A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  The front door banged against something. Scott called out. “I'm Scott Thomas. In the bedroom. I think they're gone.”

  A South Boston voice, filled with long vowels and sharp consonants, said, “Do you have a weapon?”

  Scott hesitated to call out to someone on the other side of a closed door that he was unarmed. He had heard the siren, but . . .

  “Sir! Are you armed? Do you have a weapon?”

  “Uh, yes. I've got a softball bat.”

  Scott thought he heard soft laughter. “Please step through the door. It's safe. Whoever was here is gone now. You can keep the bat if it makes you feel better.”

  Scott opened the door.

  Two uniformed cops stood side by side, blocking Scott's path to his front door. Each held an automatic pistol securely in both hands, the muzzles pointed at the floor three feet from their toes.

  The smaller cop said, “Are you Mr. Thomas?”

  Scott nodded. “Yes.”

  “We'd feel better if you put the bat down now, sir.”

  Scott turned and tossed his bat onto the sofa, but then stopped short. Two loaded firearms pointed in his direction had blocked out everything else until now.

  White stuffing and yellow foam rubber spilled from ugly gashes in the sofa's cushions. Torn books and smashed videotapes were piled on the butchered sofa. Everything in the room—television, stereo, lamps, even a clay voodoo god from a trip to New Orleans—everything was smashed, torn, or broken.

  The smaller cop spoke again, interrupting Scott's inspection of the mess. “We need to see some identification.”

  “I'm sorry? What?”

  “I know this is upsetting, sir. But, if you don't mind, I'd like to step into your bedroom with you while you get your driver's license.”

  Scott was deep in sensory overload. “Sure. Right.” He motioned with his hand. “Come on.”

  The short cop followed Scott into the bedroom. His partner brought up the rear. Both patrolmen, Scott noticed, kept their pistols drawn and at the ready position. While Scott fished his wallet out of a pair of jeans, the second patrolman, the one who never spoke, stepped into the bathroom and then the closet. When he was done, the larger officer said one word.

  “Clear.”

  Both cops immediately holstered their weapons. Scott handed over his driver's license. The small cop took the license, squinted at it in the dim bedroom, and then pulled a black flashlight from his equipment belt.

  Scott reached down and turned on the bedside lamp.

  “Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” He looked up. “My partner here will take your formal statement while I call this in.”

  Something prickled at Scott's shoulders. “What do you mean, call it in?”

  The little cop's eyes glazed over. “Officer Jordan will take your statement.” And he walked out.

  The dispatcher's voice crackled through the box speaker in the patrol car. “Your vic is a suspect in a murder investigation.”

  Officer Marcus Tinelle felt a jolt of adrenaline. “You got a flag?”

  “Got a ‘must contact' from Boston PD for him. Just a second.” Static hummed through the silence. “We'll radio your situation to Detectives Tandy and Cedris. Hold your position.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Only eight minutes passed before Marcus Tinelle's radio filled with the calm voice of Lieutenant Victor Cedris. “You got a cell phone, Tinelle?”

  “Sure.”

  “Gimme the number.”

  Seconds later, Tinelle's phone vibrated in the palm of his hand.

  Cedris asked, “What's happening?”

  “The vic, Scott Thomas, called 911 at eight-thirty-three A.M. and reported two intruders inside his garage apartment on Welder Avenue. We arrived on the scene at eight-forty and entered the living room of a two-room apartment. The room had been trashed. Looked like maybe somebody was looking for something. Thomas was inside his bedroom, armed with a softball bat. He came out. My partner and I followed him back into the bedroom. There was no apparent damage to the bedroom. No one, other than Thomas, was present in the apartment.” Tinelle hesitated. “I understand Thomas is a suspect in a murder investigation.”

  Cedris said, “But we don't care about that now, do we?”

  “We don't?”

  “You've got a burglary to solve, Tinelle. I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd pull out all the stops. Get a forensics team out there. Get fingerprints. Catalog everything in the apartment. You get my meaning here, Tinelle?”

  Marcus Tinelle glanced at the steps leading up to Scott Thomas's apartment and grinned. “Got it.”

  The homicide detective's calm voice never changed. “I look forward to reading your report, Tinelle. And, remember, I owe you one.”

  An hour later, Cedris had just spread cream cheese on half a sesame seed bagel when the phone on his desk rang. He sighed and tossed the bagel on a wrinkled square of waxed paper. “Cedris. Homicide.”

  “This is Tinelle.”

  “Got something for me?”

  “Well, yes and no. We're still here on Welder. Nothing's jumping out at us, but you're not gonna believe what Thomas is saying.”

  The patrolman paused for effect. Cedris was not impressed. “Am I supposed to guess?”

  “Uh, no. Uh, well, the thing is that Thomas is claiming that these two burglars—who he never saw, by the way—had some kind of conversation with him through a closed door.” The patrolman hesitated again. Cedris rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger and sighed. Tinelle went on. “Thomas claims the burglars confessed to murdering the Hunter woman.”

  “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; h
is 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.”