plaster filigree, finally reaching an abrupt end at the foot of the mezzanine balcony. Above the balcony and centered over the dining room hung a tremendous gold chandelier, shimmering with hundreds of teardrop crystals.

Sitting at a table against the outside wall of this space, his coal-black fingers spread out on white linen like the sharp and flat keys on a piano, was an old bluesman named Cannonball Walker. His head was turned toward the plate glass next to his shoulder; his eyes scanned the sidewalks. People hurried along either side of moving traffic. Occasionally some brave and hurried soul broke loose from the throng to stutter-step through bumpers and blaring horns.

Only one dark form stood as still as death—a young man with shark's eyes and discolored skin that shone like wax in the cold winter light. Cannonball Walker sat and watched the young stranger watch him.

“Mr. Walker?”

Walker started slightly and turned to see Scott Thomas's lady friend standing beside his table.

“My name is Kate Billings. Scott Thomas is a friend of mine.”

Walker rose to his feet and nodded. “Remember you from the club.” He held out a hand toward the chair opposite his. “Have a seat.” As they both sat, Walker said, “I was watching for you out the window. Didn't see you come up.”

“I drove.”

He nodded again and glanced out at the watcher. Walker's eyes dropped and scanned the tablecloth. “Well, Kate.” He picked up a stemmed glass and took a sip of water. “What can I do for you? You want me to listen to a homemade CD shows you the next Billie Holiday? Or is it you know some big-busted lady of color who needs a date?”

Kate Billings picked up her napkin, folded it lengthwise from corner to corner, forming a perfect triangle, and draped it over her thigh. She began to straighten the stainless flatware as she spoke. “Mr. Walker . . .”

“Call me Canon.”

She smiled. “Not Cannonball?”

The old man smiled back. “Street name. Canon's my Christian name.”

“Okay, Canon. I came here to tell you that Scott's in trouble. Serious trouble.” Something about the old man's expression made Kate stop short. “You already know about this, don't you?”

“No. Not really.”

Kate knew the male animal. For better or worse, she'd been the beneficiary of an early education in the simpleminded sex-food-work agenda of the hairier gender. And this man, this old bluesman from down South, knew more than he was telling. She tried again. “But you're not surprised.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Walker studied Kate's young face. “Can't say. Just thinkin' about the first time I saw the boy. That's all.”

“What's that mean?”

Walker shrugged.

“Look, this is serious. Scott's mixed up in a murder at the hospital. You need to tell me what you know. If you call yourself Scott's friend . . .”

“I don't.”

Kate sat up straight in her chair. “You don't what?”

“Don't call myself Scott's friend.” The old man turned sideways in the chair and stretched his legs. “You know, he seems like a good boy. Smart. Tryin' to do right. I like him fine. But a
friend
ain't somebody you've met twice in your life. Not unless the friend is good lookin' and female. Men take a little longer.”

“Then you're not interested in helping Scott?”

“Didn't say that, either. Just said he wasn't what I'd call a friend.” He paused. “What's he need? Bail money? A lawyer? Somebody to get him out of town?”

This wasn't going the way Kate had planned. She needed time to think. She stood up from the table. “I'm not sure what Scott needs, Mr. Walker. But I'm afraid he's going to put too much trust in the police. Tell them everything he knows, thinking, you know, good guys always come out on top, or something equally idiotic. He needs advice from someone who's been around. I know he doesn't have any family. No one to help him. I thought maybe he could rely on you.” As she spun to walk away, she added, “I guess I was wrong.”

“Kate?”

She stopped and turned without answering.

“This boy on the street out there with the burned face? He a friend of yours?”

Kate's eyes drifted to the window and the street scene beyond. She shook her head. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

As Kate Billings walked from the dining room, Cannonball Walker raised a hand at the waiter. The old man ordered a steak sandwich and iced tea.

The waiter jotted notes on a pad. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” He glanced out the window to find that his watcher had vanished. “But I don't think you got it.”

The waiter smiled because he didn't know what else to do. Thirty minutes later, Walker stepped into the lobby and asked the bell captain to have his car brought around.

Needles of cold rain stung the back of Walker's neck and hands as he watched his black Caddy roll up the circular driveway. As the red-jacketed driver stepped out, Walker pressed three ones into his hand.

“Thank you, sir. Do you need any directions this afternoon?”

The old man shook his head and lowered his backside into the driver's seat. “Nope. Been there before.”

The attendant closed the driver's door. Cannonball Walker buckled his seat belt and steered fourteen feet of black steel out into Boston's midday traffic.

Almost an hour later, Cannonball Walker pulled up next to the house on Welder Avenue. Two patrol cars were jammed into the driveway. An unmarked cruiser hugged the curb out front. Walker parked behind the cruiser and stepped out into the gray afternoon. Dark clouds had packed needles of cold rain into hard sleet. Each pellet felt like a fired BB against the old man's neck and cheeks.

No one was outside. Too damn cold. Walker mounted the wooden steps that cut a diagonal across the side of the garage and paused on the small porch to listen. He knocked, and the door opened.

A uniformed officer—kind of a munchkin—said, “May I help you?”

“Here to see Scott.”

“There's been a break-in. Mr. Thomas is fine. No need to worry. But he can't be disturbed. He's talking with the detective.”

Walker looked impassively at the tiny officer. “You gonna let me in outta this weather?”

“Uh, well . . .”

“Hell of a thing. Keep an old man standin' out in the sleet, freezin' to death. That the way you were raised, Officer?”

Patrolman Tinelle blinked and cleared his throat and stepped back one pace to let the old man step out of the sleet. “Sorry, sir. But you're going to have to come back later to see your friend.” The expression on the officer's face changed. “But, as long as you're here, can I have your name?”

Walker had stepped into the demolished living room. He could see into the bedroom. Voices floated through the open doorway. The old man smiled and nodded at the patrolman; then he leaned past him and called out, “Scott!”

“Just a minute, sir. I told you—”

“Scott! It's me. Cannonball Walker. I need you out here
now
!”

The rumble of voices from the bedroom grew louder with protestations, and Scott Thomas walked into the living room. “Mr. Walker?”

Walker nodded at Tinelle. “This here mini-a-ture po-lice-man won't let me in outta the cold.”

Scott stepped forward and glared at Tinelle. “What's wrong with you?” He turned to Walker. “Come on in. Please. I'm glad you came.” He waved an impotent palm at the mess. “I'm in the middle of something here.”

Tinelle shifted his eyes to Lieutenant Cedris, who had entered the room behind Scott. The patrolman started to explain. “I
did
let him in out of the sleet. I just explained—”

Walker spoke over Tinelle's protestations. “Scott, if you don't mind, I need to speak with you in private for just a minute. It's important.”

Scott glanced back. He'd already been through his story twice with the little cop and once with Cedris. The lieutenant could wait a few minutes for a fourth rendition. “Okay, why don't you step in here.” Scott motioned toward the open bedroom door.

Walker shook his head. “Naw. I need to talk outside.” The old man turned and stepped back out onto the porch. “Walk me out to the car.”

Scott glanced at Cedris and then followed Walker. As the two men descended the iced steps, Scott started to warn the older man to be careful; then he noticed that Walker didn't much move like an old man. His step was light, almost graceful. The old bluesman moved like a dancer. Instead, Scott asked, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Walker spoke over his shoulder. “Bet your ass it is.” Then quietly, almost to himself: “Should've come faster.”

“What?”

“That fine-lookin' little girl you brought to the club—what's her name? Kate? Kate came to my hotel to see me at lunch today. Said you got yourself messed up in some murder. That right?”

Scott wondered why in the world Kate Billings would have gone to see a man he barely knew about the murder of Patricia Hunter. “What'd she say?”

“Well, I'll tell you what she didn't say. She didn't say nothin' about somebody breakin' in and trashin' your apartment. What's goin' on?”

While the two men stood beneath a cascade of stinging sleet, Scott gave the abridged version of Patricia Hunter's murder and then explained to Cannonball Walker about the break-in.

The old man shook his head. “Did you really tell the cops that one of the burglars said he killed this woman, this patient of yours?”

“Well, yes. It's what he said, and I thought that the connection might help the police solve—”

“Shit.”

Scott was surprised by Walker's irritation. “What's wrong?”

“Shit, shit, and shit. Get in the damn car.” Scott opened the door and lowered his butt onto the cloth seat. Walker sat on the driver's side and slammed the door. “Ain't my business, but I'm suggestin' you go back up to your apartment there, invite all those cops to leave, and get you a good coat.”

“I can't do that. It's a crime scene.”

Walker chuckled. “How many cops you got up there?”

“Well, there's two patrolmen, a detective, and three nerdy-looking cops taking fingerprints and looking for fibers or clues or something.”

“And you think they just be sendin' around six cops every time some poor student gets his crib tossed?”

“No. Like I said, there's a murder connected here. One of the burglars said . . .”

Walker's eyes flashed. “One of the burglars set your stupid white ass up to give the cops a free shot at your house.” He shook his head. “Goddamn, Scott.”

Scott flushed. “I don't have anything to hide.”

“You don't, huh?”

“No.” Scott was growing angry. “I don't. They can look all day. There's nothing to find. I haven't done anything wrong. And, and I may have recorded some of what the burglars said,” he stammered.

“
May
have?”

“Well, yeah. I used a little computer mike and dialed my voice mail . . .”

Walker shook his head at the sleet-covered windshield. “Good God Almighty.”

“What?”

“Did they take anything? The burglars, I mean. What'd they take?”

“No. It wasn't like that. They just trashed my place. Probably came there
looking for . . .” He stopped midsentence.

“Those two boys just broke in not to steal anything, not to take anything 'cause there was nothin' to take, to
confess
to the murder, and then to tell
you
to call the cops.”

Scott had been functioning on almost no sleep. The burglary, the destruction of his belongings, the arrival of the cops—everything had been moving too quickly to be processed. His mind felt sluggish, his thoughts bogged in a fog of sleeplessness. “Doesn't make much sense, does it?”

“No, Scott. No, it doesn't.” When Walker spoke again, his voice had grown calm and quiet. “But I'll tell you what does make some sense. It makes some sense that maybe those two boys did have somethin' to do with this Hunter woman's death, that maybe they broke in, woke you up, and confessed to the murder in a way that nobody's gonna believe. Even if you got some of it on tape . . . there ain't no witnesses. Think about it: Who the hell's gonna believe you didn't stage the tape to support the rest of your story?” Walker leaned forward to look up at the garage. “Somebody wanted you to sound like you were makin' all this up, Scott.”

Silence filled the interior of the Cadillac like frost in a meat locker. Seconds passed, and the logic of Cannonball's argument settled through the mush inside the young man's skull. “Oh, hell.” Scott's words sounded weak, his voice deflated. “I was worrying about what they might've taken. Instead . . .” His voice trailed off.

Walker finished the thought. “Instead you should've been worryin' about is what those two boys left. If they didn't break in to take somethin', maybe they broke in to leave somethin' behind.”

“Like . . . you mean to plant some evidence from Patricia Hunter's murder?”

“Yeah,” Walker said, “that's what I mean.”

Scott stepped back out into the winter storm and ran over frozen ground to his apartment.